Pathway to Japanese Literature

After the war’s end, from that autumn through the following year, it was the established opinion among his acquaintances that Hinayama Keizō was unraveling.
At the private university with which he was affiliated, classes had commenced in October, yet he never delivered a single lecture.
At home, he would habitually sequester himself in his study—or so it appeared—but according to his family’s testimony, he scarcely read. Instead, he idly flipped through art books, folded a zabuton cushion in half for a pillow, drifted into fitful sleep from morning onward, and did little but chain-smoke.
Toward visitors, he maintained unbroken silence and curtness.
To be sure, these behaviors alone posed no particular issue, but his severe alcohol dependency marked the true descent into dissolution.
When sake and beer had intoxicated him, he would then swill whiskey.
Rumors circulated that two crates of Suntory whiskey lay stored at Sugimodo in Shinbashi’s Karyū district—his regular haunt—though their veracity remained uncertain.
In drunkenness he grew violently irritable, picking quarrels over trifles with friends and women alike.
Yet his fury seemed directed inward rather than outward—a self-lacerating rage.
Once he abruptly rose to leave and crawled headfirst down a second-floor staircase.
Slithering inverted along the waxed steps using fingertips and elbows, he eventually lost purchase and tumbled sideways to the bottom.
Another time after unseasonal winter deluges flooded streets, he deliberately waded into knee-deep puddles at their deepest points, sloshing noisily through turbid water.
Such anecdotes proliferated endlessly.
The sums he squandered were substantial; whispers claimed wartime involvement in secret Military Information Department operations had furnished him considerable funds at surrender—another allegation forever unverified.

Such was Hinayama, yet it seemed he still held a final line he would not cross.
No matter how drunk he became, he never collapsed on the spot, never stayed overnight at Sugimodo, and no matter how late it grew, he always made his way home.
Yet this too often appeared rooted in Kikuchiyo’s delicate attentiveness.

Even when drink-weary, Hinayama still refused to rise. He would sit solitary and forlorn, leaning against the elbow rest with arms crossed, releasing melancholy sighs.
Kikuchiyo briskly cleared away the small dishes from the table until only the whiskey bottle remained neatly arranged, then set a footed glass before him.

“Come now, one last cup to finish—cheer yourself up.”
“Or shall I make it a highball instead?”

Beneath his glasses, Hinayama’s half-closed eyes flew open in surprise as he stared at Kikuchiyo.

“You’re still here?”

“But he said I couldn’t leave until he went home—with such a terrifying look about him.”
“It’s always like this.”

“I see. That’s why… I’m impressed.”
“Admiration’s all well and good, but…”
“It must be a little bothersome.”
“No… But you see, Mr. Hinayama seems rather vulnerable.”

As Kikuchiyo gazed at him intently, Hinayama averted his eyes and downed the whiskey in one gulp. His gaze turned earnest.

"I understand what you're saying," he said.
"But... I suppose I'll manage for now."

"A foothold has begun to form."

"It won't take shape, I tell you," he countered.
"But it won't slip away so easily either."

"It's dangerous, you know."

“When the time finally comes, I’ll use you as my foothold.”

Kikuchiyo shook her head.

“That’s impossible.”

“No—that’s not what I meant. It’s just a foothold.”

Kikuchiyo stared fixedly at Hinayama, then lowered her face.

“In that case, when the time finally comes, I suppose I’ll use Mr. Hinayama as my foothold too.”

“Very well. Let us make this promise.”

And so the two shook hands—Kikuchiyo shrugging her shoulders as if chilled, Hinayama letting out another sigh—

