Pathway to Japanese Literature

After the war’s end, small birds became remarkably numerous even within Tokyo’s city limits.
This was especially true in Yamate’s residential areas.
Burnt fields from air raids spread everywhere; houses still stood only sporadically; even the planted trees remained small like shrubs.
Therefore, the surviving streets formed small settlements within the wilderness, enveloped by dense groves of trees—not towns but villages.
Even in such village groves—were the small birds gathering there?

There were various small birds of kinds never before seen.
There were calls of types never before heard.
What proved peculiar were the Come-Here birds.
They rarely showed themselves, darting between tree thickets while crying Come here! Come here!
“Come here! Come here!”
One might think someone was summoning them and go searching—only for the voice to vanish and figures to disappear—then again from nowhere would rise... “Come here! Come here!...”

Yamada sighed.
It was irritating.
It was melancholic.
It was heartening.
It was unsettling.
A jumble of emotions tangled within him, yet still he waited for that voice.
Come here, come here.

In truth, it wasn't the birds' voices.
It was a knotted letter from Mitsuko.
With phrases that changed depending on the time placed before and after, its core message remained: "Could you come here for a moment?"
She would write this on a scrap of paper in pencil, fold it vertically into tight creases, carefully tie it with a single knot, and have the girl deliver it.
She neither waited for replies nor retrieved them—simply left them delivered.
Just like the small birds, they kept chirping incessantly—"Come here, come here."

As for Yamada, he could let the small birds' calls go unanswered, but Mitsuko's knotted letters couldn't be ignored.
He thrust his feet into geta and trudged out.

Leaving the burnt-out village behind and proceeding a short way through the wasteland where small shops stood sparsely scattered, her house could be found at the edge of the next settlement.
When she sent her "Come here" summons, she would usually be burrowed into the kotatsu in the inner parlor.
Though he thought—spring had brought some warmth, yet still she kept using the kotatsu…—Yamada too burrowed into that kotatsu.

“What had you been doing?”

Yamada could only manage a wry smile.
A man alone couldn’t possibly be doing nothing.
Whether he busied himself with tasks or thoughts, in the end, it amounted to the same as doing nothing.

“What on earth is the matter with you?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
She smiled with the corners of her eyes, and Yamada sighed.

Come here, come here.
Just like the birds’ calls, they served no real purpose.
It wasn't something worth getting angry over, yet with a vaguely irritable feeling, Yamada puffed on his cigarette.

“It’s starting again…”
“That’s a bad habit.”
“Why don’t you treat me to a drink?”

“Now that’s a bad habit—mentioning alcohol every time something comes up…”

She was not particularly fond of alcohol.
That drinking with Yamada was enjoyable stood as her own persistent claim.
When intoxicated, disputes of some sort would invariably arise.
Not that these amounted to proper arguments.
Rather, she would enumerate trivialities while demanding proof of affection.
But what in this world could truly guarantee love?
Marriage constituted but a form severable at will.
Procreation represented nothing beyond unconscious accident.
Written vows amounted to antiquated scraps.
Thus came the summons—'Come here'... requiring immediate response.
That alone remained love's surest collateral.

“Then you’ll come whenever I ask, won’t you?”

“As you can see, I’ve come.”

However, if it had been once a week or every five days, that would still have been manageable, but it gradually became more frequent until it was now occurring almost daily.
Melancholy loomed in Yamada’s mind.
Even so, he found himself anticipating Mitsuko’s knotted letters, and when none came, he would plod out to her place of his own accord.
She rarely came to his house.

"So you did come after all."

Then came a simple handshake and kiss.
There existed none of that festering passion common to middle-aged couples here.
Only something like affection carelessly cast aside remained.
Yamada seldom stayed overnight.

Amidst this, an incident occurred.

Mitsuko lived in the inner eight-tatami room.
It was structured like a detached room separated by a corridor.
In the main house lived Obasan’s family.
The girl who brought the knotted letters to Yamada’s place was Obasan’s daughter.
This family was related to Mitsuko by blood, but through whatever means she persuaded them, they maintained a strict policy of non-interference in her relationship with Yamada.
In all other respects, it was a vague communal life that couldn’t be called proper cohabitation or boarding.

Now then, one day a violent gust of wind tore through, and afterward, occasional loud groans began to emanate from the attic above Mitsuko’s room—a sound like wood being sawn by a circular saw inside some enormous crate. This occurred only when the wind blew at a moderate strength, striking squarely against the eaves.

The cause of the sound remained completely unclear no matter who inspected it. Though it was an old house, there was no hole in the eaves. But could wind have been blowing into the attic from somewhere, functioning there like the body of a drum or violin to resonate loudly? Or perhaps there existed something akin to a tightly stretched thin panel somewhere that vibrated in the wind? Initially, they could conceive of nothing beyond such possibilities. It had been decided they would eventually ask a carpenter to investigate, but this kept being postponed.

