Pathway to Japanese Literature

The house where Nikichi Sanjūrō rented a room was located on the outskirts of a cluster of houses that had survived the air raids. It was a small single-story house, but its garden was unexpectedly spacious, with plum, cherry, maple, and hinoki cypress trees planted haphazardly. Directly beyond this garden stretched a burned field. The burned field had now become small partitioned plots of cultivated land with thickets of weeds growing here and there, where wheat and vegetables were thriving. And between the cultivated plots and the garden stood nothing but a low lattice fence that had been erected.

In a corner of that garden lay an absurdly large water jar, overturned. It was an enormous thing rarely seen in Tokyo, and no one understood why it had been placed there. The Hirai couple, who were the landlords, had moved in 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 probably been there since long ago, from ancient times. The water jar had been filled with fire-prevention water since before the air raids, but after the war ended, it had somehow been overturned. It remained unclear who had done such a thing, and it was left as it was. The Hirai couple also hardly took notice of it.

Nikichi Sanjūrō, who had come to live in a room of this house, recalled that during the war he had often seen jars resembling this one in the Chinese countryside, and one day tried to set it upright. The interior was clean—no mud or dust had adhered—with only the ground there dampened and darkened, presenting nothing peculiar. However, for Nikichi Sanjūrō, the absence of anything peculiar within the water jar left him vaguely dissatisfied—even though he hadn’t particularly expected anything unusual. And so he left the water jar as it was, but his dissatisfaction alone remained. Or perhaps it could be said he had grown utterly weary of the world’s mundanity?

Nikichi’s life was already settled into a routine. In the beginning of the year following the war’s end, after returning to Tokyo, even the heart that had hovered 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 continued to maintain robust health even amidst the constrained food situation. The mild malaria attacks had almost ceased to occur. At the small town factory company producing commonplace electrical appliances, they treated him with unexpected favor. When he moved from the cramped corner of his brother’s family’s shop into an eight-tatami room in the Hirai household, the space at first seemed so excessively spacious and desolate. Hirai was an elderly man working at a power company, and both he and his wife were kind-hearted people. Their son’s death in the war had only recently been officially confirmed, and they had decided to rent a room to Nikichi. Besides the couple, there was a middle-aged woman named Horiuchi Tomiko who handled all the cooking and chores and also helped Nikichi with his daily errands. And then there was a cat.

It was an ordinary male black cat with white paws and a white patch beneath its neck. The pattern of its white fur was somewhat peculiar—at times making its paws appear artificial, while at others causing the white patch under its neck to resemble a bear’s crescent moon marking. It had been named Kuma because of this crescent moon. After air raids had extensively burned the surrounding area, this cat entered the house; by repeatedly stroking the sliding door with the tip of its long tail held upright, they had apparently deduced it must have once been someone’s pet.

Raising his long tail and stroking the sliding door with its tip was Kuma’s habit. This was usually when he wanted food, or when he wanted his back scratched, or whenever he had some business with humans. Otherwise, he always pretended not to notice and wouldn’t even glance toward the people. Nikichi doted on that Kuma immensely. At night, they slept within the same mosquito net.

And yet, strangely enough, this quietly settled Nikichi Sanjūrō seemed to give those around him the impression of being a violent, fearsome man.

One day, while sharing rationed sake, Old Man Hirai watched Nikichi’s demeanor with deep concern and said:

“Patience is crucial in this world. Since you’re still young, you should make keeping that temper of yours in check the first step of your training.”

Moreover, on another occasion at the company, after a business consultation meeting, Section Chief Egawa tapped him on the shoulder and whispered.

