Pathway to Japanese Literature

The house where Ninji Sanjuro rented a room stood on the outskirts of a cluster of residential areas that had survived the air raids. It was a small single-story house, though its yard was spacious enough to pass for a proper garden, with plum, cherry, maple, and cypress trees planted in disarray, and beyond that garden immediately spread the burned field. The burned field had now become small partitioned plots of cultivated land, creating thickets of weeds here and there, with wheat and vegetables growing. And between the cultivated fields and the garden, all that had been constructed was a low lattice fence.

In a corner of that garden lay an absurdly large water jar, overturned. It was so large as to be rarely seen in Tokyo, and no one could discern why it had been placed there. The Hirai couple, who were the landlords, had relocated there during the war after the previous residents hastily fled to the countryside, and it was said that the water jar had been there since that time. It had likely been there since long ago—since ancient times. The water jar had been filled to the brim with fire prevention water since before the air raids, but after the war ended, it had somehow been overturned and left upside down. It remained unclear who had done such a thing, and it had been left as it was. The Hirai couple had also hardly taken notice of it.

Ninji Sanjuro, who had come to live in a room of this house, recalled often seeing similar jars in rural areas on the continent during the war and, one day, righted it onto its side. The interior was clean, with neither mud nor dust clinging to it; only the ground beneath lay damp and darkened there, containing nothing out of the ordinary. Yet for Ninji, this very absence of strangeness within the water jar left him faintly dissatisfied—though he hadn't consciously expected anything peculiar. So the jar remained abandoned where he'd left it, yet his discontent lingered. Could it be said he'd grown utterly weary of the world's blandness?

Ninji's life had already settled into a routine.

Since returning to Tokyo at the beginning of the year following the war’s end, even his heart—which had floated vaguely in midair for several months—now firmly settled deep within his chest. The body that had recuperated for a while at a hot spring in the countryside maintained robust health even amidst the constrained food situation. The mild malaria attacks also almost ceased. The small town factory company that produced common electrical appliances treated him with unexpected favor. When he moved from the cramped corner of his older brother’s shop to an eight-tatami room in the Hirai household, the space initially felt so vast and desolate that it seemed overwhelming. Hirai was an elderly man working at a power distribution company, and both he and his wife were gentle, good-natured people. The confirmation of their son’s war death had only recently come through, leading them to decide to rent out a room to Ninji. In addition to the couple, there was a middle-aged woman named Tomiko Horiuchi who handled all the cooking and chores and assisted Ninji with his daily tasks. And then there was a cat.

It was an ordinary male black cat with four white paws and a white patch beneath its neck. The arrangement of its white fur was slightly peculiar—sometimes making its four legs appear artificial, while at other times giving the white patch beneath its neck the look of a bear’s crescent moon marking. Because of this crescent moon marking, it was named Kuma. After air raids had extensively burned the surrounding area, this cat that entered the house would stand its long tail straight up and repeatedly brush the tip against the sliding paper door, which made them realize it must have been someone’s pet.

It was Kuma’s habit to raise his long tail and brush the tip against the sliding paper door. This was usually when he wanted food, had his back scratched, or had some business with humans. At all other times, he always ignored them and didn’t even glance toward the humans. Ninji doted on Kuma intensely. At night, they slept inside the same mosquito net. Yet despite Ninji Sanjuro living so quietly settled in this manner, strangely enough, he seemed to give those around him the impression of being a violent, fearsome man. One day, while drinking rationed sake together, Old Man Hirai watched Ninji’s demeanor thoughtfully and spoke.

“Patience is vital in worldly matters. Since you’re still young, you’d do well to make keeping your temper in check your first lesson in self-discipline.”

Also, on another occasion at the company, after a business consultation meeting, Section Chief Egawa tapped him on the shoulder and spoke in a whisper.

“Let’s both show some restraint.” “Direct action remains an option whenever needed.”

