Pathway to Japanese Literature

While meticulously polishing the tips of his nails with a file, Senjirou Yamaguchi formed a smile of satisfaction.

As for those who love blindly—well, that’s one thing—but those who love consciously…

This awareness—that he loved consciously—struck him as something to take pride in.
And now, the grooming suitable for it was nearing completion.

He had finished polishing his fingernails.
His toenails had already been neatly trimmed.
His face was neatly shaven, and a fragrant cream had been worked into his skin.
His hair had been washed just the day before and combed to avoid any visible traces of the comb’s teeth.
Parting one’s hair was affected, leaving visible comb marks was tacky, and styling long hair softly yet naturally was the modern technique.

You often see young men who obsess over women without a care for their appearance, but that’s nothing more than being slaves to lust. Those who engage in true love—that is, love that unites spirit and body—ought to maintain grooming befitting such an endeavor. He took a bath at least once every three days. He washed his hair at least once a week. He shaved his beard at least every other day. His nails were always neither too long nor too short, and never retained any dirt. The nape of the neck went without saying; he kept especially his earlobes clean. Nose hair and hangnails on the fingertips—these were above all forbidden. Those who love must naturally maintain such grooming. For love demands beauty of spirit and cleanliness of body as its expression. To those involved, love must be entirely beautiful and pure; lovers must be entirely beautiful and pure; therefore, those who love must themselves be beautiful and pure. The love of those who are ugly and defiled is nothing but a profound paradox. However, in this era of postwar defeat, shortages of clothing, food, and shelter, and nutritional deficiencies, there were some...

There were some... exceptions even in himself.
Above all, there was nothing he could do about innate aspects unrelated to grooming.
The veins on the backs of his hands were excessively thick for a man of thirty-five, forming a raised network whenever he drank or became agitated.
Moreover, the skin of his forehead bore faint, scattered blemishes that stood out all the more because his features were too symmetrical and devoid of any distinguishing characteristics.
Regarding these two flaws, he sought salvation through nutrition—the flesh on his hands and the luster of his forehead’s skin, both attributable to it.
Yet he could not obtain that level of nourishment.
He was neither particularly wealthy nor one to indulge—a frugal man by nature.

These two exceptions cast a slight shadow over his mood.
For they were also what separated him from her—she who stood as his lover.
She possessed beautiful hands and a uniquely beautiful facial expression.

When he visited Mr. Yoshimura after a long interval, she was there.
Upon entering the room, the simultaneous shift of Mr. Yoshimura’s and her gazes toward him made him realize his presence had been discussed between them.
The reason quickly became clear.
She was residing at the Hatano estate—a place he frequented—and they were acquainted.
But somewhat strangely, neither Mr. Yoshimura nor she acknowledged this connection.
And so he too merely exchanged a nod and left the matter unspoken.

Mr. Yoshimura and she began what seemed to be a continuation of their earlier conversation.
The topics shifted variously—the war, mandarin orange groves, hot springs, illnesses, conjuring tricks—and since they did so through an unspoken understanding exclusive to them, any third party would have struggled to follow.
Moreover, Mr. Yoshimura the literary scholar’s discourse inherently blended real-world matters and fictional elements in equal measure.
Therefore, Yamaguchi took no interest in their conversation; smoking absently while pondering other matters, he suddenly found his eye caught by her beautiful hands.

She had placed both hands on the rosewood desk and was toying with a book when her fingernails shone like pale pink shells in the light streaming through the glass door. At the tips of her sleekly tapered fingers—almost devoid of visible joints—those adorable shell-like nails were embedded. Perhaps bathed in the light, her entire fingers seemed neither fully alive nor dead, merely quivering with minute, fluid motions as their surfaces occasionally caught glints of light.

Yamaguchi was drawn to her fingertips; with the feeling of gazing upon something forbidden, he secretly directed his gaze toward them. By the time it seemed an uncanny silence had settled, she was already halfway to her feet.

She stood up from her seat without so much as a greeting in Yamaguchi’s direction.
Mr. Yoshimura escorted her to the entrance.
A considerable time later, Mr. Yoshimura returned to the room.

