Pathway to Japanese Literature

A night hung heavy with darkness both profound and mist-like... No moonlight shone from above, no starlight pierced clearly through; one couldn't tell if skies were clear or clouded over; not a breath of wind stirred; every tree's leaves drooped as if sleeping... Into such midnight stillness came an unmistakable awareness of human presence.

Somewhere sounded the rattle of storm shutters sliding.
Only that.
Somewhere drifted fragments of voices.
Only that.
Somewhere echoed footsteps pacing corridors.
Only that.
Yet precisely because nothing more followed—each occurrence stood etched against night's depth with knife-edge clarity.

My dreams also resemble that.
In the midst of boundless sleep，momentary images emerge vividly.
――In the deep abyss of the coast，upon a moss-covered smooth boulder barely protruding above the water’s surface，someone clings motionlessly．――At the base of a huge tree whose trunk takes several armfuls to encircle，neither acting nor observing，someone stands quietly like an eternal sculpture――．
Through the wilderness，someone walks．
One side is a bottomless deep cliff．
If one were to peer in，not just their gaze but their very body might be dragged down to the depths．
Dangerous．
[Someone] keeps walking．―Someone chants something like a spell…A moment where great misfortune and great fortune intersect．
Do you want to become a demon or a god？
Hold your breath，hold your breath．

I often have dreams of that kind.
Regardless of day or night, within sleep resembling stupor, those forms emerge clearly; them—whether sleeping or waking…I keep watch over…until they finally vanish to who knows where.

I seemed to be ill.
Not exactly bedridden, but I kept my futon perpetually laid out—rising and sleeping at whim while idling about.
Whether this constituted illness by ordinary standards remained fundamentally unclear.
Perhaps it was heat prostration from that endless scorching month—not one drop of rain falling through thirty days of abnormal swelter.
Or fatigue from overexerting my mind through such infernal temperatures.
Maybe methyl alcohol’s cumulative effect from all those random liquors I’d gulped down during hectic days.
Or some hidden bacteria colonizing my body—some undetected organ failure—some degenerative brain tissue.
No—none of those alone.
Likely their aggregate.
Hence no doctor’s consultation.
No defined pathology existed.
Rather—this was convalescence.
Perhaps recuperation itself had mutated into sickness-awareness.
One might say completing work’s phase then taking leave had abruptly slackened mind and body’s tension.

After a long scorching heat, a thunderstorm finally arrived.
It wasn’t particularly fierce, but when the subsequent downpour finally revived the earth, he could at last breathe a sigh of relief.
Accompanied by thunder and lightning, it fell not in a torrential burst that abruptly cleared, but in a steady drizzle.
Forty or fifty minutes later, this turned into fine rain.
At the farthest edge of the veranda’s eaves stood several tall oleanders.
Right at their base, water droplets dripped from the eaves’ edge.
There emerged a large toad catching these droplets.
Raising its front legs while crouching on its hind ones, water dripped incessantly from its head down its back.
When droplets fell onto the broad curve of its abdomen, dull plopping sounds resonated.
The frog occasionally shifted its head and changed direction.
Yet it never left the spot where water fell.
Was it lying in wait for insect prey?
Was it simply bathing in the droplets?

The sluggish slowness of that toad mocked me as I stared at it intently.
The toad must have had its own instinctive intentions.
As I kept staring, tensing myself up only impaired my circulation, leaving nothing but a kind of exhaustion.
How absurd.
I should have simply enjoyed the long-awaited raindrops like the toad did.
Become as sluggish as a toad.

When lying on the spread-out bedding, I could already feel the cool air creeping in from the shadow of the garden trees.
But why was my own ventilation so poor? —Beside the closet, atop the cupboard, lay a massive pile of printed materials.
These were documents that had flooded in from the research institute all the way to my home.
These were investigation materials on Japan’s social conditions from the post-World War I era through the Manchurian Incident, Japan-China Incident, Pacific War, and into the postwar period.
When we spoke of social conditions, the central issue lay in the state of people's minds as observed through trends of thought, morality, and customs.
In every possible aspect of these [social conditions], the circulation had been truly poor.
Could it be that this suffocating stagnation was still clinging to me even now, having temporarily set down the burden of research?