All of this was both unexpected and deeply offensive to Ninji. He had always been reserved and spoke little. However, when out of curiosity he attended a town association general meeting and found himself troubled by how the various notices from the ward office always came across as overly urgent, he had once bluntly stated that such bureaucratic notices should be ignored and left unheeded. Moreover, regarding the company’s various management policies, he had once bluntly stated that they should adhere strictly to the line of fostering in all employees a sense that it was their own company. All were straightforward, simple words—how could they possibly relate to losing one’s temper or taking direct action? Rather than that, it was precisely his attitude—sitting in gloomy silence, puffing on cigarettes—that would have easily caught people’s attention. A man in his early thirties who should have been in the prime of vigor—his swarthy complexion, stiff hair, gleaming eyes, scornful smile playing at his lips, squared shoulders, unnaturally large hands—the sight of him sitting there in gloomy silence suggested the possibility of some violent outburst.

Yet Ninji himself harbored a different kind of fear in his heart. Tantrums and direct action were things that possessed a defined form and a single direction—phenomena that, for the times, evoked a certain political ideology. In reality, Japan had plunged into a great revolution. The disbandment of the military after defeat and the advance of the Allied forces. The transition from militarism and bureaucratism to democracy. The drafting of a new constitution declaring the renunciation of war and restoring sovereignty to the people. The arrest and trial of the masterminds of war crimes. The purge of the wartime leadership class from public office. The dissolution of the major zaibatsu. The awakening of the working class and the rise of the labor movement. Through freedom of speech, publication, and association, along with various other matters, the so-called bloodless revolution was on the verge of being achieved. However, the masses Ninji encountered daily in his surroundings were largely indifferent to those revolutionary developments, showed almost no reaction to them, and remained mired in the same petty bourgeois self-interest and vulgarity as ever. There was no anguish, no brightness—only a stupefied melancholy existed. And Ninji himself held little interest in the bloodless revolution itself—so gloriously extolled in the newspapers. The politically granted freedoms, or those yet to be acquired, had already been completely assimilated through his somewhat forceful actions as a demobilized returnee, until he wandered out into the unadorned realm of human freedom. Thereupon, the stupefied melancholy of the masses cast its reflection, clouding his liberated state of mind. While inwardly resisting this, he grew increasingly silent and melancholy. A dread that I might do something uncontrollable surged from the depths of my chest. If a violent outburst were to occur, it would have been of a different nature than what Hirai and Egawa had worried about.

The sweltering summer days dragged on. Ninji Sanjuro longed for thunderstorms and thunderclaps, but nothing of the sort came, and under the intense sunlight, the crops in the burned-field garden were prone to wilting.

In that sweltering heat, Ninji silently commuted to work and silently carried out his duties. He showed no enthusiasm for the labor movement, but was looked upon with trusting eyes by the factory floor workers. He disliked his older brother’s small sundries shop business and hardly ever showed his face there. However, toward one of his demobilized comrades who was engaged in black-market dealings, he showed favor and arranged various conveniences through company connections for him. And various goods began arriving at his place as well. The Hirai couple and Tomiko were very pleased by this. However, even when complimented, he simply remained sullen.

Drinking alcohol seemed to be his only pastime. He would head out toward the area lined with food stalls and gulp down shochu at his usual spot where the risk of methanol was lower. There were also times when he would go bar-hopping. His manner suggested not a love for the communal atmosphere of such stalls but rather contempt for it while caring only for the shochu itself. When he returned home drunk, he would either read magazines or play with his black cat Kuma. Kuma would simply sit there, his round eyes gleaming in his black face, unfazed by however he was handled—whether out of complete trust or utter obedience surrendering his entire body—but once he grew bored, he would dig his claws in for leverage and dart away in an instant. Afterward, he would go out for a round, return, and when called by him still awake, would approach shyly, his long tail held straight up with its tip brushing against the sliding door as he drew near.

That Kuma disappeared one day. At first, driven by mating season, he had formed a group with several cats gathered around a female cat, yowling noisily, but then went off somewhere and did not return even after a week passed, then ten days. Ninji Sanjuro had endured with quiet restraint as they noisily yowled and carried on their feline free love across verandas, garden corners, and vegetable plots regardless of location—showing due respect for their romantic autonomy. But when eventually this lively troupe dispersed to parts unknown, taking Kuma along into disappearance, it began weighing on his mind.