Yamaguchi asked.

“Is that person your disciple, Professor?”

“No, she’s not my disciple,” Mr. Yoshimura answered.
“I’ve never had disciples before, and I never will.”

While looking askance as he answered, Yamaguchi stared fixedly at Mr. Yoshimura’s face.

“I do know that person.”

“So it seems.”

With a curt reply, Mr. Yoshimura did not so much as move a brow.
Yamaguchi, for his part, formed an almost habitual smile.
And since Mr. Yoshimura remained silent, he spoke again.

“I only know her face… What is her name?”

“Huh? Name…?”

“The name of that person from earlier.”

“Oh, that…”

And Yamaguchi learned that her name was Chieko Uozumi.

This had been a favorable development for Yamaguchi, but matters did not proceed smoothly thereafter.
Yamaguchi had originally aspired to become a diplomat and been employed at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but immediately after the war's conclusion, having severed ties with government ministries, he joined the secretariat of a new political party.
For him—holding the view that politicians constituted a form of domestic diplomat—this represented not an alteration of purpose but rather prescience regarding the Foreign Ministry's loss of functionality.
His occasional visits to Mr. Yoshimura—about twice yearly—served to investigate potential translation work of manageable difficulty that could be performed alongside his primary duties.
He maintained the belief that diplomats or politicians ought ideally to possess one or two published works, considering these to hold at least equivalent value to trivial decorations.
However, ultimately lacking confidence to produce original writings, he concluded translation might suffice.
Given this limited scope, both requester and recipient settled their business with Mr. Yoshimura through mere perfunctory phrases.
Thereafter followed casual conversation; while Yamaguchi wished to expound extensively on political intrigues, Mr. Yoshimura confined himself to terse responses while persistently averting his gaze.
He scarcely initiated speech himself, remaining sequestered behind an impassive countenance that offered no reaction regardless of conversational overtures.
Yamaguchi attempted to attribute this behavior to literary eccentricity, but recognizing how starkly it contrasted with Mr. Yoshimura's earlier amiable exchange with Chieko Uozumi, he perceived it might originate from personal antipathy.
Yet deeming Mr. Yoshimura's resentment unworthy of consideration—his sole regret being failure to extract further information about Chieko Uozumi—he soon departed at what seemed an opportune moment.

A few days later, Yamaguchi obtained an unexpected good opportunity at the Hatano estate.

Using a minor greeting from the party as a pretext, when he visited the Hatano Widow, half-dried sweet potatoes were served instead of confections.

“They’re homemade, but quite sweet.”
“They say that since we nibble on them now and then, half will likely disappear before they’re fully dried, and also that if they weren’t this sweet, drying them wouldn’t be worth the effort—and it’s absolutely true.”
“With this, I’ve gained confidence, so today I’m drying another batch.”

The widow looked happy.

When he picked up what had been served and tasted it, it was indeed sweet.
And so Yamaguchi interpreted being presented with such items as tea sweets as a mark of special favor from the Widow toward himself; flattering that if they were this sweet he too would like to try making them, he requested an on-site inspection.

The drying area was on the second-floor balcony.
Sweet potatoes are steamed until very soft, peeled, cut into slices about half a centimeter thick, arranged on bamboo screens, and exposed to sunlight for several days.

When Yamaguchi stepped out onto the balcony, Chieko Uozumi was just in the middle of flipping the dried sweet potatoes on the bamboo screens.

“Oh, are you helping out too?”
“Madam has just been praising them to me at length.”

She stood up and gave a solemn bow.
Yamaguchi, slightly flustered, returned the bow as he spoke.

“I must apologize for my discourtesy the other day.”
“At Mr. Yoshimura’s residence…”

She smiled faintly and returned to the sweet potatoes.

“Do you often visit Mr. Yoshimura’s place?”

“Yes, I borrow books and listen to his stories, so…”

She answered without turning around, but her profile—suffused with a sudden flush yet taut with tension—grew so lucid it seemed almost transparent.
Yamaguchi was struck by something almost pathological.
In an instant, her face returned to its thin-skinned hardness—forehead and nose stubbornly pallid—as her beautiful hands deftly flipped the sweet potatoes, pink nails glittering.