In conclusion, having found myself confronted—without knowing exactly when—by the stupidity of politics and institutions, I was drawn to the sluggishness of toads and their indifference toward their surroundings, while simultaneously mocked by these very qualities.
――In times like these, I should drink alone in silence.
Though it’s cheap stuff, I do have a modest stock of whiskey.

The old housemaid would always do exactly as I said, no matter what. After finishing her tasks, she would retreat into the three-tatami-mat room and furtively work on something.

But Hisako wouldn’t have that.
When she visited, she would barge into my space without permission.
If something displeased her, she said, “Professor, again…”
Though I was neither a schoolteacher nor a distinguished writer, the term “Professor” used to grate on me—yet I grew accustomed to it over time.

“Professor, you’re drinking again.
“It’s bad for your health.”

She didn’t try to take the bottle and glass, but her black eyes held a thorn as she furrowed her brows deeply.
Then, once that thorn and the wrinkles vanished, her face—now conspicuous only for her nearsighted glasses—took on a hurried tone as she spoke.

“I asked the old housemaid, but you only had a bowl of rice with egg and seaweed, didn’t you? You must eat much more—a variety of things, you know.”

She was worried about my health.
She truly believed I was ill.
She seemed to want to make me eat things like butter, eel, beef, and such.
She had even bought them herself on occasion.
And then he had to eat meals in greater quantity, receive vitamin injections, and above all, see a doctor.
However, unfortunately, apart from butter, I do not particularly care for the items she listed.
Butter is still stocked.
Even if I only ate egg and seaweed, that was because the old housemaid served nothing else.
If it’s something the old housemaid serves, I usually eat it.
And the old housemaid serves me just about enough to eat.
As for the amount of rice, whiskey sufficiently compensates.

I smiled wryly and puffed on a cigarette.

“If you were to take charge of the kitchen, how amusing that would be.
“Indulging in gourmet pleasures and going bankrupt for it… how charmingly antiquated.”

“No, what I meant by ‘modern’ was about ordinary times versus times of illness…”

She started to speak but stopped.
She had noticed I was smiling too much.
—Within my smile lay not quite contempt toward her, but at least some measure of disregard—this she had sensed.
Rather than being smiled at, she would have preferred me to get angry or shout.

“Professor, you’re always evading things.
“Fine. I don’t care either.
“If your illness were to worsen, I wouldn’t leave your side…”

She suddenly turned desperately earnest, tears even seeming to well up in her eyes.
At such times, only her glasses became oddly conspicuous.
Glasses—especially women’s glasses—were truly strange things.
When wanting to show tears to another, one should at least remove their glasses.
When kissing, wasn’t it a woman’s proper etiquette to remove her glasses?
Modern women remained indifferent to such things.—Even so, I placed my hand on her shoulder and kissed her while she kept her glasses on, I myself still wearing mine.

Through those glasses, she stared fixedly into my eyes with her black pupils.

“I want to die before you, Professor.”
“When I die, hold my hand tight, okay?”
“Just swear to that.”

“I can swear to that.
“Though it’s my principle not to make any promises about the future…”

I answered earnestly. It was out of respect for her feelings.—It wasn’t about which of us would die first or how we might meet our ends. The shadow of Kiyoda’s Aunt had risen once more in her heart.