The Hirai couple saw off Kuma’s disappearance with the same composure they had shown when taking him in. ‘Since he’s in heat and out roaming, he’ll come back eventually,’ they said. But Tomiko, concerned about Kuma’s whereabouts, asked acquaintances in the neighborhood whenever she met them and kept a watchful eye on all the paths she took for errands. Only once, one afternoon after about ten days, Kuma lumbered back. His head and neck bore wounds and skin ailments, and his hindquarters were caked in mud. Tomiko cradled him, let him gnaw on fish bones, had him lick butter, fed him meager portions of rice, and scrubbed his entire body with a brush. Kuma simply gazed vacantly with his perfectly round eyes, allowed himself to be handled without resistance, and eventually sprawled out on the veranda. However, when Tomiko briefly left her seat, he went off somewhere again.

Upon hearing this, Ninji felt a kind of resentment toward Tomiko. Her large build, her somehow broad face, her narrow eyes—all of it appeared to him as a foolishness that transcended mere good-naturedness. If it were me, I would've confined Kuma for at least a day or two, he said in his heart. And in reality, he had conceived a bizarre method of confinement for Kuma.

It had been about ten days since Kuma had disappeared again. The season had reached that point where faint traces of autumn could be sensed in the mornings and evenings, and across Tokyo, celebratory events combining revival festivals with shrine rituals were being held everywhere. Portable shrines were carried out, Kagura dances, folk dancing, ballads, and magic tricks were all jumbled together haphazardly, and even a belated Bon dance had begun. Moreover, this coincided precisely with a period when the government was strengthening general price controls—a time when many of the street stalls and vendors that had spearheaded the shopping districts’ revival were holding their breath.

That night, Ninji seemed slightly out of sorts. At work, there had been a disagreement with section chief Egawa over a certain inventory product, and he had likely been brushed off with the resolution postponed until the next day. But more directly, it was probably due to the atmosphere of the drinking stall.

Generally speaking, this so-called revival festival did not sit well with Ninji. There was not a shred of any spirit truly aspiring toward reconstruction—only a decadent remnant of that postwar relief feeling, now lingering over a year after surrender, intermingled with a wretchedly grateful hedonism born from having barely sustained life through meager means. Thus even the various events never strayed one step from conventional formats, without showing even a glimmer of new ingenuity or creativity. While following traditional formats might have been permissible for a revival festival, there should at least have been some purification or refinement. Amidst those crowds—as if beaten down by defeat and crawling across the ground—Ninji grew slightly drunker as he sank deeper into solitary melancholy.

“It’s a revival festival—who cares about public or secret? Let’s do it up right!...” the stall owner said while wearing a sly smile on his brow. Various men took turns drinking alcohol-blended shochu. Ninji sat down on the stool at the back, leaned an elbow against the counter, and sank ever deeper into solitary melancholy as he alternated between taking sips from his shochu cup and drags from his cigarette. That melancholy held a charm that made one forget all things, evoking in him sentiments akin to those of an outsider.

When he suddenly noticed, the man sitting at the far end was aggressively confronting the man seated on this hooked-corner side, who kept nodding submissively and offering excuses. Both were middle-aged men: the former wore an open-collar shirt and trousers, likely in geta sandals, appearing to be a neighborhood local; the latter sat in a frayed national uniform, probably wearing tabi socks, looking every bit the penny-pinching black-market broker.

“Ain’t no call to be sayin’ such stingy shit.” “A drinker’s gotta avoid bein’ stingy,” said the man at the far end. “If you ain’t got money to drink with, then don’t drink… Hey, then go drink money instead.” “A drinker’s gotta drink.” “Everyone who comes to this place is a drinker.” “Hey, old man, ain’t that right?” “Hell, even if I ain’t got drinkin’ money, I still drink.” “Even so, I ain’t causin’ no trouble.” “Old man, ain’t that right?” “That’s the trick.” “Hey, you stingy bastard—that’s what makes the sake taste like shit.” “Even if you ain’t got drinkin’ money, go ahead and drink all you can.” “Now that’s livin’ large.”