And when a wind of certain strength blew directly against it, whether noon or midnight, regardless of the hour, the attic would groan and creak with those sounds.

Yamada furrowed his brows.

“Haven’t you fixed it yet? Doesn’t it unsettle you?”

“But there’s nothing strange about it at all.”

Uncle pushed up the ceiling panel of the closet and looked inside, but apparently there was no abnormality anywhere.

“Even if there’s nothing suspicious, it’s still strange to have noises coming from up there.”

Mitsuko laughed with her eyes.

“Show me your hand.”

“Hand...”
“That’s the one from that time…”
“It’s fine now.”

“It’s healed now, isn’t it? Even the attic noise will clear up now.”

She took Yamada’s hand and examined his wrist. There were no spots left anywhere. Until recently, there had been two purple spots there. When he discovered them, Yamada felt an unpleasant sensation. Having half-heard the term “purpura,” he scrutinized the spots, then rolled up his sleeves and pant legs to examine his arms and thighs, and even while bathing inspected every part of his body. There were no purple spots anywhere. Only two on the wrist. He had no memory of bumping it against anything, nor any recollection of being bitten by insects.

And when he met Mitsuko, she suddenly looked at his wrist.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Yamada didn’t understand what she meant at first, but upon hearing her words, he remembered.

It was when he had been drinking with Mitsuko and had already gotten quite drunk.
Obasan’s daughter Masako brought over beautiful picture books teeming with animals, fish, insects, and more to show him.

“Auntie bought this for me!”

"Auntie" referred to Mitsuko.

Yamada happily looked through those apparently scientifically accurate picture books together with Masako.
Compared to when she was absorbed in her faltering reading, Masako engrossed in the beautiful picture books appeared purer and more lovely.
The one who had bought those picture books for her was Mitsuko.
Masako’s forehead was clear as if bathed in moonlight.
Yamada pretended to peer closely at the picture book, brought his face closer to hers, suddenly embraced her head, and kissed her forehead.
A clear, refreshing sensation came to his lips.
Masako remained motionless for a moment, then hunched her shoulders in a laugh, hugged the picture book to her chest, and ran away.

“You fool.”
“Idiot…”

Mitsuko pretended to glare and tightly grabbed Yamada's wrist.

“I’ve never seen such an earnest kiss before.”
“Now go on, try kissing my forehead too.”

And she tightly grabbed his wrist again.

As proof that it was neither jealousy nor reproach, she was laughing.
That’s why Yamada had forgotten too.
However, two purple spots remained on his wrist.

That too healed within a few days, but the attic noises in Mitsuko’s room would occur whenever the wind blew a certain way.

Even if there was nothing suspicious about the sounds, Mitsuko herself seemed to be gradually wasting away.
There were times when sweat beaded on the fine wrinkles of her forehead, and she confessed to sometimes waking drenched in night sweats.

“You should have a doctor examine you.”

“I’m fine….
“It’s probably the climate.”

“Or maybe it’s because of those strange noises in the attic.”

Not only those suspicious noises, but Yamada found himself drawn to other sounds as well.
It happened more often when he was at home than when at Mitsuko’s place.

Late at night, occasionally, hoofbeats could be heard on the street outside.
When he suddenly awoke and listened, it was indeed the sound of a horse's footsteps.
Nor was it the spirited trot of a mounted horse.
It was the sound of something—perhaps a horse pulling a heavy cart—trudging wearily along a distant road with a labored clop-clop.

On main thoroughfares convenient for traffic, even at midnight, trucks would run and horse-drawn carts might pass.
However, the streets in this area would fall completely silent as night descended, and no large vehicles would pass through until the morning sun was well up.
It was an inconvenient location.
And yet, in the deep hours past midnight, a horse pulling a heavy cart would trudge along with that same labored clop-clop.
What on earth was it pulling?
Where had it come from, and where was it going?
Without scattering sparks from its horseshoes on the cobblestones, utterly exhausted with its head hanging low, eyes listlessly half-open, it trudged onward with a labored clop-clop.

Yamada heard that many times. As he lay straining his ears against the pillow, the hoofbeats gradually receded until they faded into the depths of the night, and Yamada buried his head in the futon. And when morning came, even as he tried to recall, it remained unclear whether it had truly been real or just a dream. However, there was no doubt that it remained clearly etched in his mind.

Compared to this, the drumbeats were more distinct. As dawn began to break with a pale light, the sound of drumbeats started to resound. Was it from a nearby shrine? Or perhaps a private residence? From somewhere, the drumbeats reached his pillow. At first slowly—boom, boom—then gradually faster, thud, thud, thud, thud… continuing monotonously without end.