I had never met Kiyoda’s Aunt myself. What I knew came solely from Hisako—that she possessed an innate elegance, the very archetype of classical beauty. Widowed young, her subsequent life appeared punctuated by dalliances with various men. Yet these were never affairs of the heart, but rather the idle amusements of a wealthy and comely widow. In her twilight years, she developed a passionate love for Hisako, who reciprocated with equal fervor. Theirs was an affection surpassing mere homosexuality. After contracting a lung ailment and retreating to Kamakura’s shores, their meetings grew infrequent, yet this separation only deepened their bond. Whenever Hisako visited, both the aunt’s child and nurse would discreetly withdraw, leaving them to converse in private intimacy. When death approached, Hisako raced to her side in mortal desperation. By then, the Aunt’s consciousness had already blurred into opacity.

“Aunt, it’s Hisako.”
“Hisako…”

Kiyoda’s Aunt was emaciated; her neck looked ready to snap, and her cheeks were as white as wax.
Her long-lashed eyes started to open slightly, then closed again.
And she whispered.

“Hisako…”

“Aunt, please understand.”

A strange sound escaped Kiyoda’s Aunt’s throat.
Then there was silence.
After a while, a whisper-like voice came.

“Hisako…”

“I’m right here.”
“Aunt, please understand.”

“Hold my hand.”

Kiyoda’s Aunt’s hand reached out slightly.
Hisako cupped that slender, yet not bony, strangely cold hand in both her palms.

Time passed.

“Hisako…”
“Aunt…”
“Hold my hand.”
“Yes, I’m holding on tight.”

Hisako tightened her grip with both palms.
And so time passed.

Even during her final agony—though it was not a great agony—Hisako did not let go of Aunt’s hand.

The matter of Kiyoda’s Aunt would resurface in Hisako’s heart from time to time.
At first, I had a peculiar impression about it.
Hisako who kisses her lover while keeping her glasses on, Hisako who as a research institute assistant should be engaging with cutting-edge intellectual currents, and Hisako who shares love with Kiyoda’s Aunt—these aspects refuse to blend into some cohesive whole.
However, Hisako in Western attire and Hisako in a kimono were, after all, the same person.
She always applied thick foundation matching her skin tone and wore dark lipstick.
I first kissed her rouged lips facing sun-kissed cheeks and black eyes.—As one might expect, there had also been a coincidental opportunity, as is usually the case.

In the evening, just she and I alone were gazing at the sky from the research institute’s window. I, nearing fifty, and she, past thirty—even such a pair could sometimes gaze out a window together like young lovers. At that moment, two white herons flew across the city sky. Clouds hung over the western sky with no setting sun visible, yet the upper air remained bright—the soft white of the herons’ large wings appearing strangely forlorn. The two birds aligned themselves at a slight diagonal, maintaining their narrow interval without ever disrupting it, and flew straight onward. After their figures vanished, following a brief pause, we kissed.—Had those two white herons not flown by, or had we not gazed upon them, we might never have kissed at all.

I do not despise accidental opportunities.
But if this had been Kiyoko, such things would have been entirely unnecessary.

Kiyoko—that was neither the name of Kiyoda’s Aunt nor related to the "Kiyo" in Kiyoda.
It was something entirely different, and I did not know why she bore the name Kiyoko.
In the dream there clearly appeared—a rock within an abyss, an ancient great tree, a path along a cliff edge, humans corresponding to those things; incantation-like words could be heard—in such a manner, she was Kiyoko.
—Kiyoko always wore a striped kimono.
In other words, she had a figure suited to a striped kimono.
She wasn’t very talkative—in other words, she didn’t have much to say, and those lips of hers, with their thick lower lip compared to the upper one, weren’t suited for talking.
And in silence, she would usually be smiling enchantingly.
In other words, those large, dreamlike eyes knew no art of expression beyond smiling.
—With Kiyoko, I could have allowed myself to depend on her with peace of mind, anytime and anywhere.

With Hisako, I couldn't allow myself to be vulnerable.

After that, Hisako buried her face in my chest and said:

"I have been waiting so long for your love, Professor."

