Pathway to Japanese Literature

Railway tracks converged from all directions, crisscrossing chaotically before dispersing again in every direction.
It was like a tangled skein of thread.
Red and blue lights burned high atop iron pillars and low near the ground here and there, eerily illuminating the steel rails.
A sudden flare erupted with thunderous roaring.
It darted about wildly.
Trains and steam trains were passing through.
Long chains with brightly lit windows - steam trains and electric trains.
Black-bodied ones with darkened windows - steam trains and electric trains.
Passing.
Passing.
Passing.
They streamed endlessly.
A web of overhead wires.
Electrical sparks.
Black coal smoke.
White steam.
The convergence of railway tracks sprawling across a high plateau's base.
I couldn't begin to guess where the station might lie.
Why had they gathered these tracks into such senseless disorder?

In the middle stood a high embankment, its top forming a road.
The lower section had been hollowed out in multiple places where railway tracks ran through.
The embankment split into two, ending at a wooden overpass.
Where it led—no one passed through it.
He staggered onto that embankment road, realized he'd be instantly crushed by steam or electric trains whether he fell right or left, looked up at the faint starlight, then turned back with a shiver.
From that moment on, he lost all sense of direction.

The cardinal directions—north, south, east, west—were never inherently precise but mere approximations; yet they served as one's bearings when navigating.
This held true not only in plains remote from human habitation but even in city streets when drunk.
Most people didn't rely on directions even when intoxicated—seemed scarcely aware of them—but for me, direction remained my ultimate guide.
Even on familiar midnight streets—lose your bearings and you wouldn't know which way to go; board a train while misjudging its direction—complete unease would take hold.
Were they more animalistic?

From that railway convergence zone, he turned back and walked on, but had already completely lost his bearings. To begin with, he was severely intoxicated. Even if he stopped to take deep breaths, he only felt the intoxication, and his sense of direction didn’t return.

Even so, he kept walking. He walked a great deal. The streets would blaze glaringly bright one moment and sink into shadowy darkness the next, and I would move forward only to retreat back again. He had absolutely wanted to reach it. With drunken single-mindedness, he absolutely wanted to go to Shū Gobun’s place and drink that exquisite doburoku. It had been about ten days since his last visit. He walked a great deal.

At last, he recognized a turn that seemed familiar. But after a while, he once again lost his bearings. The area around him was bombed-out ruins from the air raids, left to decay abandoned as they were, where nameless weeds grew rampant. Tall chimneys and crumbling concrete walls still stood. It must have grown quite late. No passersby were to be seen.

He pushed through the rampant weeds, sat down, smoked a cigarette, pondered his bearings, and... what he had been doing.

The pale moon had come out unnoticed.

A woman's face I recognized peered into mine.
The face was familiar, but he couldn't place who she was or where from.
She wore a pale green sweater and blue trousers.

“Mr. Nojima….”

The autumn night air seeped into his body, sent an odd shiver through him, and then he finally understood.
Oh—it was Shū Gobun’s wife, Ms. Chiyono.
“What are you doing in a place like this…?”

He stood up but nearly stumbled.

“I’ve completely lost my way.”

“Come in.”
“This way.”

He started walking, and things became clear.
This was near Shū Gobun’s shop.

The front door was half-closed, half-open.
When I strode in, there were no customers in the dirt-floored area, and in the back room, Mr. Shū was drinking face-to-face with one other person.

Shū Gobun’s shop was a commonplace little izakaya where oden, shōchū, cheap whiskey, and such lined the shelves.
But if you passed through the corridor beside the counter, there was another narrow dirt-floored area in the back where favored customers savored special offerings.
The pork, chicken, and fish Chinese dishes—all of them were delicious.
And especially, there was premium doburoku.
It wasn’t like those bland ones made from millet or sour ones contaminated with bacteria.
It was strictly manufactured with white rice—a pure white, rich, highest-quality brew.

I used to come here almost every night.
But these past ten days or so, I had been burdened with deep worries, fallen into despondency, avoiding familiar places, wandering through unknown areas as much as possible.

