Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

Masayo’s eyes would sometimes take on a deep shadow at the slightest trigger. Her face wasn’t exactly beautiful but was well-balanced, her skin—though pale from powder—having a polished sheen, her long narrow eyes glimmering with flickering pupils, lashes curled back and lengthy. All in all, hers was a face lacking depth, yet at the slightest trigger—a blink, a pensive moment—a profound shadow would settle in her eyes. Having once been a geisha in Yoshicho and now residing leisurely in this town near Tokyo under the care of Yamasugi—who kept scheming in political circles even after the war closed down the pleasure quarters—it followed that there must be particular meaning to the shadow dwelling in her eyes. It wasn’t as though they held any distinct hues—sentimentality, impatience, desire, or anything of that sort. As though a wisp of cloud were casting its shadow upon a lake—might her lashes be projecting that shadow into her eyes? Her eyes would softly haze over with shadow. This shadow wasn’t dark, but with its oddly profound depth, it seemed to pull people’s hearts in. One could say the allure of a woman’s physical form—around thirty-five years of age—lurked beneath the surface. That was the impression I formed.

When exactly this began, I couldn't say even after thinking it over. At first, I hadn't noticed it at all. But once I did notice it, time and again, the shadow in her eyes gradually deepened—such was the pattern. And now, it had become a fathomless thing that seemed intent on dragging me down. Yet even this occurred only in fleeting moments—between spoken words or within silences—before vanishing as though wiped away.

“Today, I want you to tell me all about Beijing—slowly and in detail.” Her eyes were now clear, even containing a smile. But why this talk of Beijing again? It’s always, always about Beijing. Though apparently, one of Masayo’s colleagues had worked at a Beijing restaurant. This was before the war—they had only exchanged letters two or three times, and even when we sent letters from our side, no replies came, until finally all contact was lost completely, or so I’ve heard. However, I had only been in Beijing for about three years and didn’t have any particularly interesting stories to share. The Forbidden City, Longevity Hill, the Temple of Heaven, parks, markets, theater, pagoda tree-lined streets… That’s all I ever talk about, and even those topics I’ve already exhausted—what else could I possibly tell her? But rather than that, there are various stories I could tell about my current work handling office affairs—matters of lumber processing and construction—but she seems to have neither interest nor concern in such topics.

“I hear the women of Beijing are quite beautiful.” “In what way would you say they’re beautiful?” As for how exactly—it was difficult to explain. “I hear there are even nation-toppling beauties.” “Nation-toppling beauties….” There was nothing to do but repeat her words and raise his cup. When he gulped it down—as if summoned by that motion—the distant throb of drums reached his ears. The stall dances appeared to still be continuing. Though March had come, the air still held its chill when the town began its festival rites. It seemed part shrine celebration, part reconstruction commemoration, part defeat observance. Lanterns hung from scattered eaves while paper peach and wisteria blossoms dangled from nearly every house. Behind the shrine grounds echoed jinta music from a small circus troupe; along the main road swayed a barrel-shaped mikoshi borne by carriers trailed by children in shrine vestments. At every crossing and plaza stood tall stalls hosting variety shows and bon dances. Yet an incongruous mood pervaded—momentum never rising—with backstreets lying conspicuously desolate. Beneath the bridge’s archway drifted four or five street-urchin-like children sucking candy while slapping menko cards against pavement; nearby clustered red-headbanded festival children watching slack-jawed. Kites wheeled through sunset-streaked skies. I wandered through town awhile before stopping at a stall for cheap kasutori shochu—then homeward I went to sprawl beneath my blanket with book in hand and grilled fish washed down by more liquor.

The back door suddenly opened, and Ms. Oru poked her face out.

“Oh, you were home?” “Perfect timing.” “Madam says you should come over.” “There’s alcohol and food too.” “Even though it’s a festival, Mr. Kouno—are you studying?” “Come over now.” “Right away now.”

After saying what she had to say without waiting for a reply, Ms. Oru went back. —That's how it usually was. It might have been only toward me, but she never seemed interested in hearing responses. She was a woman in her forties working at Masayo Takaoka's house—Oru-san called her "Madam," and Masayo called her "Ms. Oru"—but I didn't know what their relationship was.

I smoked a cigarette, drank shochu, retightened my sash, killed some time with such things, and set out. Exiting through the back door and opening the bamboo fence gate right there led me to Masayo’s kitchen entrance; circling past the bath area brought me out to the veranda. It was said to have originally been the retirement home of a kimono fabric merchant—a stylish single-story house surrounded by a garden abundant with stones and plantings.

Masayo sat with light makeup, warming herself at the kotatsu. With only her fingertips inserted into the kotatsu quilt scattered with large plum patterns, her multi-layered kimono draped with a haori slipping off her shoulders, her Western-style coiffure revealing a neat nape, she sat with one knee slightly raised—giving the impression of being neither a proper wife, nor a kept woman, nor a lady of standing, but something ambiguously in between. In the long hibachi, water for warming sake boiled, and on the dining table were arrayed several dishes primarily of fish.

“Today turned out rather dull.” “Two friends from Tokyo were supposed to come see the festival, but they suddenly wired saying they couldn’t make it.” “Left me waiting all alone.” “So I’m their replacement?” “You object?” “Since both could drink you under the table, you’re free to match their pace.” “Oh, but you’ve already had some, haven’t you?”

I entered the kotatsu and accepted the cup. I no longer felt any reserve. I had grown accustomed to feelings closer to those for an older sister—or perhaps a young aunt.