The owner dealt with him perfunctorily. But this man responded with a subservience that oddly bordered on earnestness. “Absolutely right—stinginess is poison for drinkers. …So someone like me—well, since my brother came home demobilized and earns us a bit of money—that’s how I can drink like this. …No—even if my brother were gone, I’d still drink.” “I truly don’t cause any trouble anywhere… As long as I don’t drink regular alcohol, even if I get drunk and sleep on the ground, it’s like sleeping on clouds.”

It seemed that even the mention of "regular alcohol" had irritated the man on the other side, for he latched onto it and started another confrontation.

At that moment, Ninji abruptly stood up and fixed both men with an intense stare. For some time now, the owner had been turning his back to that side and making eye signals and gestures to this man, telling him not to engage anymore. Despite being clearly aware of this, this man still persisted in his obsequious responses. Moreover, he seemed to have more physical strength than his opponent and possessed a more imposing presence. It appeared that not only the man on the other side but also this man were putting on clownish responses with some ulterior motive. Ninji perceived this. And toward those crafty machinations, Ninji suddenly felt anger resembling nausea. By that point, Ninji was already standing rigidly without realizing it.

He felt a faint, dizzying sensation. Then, within the narrow interior of the reed-screen enclosure, he felt himself like a giant. The black frying pot with oil boiling, the cutting board and kitchen knife for preparing small dishes, the sake bottles and cups—all these utensils looked like toys. If he swung his arm, it seemed he could send the entire stall flying. It was a hedonistic allure. And he clasped both hands firmly behind his back. He habitually guarded against his own martial arts—the kind that could effortlessly kill a human if carelessly unleashed. And he stood rigidly while keeping both men within his field of view.

Pressed by an ominous atmosphere, the interior fell deathly silent. The two men, the owner, and a few other customers all watched Ninji in silence. In the midst of this, Ninji feigned a whistle as he looked up at the reed-screen ceiling, asked for the bill and paid it, then lumbered out.

He only remembered fragments of what happened afterward. It seemed he might have drunk shochu once somewhere else, or perhaps he hadn’t—either way, it amounted to the same thing. In other words, he was completely drunk. And after walking for quite a long time, he returned home.

The moonlit night was dimly bright. In the house's garden, several cats were yowling and screeching. He circled around to the outside of the lattice fence and peered stealthily.

Centered around a single female cat, several male cats were crouching. The males had stopped fighting among themselves and were now solely focused on seizing any opportunity with the female. When an opening appeared, two or three crept forward simultaneously, and one among them suddenly pounced on the female. After tussling for a while, the female abruptly grew angry and bit the male. The male withdrew slightly. Then the female wagged her tail again, lowered her head, and let out a coquettish cry. The males crept closer from three directions.

Among those male cats, Kuma’s figure did not appear visible. Even so, Ninji did not give up and climbed over the lattice fence. Then the large water jar in the garden’s corner caught his eye. The water jar sat there as though tailor-made for this moment. Ninji picked up a suitable stone, tilted the overturned jar slightly, wedged the stone beneath it, and left an opening just large enough for a cat to enter. The cat swarm still clamored on the garden’s far side. Ninji went there and this time crawled on all fours to approach them. But no matter how he searched, Kuma remained absent. Angry now, Ninji tried seizing the female cat. Just as he nearly caught her, she slipped free and vanished into the distance. He then remembered—throughout it all, he had never once called Kuma’s name—and felt an inexplicable regret.

He entered the house from the back. The bathhouse door, its latch undone, opened. Due to the fuel shortage, the bath had long since ceased to be heated and was now used solely as a washroom.

He stripped off his clothes there, washed his hands, washed his face, washed his feet, and recklessly drank water. Drinking water only intensified his drunkenness.