The talk of footholds had gradually become a connection between their hearts.
The theory among friends that Hinayama was falling apart never quite resonated with Kikuchiyo—she sensed that Mr. Hinayama simply couldn't plant his feet firmly.
Kikuchiyo herself existed in somewhat similar instability.
She recalled those days long ago when fellow geisha had invited her to play at Sannō-shita Skating Rink.
Clutching at handrails or friends' hands while walking on ice had been manageable enough, but when attempting to stand alone and glide, all sense of orientation vanished.
Her legs turned weightless while her torso grew unnaturally heavy—whether she'd collapse backward or forward or sideways into unconsciousness, or go careening toward brass railings to suffer grave injury—emerging unscathed seemed impossible.
Amid arcs traced by people swooping through the rink like swallows, she found herself sitting dazed with both palms planted on ice.
That initial precarious stance—she now superimposed it onto Mr. Hinayama.
When she tentatively mentioned this during a drunken moment alone together, Mr. Hinayama abruptly turned solemn and sank into contemplation.
Normally she'd have been scolded for impertinence or laughed at for pretension—nothing good ever came of such remarks—yet this had produced an oddly mismatched outcome, Kikuchiyo later reflected.

From Kikuchiyo’s perspective—after returning from Atami where she’d relocated during the war, now working willfully as a parlor entertainer in the revived geisha world—the clients generally seemed like people who paid lip service to all manner of things while utterly forgetting the war, grown corpulent in both body and spirit.
Even Mr. Nagai—one of the closest associates of Mr. Kaji, who had supported her for five years—was no exception.
Even as drinking-party banter, he coolly uttered things that went far beyond cruelty.

“Hey, Kiku-chan—you’re still vacant, aren’t you?”
“With empty houses being so scarce these days, you’d better stay guarded.”
“Let someone slip inside carelessly, and they’ll never vacate the premises, you know.”

That had occurred amid a crowd.
Kikuchiyo charged forward with reckless abandon.

“Yes yes, I’m just a vacant house anyway.”
“Whether they want it monthly or yearly, I’ll rent myself out to the first comer.”

Something frustrating welled up inside her, and she kept drinking alcohol in quick succession—she hadn’t wanted to be called “Kiku-chan” in that old familiar way.
Even if one were to charitably interpret his crass “vacant house” metaphor as some veiled attempt to curb infidelity, such words should never have passed Mr. Nagai’s lips.

It was also Mr. Nagai who had officially informed Kikuchiyo that Kaji Hidekichi—while en route to the South on some special assignment—had perished when his ship was sunk off Taiwan, and it was again Mr. Nagai who, acting on Widow Kaji Tsuneko’s decision to set aside old resentments, had discreetly arranged for her to attend the farewell ceremony.
Kikuchiyo, together with Umeba nee-san, offered incense at the altar as though hiding herself among the crowd, but immediately afterward—when she stopped before the widow who stood among the bereaved family members and bowed her head—a single tear spilled unexpectedly from her own eyes, and for some time afterward, she could not lift her face.

When Mr. Kaji departed, he seemed to have prepared himself for the danger to his life.
He had also prepared enough to ensure Kikuchiyo wouldn’t face hardship in her daily life for the time being.
But regarding the circumstances of his southern trip, Mr. Kaji did not speak much, and Kikuchiyo did not ask much either.
Their relationship was not one of mutual love, but rather existed at the most ordinary level between a patron and geisha—or so it might be said.

And yet, there was something that remained deeply in Kikuchiyo’s heart.
Just before Mr. Kaji’s departure, there had been a public dance recital, and Kikuchiyo performed *Takaozange*.
The war had gradually intensified in ferocity, and dance recitals were thought to be coming to an end.
Mr. Kaji had spared time from his busy schedule and come together with Mr. Nagai.

Kikuchiyo danced the spirit of Takaozange with all her heart.
From the tomb’s emergence to the tale of the pleasure quarter, she carried it all off splendidly—so much so that even she felt exhilarated—but somehow, at the very end, she stumbled.
As the lighting shifted to hues resembling dawn, her heart drifted away from the song’s lyrics, and by the time lightning flashes intersected and worldly desires clung thick around her, she could no longer fully become Takaozange’s spirit—a wisp of emotion chasing some dream caused her form, berated and chastised, to crumble.
And finally, at the moment when she hesitated to withdraw into the mound, she managed—through some other emotion—to adjust her timing at last.