Even were this not a lie, true love would never let such words pass its lips—as her formal "watakushi" gradually softened to casual "atashi," she began weaving marriage demands into every conversation.

She lived alone in an apartment.
There were relatives living nearby, but she didn’t get along with them, and with too many people already there, there was no room to spare.
However, there was a rumor that the apartment would be resold and turned into some sort of dormitory.
If that were to happen, given the housing shortage, finding another rental room would not be easy.
Everything seemed to irritate her at every turn.
“I think I’ll enter married life sometime this year...” she said.

“That might be fine too,” I answered in a casual manner.

Even she did not say she wanted to marry the Professor.
For my part, I would never say—even in jest—“Shall we get married?”
――The veracity of her stories about relatives and the apartment wasn’t the issue.
Moreover, she was no longer a virgin, but her past affairs were not the issue.
Such matters held no value worth scrutinizing for me.
Marriage may be a necessary life form for women at least once in their lives, but for men, it is not necessarily so.
In a society like the present one, through marriage women gain a form of autonomy, but men—or at least I—risk having their autonomy disrupted.

——If it were Kiyoko, I would willingly marry her.
Kiyoko would not only leave my independence undisturbed—she would actually encourage it.
In other words, she was a woman of such character.
No—even saying such things was unbefitting of her.
I feared meeting her.
For were I to meet her even once, I would likely find myself unable to part from her for even an instant.
She, who demanded nothing and simply smiled warmly, would have imbued my solitude realm with sweetness.

I want to secure my solitude realm.
Into that place alone, I want to let nothing intrude.
That very place is the sanctuary of my thoughts.

I recalled Bessho in his later years.
He was a literary scholar and stalwart writer.
While holding conversations with guests, he would fluidly write manuscripts.
No matter how busy he was when I visited, he never showed annoyance and always welcomed me into his study.
He would chat amiably with me while simultaneously writing.
Even when newspaper editors or other visitors came calling, he wrote while properly attending to them.
These were no slapdash compositions either.
At times he would knit his brows in concentration yet still manage to flash guests a knowing smile.
I used to watch in fascination as his pen raced across pages and manuscript sheets flipped by one by one.
When I fell silent, he would take up the conversation himself.
I even began suspecting him of schizophrenia.

That he, in his later years—which is to say, shortly before his death—did not wish to see people much. He never worked in front of others, and even when not working, he disliked having visitors. He went out less frequently. One time, he said to me in a tone as if confiding something of grave importance.

“I wanted to savor solitude.
“It may be a bit too late, though.”

After a brief pause, he said again.

“I want to sink into the depths of solitude.”

Whether he had been seized by profound despair or some noble ideal, I cannot say.
No—he likely wasn’t even gripped by such things at all. ——About a year later, he died suddenly.

This matter of Bessho began weighing strangely on my mind.
My solitude realm might be fundamentally different from what Bessho termed solitude.
One could call it the mind’s periphery or its innermost sanctum—this sliver of space belonging solely to me, permitting no prying eyes from others, the very root of my uniqueness.
Though narrow in scope, it stretched infinitely upward and downward.
——Thus had I unwittingly collided with it.
That I now question my own sanity might also stem from drawing parallels with Bessho’s circumstances.

I had a dream again.
——A large whirlpool swirled on the brimming water's surface.
The whirlpool was ferocious; its center formed a deep hole that sucked everything in.
Two strands of straw debris and a single leaf slowly spiraled toward the center, only to be abruptly sucked in.
Afterwards, nothing remained—only the deep hole at the center.
It changed size ever so slightly while roaring as it swirled into the infinite depths.
That was all there was.

That remains in the back of my eyes even when I open them.
If I try to see it, it immediately materializes before me.

That whirlpool is the desolation of my solitude.
Though unbearable, this desolation is incomparably precious.
I detest and avoid anything that disturbs it.—If I were to marry Hisako, she would surely disturb it.
Not just Hisako...