When he first heard it, Yamada wondered if it was a trick of his ears.
Yet through repeated occurrences, he came to recognize it unmistakably as drumbeats—though this very certainty made him dismiss it and slip back into sleep.
Still, he sometimes awoke to listen.
Since they didn’t come daily but at irregular intervals, the drumbeats struck him as utterly whimsical.
Even the most reliable night train’s rumble would seem capricious if heard only occasionally.
Who could be beating a drum at daybreak—and to what end?
Not merely whimsical, the sound now felt derisive toward humanity.
Thud...thud...thud...thud—how long would this monotony persist?
There came nights when Yamada found himself unable to sleep.
Even then, he scarcely ever left his futon.

Mitsuko tilted her head slightly and thought.

“I’ve never heard any of these hoofbeats or drumbeats you mention.”

“That’s because you’re a late sleeper.”

"Oh my, aren't I more sharp-eyed than you?"

"Then it must be your insensitivity."

She stared unblinkingly at Yamada, her gaze turning grave.

“You… haven’t been quite yourself lately, have you? Somehow, you seem to be showing signs of a nervous breakdown. It worries me.”

“Nervous breakdown…”

Yamada slowly repeated the word and let out a big yawn. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Why won’t you just say it clearly? You get bored when you’re with me, don’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Aren’t you the one asking that?”
“I must be such a boring woman to you.”

“Not at all—I’m not bored in the least.”
“First of all… it’s always, always ‘come here’.”

Mitsuko laughed from the corners of her eyes.

“And yet, if I don’t call for you, what does it mean that you come here of your own accord?”

“You’re bored yourself—that’s why you have me come.”

“You’re the one who’s bored…”
“Then it’s not love, is it?”

“No—or rather, I might be getting bored with love itself.”

“Then what should we do about us?”

“This is fine as it is. Let us study a bit more.”

When he thought about that, Yamada became melancholy.
Mitsuko's eyes too took on a melancholy cast.

As colleagues working at the same school, the two of them had loved each other. In these times when teachers from normal schools who upheld moral integrity were becoming fewer, even if that matter could be overlooked, there remained a lingering sense of unease. It had become faintly known among their colleagues as well. But study, study—let’s join hands and study. That was the first vow. Both Yamada and Mitsuko had major research themes. With spring break’s arrival, free time too had increased. Yet all those things had become shrouded in the shadow of “come here”.

From within the shadows came various noises. From the attic came the groaning of wind—creak-creak-creak. In the midnight streets echoed the clop-clop of a draft horse's hooves. Somewhere nearby throbbed the boom-boom-boom-boom of drumbeats. They seized Yamada's mind, compressing it into a narrow, cramped world.

Yamada sighed more often now. He yawned more frequently too. Yet there were days when even these simple acts felt burdensome, his spirits sinking low. As if the sun had suddenly been blotted out, everything turned unbearable. Willpower, energy, even appetite—all vanished completely, replaced by a thick, heavy desire to hide in some corner and stay perfectly still. He hated seeing faces, hated speaking, wanted only to remain motionless and dissolve into nothingness. He yearned to press his face into a pillow and lie inert. He wouldn't mind dying like this. He wanted to burrow deep into stupor's embrace.

It was akin to a kind of seizure, and yet it meant surrendering completely to that seizure.
It was not the depths of dejection, the depths of despair, nor the depths of disappointment—it was simply the cessation of all volition, the cessation of all thought.
It was like entrusting oneself to a single leaf floating over an abyss and finding peace there.
Neither sunlight nor wind nor ripples—just a vast, hazy expanse stretching endlessly.

At such times, he would mechanically rise to his feet.
He didn’t even feel like staying in bed.
He didn't speak with any of his family members.
He didn’t even speak to his two motherless children.
He passed the time in a daze.
It was a time of near-complete inactivity and thoughtlessness.

Even when night fell and knotted letters saying "Come here" were delivered, he showed no expression.
However, he eventually went out.
Whether he went to Mitsuko’s or didn’t go—in the end, it amounted to the same thing for him.

Since the kotatsu was lit, Yamada burrowed into it and lay sprawled out.

“What were you doing?”

It was always the same greeting.
He grinned vacantly, a meaningless smile.

In the pillar-mounted single-flower vase, a cherry blossom branch with buds beginning to open had been tossed.
Yamada absently gazed at it.

“The flowers will bloom soon, won’t they.
The fresh greenery will soon be here, won’t it.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t care about the flowers, but I want to take a little trip to see the fresh greenery.”

“Right.”

“You promised to take me somewhere for a night or two to see the fresh greenery, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Will you really take me there?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yes.”

“Or do you dislike the trip?”

“Yes.”

