Pathway to Japanese Literature

Yosuke Hatano returned from the continent after the war's end, following the turn of the year, in early April.
What he had been doing there during those three war years remains unclear.
His whereabouts kept changing.
It was said he had been involved in various activities—special military units, intelligence divisions, operations against Chongqing—but he himself just laughed and said he’d been traveling around sightseeing.
In reality, his own words were likely closest to the truth.

He did not speak much about facts.
He expressed almost no opinions.
With ambiguous smiles and elusive words, he blurred everything.
It wasn’t that he did so intentionally—it simply seemed to happen naturally.
On the whole, there was something about him that made one think it might be what they call a China-induced daze.
The general impression was that he was somewhat vague.
His well-developed physique—with average flesh distribution that appeared healthy—yet his sun-tanned face carried an air as though a sheet of paper had been laid over it.
However, when observed carefully, from behind those heavy-looking eyelids both eyes would occasionally bare themselves, piercing holes through the paper veiling his expression.

It was during a discussion about Destruction and Construction—Destruction and Construction must not be thought of as two separate things.
You must not think of it as destroying old houses and building new ones in their place.
In spiritual culture, to destroy is to build, and to build is to destroy.
Whether rapid or gradual, new construction is always accompanied by destruction, and new destruction is always accompanied by construction.
And both are carried out simultaneously and in the same space.
The perspective that treats Destruction and Construction as separate entities allows for empty time and space between them—a notion that contradicts both the nature of our minds and our existence.
Here, there is no empty time or space.
Through building comes destruction; through destruction comes construction—Yosuke Hatano silently watched us discussing such matters.
When I looked back, his face appeared as if covered by a wet sheet of paper beneath which he smiled vaguely, only at the eyes were there holes through which his dark pupils stared intently.
As my gaze met his, his heavy-looking eyelids quietly lifted, and the vague smile spread to his eyes, concealing the holes.
But those disappeared holes of his eyes somehow chilled me.

We—three or four of us including him—were slightly drunk, and the room was dimly lit, but even so, he spoke little and wore a vague smile that seemed the natural state of his facial muscles.
Later on, when I had grown accustomed to his occasional glances, he would sometimes join the debates, but it seemed he never put forward any particularly memorable opinions.
On one occasion during some discussion, he proposed that debates held before deciding on a method of implementation were meaningless and that discussions should only occur after the implementation method had been determined. However, it was retorted that such an approach would render them neither proper debates nor meaningful conversations.
Even so, he once again responded with a vague smile.
He must have either lacked sufficient words or his manner of speaking had been poor.
Or was it simply that China-induced daze after all?

The house where we often met was a small bar in the Nihonbashi back alley.
The two-story house sandwiched between two streets had its front portion functioning as a hollowed craftwork wholesaler, while what had likely once been a storage space—hardly worthy of being called a warehouse—at the lower rear entrance had been remodeled in a mountain hut style, featuring a wide earthen floor and one small room with low thresholds, its narrow windows keeping the interior perpetually dim.
Business was usually conducted from evening into night, but the dim light from the bulbs still left the place in dusky gloom.
A coconut shell hollowed out like a lantern, with a lone light flickering inside, hung at the entrance—that was the marker.
When you entered, the long-haired and expressionless Goro Oota—or sometimes Naoharu Tomura with his close-cropped head and forced smile—would serve drinks.
There was sake, beer, various whiskies, and occasionally shochu—but this shochu was exceptionally premium.
The food offerings were almost nonexistent, limited to peanuts, dried squid, ham, and canned goods.
The clientele mostly consisted of familiar faces from the intellectual class, and those unaccustomed to such discourse found the atmosphere uncomfortable.
The shop’s name was simply “Goro,” taken from Goro Oota’s name, and among drinking companions, it was referred to in such ways as “Let’s go to Goro” or “Let’s head over to Goro’s place.”

As for what part of this bar appealed to him, Yosuke Hatano often came here.
However, we often invited him as well.
After returning to Japan, under the pretense of it being temporary—though effectively indefinite—he spent his days idling about.
He seemed to devote himself earnestly to reading alone, while otherwise engaging in private interactions with friends, attending theater and concerts, taking walks and drinking, and going on one- or two-night trips to nearby prefectures—as if rediscovering a newfound affection for the Tokyo-centered region.
As for what direction he would take and what work he intended to do from here on out, it’s likely that even he himself had no idea.

Even taking into account that he was a returnee from abroad, Yosuke’s attitude still left room for criticism.
Severe food crises, political stagnation, social instability, and all other problems had piled up and become entangled, making it difficult to even foresee whether postwar recovery was possible.
Regarding this matter, Mr. Takaishi—his late father’s close friend—had once ridiculed him in a bold tone.
In response, he wore his usual smile.

“That may be so, but in reality, I still don’t understand anything. That’s why I’m studying now.”

“Indeed, study hard,” Mr. Takaishi said seriously.

It wasn’t quite an institution for study, but a modest endeavor had been established through Mr. Takaishi’s initiative as a foothold for Yosuke’s activities since his return to Japan. Within the estate, they had assigned the deceased’s study and an adjacent room for this purpose, imposingly designated as the Hatano Cultural Research Institute in name alone. From around the time war crimes investigations commenced and purges of officials from government and political circles loomed, this Cultural Research Institute had already begun operations. As Mr. Takaishi had anticipated, the institute undertook examinations of culture in general, though it lacked sufficient materials and personnel. Beyond the deceased’s book collection and records Mr. Takaishi had gathered, they had borrowed the library of scholar Mr. Ino, who had been close to the deceased. From one to five each afternoon, several researchers immersed themselves in these materials—less for investigation than for their own studies. It essentially functioned as a public reading room, and given the book shortages of the time, many sought entry permits as researchers. Mr. Takaishi and Mr. Ino made the selections. From its inception, the title of researcher came without salary or fees.

Mr. Takaishi took pride in this Cultural Research Institute. Research results were not an issue; there weren't even any leaders to guide the research. It seemed that through the researchers who frequented there, the old man's hidden scheme had been for Yosuke Hatano to establish some form of operational base among the young and middle-aged demographic.