I was now living in one wing of a large house, having been displaced by air raid damage. There were two families in the main building. One of them was Nishioka—a relative of the house's owner who managed the entire property. This Mrs. Nishioka would frequently press marriage proposals on me, showing photos of several eligible young women she considered candidates. Even when I laughed and refused to engage, she would leave the photographs behind. I made a point of keeping them for just one day before returning them the next day. Photos are always either better or worse than the real thing anyway. I never even properly looked at them.

——If there were a photo of Kiyoko, I would gaze upon it day and night. I would keep it displayed on my desk. Her photo must be exactly like the real thing. In other words, she is such that no photo could differ from the real thing.

Every time I returned the photos after a day，Mrs.Nishioka would say with an impressed tone：

“Won’t this one do either？”
“Is that so...”

After some time passed，another photo appeared.—It seemed there were quite a number of marriageable men in this world，but marriageable women were even more plentiful.
However，Mrs.Nishioka did not say such things.
With a strained smile on plump cheeks，only the eyes gazed at me with earnest intensity.

“If you don’t get married soon, you’ll end up missing your chance. A gentleman of my acquaintance kept being picky about this and that until he finally married his housemaid in the end.”

“But at my place, there’s only the old housemaid.”

“Truly, that old housemaid is admirable. Quiet, loyal, hardworking…”

Given her approach, I didn't mind talking with Mrs. Nishioka.
The talk of marriage, kept light, didn't weigh on me.

However, the word "marriage" was no abstract concept.
In my mind’s eye rose a vivid scene—a wife planting her ample buttocks before the long hibachi.
This image oppressed and diminished my solitude realm.

When Hisako came to my place, she would unhesitatingly sit right before the long hibachi. For some reason, she would always knit deep vertical wrinkles between her eyebrows and peer into the hibachi at least once—yet never actually pick up the fire tongs or ash scoop. Of course, being summer, there was no fire lit.—One time when she peered into the hibachi as usual, she suddenly suppressed a chuckle. Then she fixed her black eyes on me.

“Professor, you’re the sort who would never engage in marital quarrels, would you?”

I smiled.
I had made it a rule to smile at what seemed like important matters.

“I might even have marital quarrels.”
“It’s just that I don’t because I don’t have a wife…”

“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Because you look down on women.”

“I do respect them.”

She no longer believed such things. And Mr. Ogata said that while he respected women, he had once respected them too much, which led to an odd incident.

“He was in a terrible mood, and when I wondered why, it turned out they’d had a marital quarrel.”

Ogata was a colleague of mine at the research institute. A friend in the countryside had given him a large quantity of eggs. So he got the idea to have an omelette made and bought some chopped beef on his way home. But later his wife remarked that the cows must be poorly fed this season—the meat apparently had almost no fat on it. Not only did the fat fail to stick properly to the dishes, but it washed off completely with just a bit of water. When she asked how much it had cost per hundred monme, he truthfully answered seventy yen. At this his wife frowned and declared it must have been dog meat—he’d clearly tried to trick her. Since Ogata was slightly drunk, he shouted “Don’t talk nonsense!” adding “The butcher might’ve cheated us, but I didn’t do any deceiving.” “Yes you did,” she insisted. This escalated into a quarrel where Ogata pounded the dining table with his fist, overturned the iron kettle on the long hibachi, and sent ashes flying everywhere. He didn’t speak to his wife until next morning, arriving at the institute still sulking and thoroughly out of sorts.

“Professor, you never get angry precisely because you look down on women.”

At that, my smile turned bitter but froze midway—I was struck by a strange impression.
Hisako’s body sitting there seemed to bear the weight of a thousand ingots.
Marital quarrels defy all prospects of success.
She wore a kimono at that moment; her hips sat motionless like an anchored mortar stone, while beneath her waist cinched by obi and thin cords, her abdomen swelled with rounded fullness.
Had I not compromised and yielded to that flesh?