As he was crouching there catching his breath, Tomiko in her nightclothes stood rigidly in the lamplight. Whether he had turned on the light himself or Tomiko had done it, he couldn’t tell, but in any case, within the lamplight, Tomiko stood in her trailing nightclothes—like a phantom, like a simpleton. She seemed to say something, and he seemed to say something, but their voices did not reach his ears. She helped him up. Then he embraced her and kissed her lips. The lips were strangely cold and wet. As he clung to that sensation, suddenly her body swelled and rounded, taking on a form as if countless hemispheres were piled up, and he, unable to withstand the weight, collapsed. As he fell, he clung to her, was helped up by her again, and embraced her weight.

He had lost all strength; she had become a tremendous force. She took him to his room and then went away somewhere.

Cradling his hungover head, Ninji Sanjuro sat up. Tomiko’s expression and demeanor showed no change from usual. To the point this struck him as unexpected, Ninji had somehow lost his composure. For the divorced large-framed woman, the previous night’s events—at least what Ninji could recall—might have meant nothing. For Ninji too, having known the bodies of so-called hostesses, it should have meant nothing. Yet even as nothing in itself, that such a thing had happened—that he himself had done it—felt profoundly unsettling. That dizzying allure at the street stall had been unsettling too. He felt he’d discovered a kind of space around him—an unbound void—yet couldn’t settle within it.

In that same state of mind, he went to work and attended to his duties. Just as he was about to leave, when Egawa told him he wanted to discuss that matter at length and asked him to stay, he simply agreed offhandedly. He understood it was about the inventory products, but he could no longer muster much interest in it. The place Egawa took him to was a dull remnant of the surviving geisha district, where Ninji had previously attended company-related banquets. This time, it was a modestly compact teahouse, and inside was strangely quiet. Now, Nakamoto had already arrived there, and when the two entered, soon the geishas appeared and the drinking began. Ninji had seen Nakamoto several times at the company, and Nakamoto should have known Ninji as well. Despite this, Nakamoto treated Ninji with utmost courtesy and even presented his business card anew. From the fact that "General Director of the Kaneya-gumi" was printed beside his name, he appeared to be a significant power broker. His every interaction was meticulously polite before carelessly brushing matters aside, and with those glaring eyes of his, one could only nod in understanding. He appeared to be around fifty, and the creases in his suit trousers looked uncomfortably tight.

From Nakamoto already being present there, Ninji realized that what Egawa had called a "consultation" had long since moved beyond mere discussion. The matter was exceedingly simple. At the company factory, they had been developing an electric heater as one of their products. The electric heaters newly available on the market at that time all had exposed nichrome wires that broke easily and couldn't adjust heat output. They made slight improvements—switching to dual wires for two heat settings and covering them with detachable steel plates. Essentially, they'd just created a slightly cruder version of heaters that used to be common. The main materials were already in their inventory. But since quantities were limited, they'd designated it as a prototype and stockpiled it. Yet the employees at this small company had tacitly understood these would eventually be sold during fuel-scarce winters for substantial profits, leading to fatter year-end bonuses. Then suddenly came a proposal to hand over all stockpiled heaters to Nakamoto. The compensation? Nothing but copper wire for cords. The barter negotiations occurred between Nakamoto and the Managing Director, who then notified employee executives of the decision. The executives objected. It was common knowledge that Nakamoto frequented presidents of various connected companies—giving rise to suspicions. There was also fear these carefully made products would end up with black-market peddlers if Nakamoto got them. Moreover, bartering raised concerns about company cash reserves affecting everyone's paychecks, plus anxiety over exchange rates. After negotiations with the Managing Director, they'd apparently reached an utterly absurd compromise: transferring products to Nakamoto at one price while he supplied copper wire at another.

Throughout this period, Ninji had always naively maintained that the matter should be put to the collective will of the employees. He never pressed his point, speaking only when questioned. Because he persisted in this stance until the end, Egawa came to propose proper consultations. Yet there was no longer anything left to discuss.

“That matter…” was how Egawa phrased it. “It’s actually nothing serious.” “First of all—it’s just a prototype.” “Yes,” Ninji replied listlessly. “A prototype.”