“Let’s both show some restraint.” “Direct action can be taken at any time, you know.” To Nikichi, these things were both unexpected and unwelcome. He always remained reserved and spoke little. However, when he once attended a town assembly meeting out of curiosity and found himself troubled by how the various notices from the ward office always arrived with such urgency, he had bluntly stated that such bureaucratic notifications ought to be ignored and disregarded. Moreover, regarding the company’s various management policies, he had bluntly stated that they should adhere strictly to the single principle of fostering in all employees a sense that this was their own company. All were straightforward, simple words—how could they possibly relate to things like short tempers or direct action? Rather than that, it was his attitude—gloomily silent, puffing on a cigarette—that would have been more easily noticeable. A man in his early thirties—an age when one should be in the prime of vigor—with a swarthy complexion, stiff hair, gleaming eyes, a sneer playing at his lips, squared shoulders, and unnaturally large hands: yet when such a man sat sunk in melancholy silence, it gave the impression that some violent explosion might erupt at any moment.

Yet Nikichi himself harbored a different kind of fear in his heart. Things like short tempers and direct action possessed defined forms and directions that hinted at certain political ideologies of the era. In truth, Japan had plunged into a great revolution: the postwar dissolution of its military and occupation by Allied forces; the shift from militarism and bureaucratism to democracy; the drafting of a new constitution renouncing war and restoring sovereignty to the people; the arrest and trial of principal war criminals; the purge of wartime leaders from public office; the dissolution of major financial conglomerates; the awakening of the working class and rise of labor movements. Through freedoms of speech, press, assembly, and other such matters, the so-called bloodless revolution stood poised for completion. Yet the masses Nikichi encountered daily showed near-total indifference to these revolutionary developments, displaying almost no reaction as they lingered in petty bourgeois self-interest and vulgarity. Here was neither anguish nor clarity—only a dazed melancholy. Nikichi himself held scant interest in the bloodless revolution so lavishly praised in newspapers. Those politically granted freedoms, those yet to be seized—through his forced actions as a repatriated soldier, he had already metabolized them all, wandering now into the raw realm of human freedom. There, the masses’ stupefied melancholy reflected back upon him, clouding his liberated state of mind. Resisting this inwardly, he grew ever more silent and despondent. A dread swelled deep within—I don’t know what I might do. Were violent explosion to come, it would differ entirely from what Hirai and Egawa feared.

The hot summer days continued. Nikichi longed for thunderstorms and thunder, but nothing of the sort ever arrived; under the intense sunlight, the crops in the burned-field vegetable garden tended to wilt.

In the sweltering heat, Nikichi went to work in silence and performed his duties in silence. He showed no enthusiasm for labor union activities, but he was viewed with trusting eyes by the factory workers on the floor. He did not like his brother’s small sundries shop business and hardly ever showed his face there. But as for one of his demobilized comrades who was running a black-market business, he showed goodwill and arranged various conveniences through company connections. And various goods began arriving at his place as well. The Hirai couple and Tomiko were very pleased with this. However, even when complimented, he remained sullenly silent.

Drinking alcohol seemed to be his sole pastime. He would head out toward the area lined with food stalls and drink shochu at his regular haunt where the risk of methyl alcohol was lower. He would sometimes go bar-hopping. That manner of his did not stem from any love for the common street atmosphere of such stalls; on the contrary, while despising it, he seemed to love only the sake. When he returned drunk, he would either read magazines or play with the black cat Kuma. Kuma would simply gaze up at him with round eyes glowing in his black face—unperturbed no matter how he was handled, whether out of complete trust or sheer obedience—and surrender his entire body to Nikichi’s ministrations. But once he grew weary, he would dig in his claws for leverage and dart away in an instant. He would then circle around outside and return; when called by him while still awake—straightening his long tail and stroking the sliding door with its tip—he would approach shyly.

That Kuma had disappeared one day. At first, driven by mating season, he joined a cluster of cats gathered around a female and made raucous cries together, but then simply went off somewhere—and even after a week passed, even ten days passed, he did not return. Nikichi Sanjūrō had paid his respects to the cats’ free love, enduring their raucous cries and commotion wherever they gathered—on the veranda, in garden corners, among the vegetable beds—but when at last that boisterous group dispersed somewhere and Kuma vanished along with them, it weighed on his mind.

The Hirai couple saw off Kuma’s disappearance with the same composure they had shown when welcoming him. They said that since he was out roaming around in heat, he’d surely come back before long. But Tomiko, concerned about Kuma’s whereabouts, asked every acquaintance she met in the neighborhood and kept her eyes peeled along the delivery routes.

