Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

It is said that worms of gloom, seeds of irritation, and all manner of things reside within humans to stir up normal emotions, but there in Kiyama Uhei, those around him came to perceive that a worm of anger had taken up residence at some unknown time.
He was by nature an exceedingly gentle man, but lately he had become quick to anger at every little thing.

When going out, after putting on his shoes at the entrance, he briefly touched his pocket, tilted his head slightly, and shouted loudly.

“Dishcloth, dishcloth!”

Mrs. Yaeko and the maid came out to see him off, but they couldn’t quite grasp what he meant.

“It’s the dishcloth,” Kiyama snapped again.

After all, he did have a habit of always making sure dishcloths were prepared at the dining table.
If even a single drop of tea or soup spilled onto the tabletop, he would immediately wipe it away with a dishcloth.
However, dishcloths at the entrance were unprecedented.
Even so, the maid ran out and brought one dishcloth.
Kiyama attempted to receive it but pulled back his hand and shouted.

“Idiot.”
“What’s this dishcloth for?”
“Handkerchief!”

“Oh...”
Mrs. Yaeko replied.
“I did put out your handkerchief though…”

The handkerchief had always been laid out alongside his suits.

Kiyama was irritated.

“Fine.”
“I’ll buy one on the way.”

He stormed out with a fierce demeanor.

It was later discovered that the handkerchief had indeed been in his pocket all along.
It had been nothing more than Kiyama’s own slip of the tongue and misunderstanding.
Yet the fact remained that he had been angry.
He would get angry and then be done with it, completely unperturbed.

It happened that very evening—a gathering of close social acquaintances centered around Kawamura, who had just returned from a month-and-a-half-long trip to America, was held at Sansuiro in Marunouchi.
Being a private gathering, there were only brief greetings at first, after which it turned into unrestrained discussions scattered about.

Kiyama Uhei sat before the sake bottle, drinking endlessly.
Since it was Chinese cuisine with no fixed course to speak of, numerous dishes remained on the table, and given Kiyama’s well-known fondness for drink, the situation felt entirely natural.

That Kiyama suddenly began to seethe with indignation.
He thrust out his arm and, while pointing at his jacket sleeve, shouted in a loud voice.

“So what if my jacket sleeves are worn through? Who cares? Mine aren’t just frayed—you could say they’re torn through entirely. Doesn’t bother me one bit. There’s not a shred of shame in it.”

“Of course not,” the man in the adjacent seat responded.

“Shame doesn’t enter into it. Feeling ashamed would just be an inferiority complex. Not that the ladies here—the fine ladies present—have any frayed kimono sleeves to speak of. But we men can stride about in tattered suits without a second thought, can’t we?”

At first, those nearby couldn’t quite grasp what he meant, but soon an uneasy atmosphere drifted through the room.

Earlier during his greetings, Kawamura had mentioned something about his jacket cuffs.
While in America, he’d mostly avoided what one might call red-blanket-style blunders, but at a certain banquet he attended, he noticed his jacket cuffs had become badly worn and unsightly—from that point on, he explained, he’d felt strangely ashamed deep inside.
Kawamura was a wealthy industrialist who always kept up an immaculate appearance, even tonight, making it doubtful he’d actually worn a jacket with frayed cuffs during his American trip.
Moreover, from his tone, one couldn’t help sensing his mention of jacket cuffs served as a metaphor hinting at Japan’s broader cultural and economic conditions.
Now Kiyama had seized solely upon the literal jacket cuffs themselves and was fuming.

“What is there to be ashamed of? If it were me, I’d strut around confidently in this worn-out suit whether it’s America, England, or France. That’s exactly the resolve a man ought to have!”

Mrs. Sakita, who was nearby in Western attire, said something ill-advised.

“Mr. Kiyama, your suit isn’t nearly as worn-out as you pride yourself on it being, now is it? Perhaps my chemise might be even more worn-out than that.”

Kiyama furrowed his brows.

“Something like a worn-out chemise, you should just toss it out. If what you say is true... then that’s how it is. I always wear clean dress shirts. I don’t care if the jacket’s torn. It seems the ladies disagree.”

"My, what terribly rude things you say."
"Well, you are in your cups after all, ohoho."

Mrs. Sakita turned bright red and forced a sarcastic smile.

From his seat across the room, Kawamura called out.