To this institute came Tetsuo Satake—a teacher at a private university who also worked as a translator—diligently frequenting it. However, he did not speak much with the others and read books at an extraordinary speed. Senjiro Yamaguchi, who had been in the secretariat of a political party, also frequently came. He paid almost no attention to books and indiscriminately sought opinions on current affairs from anyone and everyone. The famous literary figure Atsushi Yoshimura also came occasionally. He seemed to be searching for records that might serve as material for a novel but was often invited to the widow's chambers for extended conversations. Various other people came as well, many of them young, but they seemed to have little bearing on this particular story. Chieko Uozumi, who was treated like family at the Hatano residence, handled the cleaning and tidying of the rooms, and a student who had been lodging there from before stayed over.

However, Yosuke Hatano adopted an attitude of completely ignoring this institute.
He did not set foot there and did not read a single book from its collection.
He had a number of books in his eight-tatami study and borrowed any additional books he wanted to read from friends.
Whenever friends mentioned the Cultural Research Institute, he would respond vaguely as usual.

“That… doesn’t seem to be mine.”

Here I will add another observation of my own: though he spoke of all matters in an extremely vague manner, behind this lay clear—and at times even intense—feelings of like and dislike. Whether he liked or disliked something—that was the fundamental problem—and everything beyond that manifested as nothing but vague words. Therefore, on the surface, he appeared indifferent to many things.

When he eventually stated—albeit vaguely yet adamantly—that he wanted to relocate the Cultural Research Institute to Mr. Takaishi’s home or else shut it down, it surprised those around him.

Then, though this was known only to a few, he purchased the building housing Bar "Goro".
It was through Naoharu Tomura’s covert mediation.
The hollowed-craft wholesaler had been wanting to sell the building due to years of economic downturn.
The transaction was completed, but superficially nothing changed.
The wholesaler family continued living there and maintaining their work.
Bar "Goro," renting the downstairs back entrance, remained as before.
However, two rooms above the back staircase were added to the bar, reserved exclusively for special small gatherings.
This development surprised and delighted not only the proprietor Goro Oota but us as well.

Yosuke Hatano carried out all these things with an air of indifference. The sight of him playing go with the occasional visiting Mr. Ino suggested he was nothing more than an idle returnee living in unproductive leisure.

Chieko Uozumi found herself in a difficult position regarding Yosuke Hatano.

As a relative of the widow, she had known about Yosuke beforehand, but this marked her first time interacting closely with him.

Yosuke returned nonchalantly, almost simultaneously with the telegram from Hakata Port.
Chieko fumbled through the preparations to welcome him together with the longtime maid O-hana; then, at the entranceway, she found herself oddly flustered by how little luggage he had.
He briskly made his way to the sitting room.
And when he had relaxed a little, Chieko demurely entered the room, placed both hands at the edge of the sliding door, and bowed deeply.

“Welcome home.”

After that, she found herself unable to raise her face for some time.

The widow Fusae had introduced her to Yosuke and beckoned her closer, but she found herself unable to take a seat.
It was as though the events of that moment had irrevocably determined her social standing.
In other words, it had placed her in a maid-like position.
Later, she thought about that matter.
Why hadn't she behaved more frankly? Why had she said something like Welcome home? She thought about that.
But she herself couldn't understand why.
Moreover, once her position had been determined, she found it difficult to escape from it.
That being said, she had not actually performed the work of a maid.
The care of Yosuke's personal needs had been fully attended to by Fusae and then by O-hana, while her work lay mainly with the institute.
However, within the house, she always behaved with a modesty that stopped short of tiptoeing or bowing low—making herself inconspicuous—while also minding seating arrangements.
And what made it all the more absurd was that she herself—a thirty-year-old woman—possessed considerable knowledge and education.

Yosuke spoke little to anyone but had a habit of abruptly fixing his gaze on people's faces without any particular reason. Whenever caught in that stare, Chieko would shrink into herself even more than usual. During meals especially—never knowing when his eyes might lock onto her—she grew stiffer still. Beyond these moments, he seemed utterly indifferent to her existence. His erratic daily rhythms further limited her chances for interaction. Yet his presence weighed heavily throughout the house regardless—a gravity amplified by Fusae's evident attentiveness toward him.

Only O-hana treated him with the same childish informality as in the old days without any reserve and called him "Young Master."
Chieko found that form of address enviable.
She was troubled over what to call him.
Calling him "Young Master" was obviously inappropriate; she couldn’t bring herself to say "young sir"; addressing him as "Master" felt awkward too; and she couldn’t call him "Sir" either.
Left with no choice, she resorted to omitting direct address in her phrasing, though when speaking to others she would often refer to him as Mr. Hatano.

She had also heard "Young Master" flow smoothly and without reserve at Okiku’s place.

Okiku-san was a former maid at the Hatano Residence and was now Naoharu Tomura’s wife.
They had been affected by the air raids and temporarily taken refuge at the Hatano Residence, but Tomura soon went out to the burned ruins, built a dugout shelter, first lived there alone, negotiated with the landowner, and secured a considerable plot of land.
When his swift methods were later praised, he laughed nonchalantly as if it were nothing.

“Oh, I just didn’t hold back at all. I knew the war would end soon, and I had no other options left anyway.”

When the war ended, he built a simple hut there. He poured nearly all his savings into it and gathered roof tiles himself from the burned ruins. In that house with its six-tatami, four-and-a-half-tatami, and two-tatami-mat rooms, he took in his wife and two children and cultivated a vast field. And in the mornings he farmed; from afternoon until evening he worked at "Goro".

Visiting the Tomuras' place was a pleasure for Chieko Uozumi. She would go carrying a bag containing about one sho of rice and return with the same bag stuffed full of bulky vegetables. At first, O-hana and Okiku had been handling these errands, but before long Chieko had proactively taken them over. The tactile sensation of the bag—whether from the rice or vegetables—that fresh texture provided a different kind of pleasure from books.

The cultivated field was splendid. Divided into several plots by rubble ridges and surrounded by makeshift fortresses of debris, the entire area spanned approximately three hundred tsubo. More than half of this area had been planted with various vegetables. The broad beans and peas had cute flowers blooming; the cabbages were forming large curled leaves; the white roots of all-season daikon peeked through; the cucumber tendrils stretched long; and all manner of other vegetables shone in the sunlight, each in their own hues and shapes. The very variety made it seem all the more abundant. In the vacant ground, sweet potatoes were soon to be planted. No matter how much they grew, it was said to still be insufficient for distributing to acquaintances. They took pride in not having sown wheat; it was said that wheat, which occupies the ground for a long time and absorbs much fertilizer, lay beyond the scope of home gardening.