Only once, on an afternoon after about ten days had passed, Kuma lumbered back home. His head and neck bore wounds and skin lesions, and his hindquarters were soiled with mud. Tomiko picked him up and held him, let him gnaw on fish bones, had him lick butter, fed him their meager rice, and scrubbed his entire body with a brush. Kuma simply kept his perfectly round eyes wide open, gazing vacantly, allowed himself to be handled, and soon stretched out on the veranda. However, when Tomiko briefly left her seat, he went off somewhere again.

Upon hearing this, Nikichi felt a kind of resentment toward Tomiko. Her large build, her broad face, her narrow eyes—all of it now struck him as a foolishness that transcended mere goodness.

"If it were me," he thought to himself, "I would've confined Kuma for at least a day or two."

And indeed, he thought of a strange method of confinement for Kuma.

It had been about ten days since Kuma had disappeared again.

The season had arrived when hints of autumn could be faintly sensed in the mornings and evenings, and throughout Tokyo, celebratory events combining Revival Festivals with traditional shrine rituals were being held. Portable shrines were carried out while kagura dances, hand-clapping performances, folk songs, and magic tricks jumbled together in haphazard disarray—even belated Bon dances had begun. Moreover, this coincided precisely with a period when the government was strengthening general price controls—a time when many of the stall shops and street vendors that had pioneered the shopping districts’ revival found themselves holding their breath.

That night, Nikichi seemed slightly out of sorts. At work, he had disagreed with Section Chief Egawa regarding certain inventory products—a matter that had been dismissed with promises to resolve it tomorrow—which likely contributed. But more directly, it was probably due to the atmosphere of the street stall bar. Fundamentally, this so-called revival festival displeased Nikichi. It contained not a shred of true pioneering spirit—only something decadent lingering from war’s-end relief now over a year stale; even a miserly gratitude-tinged hedonism born of clinging to meager survival had seeped into its fabric. Thus even its various events never strayed an inch from conventional formats—not a glimmer of new ingenuity could be detected. While following traditional forms might have been acceptable for a revival, there should have been at least some purification or refinement. Amid crowds beaten down by defeat as though crawling across scorched earth—Nikichi drank himself slightly deeper and sank further into solitary melancholy.

The stall bar owner declared that since it was a revival festival, there was no difference between public and secret—they should just go all out... As he spouted such lines, a cunning smile spread across his forehead. All sorts of men came and went, drinking their way through alcohol-blended shochu.

Nikichi Sanjūrō sat down on the backmost stool, leaned his elbow against the counter, and sank ever deeper into solitary melancholy as he alternated between gulps from his shochu glass and drags on a cigarette. This melancholy possessed a charm that made him forget all else, and evoked in him an alien-like sentiment.

When he suddenly noticed, the man sitting at the far end was haughtily confronting the man sitting on this bent-corner side, who humbly nodded and made excuses. Both were middle-aged men; the former wore an open-collar shirt and trousers—likely in geta sandals—and appeared to be a local enforcer from the area, while the latter was clad in a frayed national uniform—probably in tabi socks—and looked like a stingy black-market broker.

“Don’t go spouting such stingy talk.” “Stinginess is poison for drinkers,” said the man on that side. “If you can’t earn drinking money, then don’t drink… Hey, you—if that’s how it is, why not just drink money?” “A drinker’s job is to drink.” “Everyone who comes to this place is a drinker.” “Right, old-timer? Ain’t that how it is?” “...Me? Even if I don’t have money to drink, I drink.” “And I don’t cause no trouble for nobody.” “Right, old-timer? Ain’t that how it is?” “That’s the trick to it.” “Hey, you—a stingy bastard like you makes the sake taste like piss!” “Even if you ain’t got no money to drink, go on and drink all you can.” “Now that’s living large.”

The stall owner brushed it off half-heartedly. But the broker replied with a servility that seemed oddly earnest. “Absolutely, stinginess is poison indeed. …Well, take me for instance—my brother came back demobilized and makes a bit of money now, so that’s how I can afford to drink like this. …Ah, even if my brother were gone, I’d still drink.” “I don’t cause any trouble anywhere… As long as I don’t drink regular sake, even if I pass out drunk on the ground, it’s like sleeping on a cloud.”