When Mr. Shū saw me, he stood up, came over, took the hand, and shook it vigorously.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Why didn’t you come?”
“What were you doing?”
“Why didn’t you come?”

His words were hurried, but there was a look in his eyes that oddly seemed to be gauging my expression.

On my part as well, I somehow found myself gauging Mr. Shū’s expression.

The man with Mr. Shū was a fellow countryman already around fifty years old, and I had met him several times before. To the man, Mr. Shū rattled on in a language I didn’t understand, and the man nodded repeatedly.

Settling onto a stool there, leaning one elbow on the table, using the sweet-and-sour chicken as a snack while gulping down lukewarm pure white doburoku, I grew too listless even to speak.

Mr. Shū addressed his compatriot in a language I didn’t know and spoke to me in one I did, alternating between the two. That very alternation struck me as oddly unguarded in manner.

“You came at just the right time.”
“The doburoku was nearly gone now.”
“Let’s drink it all tonight.”

He was talking nonsense.
If it ran out, he could just get new stock.
Mr. Shū seemed drunk already.
Yet he was personally heating the doburoku.

“Tsune-chan…”

There should have been a young maid named Tsune-chan.

“I let her go.”
“Now it’s just me alone.”

I looked around.
What happened to Ms. Chiyono?
"Did Ms. Chiyono go out again?"

“Chiyono… I’ve already given up.”
“The dead can’t be helped.”

“The dead….”
“Don’t play dumb now.”
“But I met her there just now.”

Mr. Shū half-rose from his seat.
He stared fixedly at my face.

“Don’t you know anything?”

With a strange feeling, I peered at Mr. Shū’s face.

Mr. Shū suddenly stood up fully and grabbed my arm.

“You met Chiyono... Did you really meet her?”

“I did meet her.
Over there at the bombed-out ruins... And then we were supposed to come here together, but...”

“Was it definitely Chiyono?”

There had been no mistake.
They had even exchanged words.
But after walking here together, everything that followed grew hazy in his mind.
They had become separated—or rather, she had vanished completely.
There was no way to explain it.

Mr. Shū released my arm, then seized his compatriot’s arm, rattled on in a language I didn’t understand, and suddenly buried his face in the table and began to weep.
The man patted his shoulder lightly and said something in a low voice.

Eventually, Mr. Shū lifted his tear-streaked face.

“Chiyono held affection for you.”
“That matter is undeniably true.”
“I too have met Chiyono since then.”

The atmosphere grew somber, and I found myself unable to press for details.
There was nothing left to do but drink liquor.

When the wall clock struck eleven, Mr. Shū’s compatriot stood up, exchanged a few words with Mr. Shū, and left.

“Well, let’s drink anew. Stay with me tonight. But first, please listen to what I have to say.”

Mr. Shū brought out various dishes.
It could have been called every last delicacy he could muster.
I could no longer eat.
Instead, I drank plenty of doburoku.
Mr. Shū ate heartily and drank heartily.
Drunk, both of them stumbled through disjointed conversation, but...

Chiyono had truly died.
The moment she fled her home—perhaps driven by the panicked thought that if pursued and caught she’d be in danger—she swallowed the poison she’d kept on her person and dashed away. But in that area of bombed-out ruins where I encountered her，the toxin had already spread through her body，leaving her writhing in agony until she collapsed among the weeds and breathed her last—or so one could imagine.
The corpse discovered in the early morning was eventually autopsied，but the cause of death was found to be nothing other than poison.

“The place where I met Chiyono was also around there,” Mr. Shū said.

“When I passed by, someone was standing dimly like a shadow.
“That was Chiyono.”
“Once in the darkness, once in the mist.”
“Undoubtedly, regret remained.”

Chiyono devoted herself well to Shū Gobun.
The China War, then the Pacific War—because of these, Shū’s life in Tokyo gradually became untenable, and he took refuge at an acquaintance’s house in Yokohama, but Chiyono followed him even there.
While working as an izakaya maid, she protected Shū in both visible and invisible ways, and he came to rely on her.

“To put it another way, I would thrust my head into Chiyono’s skirts, into the hems of her kimono, and in those moments, I could breathe most peacefully.”