When Chieko delivered about one sho of rice to the hut adjoining this splendid vegetable garden, Okiku-san scooped up the grains in both hands, let them trickle through her fingers with a dry rustle, repeated the motion, then smiled a lonely smile.

“Truly, rice is what I miss most.”
“These past four or five days, I haven’t had a single grain.”

Rice distribution was delayed everywhere, but even so... it came as a surprise to Chieko.

“What have you been eating?”

“With nothing but fish and vegetables, I’ve grown quite disheartened.”

That too was unexpected to Chieko.
Fish and vegetables were severely lacking in the Hatano household.

"It’s utterly unnatural and irrational."

Those words drifted into the air.
Okiku-san merely nodded mechanically and poured tea.

In a corner of the cultivated field, two children were stacking tiles and stones.
The boy had grown his hair long like a girl’s, and the girl wore a boy’s splashed-pattern kimono.
Chieko went over there.

“What are you doing?”

The older brother stood up and gave a slight bow.

Early in the morning, when she went out to the field, there was a toad as large as a teapot.
To make it into a dwelling, they were hollowing out the interior and stacking tiles and stones.
It was difficult and they couldn’t manage it easily.
Chieko also helped.

“If a frog comes in here, it’ll be scary,” the younger sister suddenly said.

“Why?”

“If you touch a frog, you’ll get warts, right?”

“That’s a lie!” the brother shouted.
“Father said that’s not true.”

“Mother said it’s true. So which is it?”

Chieko hesitated over her reply.
At that moment, Okiku-san came with a basket.
When the children asked her about the warts, she smiled brightly and answered.

“If you touch them the wrong way, you’ll get warts.”
“If you touch them properly, you won’t get warts.”

She entered the field and pulled up cabbages, daikon radishes, and small turnips.

Chieko stood motionless there, gazing pensively at the abundant vegetable garden bathed in morning sunlight.
She gazed with both fists planted on her hips like a man.
Then she followed after Okiku-san.

“I have a request—would you please let me help with the work in this field?”

Okiku-san answered without so much as turning around.

“It would be impossible for you.”
“Harvesting what’s grown means nothing—turning over soil, applying fertilizer, the work until things grow is truly arduous.”
“I am prepared for that.”

Because the tone was so decisively firm, Okiku-san turned around. Her face, drained of blood and so tense it seemed almost translucent, had eyes containing a glint of radiance staring fixedly wide open. Okiku-san was perplexed and smiled without meaning.

"And then, one more thing... Would you please take me to that place called Goro?"

Okiku-san smiled with relief this time.

“As for that, I…”
“Please ask the Young Master.”

While processing the term “Young Master,” Chieko remained silent.

“I’m not going there to drink alcohol.
“I want to go see whether I can work there.”

Without responding, Okiku-san took up the vegetable basket.
And the two of them walked toward the house in silence.

Sitting down on the veranda, Okiku-san gazed intently at Chieko’s face.

“I would advise you to stop thinking about trivial matters,” she said. “Not everyone can do anything at all, you understand.”

“No,” Chieko replied. “I simply want to try working hard at whatever I can.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you continued your studies as before?”

“Work before study.”

Okiku-san fell silent and organized the vegetables.
When Tomura appeared there， Chieko offered a formal thank-you， took up the bag of vegetables， and left.
While watching that retreating figure， Okiku-san relayed their earlier conversation.

“It’s somehow hard to talk with that person.”
“It seems like she’s completely serious… and yet I feel like I’m being teased…”

Tomura said slowly while thinking.

“That person must take everything seriously.”
“But she’s too clever—that’s what makes it dangerous.”

Chieko’s retreating figure remained visible for a long time within the burned-out field.
Carrying a bulky bag of vegetables, her shoulders squared like a man’s, head held high without so much as a glance sideways as she walked slowly onward—her figure clad in baggy work trousers gradually grew smaller and more distant through the lush green wheat fields, receding toward the tram line.

After several days of rainy chill, an unpleasantly muggy day arrived.
That afternoon, pitch-black clouds massed in the southwestern sky, swirling outward and layering upon themselves until they smothered the heavens.
The bright line near the horizon vanished as well, and the black clouds rapidly advanced from south to east while anchoring their stronghold in the west, leaving only a sliver of blue sky in the north.
With an air as though the world had plunged into primordial darkness, the young leaves of the trees rustled.

Chieko Uozumi headed towards the Cultural Research Institute—not so much to prepare for the storm as out of a vague urge to survey her surroundings.
It being Sunday, the Institute was closed.
Shoichi Koike, the student lodging at the house, sat on the veranda smoking a cigarette while gazing at the sky.
Even when Chieko approached his side, he only glanced back briefly before resuming his skyward gaze.

“What are you doing?” Chieko said.

“I’m watching the clouds.”
“It’s fascinating, I tell you.”

“More than interesting—it’s awe-inspiring.”

“In times like these, when they say a dragon ascends to heaven—the people of old really did have a way with words.”

The black clouds were layered so thickly their depth seemed immeasurable.
A gust tore across their surface, scattering gray smoke like lifted sand, while deeper within another raged, churning inky masses that roiled back upon themselves.
The sunlight vanished completely, and a dim twilight draped from the clouds to the ground.

The large raindrops seemed poised to fall sporadically, yet also appeared ready to pour down all at once.
However, there was no thunder at all, and the air remained dry.

Chieko suddenly called out to Koike.

“Mr. Koike, won’t you give me a cigarette?”

Koike looked in her direction.

“What are you going to do with a cigarette?”

“Of course I’ll smoke it.”

She too sat down on the veranda and exhaled smoke from the very tip of her lips. Her slender fingers without any distinctive features and beautiful shell-like nails—those hands resembled those of a movie actress, and her thin-skinned, taut cheeks were like waxwork. Koike stopped looking at the clouds and turned his gaze toward her.

“Is it all right for you to smoke cigarettes?”

“Even I will smoke.”

“But you’ve never once…”

“I was holding back.”

And she, still not taking her eyes off the clouds in the sky, said earnestly.