“Upon closer consideration, it doesn’t seem to pose much of a problem.”

At that moment, Nakamoto interjected from the side.

“If you force these prototypes on us at such absurd prices, we can’t possibly accept,” Nakamoto said, his voice laced with veiled hostility. “This could damage the company’s reputation.” “Now now,” Egawa countered with bureaucratic smoothness, “prototypes are by definition superior products.” He adjusted his glasses, the gesture masking his unease. “The only issue is the limited quantity available… Surely your organization could arrange for more materials?” Nakamoto leaned back, his suit straining at the shoulders. “Who’s to say?” he murmured, trailing off like smoke from his cigarette. “I’ve been considering that myself…”

In that manner, the conversation had already moved beyond the issue, extending to general economic conditions and government policies interspersed with rumors and anecdotes. Ninji drank in silence. The geisha at his side poured sake the moment his cup was emptied. Later this became annoying—even when he told her to wait—but she kept refilling it mechanically each time it drained. Egawa provoked her again. “Mr. Ninji’s drinking prowess is famous company-wide,” he said. “Hey! Pour properly now.”

“It’s fine. If this cup here gets empty, I’ll have to pay a fine.” True to her word, she never left Ninji’s cup empty. Ninji gazed blankly at her. From the woman—who seemed capable of nothing beyond pouring drinks and who appeared to exist solely for that purpose—he began to feel a kind of pressure. Moreover, she herself was nothing more than an ordinary young geisha. With double eyelids and a gaze that seemed to look only into the distance rather than at anything nearby—cool and devoid of any other notable qualities—when she laughed, two creases reminiscent of middle age formed around her large mouth. While seated, her build appeared ordinary, but upon standing, her strikingly short stature became evident. "There’s no need to concern himself with someone like this," Ninji thought as he gazed at the flowers in the alcove. In the celadon vase, plum-like branches had been arranged with chrysanthemums. The fruits of the plum-like tree were still green, and the small white and yellow chrysanthemum flowers had petals that appeared stiff and curled. If he absentmindedly took a sip while gazing at them, she would already be lifting the sake flask to refill his cup before he could even set it down.

The meal was meager, but the sake never ran out. Egawa was already quite drunk, making the geisha beside him play the shamisen while humming dodoitsu verses.

Nakamoto had merely shifted from formal seiza sitting to a cross-legged position, maintaining his posture indefinitely as he quietly conversed and drank with an elderly geisha whose attire made it unclear whether she still worked banquet circuits. What was strange was the scene before them. Ordinarily, geishas would move between seats to unify the atmosphere, but here they each maintained their posts beside single guests, creating an arrangement resembling brothel protocol. Even when they exchanged scattered words across the room, once conversation lapsed, they split back into separate man-woman pairs.

From the woman who had become his counterpart and now clung firmly to his side, Ninji began to feel there was no escape. One after another, she dutifully poured his drinks. Amid this repetition of mechanical motions, Ninji felt as though caught in a winepress. He couldn’t bring himself to offer her a cup. Moreover, leaving his filled cup untouched would interrupt her mechanical routine and throw everything into disarray. That he thought this way might have been because he was already growing drunk.

Am I drunk? he abruptly wondered, as if waking from a dream. And he started to stand up, but with only one knee raised, sat back down again and took the cup. He did not bring it to his mouth but stared intently at it. The light flickered, reflected like moonlight. To this, the woman mistakenly offered the sake flask. “Enough already. Just stop.”

Yelling, Ninji drained the cup in one gulp and set it down on the table with a clatter. To this, the woman held out the sake flask.

“Enough already.”

The woman seemed to smile, but before that could happen, Ninji knocked the sake flask from her hand. The sake flask shattered across the tabletop, and sake splattered in all directions. The woman seemed to have braced herself. At that moment, Ninji’s palm flew to her cheek. She collapsed there without making a sound.

