Pathway to Japanese Literature

Originally, I had no connection whatsoever with Mr. Kitagawa.
It was simply a chance meeting in the street.

The beef stew—though it mainly consisted of pork intestines, stomachs, and esophagi, with occasional special additions of liver and heart chunks skewered on bamboo sticks, all simmered bubbling in an iron pot of miso broth—was served at an inexpensive drinking spot that had recently become quite popular, where people gathered around the pot to drink alcohol. There was one such place at a nearby street corner.

I too would sometimes drop by to poke at the pot.
If there were no stern-looking adults around, I would sometimes drink a glass or two.
There, I met Mr. Kitagawa for the first time.
He wasn’t wearing a hat, dressed in a cloak and worn-down geta, his head with closely cropped hair appearing oddly large, his tanned face with its dull complexion giving an impression of kindness.
He was about thirty-five or thirty-six years old and was a hearty drinker.
He didn’t eat much from the pot, gulped down about two cups of shōchū—or rather, diluted alcohol—then proceeded to drink warmed sake with evident relish.
While drinking, he chatted with the shop owner.

“In paintings and writings about drownings, they always show people plunging in headfirst, but that’s a lie.”
“Whether men or women, nobody actually dives in upside-down like that.”
“At most they might fall sideways—usually they just stay upright.”
“It’s different from a swimming dive, you know.”
“They must still be afraid after all.”
“There was this incident where a woman tried to drown herself in some cold place.”
“She jumped into a pond that had frozen solid—her legs went through the ice, but her big behind got stuck on the surface. They say she was rescued still flailing around like that.”

“Huh, is that true?”

“Ah, it’s a true story.”

As he told such stories, I thought he must be a writer or perhaps a painter.
—But that wasn’t the case.
He was a middle school teacher.
Though he did write some short pieces.

When he finished drinking, he said "Thanks for the meal" in a loud voice and left.

I asked the shop owner.

"He never pays, does he."

"It seems he doesn't have any today."
"'Next time,' he must've said in a low voice."
"When he has it, he'll pay everything together."

“That’s nice. I think I’ll do the same.”

“You’re no good for that. That’d be dangerous.”

In that way, I suppose I came to like him. And after meeting him several times, I learned there was a sick person at his place struggling without access to fresh fish, so I decided to deliver some to him from time to time. It was an old, small house on a quiet back street not far from the beef stew shop. He... Mr. Kitagawa trusted a young kid like me and would advance me around fifty yen each time. There were times when even that fifty yen wasn’t available.

“I don’t have any money today. Come back in two or three days.”

Then after two or three days, the money would mysteriously materialize. Though for my part too, I'd made it a rule not to take any commission at Mr. Kitagawa's place, and showed the same willingness to extend credit as the beef stew shop owner did.

One day, Mr. Kitagawa asked me.

“Do you ever read books?”

“Well, I do have that too.”

“No, I mean do you like reading books?”

“I do.”

Then he said, “Read this,” and handed me a boys’ magazine.
Mr. Kitagawa looked oddly pleased.
No wonder—the magazine contained a story with Mr. Kitagawa’s name attached.

I didn’t find it particularly interesting.
But there was something in one of those short stories that later came back to me.
This was important enough that I should have copied Mr. Kitagawa’s writing word for word, but I’d lost the magazine.

The story was about a mountain hot spring area, where a young woman stood alone on a slope. Though called a slope, the entire area was mountainside—a grassy incline stretching all the way to the distant valley.

―There, in that distant low place at the edge of the grassy plain, a single black speck could be seen.
Wondering what it was, the young woman stared.
The black speck was moving.
It seemed to be gradually drawing closer.
It seemed to be approaching at tremendous speed.
It grew larger.
A horse.
Someone rode it.
Both horse and rider appeared black.
They came charging up the grassy slope with terrible force and speed.
Closer they drew.
Larger they grew.
Against a panoramic backdrop―the river flowing through the valley below, fields nearby, clusters of cedars―the horse and rider loomed enormous as they raced up the plain.
Five hundred meters... three hundred... Ah―now almost upon her.
They had grown monstrously large.
Jet-black like a locomotive, they came barreling forward.
The instant she thought they'd collide―the young woman fell to earth as the horse passed through like shadow or mist.

I couldn't make sense of this story at all.
It wasn't a fairy tale or a ghost story, and it struck me as rather pointless.
At the time, Mr. Kitagawa hadn't been seeking my opinion about it anyway.
—That story, I later realized, was something that had emerged from the sick person's mind.

