Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was a wide slope where cars, trucks, and various other vehicles passed through.
It was a rather steep slope, and to prevent vehicles from skidding, it had been paved with uneven bumps.
Those skilled with bicycles could ride down the slope in one go, but when ascending, everyone walked while pushing their bicycles up.

At the point where one climbed up that slope—or conversely, at its descent—there was a small Chinese soba shop. The entire area was a war-damaged zone where fire-surviving houses, newly built homes, and barren lots from burnt ruins lay jumbled together. The Chinese soba shop was a small house newly constructed on a narrow plot, offering only a few dishes: wonton, ramen, chashu men, and occasionally shumai—that was all. Yet the flavor was excellent. They took care in procuring ingredients, devoted attention to preparation, and prioritized taste over profit-driven motives. Thus, there were always regulars one could call regulars, as well as customers who came from distant places just to eat.

The earthen-floored seating area had only three small tables arranged; across from them beyond the counter was the kitchen where Auntie—the one everyone called Okami-san—was busily working alone.
She was so obese that she waddled when she walked, had a habit of blurting out whatever was on her mind, yet always wore a plump, cheerfully benevolent face.
As Auntie’s assistant, there was a dutiful young woman who worked diligently, even handling deliveries.

This shop, I took to calling the Mountain Pass Teahouse. This was due both to the slope’s topography resembling that of a mountain pass and to the presence of top-quality sake.

Almost all customers who came there did so to eat, but if regulars requested it, they could have top-quality sake or beer brought in. However, apart from soba, there were no other snacks available; instead, they would have things like fried beans and konpeito purchased from nearby small shops and brought in. That aspect, too, was characteristic of the Mountain Pass Teahouse.

On my way to and from the public bath, or when out for a stroll, I would often stop by this Mountain Pass Teahouse to enjoy a pleasant tipsiness.

One time, in front of this shop, straddling both the sidewalk and roadway, finely crushed small gravel had been piled up for road repairs.
On that gravel pile sat a man, perched with his hips settled and both legs stretched out before him, looking for all the world like a petulant child as he kept grabbing handfuls of gravel with one hand and scattering them about.
To my surprise, the man was already an elderly fellow with half-gray hair, thoroughly drunk, and this was in broad daylight around four in the afternoon.

Even though he was drunk, he didn’t seem to have lost all sense of discernment; he wasn’t hurling gravel in every direction. It was winter, and the glass door of the Mountain Pass Teahouse was closed, but avoiding the glass, he was hurling gravel at the area around the lower door frame. At that moment, when a woman who appeared to be a neighborhood housewife started to enter the shop, he threw gravel at her feet. She glanced back briefly but entered the shop with an air of feigned ignorance. Auntie inside the shop also maintained an air of feigned ignorance. Judging by their demeanor, they seemed fully aware of who he was yet chose to ignore him precisely because he was drunk.

Not only them—in truth, I too knew about him because I had often encountered him at that shop. He was a painter named Uchiyama Shōji who lived nearby. Though called a painter, he was essentially a jack-of-all-trades—doing a bit of Western-style painting, some magazine illustrations, and even dabbling in manga-like works.

That Uchiyama was a heavy drinker was something most people knew. There were even times he’d been drunk since morning. But sitting by the roadside scattering gravel went a bit too far. He wore an everyday kimono with cheap wooden clogs, half-gray hair disheveled. Whether he was angry or amused remained impossible to discern from his expression.

Then, the shop's glass door swung open forcefully, and a rather elderly, severely thin woman came out.
When drinking, it was usually Yamada Tomoko who accompanied Uchiyama.
That day too, they had been drinking together, and she had likely stayed behind a bit to settle the bill.
Seeing Uchiyama's state, she said as if to grab his hand.

"My, you're such a hopeless Sensei. Let's go home now, Sensei."
"Sensei, let's go home now."

Calling a third-rate painter "Sensei" was another absurdity.
But Uchiyama Sensei was relatively obedient when told something by her; he immediately stood up, and the two walked away side by side.