In the dressing room, her teacher stared fixedly at Kikuchiyo with a sharp gaze but said nothing.
Kikuchiyo too fell silent, looking bashful.
She felt as though she had discovered something within herself.
To have fully become Takaozange’s spirit to that extent, she must have had to abandon everything.
The reason she couldn’t do so—was it perhaps due to lingering affection for Mr. Kaji?
Rather than that, it was probably something more akin to a humane resolve—praying for Mr. Kaji’s peace—that had been at work.

All of those things had been utterly crushed by the war's defeat.
Kikuchiyo had not only become a vacant house—this status was publicly declared among those who had grown corpulent.
She drank in defiance.
Hinayama Keizō made for a good drinking companion.

Though her work remained carefree, when summoned by Mr. Nagai, Kikuchiyo—bound by obligation to the deceased Kaji Hidekichi—could not refuse to appear.
Mr. Nagai at first came accompanied by company associates, but gradually began visiting alone more frequently, using conversational pauses to casually yet thoroughly probe into aspects of Kikuchiyo's personal life.
As this pattern continued, even the vacant house matter that Kikuchiyo could not reconcile within herself—alongside Nagai's underlying motive, however unconscious, to suppress other issues and bend her to his will—naturally rose to the surface.

But Mr. Nagai’s tone always hovered ambiguously between seriousness and jest, its elusiveness further concealed by his loud laughter.
Moreover, rumors about Widow Kaji Tsuneko were occasionally brought up.

One cold night, Mr. Nagai began speaking with uncharacteristic seriousness—that next year would mark Mr. Kaji’s fifth memorial service, and a grand Buddhist ceremony was being planned; that at this event, the widow wished for Kikuchiyo to attend as well; that it seemed the widow had grown rather fond of her…

Kikuchiyo widened her narrow eyes.

“But I’ve never had the honor of meeting Madam.”

“However, it’s on Madam’s side. Once at the funeral… Then before Kaji-kun departed for the South, at that dance recital—you performed something… danced, didn’t you? Madam had come to see it that time too. And there should still be more after that.”

“Oh… At that dance recital…”

“Right—you didn’t notice, did you?”

And Mr. Nagai laughed loudly.

At that laughter, Kikuchiyo felt a shudder of horror that made her hair stand on end.
There was no possible way Madam could have attended that dance recital.
Kikuchiyo still remembered how she had openly gone to greet Mr. Kaji at his seat and engaged him in conversation for some time.
Mr. Kaji was not the sort of person to bring Madam to such a place in the first place, and Madam herself would never have been someone to come there secretly without his knowledge.
That… Why would Mr. Nagai tell such an obvious lie?

Kikuchiyo stared at Mr. Nagai’s face.

Mr. Nagai picked up the cup and was smiling.

“Well, just leave everything to me.”
“I’ll make sure you can interact with Widow Kaji as equals.”
“Actually, Widow Kaji isn’t fully aware of your relationship with Kaji-kun.”

Kikuchiyo suppressed the trembling of her cheek muscles and forced a smile.

“I have a request, though...”

Mr. Nagai leaned his face forward.

“Won’t you stake Kiyoka-san?”
“I want to repay the obligation.”

Leaving Mr. Nagai looking bewildered just as he was, Kikuchiyo stood up and left without waiting for a reply.
She made her request regarding Kiyoka to Umeba nee-san and went outside without waiting for the rickshaw.
Muttering to herself, “As if I’d ever set foot in Mr. Nagai’s banquet rooms again,” she hurried toward Sugimodo.
The streets held a faint white dusting of snow.
Kicking through it felt exhilarating.

When she heard at Sugimodo that it was only Mr. Hinayama, Kikuchiyo ran up the stairs.

Panting for breath without offering a greeting, she planted both forearms on the table and closed her eyes.

With his legs still in the kotatsu holding faint buried embers, Hinayama remained silent.
When Kikuchiyo opened her narrow eyes, Hinayama sat knitting his brows as if sending his thoughts far away.
Kikuchiyo opened her eyes wide and released a sigh.

“I’m sorry I’m late. But really—I came rushing over kicking up snow.”
“Is it still falling?”

“It would be better if it snowed, don’t you think? Let me have snow-viewing sake tonight too.”

The alternating between sake and whiskey left it unclear whether one’s body warmed or chilled. When the maid arrived with the sake flask, Kikuchiyo tried to make her remove the whiskey bottle. Hinayama blocked this.