To speak frankly, at first in the bedroom she and I did not harmonize.
I would often find myself chuckling under my breath.
She would frequently grow impatient.
In her impatience she would strike my chest and pinch my arms.
This later came to harmonize well.
It was I who strove to compromise on that.
No—the woman's body had conquered mine.—That, I believe, constitutes the nature of relations between men and women.
This would hold especially true in marital relationships.
It is the man who must attune himself.
And thereby he loses his autonomy.

If it were Kiyoko, such foolishness would be unthinkable.
No—even to say such things would defile her.
Such was she.

As I sank into a defeated mood, Hisako suddenly stood up. She strode out to the veranda, placed a hand on a pillar, and gazed into the garden—a shrill, cackling laughter rang out as a boy retreated into the distance. He was Hosokura’s son from a different household than Nishioka’s.

Hosokura’s son, too, was one of those who disrupted my solitude realm.
It was said he had narrowly escaped death in some disaster through mysterious means.
A burn scar ran from one cheek down to his shoulder.
——Whether he was truly mad or not, I did not know.
Though fifteen or sixteen with an ordinary build, he had an oddly short neck and stooped posture, his head large and flattened at the back.
Clad in a short-hemmed unlined kimono, he perpetually wandered the garden—
that spacious plot embracing an L-shaped building, lush with plantings and divided centrally by a bamboo fence.
There he would loiter aimlessly, hunched forward with nose protruding.
Even when encountering others, he never lifted his face for proper eye contact—merely darting a sidelong glance before looking away.
That fleeting glance carried eyes that seemed to pierce through even one’s hidden secrets.

He would often sneak up to the veranda near my study, peer sharply into the room, loiter along its edge, then peer sharply inside again. If I or the old housemaid suddenly appeared before his eyes, he would let out a shrill cackling laugh and retreat into the distance. Even so, he was not mute. There were times when he spoke rapidly in a high-pitched voice to his family members. It was simply that he hardly ever spoke to anyone outside his household. There was a rumor that he was somewhat mentally challenged, but to me he seemed closer to a madman.

This Hosokura’s son always grated on my nerves and threatened the stability of my solitude realm.
Although I knew it wasn’t worth worrying about, whenever he loitered near the veranda, it felt as if I were being spied upon—an eerie sensation.
I never saw his figure at night, but occasionally, in the darkness, I fancied sensing his presence.

“I wish you could somehow keep him from coming over here,” I said to the old housemaid.

The Old Housemaid remained composed.

“That boy is a simpleton.”
“Because he’s a simpleton, they probably can’t keep him locked up.”

That simpleton split firewood, tended the fire under the kettle, ran small errands, and seemed to be of some use to the family.

At times I felt utterly absurd.
I also felt as if I were being mocked by him.
But precisely because such trivial matters were trivial, they ended up grating on my nerves.
Even so, there was nothing to do but endure.
If I had yelled at him, I would only have become even more miserable.

Kiyoko would not ignore Hosokura’s son like the old housemaid did, but rather gaze upon him gently and composedly.
She was one who would behold all existing things in their true form with tender care—such was her nature.

Whenever Hisako sensed Hosokura’s son’s presence, she would rush out as if challenging him. And when he fled, she would say something else without mentioning it.

“Oh, the crape myrtle is blooming beautifully.”
“Red and white…”
“Could I possibly have a few?”
“I’d like to take them to Kiyoda’s Aunt’s grave.”

I was made to feel perplexed.
Things like marital quarrels and Hosokura’s son—how utterly remote they were from Kiyoda’s Aunt.
―Whether Kiyoda’s Aunt was a notion Hisako conjured through her quick wit or one that perpetually resided within her heart—I did not know.