After watching their retreating figures, I smiled.
Japan’s got its own eccentrics now, I thought.
And I found myself wanting a drink too, so I headed into the Mountain Pass Teahouse.

Inside the shop, a young female customer in shabby Western clothes—her eyes round and lively—sat quietly slurping soba in a corner, but paying her no mind whatsoever, the lady from earlier and Auntie were vigorously exchanging opinions.

“If it were me, I’d find it so absurd I’d quit.”

The lady spat out her words.
Auntie objected.

“No matter how it may look to others, they truly do seem to love each other.”

“But they’re so... ostentatious about it.”
“They ought to show more restraint.”

“Isn’t it better they’re open instead of sneaking around in shadows?”

“If they were young, fine—but at their age, what are they thinking?”

“That’s precisely why it looks all the more beautiful.”

From such talk gradually delving into specifics, I too came to understand it concerned Uchiyama Shōji and Yamada Tomoko.

Rumors about the pair had already spread through the neighborhood until scarcely anyone remained unaware.
Uchiyama was an eccentric bachelor painter while Tomoko—a naval officer’s widow—possessed a temperament and lifestyle so earnest as to border on excessive meticulousness; that these two should become romantically entangled, and at their age no less, made the matter undeniably fascinating.
Moreover, their brazen disregard for social propriety made them conspicuously visible.

At the Chinese soba shop I called the Mountain Pass Teahouse, the two of them appeared nearly every day. And amidst everyone eating soba, they drank alcohol from midday onward. Uchiyama would sometimes be carrying a hand towel and soap box for the public bath, Tomoko would sometimes have a shopping basket, and at times they would arrive separately only to appear as if they had arranged to meet there. During hot weather, the front glass door was left wide open, so passersby couldn’t have failed to notice the two of them.

Even so, at first, one could almost convince oneself—however strainedly—that it was merely a casual relationship, but later it gradually grew worse. There were times when, after drinking elsewhere until both were thoroughly drunk, they would wander over to the Mountain Pass Teahouse, start drinking again, and return home late into the night. There were times when Uchiyama, heavily drunk, would crouch amidst the weeds of the burnt ruins, humming an incomprehensible song while gazing at the stars, with Tomoko staying quietly by his side. At the Mountain Pass Teahouse, Uchiyama usually had several hundred-yen bills tucked into his sleeve, but when he drank too much and ran short of money, Tomoko would dash home to fetch more. There was even speculation that Tomoko was now completely attached to Uchiyama’s side, but regardless of its veracity, it was certain that she, rather than leaving it to a maid, was overseeing his personal affairs.

Society’s harshly critical gaze was directed at such behavior.
Uchiyama, being a man, was not directly questioned, but Tomoko primarily bore the brunt.

There was a rumor that the two of them were engaging in scandalous behavior in places like the grassy fields of the burnt ruins.
This was the reckless remark of those least informed about the circumstances.

There was a rumor that Uchiyama, inherently skilled at manipulating women without spending money, had Tomoko wrapped around his finger.
I too had heard such opinions, but this was clearly malicious slander.
I knew that Uchiyama had once indulged extensively in geisha entertainment while making strained financial arrangements.

There was a rumor that Tomoko was merely being used, that if she wasn’t careful she’d eventually meet with some terrible fate, and that Uchiyama couldn’t possibly harbor any true affection for her.
――This was an extension of the previous rumor, containing not just malice but a kind of envy as well.

There was a rumor that Tomoko, being of such an unwaveringly earnest disposition, seemed to be getting rather carried away, and that if she didn’t proceed with utmost caution, things might take an irreparable turn, risking some dreadful disgrace.
――This was a well-meaning opinion concerned for her well-being, not necessarily directed at Uchiyama, and also contained a wish for her to have a proper remarriage.

There was a rumor that Tomoko was enticed by money, receiving a monthly stipend, and that her life had become somewhat easier than before.
This was indifferent common sense—the sort Auntie of Mountain Pass Teahouse most vehemently opposed—and even seeing how Uchiyama sometimes struggled to afford his drinking expenses, it remained far from the truth.
Though Auntie said she could lend him money for drinks, he hardly ever borrowed any—apparently owing to Tomoko’s support.