Even just the mention of “regular sake”… That very thing appeared to have offended the man on that side again, and he latched onto it to start another confrontation.

At that moment, Nikichi abruptly stood up and fixed both men with an intense stare. From earlier, the proprietor had been turning his back to the other side while signaling through meaningful glances and gestures for the broker to stop engaging. Despite clearly noticing this, the broker continued his servile responses. Moreover, he appeared physically stronger than his opponent while carrying himself with an even bolder air. Not just the man on that side—even this man seemed to be putting on clownish responses with some hidden agenda. Nikichi had seen through it. At these cunning machinations, Nikichi suddenly felt a surge of nausea-like rage. By then, he was already standing rigidly without self-awareness.

He felt slightly unsteady—a dizzy sensation like vertigo. Then, within the narrow reed-screen enclosure, he felt himself become a giant. The black frying pot with boiling oil, the cutting board and kitchen knife for prepping small dishes, the sake bottles and cups—all utensils appeared toy-like. A single swing of his arm might send the entire stall flying. It was a hedonistic temptation. He kept both hands tightly clasped behind his back, habitually restraining martial arts that could kill a man with careless momentum. Rigidly he stood, staring down both men within his field of vision.

Pressed by an ominous atmosphere, the room fell completely silent. The two men, the proprietor, and the two or three other customers all watched Nikichi in silence. In the midst of this, Nikichi looked up at the reed-screen ceiling with a scoffing air, asked for the bill and paid it, then lumbered out.

He only remembered fragments of what happened after that. It seemed as though he had drunk shochu once more elsewhere, and yet also as though he hadn’t—but either way, it was all the same. In other words, he was completely drunk. And after walking for quite a long time, he returned home.

The moonlit night hung hazily bright.

In the garden of the house, several cats were yowling noisily. He went around to the outer side of the lattice fence and peered quietly. With a female cat at the center, several male cats were crouching. They had now stopped fighting among themselves and were solely focused on waiting for an opening with the female. When an opening appeared, two or three of them crept forward simultaneously, and one among them suddenly pounced on the female. After tussling for a while, the female cat abruptly grew angry and bit the male. The male withdrew slightly. Then the female once again swayed her tail, lowered her head, and let out a seductive call. The males crept closer inch by inch from three directions.

Among those male cats, Kuma’s figure did not appear to be present. Even so, Nikichi did not give up and climbed over the lattice fence. Then, the large water jar in the corner of the garden caught his eye. The water jar was there, perfectly positioned. Nikichi picked up a suitable stone, tilted the overturned water jar slightly, wedged the stone beneath it, and left an opening wide enough for a cat to enter. The cluster of cats was still clamoring on the far side of the garden. Nikichi went there and this time crawled on all fours to approach. But no matter how much he searched, Kuma was nowhere to be found. Nikichi became angry and tried to catch the female cat. And at the very last moment, the female cat slipped away and then went off into the distance. He recalled that he hadn’t called Kuma’s name even once during that time and, for some reason, regretted it.

He entered the house from the rear. The bathroom door wasn’t latched and opened. Due to the fuel shortage, the bath had long 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, then recklessly gulped down water. Drinking water only served to intensify his drunkenness.

As he crouched there catching his breath, Tomiko in nightclothes stood rigidly in the electric light. Whether he himself had turned on the light or Tomiko had done so, he could not tell—but there in the electric glow stood Tomiko in her nightclothes, the hem trailing behind her, like a phantom and an imbecile all at once.

It seemed she had said something, and he too seemed to have said something, but their voices did not reach his ears. She helped him up. Then he embraced her and was sucking at her lips. Her lips were strangely cold and wet. As he clung to that sensation, her body suddenly swelled up into rounded mounds—countless hemispheres piled upon one another—and unable to withstand their weight, he collapsed. And as he collapsed, he clung to her, was helped up by her again, and embraced her weight.