Mr. Kitagawa was still unmarried, with an elderly mother and young sister in his household.
The sick person turned out to be his sister—I wouldn't actually lay eyes on her until after the incident happened.

I simply took fresh fish over from time to time.
I am not a fishmonger.
After my parents were driven back to the countryside due to war damage, I remained alone in Tokyo, doing what you might call helper work for a gardener.
Since there wasn’t much demanding work and I had connections here and there, I did a bit of brokering goods on the side.
Because I wasn’t an adult but just a kid, people found me all the more convenient to use.
It was shabby work, but I made a fair amount of money.

Now, about Mr. Kitagawa… To be precise, Tatsuji Kitagawa was a man with a somewhat literary air about him, yet despite this, he wasn’t the least bit standoffish and remained remarkably laid-back.
I couldn’t fathom why he worked as a middle school teacher—likely because he had nothing else to do.
I couldn’t tell whether he was poor or well-off.
There were days when he lacked even a single ten-yen note, and others when he carried stacks of crisp hundred-yen bills.

I met him in mid-January, and after that, cold days continued relentlessly.
The blooming of the plum blossoms had been delayed.
Then one day in March, something strange happened.
Maybe it was early spring’s doing.

I delivered some fresh fish to Mr. Kitagawa as usual.
I entered through the back door and called out to the kitchen, but there was no response.
After calling repeatedly, Mr. Kitagawa came from the direction of the garden.
He wore what looked like work clothes and work tabi on his feet.

“Ah, it’s you.”
“You came at a good time.”

It was an odd greeting, but I immediately understood why.
Mr. Kitagawa put away the fish and then said,

“Are you free right now?”

“Do you need something?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like you to help me with something…”

It was help with planting a plum tree.

As I rounded the storage shed, the L-shaped building came into view, cradling a rather spacious garden. It wasn’t a gardener-tended garden, but crape myrtles, wild roses, paperplants, hinoki branches, and camellias marked the far boundary of the open space. At one edge of it, a hole had been partially dug, and a large plum tree was propped against the fence. Though short in stature, it was a splendid old tree that had been well cared for, with a few lingering blossoms still clinging to its branches. The root ball had been generously prepared, making it far too unwieldy for Mr. Kitagawa to manage alone. To even get it there, they must have had to haul it over the wooden fence.

“That’s a fine tree.”
“How did it get here?”

“It’s a gift.”

On the veranda of what appeared to be the main house adjacent to the living area, a young man who looked like he might still be a student sat waiting. He had long hair and wore a homespun suit, his handsome face pale. Mr. Kitagawa dragged me all the way to the storage shed to search for a hoe, then spoke in a hushed voice, keeping it brief. "Truth is, he's not well."

That young man was Sadao Takenaka—not someone entirely unknown to them. At his request, movers had brought in the plum tree the day before yesterday. Then yesterday, he himself came over. He claimed he had made a promise to give a plum tree to Mr. Kitagawa’s sister Umeko and intended to fulfill it. When asked, Umeko said she had no memory of such a promise. Even so, Takenaka insisted he had made one and settled in, declaring he wouldn’t leave until the tree was planted in the garden. In the end, he stayed overnight last night. Come morning, he urged them to plant the plum tree quickly. He said his father and mother were coming too, so they’d be pleased to see it planted here. He truly said both his parents were coming as well.

“That can’t be,” Mr. Kitagawa said.
“I think he’s a bit unhinged.”

I didn’t quite understand the situation.
I tried to find out more about their relationship.

The Takenaka family were wealthy, and long ago, Mr. Kitagawa’s father had been greatly indebted to them.
Because the elderly lady there was frail and they were short on help, Umeko had gone to assist for a time.
Something like a maid, perhaps.
And last autumn, the elderly lady took Umeko along and went to Izu’s Yugashima for a brief recuperative stay.
The elderly lady was acquainted with the owner of the inn there.
Then, Sadao came afterward.
Sadao loved horses and had found one to ride nearby, traversing the foothills of Mount Amagi.
One day, the horse ran wild.
Whether it had been startled by a plane flying low, terrified by several trucks speeding away, or bewitched by a weasel crossing the road—it bolted off regardless.
Umeko, who had been waiting for Sadao in the middle of the road, thought only that he was making the horse gallop.
When it came close, she noticed Sadao's condition, and in her panic to get out of the way, she fell.
She only ended up with scraped hands.
The horse jumped over her and kept going.
However, Sadao fell from his horse, tumbled down a cliff, and sustained considerable injuries.