The blackened garden soil that seemed to be the remains of an air-raid shelter; the thickly clustered trees; the tall ginkgo beginning to yellow; houses flickering into view here and there; beyond them, a wide space resembling burnt ruins; sparrows chirping from somewhere unseen—sunlight poured down over all of it.

Yamaguchi, consciously maintaining a masculine smile, spoke to her as she flipped the dried sweet potatoes.

“That a literary scholar like Mr. Yoshimura associates with you is an exceedingly admirable and splendid thing. For Japanese women henceforth must elevate their cultivation across intellect, emotion, and will—so someone like yourself ought to contribute greatly in that sphere.
“The political party we’ve recently established is one backed by the intellectual class and is likely the only party advocating for women’s suffrage.
“Those who know of women’s contributions during the war highly evaluate women’s power in future politics.
“Therefore, for young women of the intellectual class like yourself, this sphere of activity lies widely open. They must proactively utilize it themselves, and we intend to exert our utmost efforts to ensure it is fully utilized—especially…”

He was leaning against the wooden balcony railing, speaking slowly, when—attempting to take a step forward—he felt his foot grow heavy.
When he forced his foot forward, a viscous heaviness came through it.
He turned his foot and looked at the sole of his sandal—a piece of sweet potato was crushed there.

He laughed innocently, peeled the sweet potato from the sole of his sandal, flung it into the garden, wiped his fingers with a handkerchief, and laughed innocently again.

“I have fallen into a trap, you know.”

However, there was no reaction from her. She did not even smile. Her face remained tense, so lucid it seemed almost transparent, though now drained of color—her shining eyes fixed intently on him. But this too lasted only an instant; she averted her gaze and returned to tending the sweet potatoes.

He grew flustered, furrowed his brows, tapped the railing with his fingertips, then lit a cigarette. Her task was complete.

“I must take my leave.”

A clear farewell—yet she smiled brightly.
And then she departed.

To that final smile, Yamaguchi clung.

The time Yamaguchi had spent facing her then was the longest.
Afterward, they only crossed paths a few times at the Hatano estate, never finding opportunity for proper conversation.
Yet she had begun showing him smiles that were cold yet gentle.
That smile, her beautiful fingers, those fleeting mysterious expressions—they would often surface in his mind, until eventually they rose incessantly from the depths of his chest.
There, he acknowledged to himself that he was in love.

This love was supposed to be of the utmost purity. Her fingers and her mysterious expressions both possessed a pure beauty so cold it seemed almost cruel, and he thought that the strange coldness in her smile could only stem from that same purity. And he resolved that he must maintain both mind and body in a state of purity worthy of his beloved’s pure essence.

When it came to purity of heart, he was confident. When it came to physical purity, he had now gained confidence.

The nails of his hands had also been polished.

His suit was slightly old but made of pure wool and had been meticulously brushed.
The watch strap, being leather, would absorb sweat and dust, so it had been replaced with a chrome chain.
The handkerchief deliberately stuffed carelessly into the coat’s sleeve pocket bore sky-blue embroidery along its edge.
It was regrettable that its texture had been slightly damaged from frequent washing, but as long as it remained clean, that sufficed—after all, it wasn’t something meant for actual use.
Furthermore, his deerskin gloves were now a point of pride.
Any other gloves made of fabric or leather were, to him, mere hand bags; only deerskin was worthy of the term “gloves.”
There wasn’t much else he could take pride in, but in exchange, he had applied perfume so sparingly it was almost imperceptible.
Sadly, he himself did not know what kind of floral extract it was.

The particular reason he had dressed so meticulously was because that day he was supposed to meet her properly at the Hatano estate.
It was because he meant to meet her and lay bare his feelings.

The gathering at the Hatano estate that day had a strange air.

Originally conceived as an evening to commemorate the late Mr. Hatano, his friends—through the organizers’ discretion—had shifted the date from the anniversary of his death to the widow’s birthday, imbuing it with a social character that allowed anyone to attend.
Because the deceased had been an accomplished politician, influential figures from various fields had attended, and their conversations carried vitality.
However, over these past three or four years—due to the war and other circumstances—their numbers had gradually diminished, and since the previous year, owing to food and transportation constraints, it had become an afternoon tea gathering with flexible timing.