He lost all strength, and she became a tremendous force. She brought him to his room and then went off somewhere.

Cradling his hungover head, Nikichi Sanjūrō sat up. Tomiko’s expression and demeanor showed not the slightest change from usual. To such an extent that this very normalcy struck him as unexpected, Nikichi himself had somehow lost his composure. For the large-framed middle-aged woman who had returned, last night’s events—or at least what Nikichi could remember of them—might have been nothing out of the ordinary. For Nikichi as well, he was acquainted with the bodies of what people called hostesses, and it was nothing out of the ordinary. However, even though the act itself was nothing out of the ordinary, the fact that such a thing had occurred—that he himself had done such a thing—struck him as abnormal. The allure resembling dizziness at the street stall too was abnormal. He felt as though he had discovered a kind of space—a freely manipulable void—all around him, yet he could not settle comfortably within it.

In that same state of mind, he went to the company and handled his duties. As he was about to leave, when Egawa asked him to discuss that matter properly and accompany him, he casually agreed. He understood it was about the stock products, but he could no longer muster much interest in it. The place Egawa led him to was a faded remnant of the pleasure quarters that had survived the fires—a spot Nikichi had previously visited for company banquets. This time, it was a modestly sized teahouse meeting room, the interior oddly quiet. Now, Nakamoto was already there, and when the two entered, geishas soon appeared and the drinking began. Nikichi had seen Nakamoto several times at the company, and Nakamoto in turn should have known Nikichi. Despite this, Nakamoto treated Nikichi with ceremonial courtesy, even presenting his business card anew. From the title “Kaneya-gumi Leader” printed beside his name, he appeared to wield considerable influence. Every formal exchange brimmed with meticulous etiquette before dissolving into brusque informality—the way his eyes bulged glaringly invited silent acknowledgment. He looked about fifty years old, his Western suit creasing awkwardly at the knees as if constricting him.

By the fact that Nakamoto was already waiting there, Nikichi realized that what Egawa had termed a consultation had already advanced beyond mere discussion.

The matter was extremely simple. At the company’s factory, they had been prototyping an electric heater as one of their products. The electric heaters newly available at that time all had exposed nichrome wires that were prone to breaking and were unable to adjust their heat output. They had slightly improved them by changing to two wires to allow adjustment between two heat levels and tried covering them with removable thin steel plates. In other words, they had merely created slightly cruder versions of the electric heaters that were once commonplace. The main materials were among the items on hand. However, since there wasn’t a large quantity available, they had treated them as prototypes and stockpiled them. Yet the employees of this small company had tacitly come to understand that these heaters would soon be put on sale targeting the fuel-scarce winter season—likely generating considerable profits that would lead to increased year-end bonuses. It was at this juncture that a proposal suddenly arose to hand over the stockpiled electric heaters to Nakamoto. And the compensation consisted solely of copper wire for cords. The barter exchange negotiations were conducted between the managing director and Nakamoto, and the managing director communicated that decision to the employees’ executives. The executives opposed. It was a well-known fact that Nakamoto was a man who frequented the offices of company presidents connected to various sectors, and from this arose certain suspicions. Moreover, there was a fear that their hard-earned products, should they fall into Nakamoto’s hands, would be distributed to black-market vendors at street stalls. Furthermore, if it came to bartering, there were concerns about the company’s cash reserves—which would immediately impact all employees’ livelihoods—as well as anxieties over the exchange rate ratios. After discussions with the managing director, it appeared they had settled on an utterly absurd compromise: the products would be transferred to Nakamoto at a certain price, and Nakamoto would supply copper wire at a certain price.

Throughout this period, Nikichi would always state plainly that the matter ought to be decided by the employees' collective will. He did not assert his views, only speaking when questioned. Because he maintained that stance to the end, Egawa came to propose holding thorough discussions.

However, there was no longer any need for discussion. “About that matter…” Egawa began, phrasing it in that manner. “Truth be told, it’s a trivial matter. “First of all, it’s a prototype.”

“Yes, it’s a prototype,” Nikichi answered listlessly.