In light of this, I recalled the story Mr. Kitagawa had written.

Even after returning from Yugashima, Sadao’s mood remained poor, and he continued visiting the hospital periodically. Before long, Umeko fell ill and returned home. Her bronchopneumonia had worsened to the point of affecting her pleura, and she developed a high fever. But fortunately, she was nearly recovered. It seemed several letters had come from Sadao. However, there appeared to be no romantic relationship between them, and even if there was one, it likely wasn’t anything significant.

“That’s all there is to it,” Mr. Kitagawa said, cutting off the conversation.

“So anyway—we’ve decided to plant the plum tree. We have to take good care of trees, you know.”

“Is he close with your sister?” I asked.

“Who with...?”

“That would be Mr. Takenaka.”

“He doesn’t speak much and keeps his responses quiet—but when talking with Umeko, there’s nothing unusual about him at all.”

“Is he really a bit touched in the head?”

“That’s precisely what I can’t determine for certain. Why don’t you try sounding him out? You’re young still, but you carry the wisdom of common folk—which is to say, you ought to have sound judgment.”

I was outside the storage shed, and Mr. Kitagawa was holed up inside, talking.
Then I felt strange.
I thought Mr. Kitagawa might be a bit unhinged too.

“Anyway, let’s finish up the work.”

“Yes, yes.”

Mr. Kitagawa went to fetch a hoe and returned.
We began working.

The garden soil proved softer than expected, allowing us to dig the hole easily.
When it came time to position the plum tree, Mr. Takenaka stood up and joined in to assist.
He fussed extensively about the tree’s orientation.
That every one of his suggestions made perfect sense seemed peculiar for an amateur.
Once planted, the plum tree revealed its splendid branching form there.
Only the few flowers clinging to the thick branches looked awkward by contrast.

While I gazed at the tree, sitting on the veranda and drinking tea, Mr. Takenaka stared fixedly in my direction.
He kept staring.
And he said.

“Who are you?”

That was a polite way of speaking.
While I hesitated, Mr. Kitagawa answered.
“He’s my cousin.”
“Your cousin, is it?”
“It’s the first time, isn’t it?”

A chill came over me.
He took in my appearance—a jumper and rubber boots.
But he already started talking with Mr. Kitagawa.
“That branch should be cut.”

“Which one?”

“Um, the one stretching out this way….”

“Yes.”
“It’s a bit in the way, don’t you think?”
“But since it’s a young branch, it should bear fruit.”

There, the conversation turned to whether plum blossoms or fruit were truly more important, and a Zen-like debate ensued.

“I like plum trees that bear lots of fruit,” Mr. Kitagawa said.

“I like ones that bloom with lots of flowers,” Mr. Takenaka said.

It wasn’t a debate—it had the air of them each saying whatever they pleased about entirely separate matters. Both of them seemed completely indifferent to what the other was saying, as if delivering monologues to themselves. Listening nearby, I found it amusing. If anyone’s mind was strange, it seemed that both of them were equally so.

Before long, the mother returned.
Mr. Kitagawa discussed something with the mother in the shadow of an object.
There, I was about to leave when Mr. Kitagawa called out to stop me.

“Could you do me a quick favor?”

Mr. Kitagawa handed me some bills and told me to buy about a sho of sake from the beef stew shop.
He also told me to pay off a debt of about two hundred yen while I was at it.

“My mother managed to get the money together, so I was saved.”

Mr. Kitagawa laughed happily.

“Did you borrow it?” I blurted out.

Mr. Kitagawa stared intently at my face, then whispered as though divulging some grave secret—he had owned one small rental house and had asked a relative to purchase it.
It came to 100,000 yen.
However, since there were tenants living there, it was decided that until they vacated and handed it over, he would receive 3,000 yen each month…

So I came to understand Mr. Kitagawa’s financial circumstances but felt a bit lonely.
That way of selling off assets to get by was nothing to boast about.
But Mr. Kitagawa was wearing a proud smile.

When I furrowed my brows, Mr. Kitagawa—misunderstanding something—tapped my shoulder and said:

“Anyway, since he brought the plum tree, we’ve got to serve some alcohol or something.”
“And since his parents are coming—once that happens—it’ll get a bit difficult.”
“We don’t have enough rice, there’s nothing resembling a proper feast… Do me a favor and help out.”

What he said made sense, but there was something fundamentally wrong with his reasoning.
Perhaps he’d been taken in by Mr. Takenaka.

“I’ll take care of everything.”