Whether it was mere dalliance or something earnest, there was a theory that the true intentions of those two remained unclear to us.
This was a reasonable opinion by general societal standards.

There were still various others, but none stood out clearly on their own—they were all jumbled together in a mix.

So even the conversation between Auntie and a certain lady was scattered here and there, never coalescing into anything coherent.
Finally, the lady said with an unconvinced look.

“Is alcohol really something you’d want to drink that much?”

Auntie chuckled softly.

“He himself always seems to think he’ll quit soon.”
“I can’t tell you how many times he’s said he wouldn’t come for a while.”
“But then the very next day, he’d show up as if nothing had happened.”
“He himself laughs and says he can’t help it as long as tomorrow keeps coming.”
“So for Ms. Yamada’s part, it must be no ordinary matter either.”

“Even so, she doesn’t need to always be trailing after him like that.”
“She’s being a bit too indulgent.”

“It’s less indulgence than concern, don’t you think? One feels secure having someone by their side, while the other grows anxious without them—well, they’re just too close for comfort.”

“It’s all well and good that they’re close, but I just can’t quite make sense of it…”

In the end, they arrived at the conclusion that they simply couldn’t understand.

Uchiyama and Tomoko’s visits to the Mountain Pass Teahouse were not necessarily a daily occurrence, but over time, a tendency to leave gradually increasing intervals between their visits began to emerge.
Instead, the amount of alcohol they consumed increased.
Once they exceeded five sake bottles, there was no stopping them.
They settled themselves resolutely, pushed through with one final bottle, decided six was an uninteresting number so they’d make it seven, then figured eight was better for its auspicious spread, found eight still incomplete so they rounded it up to ten, and with a last bottle to cap it off, skillfully kept drinking.
The degree of intoxication was already sufficient at five bottles; what followed was merely a matter of inertia.

Tomoko modestly restrained herself, keeping him company with fewer cups. While gently admonishing him with a "You really should stop now," she also seemed to enjoy keeping Uchiyama company. When the cigarettes ran out, she immediately went to buy more. When the ashtray became full, she asked to have it cleaned. When Uchiyama looked like he needed something to munch on, she would ask if he wanted her to get some sushi. She attended meticulously to every little thing.

When drunk, Uchiyama would often become terribly talkative.
He would talk at length to Auntie and the young assistant, and strike up conversations with strangers as well.
Since they were customers who came to eat soba, they didn’t linger and frequently came and went, but he struck up a conversation with every single one of them.
At times, he would suddenly fall silent mid-conversation, his expression becoming unreadable—whether deeply sullen or outright angry.
There were times when he would suddenly stand up with just a single word about leaving.

One night, when Uchiyama was in a talkative mood, Nakamura—an acquaintance of his—entered.
He was the husband of the shabbily dressed woman who had been present at the time of the gravel incident.
Though already quite drunk, he had shochu brought over and drank it with soba as a snack.

“Mr. Uchiyama, you seem to be in quite high spirits.”

Uchiyama also responded amiably.

"When I drink alcohol, I become terribly talkative, you see. Yet despite that, I don't remember a single thing I've prattled on about, so troublesome situations arise afterward."

"Well, same here... When it comes to things said while drunk, it's best for everything to be cleanly forgotten."
"You can't beat someone who stubbornly remembers every little thing they've heard or seen for ages."

“However, that’s true drunkenness, I suppose.”

“Though come to think of it, there’s those who remember things clearer the drunker they get.”
“Take my wife now—she’s one of that sort…”
“How’s your missus hold her liquor?”

Tomoko merely smiled and did not answer at all.
“Though your wife here is just keeping you company—she probably doesn’t really get drunk at all…”

Nakamura furrowed his brow and sank into thought.
Then, after a while, he suddenly called out.

“Mr. Uchiyama, because of you all, I’ve suffered unbelievable trouble.”

“Well now, that’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”
“I haven’t blabbered about this to anyone yet.”