He himself was dazed by what he had done. The next instant, his right wrist was seized by Nakamoto's hand. With a faint sneer playing at the corner of his mouth, he began to rise quietly. Nakamoto, remaining seated, was grasping his wrist across the table. It felt like an unwavering force. While entrusting his wrist to that force, he crouched halfway and paused to think. Suddenly, still in a half-crouch, he circled the table and sent his left hand flying toward Nakamoto’s arm. Nakamoto fell backward.

Nakamoto immediately sat up, keeping his clenched fists planted on the table while remaining seated, and fixed his stare on Ninji. Ninji stood rigidly and spoke.

“Stop before it gets dangerous.” “I don’t hold any resentment toward you.” “Stop before it gets dangerous.” “……My apologies.”

He was slightly pale. And quietly exited the room.

Ninji Sanjuro walked through the pale moonlight. Dangerous, dangerous, he muttered to himself. He was thinking about his martial arts. It was something he had acquired during his time on the continent. According to the master’s account, long ago at Xiaolin Temple on Funiu Mountain, Damo Dashi transmitted something called the Yijin Jing, and what was written within that Yijin Jing has been passed down to this day as Xiaolin Quanfa. It was said that the master had mastered the orthodox secret techniques of Xiaolin Quanfa. Under such a master, Ninji trained. After parting with his master, he continued honing his skills alone. Due to its intense nature—capable of endangering an opponent’s life—he couldn’t employ it recklessly. And after returning to his home country, it had become a habit for him to guard against it himself. It was fortunate that he had used it cautiously against Nakamoto. It was a near thing.

However, he had already used that martial art he himself had forbidden, at least to some extent. There existed a new space—a space where one could act freely. And with a dreamlike feeling, he went to check on that street stall from the previous night. The owner amiably welcomed him. But that was all—there was nothing strange about it. Not a trace of that grand allure remained. The reed-screen stall stood miserably narrow and shabby, with the smell of frying oil hanging heavily in the air. Ninji drank several cups of shochu without purpose.

His feet were already unsteady. It felt just like during a malaria attack. And he was melancholy, and angry at himself for that melancholy.

The revival festival continued. On a stage erected in one of the squares, a new folk song was being performed with singing and dancing. A large crowd surrounded it on all sides.

Ninji pushed his way into that crowd. Heedless of people’s suspicious stares and surprise, he pushed through the throng and walked around the stage. Before long, strangely enough, he no longer felt the human wall’s resistance. His body passed through the crowd as easily as parting water. There was almost no resistance anywhere.

"If that’s the case…" Ninji crossed his arms and pondered deeply. At the same time, a sense of apprehension began to arise. He could not fathom what he might do next. He could not tell whether he might trample the people around him. He could not guarantee that such a thing would not occur. A fear and desolation—as if peering into a new abyss—assailed him.

He walked straight ahead. He emerged into the burned field. And as he continued walking on, thinking this couldn’t go on, he felt a dizziness akin to a shudder.

There was a faintly white stone by the roadside. He sat down there and smoked a cigarette. Beside him, tall weeds grew thickly. A grassy scent, a pungent scent, a mint-like scent—together they lured him. He tumbled into the thicket like a wild beast.

Time passed.

Ninji, sensing something, bolted upright and stood up as if startled. Right nearby, two women were standing. The two of them started running before they could catch their breath. They started running and fled away in a frantic dash. Ninji paid no attention in that direction; with his head hung, he started walking unsteadily. It seemed as if he were deeply engrossed in thought, and yet also as if he were in a vacant stupor like an imbecile—a distinction he himself could not discern.

The lattice fence was faintly visible in the moonlight. He climbed over it. The large overturned water jar caught his eye. He stood as if petrified. Then he looked up at the sky. Then... he moved the jar this way and that, mustered every ounce of his strength, crawled into the tilted jar, and pulled it down over himself. Even so, he did not forget to prop a stone on one side to create an air vent.

Inside the jar was a silence so profound it startled. Not only could no sound be heard, but it was a state completely severed from the outside world. It was precisely the self-confinement space he had desired. Ninji let out a sigh of relief, sat cross-legged on the ground, crossed his arms, and covered his eyes.