“Somehow… I’ve become stifled.”
“Holding back, being considerate—isn’t that always the case?”
“That’s been especially true since… since Mr. Hatano returned.”
“It’s not that I’m scared… but it’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Hatano is a liberalist. The one you’re holding back toward is Madam, I suppose.”

“No, I don’t hold back with Aunt.”

“In that case, it might be the atmosphere here.”

“That’s right. Such things… may have become clearer since he returned. If that’s the case, then I must have been quite obtuse.”

“What do you mean by ‘obtuse’?”

“I hadn’t noticed such things until now. Mr. Koike, it must be nice being so carefree—smoking, drinking, splitting firewood…”

“Well, I’m a man, after all. Let’s say I’m what you’d call a live-in student.”

“If Mr. Koike is a live-in student… then what am I? A sort of maid.”
“Is it that what a live-in student does, a maid cannot do?”

“That’s an interesting question.”
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Hatano?”

“Yes, I’ll ask him.”

“The reply’s already decided, I tell you.”
“What a live-in student does, a maid should be allowed to do; what people do, anyone should be allowed to do… Mr. Hatano would surely say that.”
“As for Madam, I can’t say though.”

“Do you think so?”
“However, you are not a maid.”
“Then what am I?”
“You’re part of the family. That’s why you feel somewhat stifled.”

“No, that’s not it.”
“It’s completely the opposite.”
“No, men wouldn’t understand such things.”
“After all, men and women hold different positions.”

“In that case, I don’t really understand.”

In a tone that suggested none of it mattered, Koike said dismissively and turned his gaze back toward the sky.

Unbeknownst to them, a strong brightness had spread across the ground.
The dark clouds continued moving eastward, the thick stronghold in the western sky fading as if being wiped away, becoming as translucent as silk floss until even the sunlight seemed ready to seep through.

“If only it would rain,” Chieko said.

“It’s better if it doesn’t rain,” Koike said.

And the two of them gazed at the sky again.
The dark clouds in the eastern sky no longer swirled nor were blown by the wind, quietly cascading toward the horizon.

“You two seem awfully close.”

In a buoyant tone of voice, Senjiro Yamaguchi arrived.
His hair was fluffed to obscure any comb marks, the corner of a handkerchief with a sky-blue border peeking from his jacket’s breast pocket.
He ostentatiously looked around the Cultural Research Institute and said.

“Ah, today was a holiday, wasn’t it.”
“In the first place, taking Sundays off is absurd.”
“This isn’t a school, you know.”
“On this point alone, I remain dissatisfied.”

Chieko said, looking up at the sky.

“Even on Sundays, you may use the books—it’s perfectly fine.”

“Well, I’m not much of a reader…”

At that, Yamaguchi cut off his words and scrutinized the two of them.

“Were you in the middle of some conversation?”

“Yes, a conversation between a live-in student and a maid.”

At Chieko’s challenging words, Yamaguchi blinked his eyes.
But without minding such things, he began to speak.

“There’s a rumor that this Cultural Research Institute will be closed—is it true? If that’s true, I can’t comprehend Mr. Hatano’s reasoning.”

And he began speaking volubly on his own—though until now the Cultural Research Institute had not produced any substantial research results, such facilities were extremely useful. Through this, the fallacies of past culture would be discovered, and a guideline for future culture would be established. “Moreover, by centering around the researchers here, it would be possible to mobilize outstanding young and middle-aged individuals into a defined organization. Around a thousand individuals could be secured immediately. Those outstanding thousand individuals will before long become ten thousand, then a hundred thousand.” “This would be a powerful base of operations for Mr. Hatano”—Yamaguchi was simply repeating what Takaishi had once divulged to his close associates.

“To discard that so carelessly—I find it rather hard to accept,” Yamaguchi said.

Then he lowered his voice slightly:
“There’s also a rumor that Mr. Hatano has purchased some bar—what’s it called.
Such matters should rather be avoided for the sake of the future.
To abandon the Cultural Research Institute and become a bar owner—nothing could be more unreasonable.”

“We never know what Mr. Hatano might do next,” Chieko countered.
“Those around him must stay vigilant.
You all should keep careful watch too.
Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He seemed convinced that sealing debates and letting statements hang unresolved proved most effective for swaying hearts toward a particular direction, and with that conviction, he began to leave. The back gate entrance to the Cultural Research Institute remained securely closed on holidays, compelling him toward the main entrance instead. Chieko glanced back at Koike, but Koike kept gazing at the faintly clearing sky with the detachment of a perfect stranger.

Chieko reluctantly escorted Yamaguchi out of obligation.

At the entrance, he whispered:

"Mr. Yoshimura visited Madam's quarters."
"He scarcely speaks to me—finds conversation difficult, it seems."
"Novelists—perhaps they're all like this: terribly reserved with men yet charmingly talkative with women."

Chieko's eyes lingered vacantly on the faint blemish across Yamaguchi's forehead—a mark resembling either an old burn or some dermatological remnant.

After mechanically seeing him out and shutting the door, she paused there briefly, then entered the parlor beside the entrance and sank onto the sofa.

She had grown distant from Mr. Yoshimura too… that was her only thought.—In the past, she used to visit Atsushi Yoshimura’s place, delighting in hearing various literary discussions.
She had felt not just respect for him as a mentor, but something akin to heartfelt closeness.
That closeness had been abruptly severed since the establishment of the Cultural Research Institute.
Yoshimura had come to visit the Cultural Research Institute.
He had also engaged in conversation with Chieko.
However, he did not go to Chieko’s room, but only to the widow’s.
And gradually, Chieko found herself relegated to a position of being ignored.
Visiting Yoshimura herself had also come to feel somehow awkward.

——Why had things turned out this way?

Not sentimentally but intellectually, she sank into vague thought.

On the wall facing the center of the room hung a portrait of the late Mr. Hatano—a colorful politician—while opposite it was displayed Sun Yat-sen's calligraphy. On one desk lay art books and photo albums; in a glass case on another shelf were arranged various silver commemorative items and antiques. The mantelpiece held old pots and plates as decoration, and at one end sat a large seated doll.
Save for some slight damage around its legs, from face to torso its pure white earthen skin glistened vividly, as if light itself had risen to the surface.