“Poison to the body,” he said, “but medicine for the spirit…the act of drinking it all down.”

Near the end of the war, just short of departure, Hinayama had been scheduled to go to Beijing.
He had made contact with a certain influential Muslim residing in Tokyo and was scheduled to accompany him to Beijing to conduct special operations targeting Muslim communities across Mongolia and Northern China.
Among the later-revealed incoherent movements—the high command’s peace overtures, the public declaration of a homeland decisive battle—that Muslim collaboration project existed as one minor component.
Hinayama, who had extracted only the pure intent of Muslim liberation and independence to devote himself to it, found himself utterly overwhelmed by Japan’s postwar reality—a reality that gradually came to light after the war’s end.
Moreover, he had already received part of the funds allocated for his Beijing deployment under circumstances that made repayment impossible.
A large quantity of whiskey had also been allotted to him.
He had begun consuming all these provisions at Sugimodo.
It was these matters that Hinayama recounted reflectively.

“Though you may not fully understand, the world of men is a wretched thing.”

“Not necessarily.”
“I think your feelings were admirable, Mr. Hinayama.”

“What’s admirable about them?”
“Nonsense.”
“I’ve nearly spent all the money, but there seems to be whiskey left.”
“Used it up completely… Drank every last drop…”

“And then, what will you do?”

“That’s the dangerous part.”

While speaking timidly, Hinayama stared at Kikuchiyo through his glasses with strangely gleaming eyes.
Kikuchiyo sensed something akin to toxic intent and began drawing back slightly—only to feel instantly pulled forward by another force that made her plant a foot on the whiskey bottle for balance.

“Then drink it all up.
“I’ll help you finish it too.”

“If I can’t drink it all, I’ll smash the bottle.”

In the alcove, no flowers were arranged—only a bronze vase had been placed there.
Taking aim at it, Hinayama raised the whiskey bottle.
The moment he did, Kikuchiyo seized his wrist with both sleeves.

“Don’t be silly—it was just a gesture.”

“I put on a little act too, you know.”

Feeling somewhat awkward, Kikuchiyo stood and opened the glass door.
Although there was no moon, it was dimly bright, and before one knew it, snow had begun to fall.

“It’s started falling again, hasn’t it?”

When there was no reply, she turned to look and found Hinayama teary-eyed, blinking rapidly.
Kikuchiyo, startled, returned to her seat, but no words came out.
With something akin to a profound emotion, her head grew light.

“I seem to be fundamentally flawed.”

To the words that had been quietly uttered, Kikuchiyo interjected.

"Mr. Hinayama, closing your eyes and jumping from the second floor... I once considered such a thing...."

Hinayama gazed at Kikuchiyo with teary eyes.

“I’m really going to get drunk. I won’t take responsibility for whatever happens.”

Kikuchiyo stood up, hurriedly went down to the lower floor, and sat down precisely next to the proprietress at the front desk.

“Proprietress, I beg of you.”
“I’ll ask this of you tonight.”
“Without going through the registry—treat me like any other customer.”

The proprietress nodded slowly while tilting her head slightly, gazing intently at Kikuchiyo’s demeanor.

“And then, please bring the sake flask.”

Having said this in a businesslike tone, Kikuchiyo quickly ascended to the second floor.

The relationship between Hinayama and Kikuchiyo suddenly deepened. It was as if a foothold had formed in the middle of a skating rink—but this only meant the danger of slipping away in all directions had vanished, leaving them with the sensation that the ground beneath their feet was now sinking deeper and deeper.

According to Yamada-san, Hinayama’s close friend, Hinayama had gradually begun studying, though he still couldn’t commit himself wholeheartedly. On Kikuchiyo’s side, attending other banquets had become utterly absurd. Moreover, it coincided with deposit payment restrictions and currency controls, the replacement of old banknotes with new ones in circulation, and defaults under both their names at Sugimodo piling up. Hinayama had sold some stock certificates and even begun dipping into his treasured book collection, but as his overnight absences grew frequent, disputes seemed on the verge of erupting in the household where his wife and children lived. On Kikuchiyo’s side as well, given the circumstances following Mr. Kaji’s quasi-war death, even she could no longer ignore the whispers among her peers. Kikuchiyo of Niikomatsu had been a senior geisha who stood with considerable pride and vigor, but a resentful heart—as though that very reputation were beginning to crumble—had started to sprout within her.