After the war, when he returned to his current home in Tokyo and started the izakaya, Chiyono continued to work remarkably hard for him.

However, each of them came to possess one secret.

Given that it was an izakaya of those times, handling black-market goods was unavoidable.
Moreover, third-country nationals could avoid paying taxes.
Taking notice of this, local toughs began frequenting the place to drink.
There were more times when they didn’t pay than when they did.
As the izakaya’s business improved, even members of the influential Odaka family in the area began showing up from time to time.
Odaka himself came.
Due to Odaka’s extortion, Chiyono provided thirty thousand yen.
That was her only secret.

“A woman’s secrets are bound to come out sooner or later,” Mr. Shū said.
“No—before it gets discovered, I’ll confess myself.”
“Chiyono also voluntarily revealed that secret to me.”

Thereupon, Shū confronted Odaka, demanding repayment of the principal and negotiating that if repayment were delayed, he would require five percent monthly interest.

“Even between parents and siblings, they take interest when lending money.”
“Who would lend money without interest?”
“These days, five percent monthly interest counts as very low.”
“What could possibly be wrong with me demanding five percent monthly interest from Mr. Odaka?”
“Is that not a legitimate right?”

Odaka, to his credit, did not deny having borrowed money from Chiyono, but turned away and refused to engage with the interest matter.
And from then on, he persistently asked Chiyono where the source of the premium doburoku was.
But that very source was Shū Gobun’s sole secret.
From the beginning, it had never been homemade.

“Don’t tell anyone—all right? I won’t tell anyone either. That’s our agreement.”
“A man-to-man promise.”
“It’s a matter of trust.”
“It’s a matter of human good faith.”
“The Japanese people seem to take pride in breaking promises and divulging secrets, but we are different.”
“If I make a vow, I’ll keep it even with my wife.”
“I never revealed to Chiyono the source of the doburoku.”

The reason why Odaka wanted so desperately to uncover that source remained unclear.
It seemed he aimed to obtain concrete evidence of controlled economy violations to threaten Shū Gobun.
He pressed Chiyono relentlessly, but since she knew nothing herself, he gained no leads.
Odaka apparently took this as proof of Chiyono's obstinacy and turned to ruthless methods.
Though details were vague, synthesizing the maid's account suggested Odaka had waited for Shū Gobun's absence—arriving with two henchmen, stabbing a dagger into the table, and unleashing every imaginable threat and obscenity.
Chiyono likely swallowed poison in a fit of panic, fleeing to die in the grassy fields.

“Whether you call it pure-heartedness or a lack of judgment, it’s pitiful.”

Mr. Shū buried his face in the table and cried again.

But in my mind, Ms. Chiyono's death didn't strike me as particularly serious. I even considered it something commonplace that varied with each person's circumstances—something triggered by a cause, like missing a step and tumbling down stairs.

Truth be told, I'd been vaguely contemplating death itself—suicide itself. I'd seen how that fragile thread of sincerity in people's hearts—that genuineness I'd finally managed to discern—could be on the verge of shattering over the most trivial matters. Once shattered beyond repair, one becomes utterly alone. In that solitude, suicide gets carried out naturally, without resistance. You can freely choose the time and method too—it doesn't have to be some desperate last resort beyond remedy.

The railway convergence zone I saw today—having taken a different path than usual, I was seeing it for the first time—but even there, people could die at any moment. A single misstep would inevitably result in being crushed beneath roaring trains. But I didn't want to die in a place like that. So I shuddered and turned back.

The Tsugaru Strait had surfaced in my mind without my noticing when. There was no particular reason; it had emerged naturally. Had passage been unrestricted, the Korea Strait might have sufficed—but that was impossible. Thus came the Seikan Ferry of the Tsugaru Strait. Anyone could board it at any time—an unexpectedly splendid ship for postwar Japan. The voyage lasted just over five hours. I would eat my fill and drink my fill in the dining car. Then I would wander about the ship's deck—of course this would all happen at night. In that cold autumn sea breeze, there would likely be no one else wandering outside the deckhouse. Just me alone. Midway through the strait, the night air grew keen—the sea dark, the sky darker still. I would gaze up at the stars in that sky—Orion or the Pleiades or whatever else might appear. No—the red North Star would be better. The moment I gazed up at that North Star, I would hurl myself through the railing's gap. My body would float through empty air, consciousness already fading into haze—the impact with the sea's surface becoming a final spark before sinking into the abyssal void of absolute darkness.