“Upon closer consideration, it doesn’t seem to be much of a problem.” At that moment, Nakamoto interjected from the side.

“If we’re made to take prototypes at absurd prices, this side can’t endure it.” “It concerns the company’s standing, you understand.” “No, prototypes are invariably designated as premium products.” “The sole drawback lies in the limited numbers, you see…” “Could your side not arrange to secure that material in greater quantity?” “Well… I’ve been considering that myself…”

In that manner, the conversation moved beyond the issue, expanded into general economic conditions and government policies, and interwove occasional rumors and anecdotes throughout.

Nikichi drank his sake in silence. The geisha attending to him refilled his cup the moment it was emptied. What had initially been mere refills later grew irritating; even when he told her to wait a moment, she would refill his cup the instant it was emptied, like a machine. Egawa egged it on again.

“Nikichi-kun’s sake is famous even at the company.” “Hey, pour properly.” “It’s all right. If your cup here gets empty, I’ll have to pay a fine.” True to her word, she never left Nikichi’s cup empty.

Nikichi gazed vacantly at her. From this woman who seemed capable of nothing beyond pouring drinks and who appeared to exist solely for that purpose, he began feeling a kind of oppressive weight. Moreover, she herself was merely an ordinary young geisha. Her double-lidded eyes that seemed to gaze only into the distance rather than at anything nearby held nothing but a cool detachment - she possessed no other notable qualities. When she smiled, two wrinkles resembling those of an older woman formed around her large mouth; while seated her physique appeared unremarkable, but upon standing her shockingly short stature became apparent. Thinking there was no need to concern himself with such a person, Nikichi turned his gaze to the flowers in the alcove. In the celadon vase stood chrysanthemums arranged alongside plum-like branches. The plum-like fruits remained unripe green while the small white and yellow chrysanthemum blooms had petals curled into stiff shapes. As he observed them, if he absentmindedly took a sip, before he could even set his cup down she would already have lifted the sake flask to pour again.

The food was crude, but the alcohol never ran out.

Egawa was already quite drunk, making the geisha beside him pluck at the shamisen while he hummed dodoitsu verses. Nakamoto had merely shifted from formal seiza to sitting cross-legged, maintaining his posture unwaveringly as he conversed quietly and drank quietly with an elderly geisha whose attire made it unclear whether she still worked the banquet circuit.

What was strange was the atmosphere of the gathering—whereas typically geishas would move between seats to unify the mood, here each geisha remained fixed at a single guest’s side, creating an arrangement reminiscent of a brothel. Even when they talked here and there and exchanged words, once that ended, they would split back into male-female pairs.

From the woman who had become his companion and now clung fast to his side, Nikichi began to feel there was no escaping anymore. One after another, she poured drinks with mechanical fidelity. Amidst this repetition of robotic motions, Nikichi felt himself squeezed in a vise. He couldn’t bring himself to offer her a cup in return. If he tried leaving his cup full untouched, it would disrupt her mechanical routine—throwing her rhythm into disarray before he could set it down. That he even considered this might have been because drunkenness was taking hold.

"Am I drunk?" he suddenly wondered, as if waking from a dream. He started to rise but sank back down with one knee still raised, picking up his cup. He did not bring it to his lips, gazing fixedly at it instead. The light flickered across its surface like moonlight. To this vision, the woman mistakenly offered her sake bottle.

“Stop it. Just stop it already.” After shouting, Nikichi drained his cup in one gulp and set it down on the table with a clatter. To it, the woman offered the sake bottle.

“Enough already.” The woman seemed to smile, but before that could register, Nikichi knocked the sake bottle from her hand. The sake bottle shattered across the tabletop, its contents splashing in all directions. The woman must have braced herself. At that instant, Nikichi’s open hand struck her across the cheek. She collapsed there without making a sound.

He himself stood frozen in shock. The next moment, Nakamoto's hand clamped down on his right wrist. A faint sneer playing at his lips, he began rising quietly. Nakamoto remained seated, maintaining his grip across the low table. The pressure felt inexorable. Yielding to that force while half-rising, he paused briefly to think. Suddenly still crouched, he pivoted around the table and lashed out with his left hand toward Nakamoto's arm. Nakamoto toppled backward.