Chieko had been gazing fixedly at the doll's vivid flesh tone when suddenly she widened her eyes, her cheeks tensing until they seemed translucent, and stared at the doll. Her own face resembled a doll's. After remaining still for several seconds, she stood up and started toward the doll, then stopped herself and went instead to the narrow pillar mirror by the door. In the mirror, she gazed at her own face, examined her hands and fingers and beautiful nails, then brought her hands to her head to adjust the wave in her bangs. An air of arrogance hovered over that pale forehead.

A faint slipper sound occurred.
She pressed herself against the wall as if startled by a sudden ambush.

“Tomorrow, at two…”

Only Yoshimura’s distinctive voice reached her ears.
Without another word, Yoshimura left, and footsteps likely belonging to the widow Fusae Hatano quietly retreated deeper into the house.
Even so, for a while longer, Chieko remained pressed against the wall...

The following day, Fusae applied her makeup more meticulously than usual and, dressed in rather inconspicuous clothing, left in the afternoon.
She had stated she was visiting a friend in Chiba and couldn’t say when she’d return—and true to her word, she did not come back that night.

The sun was hidden by clouds, casting a brightness that blurred the passage of time. A chill reminiscent of dew filled the air, the voices of small birds rang out crisply, and in the distance came the belated crow of a rooster. There was only the faint presence of rustling bamboo leaves; the garden thicket lay utterly still, and several clusters of wisteria flowers hung heavily.

The morning's air seeped into Atsushi Yoshimura's eyes as he crouched on the wet veranda.

The sound of rustling clothes came, and Fusae Hatano emerged from the adjacent room.
She did not step out onto the veranda, but sank to her knees on the cushion before the dining table, placed both hands atop its surface, and drifted into a reverie.

Both remained silent.
The chorus of small birds swelled in intensity.

Yoshimura stood up, entered the room, and began to sit facing Fusae—then abruptly shifted position to bury his face in her lap.
She laid a hand on his hair now lightly streaked with white.
Then quietly attempted to raise his face.

He shook his head and pressed his face against her knee once more.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“I don’t know…”

“You’re being awkward again.”

She suddenly clutched his head.

“You’re such a strange man—like a child.”
“But...”
“Enough now—anything will do—right? You agree?”

When her arm loosened, he quietly raised his face. Her face was right there. The thick, heavy lids of her narrow, half-closed eyes slowly lifted, forming wrinkles across her forehead as her pupils gleamed with a smile.

There was a sense that everything had changed. Those thick eyelids and gleaming eyes, then the wrinkles on her forehead and sunken breasts—both appeared in Yoshimura’s vision as separate entities. He regained his masculine dignity. Sitting up straight again, he gazed at her. Though wearing only a datemaki sash, her Oshima kimono—with its rough cross pattern—combined with the damp silk crepe half-collar of her underrobe, while the clear comb marks at her temples exuded refinement. He adjusted the collar of his padded robe over the yukata. Then, like a mischievous boy, he chuckled furtively.

She stared fixedly at his face.

“You fool…”

Then, as though folding at the waist, she leaned the weight of her upper body toward him.

“Can we do as we promised?”

“Something like a promise doesn’t matter at all. Things will take their natural course.”

He briefly furrowed his brows.

"I could use a drink, though."

“Please do. I’ll have some too.”

He took the glasses from the table and called the maid.

Fusae tightened her obi. When she sat properly at the dining table, her well-fleshed body appeared as if a massive rock had been set in place. She gazed out at the garden.

“It’s such a quiet, lovely house.”

And then she shifted her gaze from the garden to him.

“Why did things come to this... You don’t regret it.”

“Don’t you have any regrets either?”

The two stared intently into each other’s eyes. Their gazes were nakedly direct—and yet somehow, it felt as though they were observing each other from a great distance.

There was no regret.
They had known this from the beginning.
A forty-five-year-old widow and a fifty-year-old literary man known in society—this combination itself functioned as a safety valve.
They observed decorum and exercised discretion.
Nor was there likely any reckless passion—his wife being away in the countryside due to illness would serve as an embankment against any potential crisis.
It was a safe dalliance with all conditions met.
No—it couldn't even be called dalliance for lack of active intent; rather an unresisting collapse into natural temptation.
He simply harbored a desire to lean.
His willpower, physical strength, and creative vitality were all waning, yet unaware of this decline, he settled into daily self-contentment.
This was tranquility found in surrendering to spiritual stagnation or decay.
The urge to indulge in this tranquility leaned unresistingly toward her.
This vague dependence—lacking any concrete object—having found her, came to include physical pleasure tinged with intellectualism.
To this version of him, she too leaned unresistingly.
For her—who had dwelled solely in realms of political strategy, economic policy, means and methods and schemes—his ambling disposition held the freshness of tree leaves or grass blades.
Through his rambling discourse, her mood found solace and her emotional nuances were delicately teased.
Amidst the restless movements surrounding her—the Cultural Research Institute, emerging political parties—she keenly felt the loneliness of her widow's existence being gradually forgotten, yet within this turbulence he remained her pillar.
But this pillar was sweet sugar—though all these matters stemmed from postwar shockwaves and their social class, neither he nor she considered such depths.
Had they done so, their relationship might have remained mere social interaction.

They poured whiskey into prized coffee and drank it, then examined calligraphy and paintings in the second-floor room, after which they gazed from the window at the sunset sinking into the scorched fields.
By the time the afterglow had faded completely, their shoulders were touching.
Neither tried to avoid it...
That was when it began.

He liked alcohol, and she too indulged a bit.

The maid brought two bottles of sake at once along with a few small side dishes, then silently withdrew.
Yoshimura narrowed his eyes.
“You look pleased,” Fusae said.

She picked up her cup with an air of nonchalance, drained it, then fixed her gaze on him.

"You didn’t like Chieko-san, did you?"

He twisted his lips slightly.

“Chieko-san seemed to have liked you, didn’t she?”

He twisted his lips again.
After a moment, he said.

“I do not answer foolish questions.”

Her eyes gleamed mockingly.

“But that person has a likable disposition. Mr. Yamaguchi seemed quite enthusiastic for a time, and Mr. Satake also appears to hold some goodwill.”

“So, are you saying that I’m like that too?”

Fusae shook her head and smiled.

Yoshimura also smiled.

"That person is somehow pitiable."
"She has a pretty face and a sharp mind, so naturally everyone takes to her at first... but that’s all there is to it."

"That’s all... you say?"