“Then how about first telling me, the actual person involved, all about it?”

“Well now, shall we do that?”

Nakamura gazed at Uchiyama and Tomoko but couldn’t quite bring himself to speak.

“Well, you see…”

He paused as if gathering his thoughts.

“Well, you see… It’s because you two are so close that my wife went baking rice cakes—no, ‘rice cakes’ isn’t quite it—but she takes your example to berate me relentlessly.”

“Well now, that’s a false accusation against me, I suppose.”

“Just look at the two of you—Mr. Uchiyama and Ms. Yamada.”
“Even though you haven’t formally married, you get along so well—you’re always walking around together like that, aren’t you?”
“And what about you?”
“‘Right after we married,’ she said, ‘you were kind enough for just a little while—but after that you didn’t even glance my way! Have you ever once taken me out to eat or see a movie?’”
“‘I’m treated like a maid, and you’ve been carrying on shamelessly yourself,’ she starts saying—and she’s absolutely furious.”
“Though to be fair, I did have a few things I’m not proud of—nothing major, though.”
“Anyway, every time she has some complaint, she wraps it up by saying ‘Look at Mr. Uchiyama, look at Mr. Uchiyama,’ and the damage is immense.”

Auntie called out from the kitchen.

“Mr. Nakamura, that’s your fault.”
“You should take better care of your wife.”
“Just the other day, she came to my place and was complaining.”

“But that woman has the nerve to start spouting off about women’s rights or some such nonsense.”
“I assert that women are inferior to men by several degrees—what abilities do they have besides eating, sleeping, and chattering?”

From then on, Nakamura’s words grew increasingly rough, as though he were holding forth to the shochu itself.

“She was always going on about wanting a full set of kimonos, but I’m strapped for cash—business is in the gutter, taxes keep piling up. You think I can fuss over kimonos? I’m well aware that a businessman in shabby Western clothes is unbecoming. But why on earth she insists on wanting Japanese kimonos like that—it’s beyond me. I picked her up when she was working as a barmaid in some shady bar—she’s completely forgotten that debt of gratitude, and now she acts like she’s doing *me* a favor by staying with a man fifteen, twenty years her senior! Even maids get wages,” she rails, “but I can’t even get a single kimono made—am I supposed to be kept like some pet my whole life? And at every turn, she comes saying, ‘Look at Mr. Uchiyama.’ No matter how much I tell her it’s a class difference, she won’t listen to a word of it. So I retort by saying, ‘Look at Ms. Yamada.’ When I say, ‘Why don’t you learn a thing or two from how kindly and gracefully Ms. Yamada serves Mr. Uchiyama?’ she just sulks and starts screeching about how I’m unkind and a lout—and then it inevitably blows up into a huge fight. In my case, Ms. Yamada is Mr. Uchiyama’s bane—but since that always comes up, I can’t make heads or tails of it. The worst part is that woman gulping down shochu and getting drunk. So, ma’am, you really shouldn’t drink so much alcohol either.”

Nakamura raised his face from the shochu cup and gazed at Tomoko as though she were some rare curiosity.

Tomoko had been silent from the start, but Uchiyama had also fallen silent a while ago.
When the sake bottle became empty, he promptly stood up.

“Let’s go home.”

Without waiting for Tomoko to settle the bill, he went out ahead.

Auntie said to Tomoko in a small voice.

“That person’s drunk, so please don’t take offense.”

“No, not at all—we’re in the same boat, you know.”

Tomoko answered without lowering her voice and, with composure, followed after Uchiyama.

Auntie turned toward Nakamura.

“Mr. Nakamura, you went a bit too far.”
“Even if you’re drunk, you should still mind yourself.”

Nakamura acted nonchalantly.

“What part of that was overstepping?”

“You went on and on about Mr. Uchiyama and Ms. Yamada, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t say anything.”
“I was just talking about myself, that’s all.”
*Even so, did I talk a bit too much?*
“In that case, Auntie, you should apologize for me.”
“In exchange, I’ll say yes to that wife of mine.”
“Another fight, I wonder…”

Nakamura sipped his shochu and let out a deep sigh.