Then came another earnest invitation from Umeba nee-san—now respectably settled in Atami—urging Kikuchiyo to return there: that living in Atami’s quiet house would be better than sharing Tokyo’s cramped fire-scarred homes with several others; that the geisha world seemed fated to close again regardless; that Atami currently lacked suitable instructors for nagauta and dance, so if Kikuchiyo came, everyone would rejoice—she could teach nagauta, give dance lessons, and make a decent living…… Umeba nee-san came all the way to Tokyo and persuaded Kikuchiyo.

“I’ve heard about you and the Professor.”
“But it’s not something that will last forever.”
“Or if you truly can’t part ways, couldn’t you still meet even while living in Atami?”
“Wouldn’t it be more splendid and better to become an instructor of performing arts rather than continue with geisha work?”
“Your mother and brothers back home will surely be delighted by that as well.”

Kikuchiyo hung her head for a long time, but eventually raised her eyes resolutely and answered.

“I understand perfectly.”
“Just let me think a little longer.”

However, there was nothing left to consider.
It was simply a matter of emotion.
That feeling of closing one’s eyes and leaping from the second floor—what was she to do with it?
Moreover, Mr. Hinayama had once spoken of burning ships.
In ancient times, in distant lands, brave people who set out to conquer unknown territories would burn their ships upon arrival—the very vessels they had crossed the sea in—thereby cutting off their own retreat, he said.
Mr. Hinayama had said that it was the same feeling.
What was she to do with Mr. Hinayama’s feelings?

Around that time, Kikuchiyo came to dislike rickshaws and, grateful she wasn’t wearing flashy banquet attire, walked to Sugimodo while lost in thought.
There were times she would unconsciously stop and gaze at lights scattered upon the canal water.
Immediately across lay burned ruins, where the scent of fresh May grass rode on the wind.
The war had already been pushed into the distant past, but in its wake remained only hollow emptiness.

Clutching a sadness that pressed against her chest, Kikuchiyo entered Sugimodo's usual room without any trace of joy.

Hinayama was lying down, oddly drunk.

“You walked here after all.”

“Yes.”

Kikuchiyo tried to offer a warm smile, but it froze on her cheeks, and she hung her head.

“Hey—keep standing like that for a moment.”

Suddenly, Hinayama gathered up the toes of Kikuchiyo—who stood frozen in bewilderment—into both arms and pressed them against his chest and cheek.

“Oh my, such a thing…”

After helping up their tangled collapsed forms, Hinayama straightened himself into proper seated posture.

“I was thanking your feet.”
“I simply can’t seem to part with you.”

“Then…”

Kikuchiyo started to speak but stopped.
After all, Hinayama must have also been agonizing over the thought of parting.
But at that moment, Hinayama’s eyes gleamed strangely as he took it in a different meaning.

“Hey—trying to die?”
Kikuchiyo shook her head.

“This time, I’ll live.”
“This time…”

“I jumped from the second floor, burned my ships—I already died.”
“So, this time….”

“That too would be acceptable.”

In a mood where they couldn’t tell whether their cheer was forced or genuine, the two of them began drinking.
As the conversation lapsed and the mood grew somber, Kikuchiyo hummed a ditty and smiled faintly, but then suddenly felt inclined to call for Kiyoka-san.
While waiting for Kiyoka to arrive, Kikuchiyo drank just as heavily as Hinayama and, emboldened by the alcohol, tried bringing up Umeba nee-san’s proposal.
“Who came up with such an idea?”

“So, it was Umeba nee-san.”

Hinayama clutched his head in both hands and fixed his eyes on the table.
It was as if he had been struck.

“But if it actually came to that… it’d feel different somehow.”

“What….”

“It’s different from now.”

“Well, that’s different, but…”

“That would be better.”