“Kiyama, it seems my remarks have displeased you,” Kawamura called out from his seat. “But my true meaning is this—I agree with you wholeheartedly. Let us stride across the world in tattered garments if we must. There’s not an ounce of shame in it. Yet Japan’s culture, economy, industry—these mustn’t stay in rags forever. They need proper tailoring, don’t you think?”

“One wears clean dress shirts,” Kiyama retorted.

Kiyama responded thus, then began humming as though drunk.

“Years passed, and with the torment of tangled threads, the robe’s sleeves frayed…”

The listeners were left speechless.
From a realistic indignation over frayed cuffs, he abruptly plunged into reciting a classical poem from an old war chronicle.
A few scattered claps arose.
Taking that as their cue, some people began to rise from their seats.

Mrs. Sakita also stood up.

“I’ve decided I shan’t be entertaining drunks any longer.”

“Yes, by all means.”

Kiyama put on a happy-looking smile and took up his wine cup again. Sweat oozed on his thinning crown, and he wiped it round and round with a handkerchief. Then he fell silent and stepped outside the realm of small talk.

Hayashi came over to where he was and tapped his shoulder.

“There’s something I’d like to ask of you. Since you’ve got plenty of connections at Tokyo newspapers, lend me a hand here. Sumiko Kosaka—she’s a rising pianist—is scheduled to perform at her debut concert next week. She happens to be my niece, you see…”

“Oh, tickets? I’ll take as many as you need.”

“No—it’s not about tickets. After all, it being her first debut concert, I want to make sure she gets favorable reviews. From any newspaper—could you have a word with their music critic for me?”

“Oh, I see. In that case, that guy’s your man. He’s always churning out nothing but nonsense music reviews. Come on, you know him too, don’t you? Uh, come on—that guy.”

Kiyama tapped his forehead lightly.

“Come on, you know him too, don’t you? That young man. Uh, come on—the pale-skinned one with long hair who’s always blinking nonstop…”

“Hmm, who could that be?”

“Come on, you know him too, don’t you? That guy... what was his name... how strange, it’s right on the tip of my tongue…”

Kiyama tapped his forehead again, stood up, and began walking with his head slightly tilted.
Hayashi remained there with a wry smile still on his face.

As Kiyama moved toward the waiting room entrance, Mrs. Tsukamoto sprang up from among the tea-drinking group and seized his arm.
Then she whispered.

“Tomorrow afternoon, I will come to your office.”
“Please wait for me.”

Kiyama nodded.

"It's important business."
"You'll definitely come, won't you?"

"Tonight would be fine—starting right now."

“No, let’s make it tomorrow.”
“Because I want to talk properly.”

Her eyes gleamed piercingly.

“What exactly is this about?”

“About Tsukamoto.”
“I told you about it, didn’t I?”
“It seems he’ll finally be returning to me.”
“Since I want to discuss this properly, please consider it carefully.”

Kiyama stepped back and stared fixedly at her face.

“I’ll come by tomorrow between two and three.”
“You must wait for me without fail.”

“Understood.”

Kiyama said coldly and dismissively, then returned to his previous seat.
The fingertips holding the sake cup were trembling faintly.

Mrs. Tsukamoto also turned on her heel at the same time as Kiyama and rejoined the previous group.
Next to her was Mrs. Sakita.
Mrs. Tsukamoto glanced back at that person and laughed with a titter.

“Mr. Kiyama has been acting rather strangely lately, hasn’t he?”
“He’s been so irritable, and earlier he said such rude things…”
“I gave him a little reprimand.”
“Served him right.”

However, Mrs. Tsukamoto's attitude had been slightly too bold.
Their close associates acknowledged that there seemed to be an amorous relationship between Kiyama and her.
And there were those who connected Kiyama's recent worm of anger to this very matter.
Depending on how one looked at it, there seemed to be points where even Mrs. Tsukamoto had recently begun losing her composure.

That evening, Mrs. Tsukamoto was one of the first among those who left.
And Kiyama was one of those who remained until the end, holding a sake cup.

Kiyama's office was located on the third floor of a small building behind Ginza.
Though called an office, it served as the Tokyo liaison station for a small newspaper in a neighboring prefecture with which he was affiliated under the title of acting supervisor, its staff consisting of two men—one elderly and one young—and one woman.
Kiyama kept himself busy making business trips to the newspaper company two or three days a week.
He seemed to take almost pride in this busyness.