However, the crape myrtle in the garden was truly beautiful—beside the ancient cherry tree with its upper branches broken and decayed, amidst thickets of sasanqua, dendrobium orchids, osmanthus, and cypress leaves, clusters of vivid crimson and white flowers bloomed.
The fact that they were glimpsed faintly through the thicket of green leaves made them all the more splendid.
When I gazed fixedly at them, something akin to the flowers' melancholy permeated my heart.
—The flowers’ melancholy—no, rather, the loneliness of my heart.

When I got drunk—when I got severely drunk—I would sometimes feel my brain stiffen.
At such times, pressing something hard against the back of my head felt pleasant.
Suddenly hit by inspiration, I had the old housemaid procure a box pillow for me.
Ceramic pillows had an unpleasantly sickly air about them.
A box pillow would even lend an air of allure to a single man.
What the old housemaid had brought was a vivid vermilion-lacquered one, with a crimson damask pillow cover from which red silk tassels dangled.
I had her cover it with a white hemp cloth, and I would lie on my back.
It was slightly high, but allowed air to flow freely around my neck while exerting a pleasant pressure solely on the back of my head.
When a slight numbness came to the back of my head, I would turn onto my side.

In front of me, crape myrtle flowers peeked out from the green leaves. When I gazed fixedly at them, the flowers smiled forlornly, and I sank into the abyss of desolation. Precious beyond compare—the abyss of desolation within my solitude realm. My heart ached, and tears welled up in my eyes. A realm where melancholy and joy converged. That—I desperately wanted to secure it as mine alone, undisturbed by anything. It was precisely by passing through there that I attained profound contemplation and creativity welled forth. I just wanted to pray.

If Kiyoko were beside me, she would aid this prayer of mine. With her silent warmth, she would strengthen me. She was precisely that sort of woman—one who could accomplish so much simply by existing mutely at my side. And I would rise weeping, lay her upon this box pillow, have her contemplate those crape myrtle blossoms. She alone was worthy of it.

Yet because of this box pillow, I—who had never once been angered—truly became enraged.

Ogata and Hisako came together.
I no longer wished to see people much, for the time being...
Even so, I welcomed them without making a disagreeable face.—Ogata had heard about me shutting myself in at home, drinking nothing but alcohol, sleeping and waking at odd hours, and came out of concern.

He said in a cheerful tone, with a suspicious look on his face as he observed my condition.

“So they said you seemed ill, but when I came, you’re unexpectedly well.”
“Or is it a case of drunken madness?”

I had even had the bed tidied and was sitting up properly.
I made it a habit to shave every other day, so there was no stubble.
I also neatly combed my hair every morning.

“That’s right, exactly as you see.”

Hisako said from beside me.

“But you were always lying around, weren’t you? You yourself said you seemed ill.”

“Thinking about various things—that is to say, contemplation—is my illness. And lying down when I think—that’s my habit.”

“If that’s the sort of illness or habit you mean, I’d like to try it myself.”

“Who wouldn’t want to?” Ogata laughed.

When the old housemaid made tea, I immediately had her bring out the whiskey bottle. I asked that some snacks be prepared too.

“There’s nothing proper for snacks, but let’s have a drink—it’s been a while.”

“Don’t lie.”

“No—it’s been ages since I drank with you. This stuff’s been tested; there’s no methyl alcohol, so rest easy.”

When things reached this point, Ogata became his usual cheerful and unreserved self.
Hisako moistened her lips with her glass.

Ogata was a man whose true nature remained unknowable.
He chattered away energetically, yet this very trait gave the impression that his true intentions were unfathomable.
His body was sturdy—firm, rounded flesh beneath short-cropped hair and sun-darkened skin—with a gaze that never faltered in the slightest.
And indeed, he was fundamentally good-natured.
That his true nature stayed unknowable meant his essence was precisely what met the eye: there existed nothing beyond it.

Ogata expressed childlike joy, saying that Mr. Sugiyama, who funded the research institute, had high expectations for the current research results and had promised to provide even more substantial funding. Ogata pointed at Hisako and said:

"This one here—you know—she's quite skilled at conversation."
"She had completely delighted Mr. Sugiyama."
"She makes an excellent diplomat."