Mr. Nozaki, a wealthy merchant who had been greatly assisted by the deceased in the past, managed the supplies, and O-Hana, who had long been running the kitchen at the Hatano residence, handled all arrangements.

In the hall, several large tables had been arranged and were covered with pure white tablecloths.
In the very center stood a potted sago palm that was quite splendid.
The blue pot, moss-covered soil, and majestic leaves emerging from five thick and thin stems delighted the eye.
Surrounding it lay an array of various items.
Biscuits, hotcakes, teacups, dried persimmons, dried horse mackerel, salt-boiled kuruma prawns, finely shredded dried cuttlefish, peanuts, beer bottles, cups, miso-pickled eggplants and gourds, apples and mandarins, small plates and such...

The potted sago palm at the center partitioned the gathering into several sections, so no one risked exposure to all eyes. Not only were they free to eat and drink, but they could also freely engage in various topics throughout the gathering. ——A certain general reminisced about Tokyo under air raids, reflected on those who had fled to the countryside, and shared his thoughts on surviving battlefields.——A certain count praised the taste of dried persimmons and expounded his knowledge of regional specialties.——A certain official discussed dance, explaining how in Western salons it served as a natural method to freely change seats for socializing.——A certain politician predicted that the votes of women newly granted suffrage would largely gather in conservative directions.

At that moment, a portly man with closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair entered.
The man took a seat at the head of the gathering and was the first to pick up a glass of beer.

“I ambled over and ended up late, but even burned ruins can be rather enjoyable, don’t you think?”

His voice was loud, delivered in a tone that seemed to address all the people in the gathering. And he spoke about the fields in the burned ruins. He spoke of wheat, daikon radishes, and leafy greens.

“However, the harvest must be meager.”
“The daikon roots are fibrous and thin, and the wheat ears probably won’t bear much grain.”
“The fertilizer isn’t balanced.”
“There’s too much potassium and nitrogen, and not enough phosphoric acid.”

Then, from the far end of the gathering, a young man named Satake spoke.

“That’s right.”
“There’s a lack of phosphoric acid across the board.”

“Indeed, phosphoric acid is lacking across the board, I suppose.”

The portly man laughed, and Satake was blushing.

That alone had, strangely, cast a stark light upon the atmosphere of the gathering.
In truth, up until then, the conversations had consisted entirely of utterly ordinary topics, and the opinions voiced had been nothing but utterly ordinary—yet there was something distinctly unordinary about these utterly ordinary things being discussed beneath the sago palm’s shade.
It was December 9th—until last year, merely the day after the anniversary of the war’s commencement, but now the day after Japan had plunged into what should be remembered as a great error, the day after Allied Command’s “Pacific War History” began its serialization in newspapers—and none of this was reflected there in the slightest.
However, the very fact that none of this was reflected felt somehow unnatural.
That had now become clear.
So to speak—was there something cowardly, something servile?

As if suddenly remembered, beer was drunk vigorously.

The Hatano Widow would occasionally emerge and bestow her charm upon the guests.
In her demeanor resided a certain dignity and modesty, making her appear more youthful than usual.
Senjirou Yamaguchi, who had taken his place at the far end of the gathering, found his eye caught by the ample, pliant softness of her flesh.
At the same time, he recalled the taut thinness of Chieko Uozumi’s skin.
But Chieko herself did not appear there.
The widow also had female guests in a separate room and often went there.

“Japanese beer is world-class, isn’t it? Even American soldiers are praising at least this one thing, aren’t they?”

From such matters, the discussion turned to war crimes, and a bull-necked man spoke about those who had been notified as war criminals.
Some remained composed, not changing their countenance in the slightest.
Others turned pale and dropped their cigarettes despite being in front of guests.
Some made faces as if they’d tasted a bitter persimmon.
Some… .