Yet recently, a weariness that seemed almost burdensome had begun to show in him.
At times this would erupt as what people called the worm of anger; at others it would sink into vague meditative depths.

As promised, when Mrs. Tsukamoto visited the office, Kiyama had discarded his work and was lost in thought, but suddenly stood up as though roused from sleep.

“Are you pressed for time?”

“Huh?”

Mrs. Tsukamoto asked in return.

"If you have time, let's go to Haru no Ie."

"I'll accompany you."

With that alone, the two of them went outside and hailed a taxi.

Haru no Ie was located in a quiet corner that belied its recent reconstruction from war damage.
A garden planted mainly with evergreen trees of the camellia family and featuring an empty pond—part of which was partitioned by a low side fence—had an inner room surrounded by a veranda where a kotatsu still sat set up.
It was a room deeply familiar to both of them.
The maid was also familiar.

“Your order…?”

“First, sake. After that, anything’s fine.”

There was a gloomy shadow in Kiyama’s eyes.

Mrs. Tsukamoto was gazing out at the garden through the lower glass panels of the shoji screen.
Kiyama offered a cigarette.

“How about cigarettes today?”

Mrs. Tsukamoto turned her eyes.

"No—it's about the cigarettes."
"When you smoke a lot, it means you're in a good mood, and when you don't smoke much, it means you're in a bad mood—didn't I say that?"
"Which is it today?"

"How coldly you put it."
"Then should I smoke recklessly?"
"You go ahead and drink recklessly."

There, she was no longer Mrs. Tsukamoto, but simply Yumiko.
She threw off her coat, sat with her knees slightly askew, the embroidery on her obi glaringly brilliant.
Just like that embroidery, her gaze needled Kiyama's eyes.

“You haven’t asked me anything at all.”

“What do you mean by ‘ask’? What exactly are you talking about?”

"I did mention Tsukamoto to you last night, didn't I?"

"But you still haven't told me anything..."

"So have you thought about it?"

"I've thought about it, but I don't fully understand the situation..."

"I know this is unpleasant for you."
"But if you have any affection for me, I think you could at least show some concern."

"Of course I'm concerned."
"But no matter how much I worry, it won't change anything..."

“Are you saying to let things take their course?”

“No... I must find some way through this...”

“Won’t you let me hear your true feelings today?”

“I’ve told you before—it remains unchanged.”

Kiyama struggled to suppress the darkening mood that churned within him.
He drank.
Yumiko too fell silent, lifting a sake cup.

What had begun as casual flirtation had sunk into a mire neither could escape.
Their physical entanglement proved disastrous—not youth’s passionate blaze nor elders’ tender bond, but a slow gnawing that eroded both.
Then came Tsukamoto’s return: the estranged husband, having abandoned his mistress, now reclaimed his household.
His amateur fisheries venture had nearly bankrupted them—bankruptcy avoided, but family assets required drastic liquidation.
His homecoming meant inevitable cohabitation with Yumiko.
Though Tsukamoto likely suspected her affair with Kiyama, his ingrained contempt for women made their domestic future unknowable.
"That’s what terrifies me," Yumiko said.
No fixed date yet set for his relocation—only the imminent notice.
That notice demanded her decisive reckoning.

She stared fixedly at Kiyama and said.

“If you have any affection for me, why won’t you tell me to leave the house? I wanted to hear those words from you.”

“That’s separate from affection. What do you plan to do after leaving home?”

“If it’s just me alone, I can manage to get by. I won’t cause you any inconvenience. I won’t trouble your wife either.”

“I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about living as a human being.”

“You’re talking about appearances, aren’t you? Which holds more value—society’s propriety or love?”

“That’s irrelevant at present. Let me state clearly—I love you. Therefore I’m considering your proper way of living.”

“Proper way of living…”
“So you’re telling me to live with Tsukamoto.”
“You’re telling me to break up, aren’t you?”

“That’s not it.”
“Let’s cultivate love.”
“However, as for the way to cultivate it…”

He fell silent and furrowed his brows.
He felt he had been driven into a corner.
And he fixed his eyes on a single spot on the table and drank alcohol while sinking into thought.