A group of three customers entered.
As if that had been the trigger, Nakamura stopped speaking altogether.

Uchiyama and Tomoko still came to the Mountain Pass Teahouse.
They seemed not to care at all about the Nakamura incident.

However, an unexpected thing happened elsewhere.

Nakamura’s wife drank rat poison and died.
It was said she had meant to scare someone but miscalculated, and it was also said she had been serious from the beginning.
This occurred about ten days after Nakamura met Uchiyama and the others at the Mountain Pass Teahouse. That night, both husband and wife—thoroughly drunk—grappled in a physical fight.
Nakamura’s wife tumbled down the stairs but appeared unharmed, climbing back up to the second floor.
In the dead of night, she reportedly descended to the kitchen, poured rat poison into leftover cold miso soup, and gulped it down in one go.

According to the Mountain Pass Teahouse owner’s account, she had come around twice before her death and persistently asked strange questions about Uchiyama and Tomoko.
Since her behavior was odd and there was Nakamura’s incident from the previous night, Auntie gave an evasive reply.
Even so, she alternated between nodding approvingly and tilting her head skeptically, but finally inquired:

“I’d like to meet those two here—what do you think?”

“You’ve met them before, haven’t you? They still come here often, so you can meet them anytime. Just what do you intend to do when you meet them?”

“Well, there’s just something I’ve been wondering about…”

It was precisely the sight of her staring into space with those round eyes that Auntie found unsettling.

It was nothing more than that, but among people starved for topics, it was embellished with all sorts of details.

One evening, when I stopped by the Mountain Pass Teahouse for a quick drink, a bespectacled old woman was whispering animatedly to Auntie.
Auntie had sat down in the guest seat across from the old woman for a breather and was sucking on a piece of candy.

“Mr. Nakamura and his late wife both resented that elderly lovebird couple something fierce, isn’t that what they say?”
“There must have been some reason for that.”

Auntie shook her head.

“They weren’t resentful.”
“They just seemed a bit envious, though…”

“Even so, doing things that make people envious isn’t good at all.”
“It’s because they flaunt themselves over there that people here end up envious.”
“If they didn’t flaunt themselves, no one would feel envious in the first place.”
“They lack a bit of restraint, don’t they?”

“They don’t intend to show off.”
“They’re just very fond of alcohol, that’s all.”

“No matter how much they like it, I can’t say I approve of them getting drunk in broad daylight like that.”
“They’re both getting carried away, as if they don’t care about public decency.”
“You letting them drink so much isn’t right either.”

The old woman glared sharply at me from the corner of her eye—me, slowly sipping the sake the young assistant had warmed.

Auntie remained as cheerful as ever, her warm expression unwavering.

“When someone asks me for something, I’m the type who can’t say no.”
“Even so, I’ve been working with Ms. Yamada to make sure they don’t drink too much.”

“Yes, I know about you.”
“But how can they act so selfishly?”
“Was there really nothing between them and Mr. Nakamura?”

The old woman lowered her voice and was persistently trying to pry into something.
Such things held no interest for me, so I resolved to stop listening.

I had slowly finished a full bottle of sake and was about to order another when Uchiyama and Tomoko appeared.
Uchiyama seemed slightly tipsy and was in high spirits.
He gave an amiable nod with his eyes in my direction.
We had never exchanged words with each other, but since we often encountered each other and both preferred alcohol over soba, we naturally ended up exchanging nods.

Tomoko showed Auntie three cigarettes.

“I got these from pachinko. Pretty good, aren’t I?”

Uchiyama searched inside his sleeve and lined up over ten pachinko marbles on the table.

“Mine are these.”
“Surely, the kittens will be delighted.”

Tomoko turned around.

“Oh, is it alright to do such a thing?”

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from. Don’t worry about it.”

After glaring sharply at their childish antics, the old woman paid her soba bill and left.

Uchiyama was toying with the pachinko marbles in his palm as he said in a loud voice.