“It’s no good.
But let’s give it a try—half a month or so.”

“A trial of half a month….”

“No—a week should suffice.”
“I’ll come along too.”

“Shall we really go?”

However, before it became clear whether this meant going to the hot springs for leisure or to rebuild their lives, Kikuchiyo suddenly felt her chest tighten and let tears fall.

“Huh? What’s wrong?”

Hinayama took Kikuchiyo’s hand.
Kikuchiyo gripped the hand back and smiled brightly.

“Let’s drink more.” And by the time Kiyoka arrived, Kikuchiyo was already thoroughly drunk.

“I’m drunk, you know.”
“You get drunk too.”

Kiyoka smiled a kind smile.

“Such high spirits you’re in.”

“That’s right.”
“Even if I’m drunk—the mind stays sharp.”

Kikuchiyo rose unsteadily to her feet.

“The heart stays true.”

She left as she was and, after a while, returned with a maid carrying a shamisen.
“You play.”
“I’ll dance.”

With her fingertips, Kiyoka began to play *Takaozange*.

“If you can’t bring it quickly… start from there.”

Using the folding screen as a burial mound, Kikuchiyo became Takao’s spirit.
She herself felt she could slip smoothly into the role, her dance motions flowing freely.
Her narrow eyes lifted slightly upward, cheeks pulled taut to near-painful tension, torso and legs stretching slenderly as they bent with elastic suppleness…….
Having danced through to completion, she lost her breath midway and crouched down where she stood.

“That’s enough.” She took a deep breath. “I understand now.”
“The feeling of abandoning one’s living self—I understand it now.”

Coming before Hinayama, who continued staring without end, Kikuchiyo smiled a lonely smile.

“About Atami—it’s all right. You do understand, don’t you?”
“If you understand, then let me drink more.”

Kiyoka poured drinks for the two of them with a puzzled expression.

About a month later, Kikuchiyo formally retired from being a geisha and moved to Atami.
The house was Umeba nee-san’s possession, a compact, stylish structure.
Umeba nee-san took care of all arrangements, employing one young maid, and it was decided she would give lessons in *nagauta* and dance by traveling to students’ homes.

Then, about another month later, Hinayama came.
They stared at each other’s faces so intently that somehow both had changed.
Kikuchiyo had grown somewhat plump and appeared healthier-looking, yet paradoxically seemed to have aged in some indefinable way.
Hinayama had become slightly thinner but instead appeared more vigorous.

Hinayama had thought he would be guided to an inn, but was taken to Kikuchiyo’s residence instead.

“It’s been decided that you’re my husband, you know. Rather than going to some inn, this way draws less attention, and my dignity… isn’t it funny? Umeba nee-san said… she said it’s better for maintaining dignity.”

It seemed as though Umeba nee-san’s considerations enveloped Kikuchiyo in layer upon layer.

Yet within the tatami room of Kikuchiyo’s residence—where countless chests, mirrors, dolls, and miscellaneous household items were arranged in perfect order, each occupying its rightful place—Hinayama found himself ushered in and felt as though he alone were something superfluous.
Not only in relation to the furniture and household goods, but even within Kikuchiyo’s life itself, he felt as though he alone were something superfluous.

That thought persisted even amidst their various conversations, and Hinayama suddenly spoke.

“Perhaps because your life has been so splendidly established, being here makes me feel like I’m somehow superfluous.”

Kikuchiyo made a somewhat lonely face.

“It’s me who feels that way.”
“If only we could at least exchange letters freely.”
“Going through Mr. Yamada feels somehow unreliable, and there’s this hesitation...”

She trailed off, and Kikuchiyo smiled unexpectedly.

“But that’s fine. Too much freedom actually makes things not last long, they say.”

“Did Umeba-san say that?”

Kikuchiyo laughed and took out the whiskey bottle from the cupboard.

“Impressive, isn’t it? The cap hasn’t even been opened, you know.”

They drank two or three glasses, then went out together for a seaside walk.
The lingering glow still shone bright upon the water, Hatsushima appearing startlingly near, while beyond it stretched a hazy expanse fading into dusk.