Kiyama let his thoughts drift to other matters.
Recently he had begun noticing physical discomfort.
Night sweats drenched him almost daily.
Sleep stayed shallow; he had never known true rest.
Yet even daytime brought fitful dozing during contemplation.
A faint numbness tingled through his fingertips and toes.
His pulse alternated between racing and dragging.
Sweat pooled persistently at his crown.
Vision dimmed unexpectedly while legs wavered beneath him.
Some days his face and palms felt bloated and dense; others left them gaunt and withered.
Bowel movements turned wildly erratic.
Appetite grew irregular too—waning steadily each week.
Only alcohol cravings burned undiminished.
Forgetfulness thickened until whole memories dissolved into haze.
Constant weariness weighted every limb.
Focus scattered like blown ash.
What in the world was happening?
Perhaps some affliction gnawed at his liver.
This wretched body had become unbearable.

Seeing Kiyama press the call bell, Yumiko furrowed her brows with concern.

“You’re ordering sake again.”
“If you’ve come this far,”
“Didn’t you say yourself that your health was failing?”

“Nah, I’m fine.”
“If it’s just sake, no matter how much I drink…”

≪Is it just sake you crave? Sake, sake, nothing but sake?≫

“So you truly intend to cultivate our affection, then?”

“That’s right.
As I just said.”

“Even so, if I were to live in the same house as Tsukamoto, you’d still dislike it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s not something I’d want.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“That depends on your resolve.”

“My resolve is already fixed.”
“If only you would permit it, I would leave this house.”

“And where would you go if you left?”

“Anywhere—wherever you think suitable.”

“A suitable place can’t be found so abruptly.”

“For a little while, whether it’s staying at an inn or living in a hotel, I don’t mind.”
“I have that much money.”
“However, what comes next is the problem.”
Yumiko stiffened and stared at Kiyama.

“Mr. Kiyama, please look steadily into my eyes.”
“And tell me the truth.”

Kiyama stared into her eyes and said.

“I love you.”

“That’s all?”

“What more could there be?”

“What you utter are just words.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

She tilted her head upward, eyes fixed blankly in midair as though compressing her innermost reflections.
It resembled the calm before a storm.
Kiyama pressed his face into the kotatsu quilt.

≪If I embraced her now, her heart would quickly soften.
But what does that matter?
Haven't I grown sick of my own flesh?
Even when holding her through the night, I'd wake drenched in sweat.
Suppose it's the alcohol flaring up inside me—doesn't that make it all the more wretched? Disgusting?
Nothing reeks baser than sweat's stench.
She sweats too—hearts pound when she does.
Pathetic.
No—I'm worse.
Even sober, these trembling hands clutch sake cups while steam rises from my scalp and my pulse races—this vile carcass.
Enough of you.
Let's part.
Farewell.
How clean I'd feel cutting ties completely.
Serves you right.
This ends here.
Chase me all you want—I won't look back.
Filthy thing.
You're not alone—Yumiko's flesh stinks of armpits, Yaeko's reeks of dye.

No matter how much perfume they douse themselves with, it’s no use.
Serves you right.
Farewell.≫

Yumiko grabbed Kiyama’s shoulder and shook him.

“Mr. Kiyama, please wake up.”
“And speak plainly.”

Kiyama remained silent and stared at her face.

“Your true wish is for me to keep enduring life at Tsukamoto’s house—isn’t that right?”

Kiyama was still silent.

“While continuing like this until we naturally part ways—that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Kiyama did not respond.

“I understand perfectly well.”
“I won’t cause you any more concern.”
“I will settle this myself.”

Kiyama suddenly shouted.
“Go ahead and do as you please.”

And he stood up and began pacing around the room in circles.
The harbinger of the storm lay with him.
His head spun, and he became unreasonably angry.

"My feelings remain as I stated before."
"You’re always just backtracking."
"You want me to be the one to say we should break up, don’t you?"
"Then that’s fine."
"Do whatever you want."

He paced around in circles, then half-crawled under the kotatsu and lay sprawled on his back.

≪What the hell am I saying?
Having parted with the flesh and now seeking some sort of spiritual love—am I not just floundering?
Why can’t I put this into words?
Why can’t I tell her honestly?≫

Yumiko’s hand reached out, and he was pulled upright.

“If we’re going to break up, then let’s break up properly.”
“I won’t tolerate this sulking behavior.”