“Make up your mind.”
“Will you take me there or not? Which is it?”

“Yes.”

“I really want to go.”
“If we look at the fresh greenery and take a day or two to think things over slowly, I feel like our future might truly open up.”
“So let’s go.”

“Yes.”

“When shall we go?”
“I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Yes.”

Mitsuko fell silent for a while.

“Oh, I see. Today, your light has dimmed, hasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”
“When my light dims like this, I don’t want to see anyone or speak with anyone.”

Yamada raised half his body.

“Drinking in silence is best.”

“In that case, what am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll drink together then.”

Having brought it up himself, Yamada noticed as if waking up.
Was their life nothing but getting drunk together, seeking mutual guarantees of love, and engaging in petty quarrels?
Hadn’t they already moved past such things?
If that were the case, what lay beyond having moved past it?

Yamada gazed with the feeling of seeing something new. Her slender physique; the faint makeup on her face with long ink-drawn eyebrows; eyes that frequently crinkled in laughter; then the compact furnishings in the room; clothes hung on the clothing rack; the kotatsu with its cozy lit fire... Just as she perpetually clung to that kotatsu, Yamada had clung solely to her body heat.

The alcohol was usually kept ready at her side.
Until the preparations were ready, Yamada borrowed playing cards and began doing a solo fortune-telling.
He repeated it obsessively.

Women are tedious creatures.
Love is a tedious thing.
But really, what in this world isn’t tedious?
Yamada never stopped his fortune-telling.

“Haven’t you had enough already?”

“No—I’ll keep at it all night if I have to, until it comes out right.”

“Because your prattling’s a nuisance...”
“Then I’ll stay quiet.”

They drank sake in complete silence.

Yamada suddenly raised his face and said.
“The fresh greenery trip—I’ll definitely go.”

“Oh my, I don’t like you deciding things through fortune-telling like that.”

“Fortune-telling is a separate matter.”
“Actually, I must take a trip for about a week.”
“The fresh greenery trip can wait until after that.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Mito direction, then straight east…”

“If you go straight east, wouldn’t that be the Pacific Ocean?”

“That’s right—into the sea.”

“If you keep spouting nonsense like that, then again…”

She made a grabbing motion, but Yamada paid no heed and continued his fortune-telling.
But he hadn’t been speaking nonsense.
Riding the train straight ahead… No—the train would run straight on.
If one went straight east from Mito, they would enter the Pacific Ocean and sink to the seabed.
Even after sinking, it would keep going straight on endlessly.
All those “Come here” summons and everything else—it was already too late.

There existed a vast and immeasurable gulf.
But could he endure it?

Yamada threw down the playing cards and stood up.

“I’m going home now.”

Mitsuko gazed fixedly at Yamada with drunk-glossed black eyes.

“I’m going home.”

“Yes, go ahead.”

He didn’t care if she was angry.
It was nearly midnight.
Yamada left with unsteady legs.
The front door of the crude little shop had already been closed.
In the wilderness where the faint scent of spring grass lingered, Yamada urinated.
After walking a short distance, Mitsuko came running up from behind.

“You’re angry.”
“If I said anything to offend you, I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“But you’re thinking about something, aren’t you? Going straight into the sea like that… Don’t think about it. Okay? Let’s just decide not to think about anything anymore.”

Yamada remained silent.

“We can cancel the fresh greenery trip too.”
“But—”

As she clung to Yamada’s shoulder in her unsteady motion, she staggered, took his forearm—which he extended to support her—full against her side, rolled onto the spot, let out a moan, and collapsed.
Yamada’s forearm couldn’t have struck her that hard, nor could she have hit the ground anywhere with such force—he couldn’t comprehend why.

Yamada bent over her.
When he felt around, her forehead was cold, and her faint breath was hot.
And she bent her knees and lay completely limp.
He tried to lift her up, but she seemed unable to walk anymore, her full weight bearing down on him.
Yamada supported her with his shoulder and partially on his back, half-carrying her as he began returning in the direction of her house.

Suddenly, the feeling changed.
She was no longer the Mitsuko of before.
She was not the "Come here" version of herself.
She seemed somehow like a stranger, yet also like someone deeply caring.
She no longer seemed like someone drunk and throwing a tantrum, but rather like a person leaning on him with genuine sincerity.
It was as though human affection had washed away the dregs of carnal desire.

“Are you all right?”

There was no reply, and she nodded faintly.

“Did you hurt yourself somewhere?”

To this too there was no reply; she only shook her head faintly.

“Please rest assured. I’ll stay with you. I’ll stay with you forever.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder too.
From her hair—only the tips lightly curled—came the scent of perfume.
Yamada poured affectionate strength into his hands supporting her.
There was no moonlight; the streets hung dim and blurred.