To set his mind at ease, I first completed the errand at the beef stew shop.
But I couldn’t simply disappear after that.
Somehow it felt pitiful.
I helped the slightly stooped mother and handled the kitchen work.

A modest drinking party began.
Mr. Takenaka too appeared to hold his liquor well.
As the alcohol circulated, peculiar topics emerged.
Having finished the kitchen tasks, I listened while roasting homemade senbei rice crackers using the electric heater on the veranda.

They claimed the world was riddled with gaps. Even in things like atoms and molecules, there were gaps. Substances made of such things were also riddled with gaps—in ceilings, floors, walls. Fences had gaps too. Gaps existed in people’s attention. Gaps dwelled within hearts. So if one exploited those gaps, anything became possible. Even a large tree could be carried out. Even a human could be carried out.

Well, it was that sort of jumbled mess of a discussion, but the heart of it all seemed to lie in that plum tree.
That tree must have been planted in Mr. Takenaka’s own garden—the intrigue and effort of secretly removing it must have been what amused him. Mr. Takenaka, fixated on such matters, was indeed slightly unhinged.
Mr. Kitagawa, who was engaging in the conversation, was effectively a co-conspirator and somewhat peculiar himself.

However, that conversation didn't last until the end.
Someone came to the entrance, and the mother talked with them for a while. Then she went back and forth between the entrance and the parlor before showing the person into the parlor.

It was a man named Yamaguchi—a clerk-manager who handled various tasks for the Takenaka family. He was a thin, slight-framed middle-aged man with small eyes that glinted sharply beneath a receding hairline. From the moment I first saw him, I took an instant dislike to this man. I could never bring myself to say something like "Mr. Yamaguchi." There was nothing for it but to call him Yamaguchi without any honorific.

Yamaguchi bowed to everyone present and said:

"I apologize for the intrusion. I merely need to meet with Mr. Sadao; I have no other business here."

His tone was sharp-edged from the very beginning.
I was startled.
But what struck me as strange—
Both Mr. Takenaka and Mr. Kitagawa had simply fallen silent and kept calm expressions.

Yamaguchi turned toward Mr. Takenaka and said point-blank.

“I have come to retrieve you, so let us return now.”

“Ah, I’ll go back then.”

For Mr. Takenaka, who was even polite to someone like me, this was utterly rude.
Yamaguchi gave a deep nod.

“That puts my mind at ease. Your parents are also extremely worried, and from now on…”

“Ah—when will Father and Mother be arriving?”

Yamaguchi blinked small eyes.

“They were supposed to come here themselves, but…”

“What an outrageous thing to say.”
“I have come as a proxy to retrieve him.”

Mr. Takenaka’s remark about his parents coming seemed to ignite Yamaguchi’s indignation.
He suddenly launched into a tirade.
His phrasing remained polite but his tone turned harsh.—“The household has been worried since yesterday evening when Sadao failed to return.”
“Sadao hasn’t fully recovered from his illness yet, and these are troubled times.”
“While we were agonizing over this, we discovered that a gardener had dug up the old plum tree from our garden the day before yesterday and taken it somewhere.”
“That was Sadao’s doing.”
“We tracked down the gardener and confirmed it had been brought here.”
“Hence my coming to retrieve you.”
“What sort of reasoning could justify this?”
“We wouldn’t begrudge one or two plum trees, but why resort to such thieving methods?”
“Did someone incite you to this?”
“When I arrived here, you were shamelessly drinking alcohol.”
“This might be tolerable at a teahouse—but you should consider what manner of household this is.”
“If you wished to visit the young lady who once resided at our estate during her illness, there are proper channels for such visits.”
“This must inconvenience you as well.”
“There’s no lack of telephones nearby—had you intended to stay overnight, common decency demanded informing the estate. Yet they detained you indefinitely with alcohol—such impropriety invites deserved censure, and we cannot countenance further impositions of this sort……”

Yamaguchi had been speaking only to Mr. Takenaka, but gradually, his remarks contained more and more indirect jabs at Mr. Kitagawa.
He seemed determined not to speak directly to Mr. Kitagawa.
The whole of it, delivered in this particular manner, was like silk concealing a needle.

Mr. Kitagawa and Mr. Takenaka remained silent, pretending not to notice, smoking and drinking.
Mother went to the back room where the patient was.
I grew irritated.
I burned the rice crackers.

In the garden, the evening sun was already beginning to fade.
Yamaguchi cast his eyes in that direction and spotted the plum tree.

“Well now, it seems the plum tree has indeed found its way here.”

Yamaguchi stood up without ceremony, slid open the glass door of the engawa wide, and gazed out at the garden.