"In other words, she has qualities unsuitable for both a lover and a wife."

"What kind of qualities would those be?"

"As a lover, her facial expressions are too resolute, and as a wife, her hands are too beautiful."

“Would such things get in the way?”

“They do. Even if one grows fond of her at first, hesitation sets in beyond that... I suppose you could say she leaves a bad aftertaste.”

“My, the aftertaste...”

"There are quite a number of such women—those past the usual marriageable age."

"But isn’t that because men are being cowardly?"

"What do you mean?"
“Are you referring to the aftertaste?”

“Yes—it’s frightening, isn’t it.”

“Indeed. Rather than a bad aftertaste, one might call it frightening.”

“So you too were frightened of Chieko-san.”

“I’m speaking in general terms.”

“Only in general terms…?”

“Don’t you agree? If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t be saying this!”

Yoshimura fell silent after that.
He seemed to have collided with something desolate—Chieko being like family to Fusae and, to Yoshimura, something of a literary protégé.
They had coldly made Chieko prey to their self-indulgent affections.
That measure of self-awareness struck Yoshimura's chest.

“Let’s stop this conversation.”

Yoshimura stood up, walked around the room, then leaned against Fusae’s shoulder and buried his face in the warmth of her body.

“I want to depend on you more and more. Let me depend on you.”

Fusae held his head and said.

Fusae embraced his head and said.

“I too…”

A quiet time, like lukewarm water, passed.
The two of them drank a little more sake, finished a simple meal, and left the house.

Under a cloudy sky with pale sunlight, there was no wind.
They walked along a path lined with hedges and clumps of trees toward the National Railway.

At that moment, while walking, Fusae spoke for the first time about what she had somehow been unable to say until now—about Yosuke.
Yosuke was not Fusae’s biological child—the deceased had fathered him elsewhere several years before marrying Fusae, leaving barely over a decade’s age difference between them.
For that reason, there had always been a certain reserved distance between them.
Moreover, Yosuke—who had returned from China—possessed much that Fusae found difficult to understand regarding his thoughts, emotions, and way of life.
It seemed he had already slipped from her hands as a mother.
He did not consult her about anything, nor did he confide in her.
He gave the impression of having nothing to consult about or confide.
He also seemed vaguely detached.

And yet, before one knew it, the Cultural Research Institute had apparently come to be relocated elsewhere.
It was he who had decided such things.
If that were all, it would still be fine, but he had purchased a restaurant elsewhere.
It was said to be a modest establishment, but he had apparently withdrawn a considerable amount of money.
Of course, it was in the form of blocked payments from blocked deposits, but it had been divided into several accounts.
It seemed to be more than just a modest little restaurant.
There was anxiety about not knowing what he might do from now on.
He would only laugh at talk of marriage and only laugh at future plans.
When it came to him, Fusae fretted terribly but could do nothing. And what Fusae feared most was him finding out about Yoshimura.
That, somehow, seemed likely to become her fatal wound.
For one last memory, she wanted to spend an unhurried night with Yoshimura and then make a clean break afterwards—that had been their arrangement, but…

“You’ll continue to support me from now on, won’t you?” she said, her gaze dropped to her feet.

Speaking such words intermittently, the two walked slowly.

A large chinquapin tree spread over the road.
The suffocating scent of chinquapin flowers hung thick in the air.
Yoshimura muttered while wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“Chinquapin flowers—the scent of May.”

“Huh, the scent of May….”

Fusae repeated those words and looked up toward the chinquapin thicket, but in that instant, as if struck by dizziness, she staggered against Yoshimura, clinging to him and burying her face in his chest.

When Mr. Takaishi and Mr. Ino convened at the Hatano Residence, the relocation of the Cultural Research Institute became openly debated.
Fusae Hatano had been lying down due to symptoms of cerebral anemia but had Chieko Uozumi attend in her place to serve treasured coffee and whiskey.
Tetsuo Satake, who frequented the institute, was summoned.
Then through Fusae’s instigation, Atsushi Yoshimura was called by telephone.

Yosuke Hatano too was required to attend.
Yet he started a Go game with Mr. Ino and scarcely voiced any substantive opinion.

“I think it would be better to move to Mr. Takaishi’s residence.”

From the very beginning he had only said that, yet it carried a decisive ring without justification. At Mr. Takaishi’s house there existed a suitable room in a separate building connected by a corridor from the main house.

Mr. Ino, who was his Go partner, still retained thick hair, possessed a slender tall frame, typically wore his kimono loosely, and above all cherished the game of Go. Despite having loaned a considerable number of books from his collection to the Cultural Research Institute, he raised no objections to its relocation.

“Even if you call it a research institute, it’s really just a library.”
“Wherever it ends up is fine by me.”

It was precisely that without a doubt.

However, dozens of excellent researchers were affiliated with the Cultural Research Institute. This had to be taken into account. Satake raised this issue.

"I believe there’s no need to pay excessive heed to our particular circumstances."
"How to guide the researchers—that is the essential issue."
"In other words, depending on how it’s managed going forward, the institute’s true nature will likely become clear."

To this, Mr. Takaishi expressed the strongest agreement. However, he remained completely indifferent to how one should go about it. Such matters were for the distant future. He simply liked the idea of valuing the researchers.

“If we unite them, they could indeed become a social force.”

Therefore, he was not opposed to housing the Cultural Research Institute at his residence.
The traces of his former existence as a shadowy figure covertly maneuvering through political circles could still faintly be discerned in his corpulent physique, his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and the boldness of his facial skin—even now in retirement.
And he was already beginning to lose expectations for Yosuke Hatano’s future.

Yoshimura keenly perceived the atmosphere of this gathering.
In principle, they were there to discuss the relocation of the Cultural Research Institute, but the move itself had already been all but decided.
Yoshimura silently drank his whiskey.

The individual circumstances of the researchers became the subject of rumors.
But Mr. Takaishi knew only a few of them.

“Were you acquainted with Yamaguchi?” Satake inquired.

“I know him. He’s come to my place several times too,” Mr. Takaishi replied.

Regarding that Senjiro Yamaguchi, Satake shared a strange story. A few days prior, Yamaguchi had apparently gone to a certain bar in the back alleys of Nihonbashi.
Then, before he could even finish a single beer, four or five drunken ruffians who were there surrounded him and tried to pick a fight, but he skillfully defused the situation and apparently slipped outside.
That bar, it seemed, was apparently an establishment managed by Yosuke Hatano.
Such an establishment in an anarchic state needed to be reformed…

It was merely that—a vague and simple story—yet one sensed something unresolved and impure lingering within it.