While those accounts seemed almost absurd, they contained elements that vividly conveyed the dignity of the individuals known personally to some, capturing the gathering’s attention.
However, perhaps because attention had focused on those personal matters, the issue of war crimes itself became hollow, and within that hollowness, you crafted an atmosphere as though mutually questioning someone.
This too was aided by the potted sago palm.
Beneath the sago palm’s shade, acquaintances asked one another, “Who are you?”

“It’s utterly ridiculous!”
“Where there is no responsibility, there can be no crime.”
“And that’s precisely because the responsibility couldn’t be found anywhere.”

When the discussion reached that point, Senjirou Yamaguchi interjected.

“Isn’t the matter of crime ultimately a question of spiritual fidelity?”

He was thinking about Chieko Uozumi.
And from his own feelings toward her, he had inadvertently voiced his carefully prepared argument.

However, what surprised Yamaguchi himself most was that his theory of spiritual fidelity was welcomed by the entire gathering.
Many people agreed with it.
In short, it was that those who maintained fidelity were not criminals.

“It’s almost like a matter of moral conduct,” the phosphoric acid gentleman from earlier burst into loud laughter.

As if responding to that laughter, Satake said:

“Rather than fidelity or such, it’s anger.”
“Whether one is deemed a criminal now depends on if they feel anger toward something.”

According to him, those who felt anger toward past deceptions were innocent, while those who felt none were guilty.
There was something scathing about his theory.
Yet no one wished to probe deeper into the matter.

The conversation veered off in an odd direction, remarking that the late Mr. Hatano had been quick to anger.

The conversation turned to memories of the deceased and events from that era.
And the atmosphere of the gathering grew harmonious.
The tipsiness from beer also began to take effect.

Since Yamaguchi had no acquaintance with the deceased and felt no interest in the reminiscences, he quietly left his seat.

In the adjacent room with its sliding doors left open, Mr. Ino—who had been the deceased’s true friend—was playing Go with a certain young man, completely indifferent to the discussions in the main hall.
This gaunt, tall scholar, cross-legged in his informal Japanese attire, had secured several bottles of beer and was now engrossed in Go while drinking.

Yamaguchi watched the Go game for a while.
He then gazed outside.
The clouds that had floated in scattered fragments since morning now hung low on all horizons; the sky stretched remote and blue, and the evening sun glowed upon the garden leaves.

At that moment, Yamaguchi felt both pride and discontent.
He took pride in the fact that renowned seniors had endorsed his theory of spiritual fidelity, yet felt discontent at having himself connected it to something like war crimes.
It formed part of his physical and spiritual cleanliness regimen—something that should have been spoken precisely before a lover.

The clash of pride and discontent made him bold.
He slipped into the garden clogs left there and went outside.
The garden, entirely bathed in the setting sun, felt somehow bleak.
Beyond that, past the sleeve fence, thick smoke was rising, and children’s laughter could be heard.
He walked in that direction.

In the middle of that vacant lot, where empty barrels and tree stumps lay scattered, leaves were burning, and a boy puffed out his cheeks to blow on the smoldering fire.

“Are you making a bonfire?”
“Let me see…”

Yamaguchi took a small tree branch and tried to stir up the smoldering leaves.
The child blocked him.

“You mustn’t do that.”

“But it’s not catching fire.”

“You mustn’t do that.”

The child seemed intent on protecting the piled-up, smoking leaves.

He was a large-framed child who had grown freely, and though he seemed already around school age, long hair hung over his forehead like a girl’s. He wore coarse clothes of old fabric where the weave was visible, yet in stark contrast, the plump cheeks were radiantly fresh.

The child’s expression suddenly brightened with joy.
From the shadow of the building, she—Chieko Uozumi—emerged.

Her face was as composed as ever.
Without a haori, she had fastened the collar of her purple and crimson striped omeshi so tightly it looked uncomfortable.
In that attire, she held straw bales and dead branches tightly against her chest.
She looked at Yamaguchi in silence.
Yamaguchi gave a slight bow.

“Won’t you return to the main hall?”

“I’ve already had more than enough hospitality since earlier.”

She threw down the load she was carrying near the bonfire and spoke to the boy.

“I’ve brought plenty of things to burn!”