“I hate that person,” he declared. “When they overstay their welcome, it sours the sake.”

For them, alcohol was the unspoken constant. I’d never once seen them eat soba.

Auntie kept smiling as she warmed the sake. “I just got told I shouldn’t let you drink so much,” she remarked.

“Just now, I was advised not to let you drink too much.”

“That old woman, I suppose.”
“If that’s how it is, then I’ll drink even more.”
“Perfect timing—it’s my last drink anyway.”

Auntie gave him a look that said ‘here we go again’ and chuckled quietly.

While drinking sake, Uchiyama looked up at the ceiling with an oddly earnest gaze. Then he stared fixedly at Auntie.

“Auntie’s still as plump as ever.”
“It’s because your heart’s well-rounded.”
“Don’t worry—you won’t get neurasthenia or anything.”

“That’s right—it’s perfectly safe. You won’t come down with it.”

“The truth is, nowadays most people have lost their mental balance and equilibrium. That’s why they’ve all become weak-willed.”
“Drinking too much is weak-willedness. Swallowing rat poison—that too must stem from weak willpower.”

Auntie’s cheeks tensed slightly.

“Mr. Uchiyama, you shouldn’t dwell on dead people’s affairs.”

“Of course I don’t dwell on it.”
“It has nothing to do with me.”
“What I mean is there are too many people treating life carelessly.”
“Just look at the newspapers—too many murders, too many suicides.”
“That’s obviously each person’s own freedom.”
“For my part, I say let those who want to die go die. Let those who want to live keep living.”
“Yet there’s one thing I can’t control.”
“Though we’re free to live or die, trivial matters refuse to become free.”
“If I could freely choose whether to drink or abstain, I’d finally relax enough to grow plump like you, Auntie.”

“But Mr. Uchiyama, isn’t it your own freedom whether you drink or not?”

“That’s not quite right.”
“That isn’t freedom.”
“Hey, Tomoko-san—it’s not freedom, right?”

“That’s true—while drinking may be free, not drinking doesn’t seem to be.”
“Hence, weak-willedness….”

“And then there’s high blood pressure….”
“But I absolutely will not die from some illness.”

Tomoko watched over Uchiyama with a gentle gaze.
“Would you care for something?”
“Shall I get some sushi?”

Uchiyama nodded.

The young assistant was out on a delivery, so Tomoko went out herself.

Uchiyama said without looking up.

“Auntie, I’m sorry for always saying whatever I please.”
“I’m also sorry to Tomoko-san.”
“But I’m a happy man, aren’t I?”
“Tomoko-san really takes good care of me.”

Suddenly, Uchiyama was shedding tears.
It was likely a kind of sentimentality—but that too might have been due to high blood pressure.

I felt like I had witnessed something unsavory, and since there was no more alcohol left, I decided to wrap things up and head home.

According to what I heard later, Uchiyama apparently drank a great deal that evening.
And he would cheerfully become lively or sink into sentimentality.
In the end, he was completely intoxicated, his body swaying unsteadily.
On his way out, he briefly sat down on a bench near the exit, but unable to settle into position, he collapsed onto the earthen floor and shattered one pane of the glass door with his knee.
There were no injuries anywhere.
He was helped up and made to sit on a bench by the wall, but while leaning against the table, he gazed at the small hole where the glass pane had been and said cheerfully.

“Ah, there’s a gaping hole here.”
“This is perfect—a gaping hole!”

But he no longer looked at it; instead, he leaned both arms on the table and buried his face in them.

It was already quite late, with no other customers remaining, and time to close for the night. But Tomoko, after entrusting Uchiyama to Auntie, ran off to a glass shop some distance away. The glazier came promptly and installed a new pane. Once that was done, Tomoko woke the sleeping Uchiyama and, mindful of his steps, headed home.

Since then, Uchiyama and Tomoko came to the Mountain Pass Teahouse very infrequently, and even when they did come, they would only drink a little before leaving.
And so I, too, almost ceased to encounter the two of them.
In my heart, I found myself wishing for their well-being.