“I hate it too.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I hate logic too.
I hate repeating the same things too.
I hate parting with you too.
I hate everything.
I’ve come to hate even myself.
Don’t provoke my anger.”

It was chaos.
There remained nothing but to drink.

“In that case, maintaining the status quo is acceptable, I presume?”

The conversation made no progress at all, and the same patterns repeated themselves.
As they continued, Kiyama suddenly spoke up.

"I have made up my mind."
"I intend to meet with Mr. Tsukamoto."

Yumiko’s face paled.

“You… oh, to do such a thing…”

“What’s wrong with meeting him? Our situation must already be known to Mr. Tsukamoto anyway. Let’s meet him and settle things clearly.”

“You mustn’t. I can’t bear it. First of all, what will you do about your wife?”

“Don’t misunderstand. This has nothing to do with my wife. I just want to meet Mr. Tsukamoto and make things clear between us once and for all.”

≪What the hell am I saying now? Isn't this just some reckless idea born of anger? Do I really have the resolve to act? If she were the one to suggest that, I would have flatly refused. Stop talking nonsense. Aren't I just spouting foolishness and tangling the conversation further? What the hell am I trying to accomplish?≫

Yumiko fell silent.
Then suddenly, she sought a kiss from him.

"I understand your feelings."
"I'll wait patiently for the time to come."

"'The time'..."

"I shall wait quietly until that decisive moment arrives."

"Very well. Leave everything to me."

And once again, they exchanged a cold kiss as a token of their promise.

Just that, and just drinking alcohol—no warm affection welled up.

≪I must be completely losing it.
Why can't I show her any tenderness?
Can't I even show myself any tenderness?
This was undoubtedly my liver's fault.
There's something wrong with my liver.
A body with a bad liver—damn it, just throw it away.≫

Kiyama sank deeper into an unpleasant mood.
The maid came to ask about the bath, but he refused with a single word.

Yumiko grew taciturn and became strangely subdued.

“Perhaps I should head back now.”
“I have some business to attend to.”

“I suppose so.”
“I’ll drink a bit more first—yes, then I’ll head out.”

With their talk left unresolved, a car was called, and Yumiko went home first.

“Might I see you again within the next two or three days?”

“Yes, anytime—even tomorrow would be fine.”
“Please call me.”

“Let’s meet at our leisure next time.”

Her final words—Kiyama burrowed into the kotatsu and chewed them over.

≪Leisurely, comfortably, enjoyably… That was how it was at first, but how did things come to this?≫
Her attitude may be bad, but the cause seems to lie with me as well.
It’s the liver.
The liver’s bad.≫

He thought of going somewhere else but, feeling fatigued and already drunk, abandoned the idea and instead called two geishas to continue drinking.

His consciousness cut out; time stopped; he couldn’t discern what he’d done or how; didn’t know when he’d returned home; and when he finally woke late the next morning—only then did he feel human again.

Kiyama drank alcohol starting in the morning.
Around dawn he abruptly awoke drenched in night sweats that left him feeling ill. When he rose to wash his face and found toothpaste powder strewn about the washroom, he berated the maid - an act that only worsened his condition.
As he drank on, sweat beading across his scalp did nothing to alleviate his foul mood.

At that moment, Mrs. Yaeko brought up a trivial matter.

She had always been physically frail and suffered from indigestion.
It wasn’t serious enough to warrant seeing a doctor, and she had managed with over-the-counter medicine, but lately she had been summoning a masseuse almost daily.
The regular masseuse was blind yet relatively neat for a middle-aged woman.
When this masseuse became unavailable yesterday, an elderly substitute came instead.
It was this old woman’s story.

The elderly masseuse tilted her head thoughtfully and recounted several symptoms of stomach ailments, remarking, “My, Madam does indeed have stomach troubles.”
Among them was one peculiar case.
An elderly woman over sixty had suffered from a stomach ailment for years and visited various doctors, but her condition simply wouldn’t improve.
Recently, however, strange symptoms had begun occurring.
Whenever she ate, something would get lodged somewhere in her stomach.
Even liquids would get stuck.
After a while, the obstructed matter would sink down to the stomach’s bottom with heavy, gurgling thuds.
Only then would she feel her chest finally loosen.
What made it strange was that not just soft foods but even liquids behaved this way.
She couldn’t tell where the obstruction occurred, but it would indeed get stuck somewhere before eventually sinking down with those gurgling thuds.
Doctors couldn’t determine the cause when consulted, and lately she had given up—instead coming to anticipate those thuds with odd relish.