The ship continued its voyage.
Not even a fragment of myself would remain behind.
Yet upon the retinas deep within my eyes—this body buffeted by waves' caprice—the North Star's image would linger awhile.
This optogram would constitute my final being.

The selection of method through free will and the inevitable outcome that follows its execution—shouldn't this be called true suicide?

In Chiyono's case, she might have looked up at a star in her final moments—perhaps leaving it as her optogram—but that would have been mere chance. As for any true resolve to commit suicide as I understand it, could such determination have existed even as she swallowed the poison?
Desperate situations are commonplace in life, and they hold little real significance.

I could only watch vacantly as Mr. Shū wept.

“Among the Japanese, the only one who ever truly loved me from the heart was Chiyono.”

Isn't one enough?
Wanting two or three—that's greed.
Even I have only ever sought one person.

That said, in that moment I came to understand the delicate implication—that Mr. Shū was making this appeal to me, a Japanese.
Had they been compatriots, different phrasing would have surfaced.

Mr. Shū’s weeping face appeared emaciated, as though the flesh had fallen away.
It gradually swelled even larger, flesh rising across his forehead and cheeks, and when his eyes snapped wide open, he was angry.

“It wasn’t me who killed Chiyono.”
“I hid the doburoku source from Chiyono, but my conscience remains clear.”
“I merely hid what needed hiding—that was only natural.”
“As for demanding interest—they demanded what needed demanding—that was only natural.”
“Just from that alone, Chiyono came to die.”
“I can’t comprehend it.”
“The mentality of those Odaka and town bosses—I can’t grasp it.”
“They’re not just greedy—they’re despicable, wicked.”
“No one understands how I was tormented during the war.”
“And now they’ve killed Chiyono.”
“You people often speak of Japan’s military and such, but the Boss is worse than the military.”
“Within Japan’s borders, they made a Japanese woman kill herself.”
“Had she not committed suicide, they’d surely have stabbed her dead.”
“And where exactly lies the crime?”
“Is loving me—a third-country national—a crime?”
“Ah, how pitiable Chiyono was.”
“And how pitiable I am too.”

Within Mr. Shū, anger and sorrow welled up alternately.

Shū Gobun had even considered revenge.
Not through violence, but a struggle brought to the courtroom.
But he realized there was absolutely no prospect of success.
The middle-aged man who had come earlier was someone named Zhang; having been consulted by Shū and after thoroughly investigating various approaches, he concluded it was utterly hopeless.
They had vulnerabilities themselves, and couldn’t grasp any of their weak points.
And it was simply suicide.

Zhang was an influential figure among his peers and had taken care of all Shū’s affairs regarding this matter.
Shū had grown sick of the land and had decided to leave for Yokohama again.
He had conducted Chiyono’s funeral simply and intended to properly observe mourning after relocating to Yokohama.

“When the stock runs out, I’ll close the shop and go to Yokohama."
"In any case, the goods must be sold."
“Chiyono’s remains were taken by a relative.”
"I had them take her belongings too."
“I gave them the money too.”
“I’m all alone now.”

It was silent like after the tide had receded.
Though not particularly cold, the charcoal in the brazier that Mr. Shū kept pointlessly feeding glowed a vivid red.
Like some sleepless midnight.
His consciousness drifted hazily while his eyes alone stayed keenly alert.
He wasn’t simply drunk.

Suddenly, Mr. Shū let out a shrill voice.

“Ah, there it was.”
“One remains.”

The mirror stand had remained.
While Mr. Shū had indeed used it together [with her], when it came to the mirror stand, it still belonged to Ms. Chiyono.

“Mirrors are said to hold a woman’s soul, you know.”

It was an old-fashioned phrase.

“As long as that exists, Chiyono too remains.
“Isn’t that so?”