Mr. Takaishi furrowed his eyebrows.
He called out to Yosuke, who was absorbed in Go with a face of feigned ignorance, and began recounting Satake's story by saying there was such a rumor.

Yosuke interrupted him midway and said with a vague smile.

“I was there at the time.”
“I know it well.”

“Hmm. So, what’s the truth?”

Yosuke smiled again.

“Admittedly, I was a bit drunk.”
“Yamaguchi did indeed drink one bottle of beer.”
“And then, having apparently run out of money, he left.”
“It’s a preposterous story.”
“First of all, I am not running that bar. I am merely one of the customers.”

And he turned back toward the Go board.

Mr. Ino, his opponent, laughed in a high-pitched voice.

“What a tedious story. But does there always happen to be beer there? In that case, I’ll have you show me around next time.”

“Yes, I’ll show you around anytime.”

By the way, in fact, when that trivial incident occurred, I too was present there. We were drinking shochu in the back room with Yosuke. At that moment, Yamaguchi entered alone, sat down at a table in the earthen-floored area, and ordered a beer. Goro Oota brought out beer bottles and small dishes. Yamaguchi quietly shifted his gaze around as if searching for something. After finishing one bottle of beer, he called out to Oota who was passing by while puffing on a cigarette.

“Hey, another beer.”

He placed his hat on the table, leaned back, and blew cigarette smoke toward the ceiling.

The order was delayed.
Yamaguchi shouted.

“Hey, the beer!”

At that moment, Yosuke stood up and descended toward the earthen-floored area.
Since something seemed amiss, I followed after him.

Yosuke walked straight toward Yamaguchi and swiftly swiped the hat off the table.
After Yamaguchi picked up the hat and stood there clutching it in one hand, Yosuke rounded on him.

“One’s more than enough.
Get out.”

He reached out his left hand and grabbed Yamaguchi’s lapel.
And moved his right hand behind his back.
In his right hand, he was gripping a heavy Seto ashtray.
I seized that wrist.
The ashtray immediately left his hand and transferred to mine.
By then, Yamaguchi had already been forced back several steps.
And then Yamaguchi staggered slightly and went out to the street.

Yosuke returned to his seat but remained silent, his brow furrowed.

Oota emerged and said with an almost expressionless face.

“I lost one bottle of beer, you know.”

Yosuke also said with an almost expressionless face.

“He has the nerve to play detective.”

That was all there was to it. However, that incident revealed to us a hidden aspect of Yosuke. Yosuke was smiling vaguely, as though he had already forgotten about that incident.

Mr. Takaishi did not press for details.

“Then it didn’t even amount to a fight. But you shouldn’t just keep drinking all the time—apply yourself to the Institute as well.”

Contrary to him, Mr. Takaishi disclosed that there was someone who wanted to work seriously as a clerk at the Institute—it was Chieko Uozumi. Until now she had only been cleaning rooms and organizing books, but henceforth she wanted to work as a proper clerk. She would organize the cards, investigate necessary books not yet acquired, inquire about the researchers’ requests, and do everything else within her capacity. If the Institute were to relocate to the Takaishi Residence, she wanted to report there daily for work. In exchange, she wished to receive an allowance—regardless of amount—to fully commit herself as a clerk...

Mr. Takaishi praised this last point.

“What I approve of is her wanting to receive an allowance—however small—and take responsibility as a clerk.”
“Where others would accept working unpaid, Chieko-san does not.”
“That one seems likely to do splendid work.”

Tetsuo Satake, who had a habit of offering an opinion on every matter, said in an ironic tone.

“Those who don’t need allowance money are the ones saying they want an allowance. And those who truly need it put on a face as if they don’t want it.”

“However, this case is somewhat different,” said Yoshimura. “It’s a matter of mindset—by receiving an allowance, one compels oneself to recognize responsibility.”

And between the two of them, the paradoxical expressions and self-consciousness of modern people became topics of discussion for a time.

At that moment, Chieko herself entered.
The conversation broke off; people’s eyes flicked toward her only to be instantly averted.
She must have sensed it—the color drained from her cheeks, leaving them translucent.
But immediately reddening those cheeks, she went to Yosuke.

“Um... Aunt is calling for you.”

Yosuke raised his eyes from the Go board and stared at her.
It was as though he were gazing at something uncanny—a moment that lingered too long.
Then he answered.

“Yes, I’ll go right away.”

Mr. Takaishi took up the whiskey glass and said to Chieko.

“I was just introducing you as a clerk at the Institute.”

Chieko already wore a composed, quiet smile on her face.

Yosuke left without a word.

Fusae had thrown a heavy robe over her nightclothes and was leaning against a desk pulled close to her bed.
When Yosuke entered, she quietly lifted her swollen eyelids.
Her eyelashes appeared whitish.

“How are you feeling?” Yosuke said.
“You must lie down properly.”
“No, I’m almost fine now, but…”

She seemed deep in thought.
Yosuke waited.

Fusae spoke hesitantly. "I intend to serve everyone a meal, but it seems I can only prepare something extremely meager."
"Since this was so sudden, we couldn't very well ask Mr. Nozaki, who's always helping us out."
When Chieko and I were discussing various things, Chieko suddenly said—
That if they paid her a proper salary, she'd prepare them a fine feast, but since it would likely be paltry anyway, she might as well make do with something plain—she said with a laugh.
This startled Fusae.
She had heard Chieko had become a serious clerk at the Cultural Research Institute, but nothing about a salary.
Moreover, it was said Chieko herself had made the request to Mr. Takaishi.
If true, this concerned the family's dignity.
For Chieko—treated as family—to demand wages over trivial matters—wouldn't this disgrace the Hatano name?
She wanted someone to verify this with Mr. Takaishi and have it retracted if confirmed.
Chieko had apparently kept insisting there was nothing to worry about, offering no clear explanation whatsoever.

Yosuke responded to the matter in an indifferent tone.
“That’s already been decided. And it’s not a disgrace to the family or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” Fusae said, staring at his face.