With the child, she looked terribly happy.
She brushed off a little dust from her chest and the ox-drawn carriage embroidery on her obi, still trailing straw scraps here and there, then tossed what appeared to be a sack of sweet potatoes into the bonfire.

The fire spread sideways, then burst into flames all at once.
The tips of the flames reached the height of a human face.

The child cried out.
Chieko leaped back, picked up a broken stick, and pressed down the smoldering remnants of the bale.

Yamaguchi stood dumbfounded.

“What do you mean to accomplish by burning so much?”

Chieko offered no reply, smiling instead as though answering some inner voice.

When the bale had fully burned away, she began feeding dead branches into the fire one handful at a time.
The child snapped each branch into pieces with crisp cracks.
Upon the vermilion straw ashes, the dead branches burned with vigorous clarity.

Yamaguchi recalled the earlier conversation about fertilizer.

“Are you making fertilizer ash?”

Chieko looked at him and smirked faintly.
Then she abruptly turned solemn.

“I’m roasting sweet potatoes.”

After that, she spoke to the child.

“So, is it true these Satsuma sweet potatoes are the very last ones left from what grew in the field? And that this taro is the first harvested from the field?”

“It’s true.”
“I’m the field guardian, so I know all about it.”

“Right.
To have something special like the first harvest—how delightful!
So, let’s make them as delicious as possible and eat them.
Boiling, steaming, simmering—none compare to roasting them over a fire like this. That’s how you get the best flavor.”

“I didn’t know that. I’ll tell Mom.”

“Let’s have your mother try some too.”

Chieko scooped the sweet potatoes out from the ashes.
There were some half-burnt ones and others steaming with heat.
She sorted them out.

“Please wait here.”

Chieko hurried off in that direction.

Yamaguchi took over after her and scooped the sweet potatoes out from the ashes.
A great many Satsuma sweet potatoes and taro came out.
As he did so, he spoke to the child and learned that his mother had previously been at the Hatano estate; that their family had been affected by an air raid and were living in a barracks on the burnt-out remains; and that they had cultivated a vegetable garden around them, among other things.

Chieko returned.
She held a beautiful celadon bowl.
She piled the ash-smothered roasted sweet potatoes into that bowl.
The sweet potatoes couldn’t all fit into the bowl.

The child immediately ran off.

Yamaguchi，still crouched there，began to speak while stirring through the ashes．

“I’ve been wanting to meet you properly．”

Chieko glanced up briefly，then lowered her eyes again．

“I wanted to talk about so many things…”

At that point，he faltered．
The thoughts in his heart and his words did not align．
Not only that—a new thought suddenly intruded．
He had，until now，decided for himself that he was in love with her．
To be in love—that alone had been sufficient．
However，now，suddenly，the notion of marriage floated up．
Strangely enough，until his current age of thirty-five，he had encountered several marriage proposals and had relationships with women who made him consider marriage，but this time alone，the idea of marriage had not crossed his mind at all．
Was there something within her that rejected such thoughts？ Something within him？ Or was it within the postwar social conditions？
He vaguely yet instantly felt that this was true in all respects—but it did nothing to hinder love．

“There are so many things I want to tell you about myself, and so many things I want to hear about you—in any case, would you allow me to learn about your circumstances?”

She stood up.
The color drained from her forehead and cheeks, her taut skin taking on a translucent pallor.
With piercing eyes, she stared down at him.
Unable to meet her gaze, he lowered his eyes and began frantically stirring the ashes.
He felt he had committed a grave blunder.

The child came running over carrying a bamboo basket.
Chieko and the child put the remaining sweet potatoes into the bamboo basket.
Then she held the celadon bowl while the child carried the bamboo basket.

“I cannot discuss such matters at all,” she said.

Yamaguchi understood this was her response to his earlier words, and there by the straw ashes, he savored that reply alone. In the ashes still remained two or three small sweet potatoes. He picked them up but immediately threw them away.