Nakamoto immediately sat up and, remaining seated, placed both clenched fists on the low table as he stared at Nikichi. Nikichi said while remaining rigidly standing.

“That’s dangerous—you should stop.” “I don’t hold any resentment toward you.” “That’s dangerous—you should stop.” “…My apologies.”

He had turned slightly pale. Then he quietly left the room.

In the pale moonlight, Nikichi Sanjūrō walked on.

“Risky, risky,” he muttered to himself. He had been thinking about his own martial arts. That was something he had acquired during his time on the continent. According to his master’s account, long ago at Kobayashi Temple on Funiu Mountain, Bodhidharma transmitted what is called the Yijin Jing—the Muscle-Tendon Change Classic—and the teachings contained within that Yijin Jing had been passed down to this day as Kobayashi Quanfa-Xiaolinquan. It was said that this master had mastered the orthodox secret techniques of Kobayashi Quanfa. Under such a master Nikichi had trained. Even after parting with his master, he had continued honing his skills alone. Given its lethal intensity—this martial art could endanger lives—he had forbidden himself from wielding it carelessly. After returning home, it became his habit to remain vigilant against its use. When facing Nakamoto, he had managed to employ it cautiously—if only to some extent. That had been perilously close.

But he had already used that martial art he had forbidden himself from employing—if only to some extent. There existed a new space—a space where one could act freely.

And then, in a dreamlike state, he went to that street stall from the previous night. The owner amiably welcomed him. But that was all—there was nothing out of the ordinary. That grand fascination had not left even a trace behind. The reed-screened stall stood shabby and cramped, the smell of frying oil hanging thickly in the air. Nikichi meaninglessly drank several glasses of shōchū.

His legs were already unsteady. It was just like during a malaria attack. And he was melancholy, and resentful of that melancholy himself.

The revival festival was still continuing. On a stage that had been set up in a certain plaza, a new folk song was being sung and danced. A large crowd had surrounded it on all sides.

Nikichi pushed his way into the midst of that crowd. Disregarding people’s suspicious stares and startled reactions, he pushed through the throng and circled the stage. Before long, strangely enough, he could no longer feel the crowd’s resistance. His body passed through the mass of people as easily as parting water. Almost no resistance met him anywhere.

"In that case…" Nikichi Sanjūrō crossed his arms and sank into thought. At the same time, he felt a sense of foreboding arise. He couldn’t begin to fathom what he might do next. He had no way of knowing whether he might trample the people nearby. He couldn’t guarantee that such a thing wouldn’t happen. A fear like peering into a new abyss, along with a profound desolation, assailed him.

He walked straight on. He emerged into the burned field. And yet as he kept walking, he thought this couldn’t continue like this, and felt a kind of dizziness akin to shuddering.

By the roadside lay a faintly pale stone. He lowered himself there and smoked a cigarette. Beside him stood tall weeds growing thick. A grassy smell, a sharp stench, a mint-like fragrance—together they lured him. Like a wild beast he rolled into the thicket.

Time passed. Nikichi, sensing something, jerked upright and sprang to his feet in surprise. Right beside him stood two women. Before they could catch their breath, the pair broke into a run. They ran off and scattered in full flight. Nikichi paid no heed to their direction; head hanging low, he began walking unsteadily.

He seemed both profoundly absorbed in thought and blankly absent like an imbecile—a distinction even he himself couldn’t discern.

The lattice fence was faintly visible in the moonlight. He crossed over it. The large overturned water jar caught his eye. He stood frozen in place. And then he looked up at the sky. And then... he shifted the jar about, mustering every last ounce of strength, clambered into the diagonally angled vessel, and dragged it down over himself. Even so, he remembered to wedge a stone and leave an opening for air.

Inside the jar was an astonishing silence. Not only were all sounds inaudible, but it was a realm utterly severed from the outside world. It was exactly the place of self-confinement he had desired. Nikichi let out a sigh of relief, sat cross-legged on the ground, crossed his arms, and covered his eyes.