“Well, that might be the case, I guess.”

When I stared into Mr. Shū’s eyes, Mr. Shū stared back into mine.
They were not trying to pry something from each other, but rather trying to share in feeling together.

“We really did meet Chiyono, didn’t we?”

The words were quiet, like a whisper.

It certainly seemed they had met.
I nodded.

“I met her too.
Twice.”

The room was hazy with cigarette smoke.
Time fragmented into blank spaces.

“Well then, shall we go?”

“Yeah, we can go out.”

Though unclear what exactly they were discussing, he still understood perfectly well.
They kept talking about various things until their words dissolved into the air, leaving only sensations behind.

Mr. Shū stood up, went into the back room, and switched on the light.
I followed him in and peered from the raised threshold.

To the side stood a large rosewood mirror stand.
From behind its mirror, Mr. Shū retrieved a small vanity case.
It looked like a vermilion-painted toy—perhaps some souvenir from somewhere.
Then he opened the mirror stand’s drawer and pulled out various trivial items.
Face powder and cream bottles, makeup tools, combs and pins, brushes—all likely well-worn by now.
He placed the smaller items into the vanity case’s drawer and arranged those too large to fit before the mirror.

Mr. Shū turned toward me and smiled a lonely smile.
I nodded quietly.

Mr. Shū searched for an available wooden box, packed the vanity case and other items inside, and tied it shut with string from above.

Then Mr. Shū went to the back entrance and brought a pickaxe and flat shovel.

I put on my overcoat and carried the wooden box, while Mr. Shū remained in his work jacket and held the pickaxe and shovel.

They nodded at each other and set out.

It wasn't drunken mischief nor serious intent; though I couldn't make sense of what was what, strangely my heart grew dark.
Whether ridiculous or clownish, regardless, it had to be carried out.

Along the way, the wooden box grew steadily heavier.

I had to stop this now.
Constantly being tormented by lovers' quarrels, wandering drunk every day, exhausting both mind and body—I had to stop all that now.
Thinking of death, contemplating suicide—I had to stop all that now.
The Tsugaru Strait business too—I had to stop.

The wooden box grew steadily heavier.

There was a traffic barrier stone, and I sat down on it.

Mr. Shū also stopped.

“Is something wrong?”

“The box has gotten really heavy.”

“Then I’ll carry it.”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

He stood up and started walking.

“Let’s stop doing things like this from now on.”

Mr. Shū answered honestly.

“Let’s stop.”

They walked for a while.

“From now on, let’s live rationally.”

Mr. Shū answered honestly.

“Let’s live rationally.”

Whether that was truly an exchange with Mr. Shū or not, he couldn’t tell.

When they reached the burned-out field, he realized the moon was out.
In the hazy sky's zenith hung a pale half-moon, and a misty haze drifted above the ground.

Mr. Shū stopped.
This was where I had seen Ms. Chiyono.
Mr. Shū took a few steps into the tall weeds and gazed at the ground.
This must have been the place where Ms. Chiyono’s corpse had lain.
Around there, the weeds had been trampled.

Mr. Shū swung the pickaxe.
But it proved unnecessary.
The ground was unexpectedly soft, and a shovel alone sufficed.
About two shaku down, there was a hard layer mixed with small stones; once they broke through that with the pickaxe, it became soft again.
They dug about four shaku deep.

The late-night task was tinged with mystery.
A hallucination arose—as if furtive dwarves were trying to unearth and steal underground treasure.
But in reality, it was Shū Gobun digging the hole, and this Nojima watching from the side.
Something felt both ludicrous and infuriating—he wanted to laugh it off—but instead, tears suddenly welled up.

“That’s enough.”

He said in a low, hesitant voice.

They both peered into the hole.
It was just pitch-black.

I heard my own unexpected voice.

“Let’s bury Asia’s melancholy.”

Mr. Shū answered honestly.

“Let’s bury Asia’s melancholy.”

Whether that too was truly a dialogue between the two of them.