"Oh my," Hisako responded, "I merely reported matters exactly as they were."
"In truth, they are not impressive results at all."

“That’s right—if properly organized. …And then, you know, I’ve been thinking of embarking on a new research topic as well. What do you think?”

He wanted to pivot from examining Japan’s social conditions, zeitgeist, and trends in public sentiment from post-World War I to the present day—to instead pursue and dissect political defects: namely, this fundamental lack of responsibility.
At present, all manner of criticism was leveled at bureaucrats, but he claimed it was precisely through the aforementioned concrete research that the bureaucratic organization ought to be overturned from its very foundations.

“Once your vacation ends, why don’t we take on this new project together?”

I formed an ambiguous smile.
“However, my vacation doesn’t seem likely to end anytime soon.”

"But you aren't ill, are you?"

"I'm not ill. I simply came to understand how utterly foolish politics is—how utterly foolish the systems born of politics are. Until this sickness of mine shows some improvement..."

"Yet you're speaking of Japanese politics specifically, not politics itself, aren't you? Still, let's hear your thoughts."

I still had no desire to discuss such matters. People mattered more than politics. More than people even—it concerned the solitude realm, that abyss of desolation I now approached and must traverse. Yet I wished to keep this from all others. It remained forbidden sanctuary.—I redirected my argument.

“First, hypothetically—society disintegrates completely, individuals become scattered into fragments, and only then do they recombine anew.”

That sparked a wide-ranging debate.
By doing such things, can people survive in modern society?
Even if they could survive, in what manner would a new society be formed?
Concrete problems arose in countless numbers.
But as for me, I thought it would be perfectly fine even if they couldn’t survive.

Moreover, I grew tired of the debate and sank into depression.
Because I drank quickly, I became terribly drunk.
As for Ogata, the more he drank, the more talkative he became.
I let him keep talking and collapsed limply onto my side.

“You must be exhausted.”
“Shall I get you a pillow?” said Hisako.

When I nodded, the intoxicated Hisako unhesitatingly opened the closet before Ogata.

"Oh my."

She froze for an instant.
Then she took out the bright red box pillow.

“What could this be?”

She said coldly and flung the box pillow down beside me.
I had kept the matter of that pillow hidden from her.
Because it wasn’t something that needed to be mentioned.
But when it was tossed aside like rubble—drunk as I was—I felt sudden rage flare up within me.
I sat up, picked up the pillow, wiped it clean with my sleeve pressed it against my head and lay back down.
And I shouted.

“Just go home now.”
“Go home, all of you.”
“I want to be alone.”
“I want to lie on this precious box pillow and think about her.”
“I want to be alone.”
“What are you dawdling for?”
“Get out.”
“I won’t say another word.”
“I want to be left alone in silence.”

Tears flowed from my eyes.
I lay sideways as if hugging the pillow, covering my face with both sleeves.—Ogata, then Hisako, seemed to be saying something to me or whispering to each other.
I turned a deaf ear to everything and refused to see anything.

Like a dream yet with clarity, something akin to the eye of a typhoon appeared. There was a vacuum. I placed myself within it. Unfathomable desolation enveloped me. It was a happy sorrow so profound it defied tears. And it was a vacuum. The vacuum had to be filled. To fill it, Kiyoko's figure materialized. Within the vacuum, she appeared naturally.—I opened my eyes. There was no one there. Ogata and Hisako seemed to have left. The old housemaid was gone too. I remained completely alone. Kiyoko had vanished as well. Could Kiyoko truly be a real human being? That's right—for me, she was not a figment of my imagination.—I pressed the back of my head into the box pillow, stretched out my body supine, and closed my eyelids. The sound of cicadas briefly reached my ears before silence settled into a sacred realm of desolation.