The masseuse seemed to treat the story as mere dinner-table amusement, but to Yaeko, troubled by her own stomach troubles, it struck her as strangely unsettling.

“How dreadful—to have gurgling thuds in the stomach.”
“Has the stomach become constricted like a gourd?”

Yaeko was furrowing her brow.

Kiyama said while wiping his head.

“Nonsense. It’s probably just nerves.”

“Even if we blame it on nerves, once it gets like that, what then? I find it utterly horrifying.”

“That’s why I’m always telling you to see a doctor, aren’t I?”

“If you were to see one, I would do the same. You’re the one who must surely have something wrong somewhere. You’re having night sweats, breaking out in sweat from your head…”

Kiyama made an unpleasant face and clamped his mouth shut. It was something that had been repeated many times. Yaeko insisted that if Kiyama were to see a doctor, she would see one too—or else... Her insistence wasn’t forceful enough to be called a demand, yet through repetition, it took on an obstinate quality. And each time, it was the night sweats and head sweat that were brought up.

“If you were to see a doctor...”

Kiyama grew angry.

“Rather than that, the gurgling thuds in your stomach should come first. I’ll see a doctor too if my heart starts pounding like crazy.”

After saying it, Kiyama grew increasingly displeased.
In fact, his pulse had quickened.
The smell of Yaeko's dyed white hair—whether real or imagined—reached his nose.
He finally put an end to his drinking and began preparing to go out.

At that moment came a call from the office—or more precisely, from the local newspaper branch.

In that region stood a shrine with a splendid row of pine trees.
Among them, two had begun withering last year.
A prefectural technician’s investigation suggested pine beetle damage, prompting a proposal to cut them down. But opposition from elders led to postponing action while monitoring the situation.
However, with no signs of recovery emerging, authorities resolved to fell the trees before summer’s heat enabled pest proliferation—only to face renewed resistance from influential figures.
Given these were sacred trees requiring careful handling, they wanted another evaluation by a specialist.
Accordingly, when Kiyama Uhei was next scheduled to visit, they wondered if he might bring this expert along.
Such was their request.

Kiyama had forgotten, but he was scheduled to go on a business trip the day after tomorrow.

Kiyama listened and flew into a rage.
He yelled at the clerk.

“A schedule remains nothing but a schedule! Whether I go there or not is my own business! I have circumstances to consider too!”

He found himself remembering Yumiko.

“The pine tree matter isn’t some urgent problem needing immediate attention.”

Tedious excuses came through the receiver.

“In the first place, this is absurd. What’s so sacred about them? Does such superstition still linger? Why don’t you just cut them down already?”

It was yet another tedious explanation.

“Arguing over such nonsense is idiotic. Send a telegram. Since it’s undoubtedly pine beetles, send a telegram telling them to cut them down.”

It was still a tedious explanation.

“Just cut off such trivial business.”
“I’m not going today.”

After ranting and raving for about twenty minutes, Kiyama left the phone.

He went up to his study, came down to the tearoom, wandered around the garden, and then started drinking again. While frowning, he drank wordlessly. He called the maid and ordered her to prepare a bath immediately. And occasionally, he would shake his head in small, rapid movements.

Yaeko could only watch his condition like a frightened creature, secretly and wordlessly.

He wore a sarcastic smile and said to Yaeko:

“I suppose I did love you after all.”
“Give me a break.”
“I’ll see a doctor too.”
“You go see a doctor too.”
“The gurgling thuds in your stomach?”

He fell silent again and drank alcohol.
Then, saying he felt a bit unwell and would take a nap, he had the futon laid out.

“When the bath’s ready, wake me up.”

Yaeko stayed by his side for a while, but upon hearing his sleeping breaths, she quietly left the room.

After about an hour had passed and the bath was ready, Yaeko went to wake Kiyama.
Kiyama had slightly leaned forward from the futon, eyes half-closed now wide open, one hand flung out onto the tatami mats—he had already stopped breathing.

It was an abrupt and unceremonious death.
The doctor’s diagnosis was cerebral hemorrhage.

Later, Yaeko said.

“Some said he’d been seized by the Worm of Anger, but considering that, his face in death was peaceful.”