At that moment—was this too one of those gaps?—Mr. Takenaka whispered to Mr. Kitagawa.

“I must take my leave now.”

As soon as he bowed, Mr. Takenaka stood up and exited down the hallway with great swiftness.
As Yamaguchi started to turn around, I spoke.

“It’s cold.”

I slammed the wide-open glass door with all my strength.
The brass rail made for smooth sliding.
The door struck Yamaguchi full-on, causing him to stagger and tumble off the engawa.

“How uncouth…”

Yamaguchi looked at me, but I turned away. He must have thought something—but with that, he rubbed his forehead and waist, climbed back onto the engawa, and meticulously scraped the mud from the soles of his work tabi. Then he returned to his seat and looked around the room. No one spoke.

Voices of Mr. Takenaka and Mother could be heard from the entrance. Yamaguchi left. Mr. Takenaka was already about to leave.

After seeing the two off, Mother came to the tearoom.

“What a strange man,” she said. “He marched right in, sat by Umeko’s pillow, told her ‘Get well soon—you’ll surely recover,’ pressed his hands together and bowed. Poor thing—when Umeko let a tear fall, he was already halfway out of the room. What could he have meant by that?”

Mother had been speaking while standing, but with that, she went to where the patient was.

Mr. Kitagawa fell silent and drank.
And since he offered it to me too, I drank without reservation.

Since Mr. Kitagawa was lost in thought, I tactfully took my leave. It seemed like I wanted to talk to Mr. Kitagawa about something, but I gave up on that and forgot.

Even so, it still weighed on my mind, so the next morning, I went to check.

In the kitchen, Mother was preparing a meal.

I went to see the plum tree.
Inside the glass door of that engawa where the morning sun was streaming in, Mr. Kitagawa and his sister were discussing something.
I looked up at the plum tree.
With all these tangled emotions, I felt as if it were family.

Mr. Kitagawa slid open the glass door and called out to me.

“You came.”

It was the same greeting as the day before.
He wore a radiant expression.

But more than that, I was startled.
Ms. Umeko was beautiful.
I had seen her up close before—no, this was truly our first meeting.
She sat on a futon dragged into sunlight, leaning against an armrest.
Her hair hung in braids.
The body wrapped in wadded robes looked painfully slender.
She could have passed for a girl.
Yet her face belonged to a woman grown—morning light made her skin seem translucent.
Eyes black as nightshade revealed nothing.
A soft swell graced her lower cheek above a delicate underbite.
The whole struck me as breathtaking.
She shared almost nothing with her brother.
At most, one might find similarity in forehead shape and ears.

As I was staring at Ms. Umeko in surprise, Mr. Kitagawa spoke.
“Umeko relies on you more than on doctors.”
“Because she prefers fish to medicine.”

I felt my face grow hot.

“I truly am always grateful.”

Having said that, Ms. Umeko stared at me intently with her jet-black eyes.
I found myself strangely unable to speak and lowered my eyes.

“Instead, I let her read your fairy tale,” said Mr. Kitagawa.
“There—you came up with it, and I wrote that one.”

Ms. Umeko was simply laughing.

The pain of standing there like an idiot became too much, so I bowed and tried to leave.
Then Mr. Kitagawa stopped me.

“Actually, there’s something else I’d like to ask of you.”

“Yes, I’ll do anything.”

“It may sound strange, but it’s about that plum tree.”

Mr. Kitagawa fell silent for a while.

"I'll give it to you—could you dispose of it properly?"
"It would be a shame to turn it into firewood, so I want you to plant it somewhere and let it keep living."
"Anyway, dig it up again and move it elsewhere."
"I'll cover the costs—I'm counting on you."

"Can't we just leave it there?"

"It was such a fine gift—I meant to accept it, but after what happened..."
"That awful man—once something's been defiled by someone like him, I can't bear it anymore."
"When we discuss it, Umeko says she can't stand it either."
"Take it somewhere far away."

I hung my head completely.
At first it had been unexpected, but as that surprise ceased to surprise me, Mr. Kitagawa and Ms. Umeko's feelings came through clearly within me.
"Understood."

With that, I turned sharply away and pretended to gaze at the plum tree.
And I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.
Tears welled up, and I couldn’t hold them back.

I didn't really understand why I felt so sad, but my chest tightened and tears came spilling out.
Was it because Ms. Umeko was too beautiful?
Was it due to early spring's sentimentality?

I walked around the area to hide tears.
Then, I decided I would take the plum tree for them.