Yosuke remained silent for a moment before suddenly speaking with intensity: “Then how is this household managing? Selling land to secretly convert blocked funds into cash, begging from Mr. Nozaki—isn’t this what you’d call living like parasites?” Chieko’s demand for a salary was simply claiming fair compensation for her labor. She likely just wanted to obtain the salary itself. That Yoshimura and Satake were debating it as some modern psychological issue was utterly absurd.

“For people like that, even if we were to serve them a meal, rice balls alone would be more than enough.”

At Yosuke’s uncharacteristically decisive words, Fusae was left dumbfounded. Moreover, the latter matters were not only because she hadn’t been present there but also because they didn’t quite sit right with her. She propped her elbows on the desk and rested her forehead in her palms.

“Always thinking only about the family’s reputation is Mother’s bad habit.”
“From now on, let’s just concern ourselves with maintaining dignity as human beings.”

Fusae covered her forehead with both palms, as though struck by dizziness.

Yosuke was tearing up.
When the tears threatened to overflow, he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief.

After that, they both fell silent for a long time.
When their eyes finally met, Yosuke’s face had taken on a mist-shrouded aspect, and Fusae’s features quivered with minutely trembling nerves.

A few days later, the Cultural Research Institute relocated from the Hatano Residence to the Takaishi Residence.
It was little more than a personal library, yet transporting the books and equipment by truck took all day.

Several researchers came to help.
Chieko Uozumi, working among them, seemed extremely cheerful and was quite lively.
Her movements and words were brisk.
Fusae also appeared occasionally, but she often kept her eyes downcast and remained silent.

That evening, simple food and drink had been prepared to reward everyone, but Yosuke Hatano—who should naturally have been seated among them—was nowhere to be seen.
Then Kakusaburou Ino was also nowhere to be seen.
Only elderly Mr. Yoshiaki Takaishi’s robust presence dominated the entire group from the head of the table.

Around that time, Yosuke and elderly Mr. Ino were drinking beer at Bar “Goro.”

Elderly Mr. Ino was unusually wearing a threadbare suit.
His gaunt, elongated face—so thin that his cheekbones protruded conspicuously—bore sunken small eyes that sparkled with childlike innocence behind thick glasses battling both nearsightedness and farsightedness.

“There was a man who boldly declared, ‘I wouldn’t care if the world turned upside down as long as I could drink a cup of coffee.’ Well, I’ll go one step further,” he said. “As long as I can drink a glass of beer, the world can turn upside down for all I care.”

Even so, he worriedly asked Yosuke whether it would be all right if he didn’t show up at the Cultural Research Institute two or three times.
Each time, Yosuke replied that there was no need to worry because he had called ahead.

“I see—there’s a telephone.”
“The front shop—no—rather, from here it’s the back shop—there’s a telephone there.”
The fact that there was a telephone in that dimly lit little bar seemed to have drawn elderly Mr. Ino’s attention.

In the earthen-floored area of the bar, numerous potted palm bamboos were lined up, and those too seemed to catch elderly Mr. Ino’s attention.

“There are so many palm bamboos lined up, but why is it only palm bamboos?”

To that, Yosuke could not provide an answer.
But an answer wasn’t required.

“No—rather splendid.”

The two sat down in the small room and drank.
There were about three of Yosuke’s drinking companions together, but elderly Mr. Ino behaved without reserve as if they were old acquaintances.

Goro Oota repeatedly brought new beer bottles and took away the empty ones.

“Oh, Master—I’m terribly sorry for troubling you so often.
But I wonder if it’s all right to drink this much.”

Oota nodded expressionlessly.

“No—in fact, it’s all the more splendid. Here, even if I were a crab, it seems I could manage without tearing off my own claws.”

“What do you mean by ‘crab’?” Yosuke asked.

“Benkei crabs... You know those little red ones, right?”

Elderly Mr. Ino hunched his shoulders as if amused.
“That Benkei crab is truly a fool of a creature.
You catch it, rile it up thoroughly, then make it clamp onto a lit matchstick.
The enraged crab grips the matchstick with all its might.
Gradually the stick burns down until flames reach its claw, heating it unbearably.
Startled, the crab bulges its eyes and waves its claws wildly—yet keeps gripping the match.
It doesn’t know how to open its pincers and drop the stick.
When the heat becomes too intense, it snaps off its own claw at the base and scuttles away.
Of course, the claw eventually regrows—but really, why not just open its pincers from the start and drop the matchstick before losing a limb?”

“When I was a child, I used to play like that all the time.”

The group waited for him to continue the story. Elderly Mr. Ino eventually said: “The match’s flame is our desire. We, not knowing how to let go of it, keep holding on tightly forever, and thus end up having to discard even something important—a claw, a leg, or whatever. Now, for me, that matchstick is beer. Even if the world turns upside down, I’d still want to drink. Here, they let even someone like me drink my fill. In other words, as long as we’re here, we won’t have to go tearing off our own hands or legs or whatever important parts ourselves.”

The group laughed.
They grew cheerful.
And for elderly Mr. Ino’s crab metaphor, they drank beer heartily.
Elderly Mr. Ino grew increasingly and cheerfully drunk.

As usual, Yosuke did not speak much and was absently smiling.
However, he suddenly grabbed my wrist with painful force and whispered.

“Mr. Ino’s crab and match metaphor—that’s a stretch.”
“The true intent might be satirizing Japanese society.”
“Everyone clings to their own trivial things and refuses to let go until they’re forced to tear off something important—a hand，a leg，whatever it takes.”
“Isn’t that right?”
“My surroundings are mostly like that.”
Ever since returning home，I felt strangely suffocated.
The reason lay there.
I had to become freer.
I had vaguely noticed that and fought against it indirectly—but from now on I would wage an open battle.”

He seemed furious. He intensified his grip on my wrist. His face turned crimson as though layers of skin had been flayed away, eyes blazing fiercely.

“The front shop’s rent gets paid to me in cash by agreement.”
“A percentage of this place’s profits comes to me too.”
“No need to fret over living expenses.”

He abruptly confessed these things while scrutinizing my face. I sensed that showing any disapproval or scorn might get me struck. Alongside this, I felt another form of inexplicable dread.

He turned his eyes away from my face, searched for Oota, and signaled something with his finger.
Oota stood up and brought a shochu bottle. Yosuke poured the shochu into a beer glass and drank.