I passed the wooden box to Mr. Shū.
Mr. Shū threw the wooden box into the hole and muttered words that conveyed no meaning or emotion I could grasp.
Then they filled the hole with the shovel.
They leveled the ground, parted the weeds, and emerged onto the path.
They felt strangely restless, unable to linger any longer.
They felt relieved when they reached the road.

They walked straight ahead in silence.
They did not look back.

Mr. Shū pulled open the house door, and once I entered, he closed and locked it.
He might be intending not to let me leave.

Mr. Shū went to the back.
The sound of water washing hands and feet echoed, and he returned wearing geta instead of shoes.

“Ah, with this, it’s completely finished.”

He said as if to himself and bowed lightly to me.

They stoked charcoal vigorously, heated doburoku to drink, smoked tobacco, and faced each other—yet there was a bleakness like waking from a dream, and in their chests a lonely emptiness.

“Mr. Zhang also said, ‘You should do as you please.’”
“It’s something I’ve been considering for a while.”

Even though I hadn’t asked anything, Mr. Shū said such a thing.

“And you?”

“I feel completely settled now.”

With just those worthless junk items...
And with that kind of thing...

Asia’s melancholy….

I started to say it under my breath but stopped.

What was strange was that, though it certainly hadn’t been a dream, Chiyono’s name had not come up once since they’d gone out.
So, upon hearing that name, I twitched.

“Chiyono won’t appear anymore.
“I am completely alone now.”

Was it not Asia’s melancholy we buried in the earth, but Chiyono herself?

Mr. Shū began speaking volubly again.

“I intend to go to Yokohama and make a killing. Then I want to return to China once. Near Shaoxing, I have many uncles, aunts, and siblings. I’ll come back to Yokohama again. When I do, I’ll bring loads of authentic Shaoxing lao jiu as souvenirs—rich, mellow lao jiu aged for decades, even centuries. I’ll give them as gifts to the drinkers who used to come here—to those who love good liquor. They’re all decent folk. But the town bosses—no good. I mean to let go of my bitterness toward Chiyono, but still—bosses are no good. Japan might have fewer bosses from now on, but mark my words—other nasty types will take their place. The sort who’ll throw their weight around. Japan’s a strange place. Seems split clean into two extremes—the decent folk and the wicked ones. Even at Chiyono’s lonely funeral—two kinds of eyes watching. Eyes full of hate and scorn, eyes full of love and pity—two kinds plain as day. I saw both kinds clear enough. Why must Japan be this way? In China there’s only two things—indifference or interest. But Japan—hatred and love, both extremes. Why must it be this way?”

“Is it because I am a foreigner?”

While listening to this, I found myself contemplating the flux and transmutation of hatred and love. Whether hatred or love, they were not constant things—always shifting from one to the other, changing moment by moment through relative human relationships. To say loving breeds hatred was hopelessly naive—what if we reversed it and claimed hating breeds love?

All I had left to rely on was the doburoku.

"It's the melancholy of living among outsiders."
"For me, there's always melancholy among my own people."

"I'm different from you."
"So if there's melancholy, let's share that melancholy together."

"Very well, let's share it together."

"Let's drink through the night tonight."
"This is my farewell banquet."
"As long as there's any left, please drink."

Not only were my eyes drunken, but my consciousness had grown hazy, and my body felt as though it could no longer support itself.

Abruptly raising my eyes, I looked toward the earthen entranceway. The lights there were off, leaving it pitch-dark, and the far side must have been locked. Mr. Shū, perhaps noticing my state, looked toward the entrance as well—but that was all; he noticed nothing else.

But indeed, a woman’s footsteps sounded outside on the street, and twice the door was lightly knocked.
Despite Mr. Shū’s words—could that be Ms. Chiyono?
Or was it my delusion?

Then everything fell silent again.

The two of them drank doburoku tirelessly, their minds growing hazy as they spoke in fragments.

I looked toward the entrance again. Following that, Mr. Shū also looked, but noticed nothing.

But indeed, a woman’s footsteps sounded on the street outside, and twice the door was lightly knocked.
Could that be Ms. Chiyono?
Or was it my delusion?
Then everything fell silent.

To my dismay, Mr. Shū had buried his face in the table and was crying.