Then he sensed the situation had shifted.
He recalled her figure—
the woman in her fine kimono and embroidered obi clutching a grimy potato sack;
the woman piling ash-smothered roasted sweet potatoes into a celadon bowl—
her careless manner struck him as nothing but an endearing childishness.
In Yamaguchi’s own family, under his parents’ strict supervision, such carelessness would never have been permitted.
By contrast, her way of doing things seemed to him wholly an endearing childishness.
And even that reply of hers—might it not have been less a definitive refusal than something childlike and endearing?

He acknowledged his clumsy way of speaking had been inept. That this admission of failure now brought him unexpected relief. It was simply that his approach had been flawed. Matters like maintaining a pure lifestyle worthy of love—those should have been addressed first, he reasoned.

He meticulously wiped his soiled hands with the breast-pocket handkerchief he’d vowed never to use, stuffed it into his trouser pocket, and composed himself. After lingering awhile longer in the area, he made his way back to the drawing room.

The setting sun took on a reddish hue, and the shadows grew dark.

The guests were beginning to leave.
The Hatano Widow was bustling about busily.

As if still taking no notice of such matters, Mr. Ino remained engrossed in his game of Go.
Yamaguchi sat down beside him, poured beer for Mr. Ino, and drank some himself.
He felt it would be acceptable to stay longer; he still wanted to see her, and even if he were to leave anyway, he wanted to depart in the company of someone notable.
He considered the manner of one's departure to be crucial.

However, no one turned to look at him.
He found himself left behind there beside the Go player.

Nearby, by the wide veranda, voices could be heard.
The phrase "deciduous forest" caught Yamaguchi’s attention.
The voice sounded familiar.

“I found the first half quite engaging, but the latter part grew somewhat tedious.”

“Yes—the Professor himself noted that for a novel, it leans rather too heavily on ideology.”

“I do concur with that ideology.”
“Still, there’s an oddly petulant quality to it.”

“I don’t quite understand, but….”

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.”
“Please invite me next time you have the chance.”

“Yes, I will check the Professor’s availability.”

“He isn’t a difficult person, I suppose.”

“No, not at all…”

And laughter rang out.

It seemed to be about Mr. Yoshimura, Yamaguchi thought.
And he stood up and left.

Satake and Chieko stood conversing. She had slung a small-patterned brocade haori over her earlier attire, lending her an unexpectedly aged appearance. She averted her face from Yamaguchi.

Yamaguchi said cheerfully.

“That sounds like Mr. Yoshimura’s conversation.”

“Yes.”

Satake gazed quizzically at Yamaguchi.

“If it’s Mr. Yoshimura, I know him well.”
“Shall we go visit him together?”

That seemed to impart some great impulse.
Chieko kept facing away and left without turning around.
Satake frowned but lit a cigarette as if to suppress it.

“Mr. Satake.”

A voice sounded, and that Professor Phosphoric Acid peered in.

“You stay here.
Without you, the conversation just isn’t engaging.”

And he laughed loudly.
Satake silently left Yamaguchi’s side and headed toward the main hall.

Yamaguchi was left there and bit his lip.
It seemed as though he had committed some blunder related to his dignity.
And since he couldn’t clearly discern what that blunder was, the sense of failure felt all the more immense.
He thought of postponing it to another day... That was all he could think.
And he clung to this notion of another day.
At the same time, he grew intensely cold.
He grew cold toward everything.
He expressed his thanks to the Hatano Widow, bid farewell to the others, nodded to O-Hana—who had helped him into his coat at the entrance—and, clutching deer leather gloves in one hand, carried out all these things coldly, calmly, and like a proper gentleman until he began to walk away.

However, the moment he stepped one foot out of the gate of the Hatano estate, he found himself in a state as if all strength had drained from his body—a condition where escaping some oppressive weight left him crumbling in its wake.

He stopped in his tracks.
He looked back almost unconsciously.
Through the sasanqua’s coarse branches and leaves, he glimpsed the entranceway where a figure was scattering something pure white.
The figure quickly hid behind the door but was likely Chieko.
He crept back on tiptoe.
From the concrete before the door to the ground below, pure white granules lay scattered.
He picked up a clump and tasted it.

“Salt flowers…” he murmured, but the moment he recognized them, he became utterly indifferent.
And he fell into some unfathomable reverie, merely moving his feet mechanically as he left that place.