“I went to pray alone.” “Look at this.” “Just on a whim, I drew a paper fortune—and got the best luck!” From between her obi, she took out a piece of paper. When I suddenly looked up from the difficult-to-explain phrases and characters of the great fortune, her gaze—which had apparently been fixed on the evening-darkened garden—wavered slightly and turned toward me. In her eyes, a deep shadow was settled even more profoundly than usual. Feeling as though I were the one caught off guard, I silently returned the paper slip to her.

“Ms. Oru, determined not to be outdone, went out saying she’d bring back a great fortune too—but I wonder what she’ll get.” “Well, probably a half-fortune, I suppose.” She stood up, turned on the electric light, and brought a kitchen cloth from the kitchen area—her standing figure was not particularly impressive. She was short in stature—or rather, her legs were short—creating an imbalance between her upper and lower body. If she were a geisha trailing banquet attire hems, that might have concealed it, but for some reason she always wore her kimono with a shortened hemline, making her lower body from the hips down form a stubby cylinder. I disliked that. For someone being so kind to me—if she were an older sister or aunt—I would want her to have a slender figure.

Even so, I had not known her for very long.

After the war ended, when I returned from Beijing, I found myself confronting my own solitude. The sister's family that had been my emotional mainstay appeared to have been entirely obliterated in the war's devastation; with no other relatives to lean on, I possessed nothing beyond a few bundles of belongings—a quintessential example of a repatriate. For a while I wandered directionless, but by chance there was Okimoto in this town—another returnee from Beijing—who had gathered several associates to establish a modest construction firm; when I visited them, they welcomed me with such enthusiasm that before I knew it, I'd been pressed into joining their group. Next arose the housing predicament. The office was merely a makeshift barracks structure, utterly unfit for overnight stays. Okimoto laughed abruptly, as if struck by inspiration, and said, "Why not become something like a live-in guard?"

I had overheard that Masayo Takaoka and Ms. Oru were usually alone, with her husband Yamasugi rarely visiting—leaving them rather exposed. Okimoto promptly tried approaching them on my behalf. Their reply came unexpectedly: room availability wasn’t the issue, but rather that having a man around... given it was all women. Paradoxically, this made them wary. Despite such reservations, through their mediation they secured me a six-tatami room in the Taniguchi residence—its back entrance immediately adjacent—partitioned off from the main house with a slight protrusion, though dim enough to suggest a converted storage space. In compensation, it boasted closets beyond necessity.

A lonely soul from a defeated nation—such sentiments catered all too well to my spirit not yet thirty. During the day I handled office work and external affairs at Okimoto Construction, and at night read books on labor issues and economic problems. I extended a corrugated iron eave on the room's side and cooked beneath it.

That cooking area faced the back door of Masayo Takaoka’s house. When I lit the stove fire, Ms. Oru would give me various pointers as she passed by. Masayo would peer through the bamboo fence and emerge as if to relieve her boredom, engaging in brief chats; Ms. Oru’s advice was always purely practical and useful. But Masayo remained utterly indifferent to such things—whether I choked on smoke or my eyes smarted from charcoal sparks—and engaged only in trivial chatter. Yet for me, conversing with her—who always wore some pleasant fragrance—was not entirely without its private solace.

She showed no interest in my menial tasks but instead gave me various things. When Ms. Oru brought them, she would add that they were from Madam. When she brought them herself, she displayed a natural demeanor and smile entirely free of affectation, leaving me no room to feel any desire to refuse. Before I knew it, I had grown prone to forgetting even the words of gratitude in my heart.

Various things came. Fish and chicken came frequently, along with vegetables. There were canned goods and soap too. The silk handkerchiefs left me somewhat perplexed. The beautiful whiskey glass seemed a bit too refined for my shochu. But the ivory pipe they'd specially crafted from old shamisen tuning pegs suited me perfectly. When that pure cotton robe arrived as sleepwear, I felt strangely wretched—all I ever did in return was occasionally bring her firewood bundles from the construction site.

I never saw Yamasugi, her husband. He would come quietly on rare occasions, apparently staying for two or three nights at a time, and at other times seemed to bring guests to eat, drink, and hold discussions until late into the night. Both Yamasugi and Masayo appeared to be making efforts to avoid attracting attention in this town. Okimoto once whispered to me that Yamasugi seemed connected to the military's past illicit dealings with stockpiled supplies.

Even so, Masayo was easily noticed. She had been asked to teach her daughter the shamisen and had been going to several houses to give lessons. She had been asked to perform at the festival’s entertainment show but flatly refused.

“On festival nights, staying home drinking is what’s most enjoyable.” “This is the first time I’ve realized something like this.” “How about getting drunk and dancing on a festival float?”

“That’s something for when you’re young.”

I tended to be drawn to how her eyes would often take on a shadowed depth. It seemed the barrel-shaped mikoshi was being paraded out again, as a wave of voices could be heard. When that faded, the distant sound of drums would continue and then cease. A breeze seemed to pick up.

Ms. Oru returned and, while opening a bag of sweet chestnuts, said.

“Looks like rain.”

“How was it?” Masayo asked.

“Oh, that? Just in time—it’s a half-fortune.” “A half-fortune… that’s what came up, huh?” Masayo looked at my face and laughed. “Madam got a great fortune, and I got a half-fortune—how well it turned out. If it were the other way around, that would’ve been troublesome.” “Even if you called her half-mad—that’s how it goes.” Ms. Oru said with a laugh, “Even if she’s half-mad, Madam here is fully mad.”—There was a time she went to the public bath and on her way back stepped through the woven strap of her azuma geta sandals, snapping it clean. After tying it with a handkerchief and shuffling along like a critically ill patient, a passing doctor-like man asked, “Are you all right?” Even as she shook her head saying “No,” she pointed to her foot and insisted it looked like she’d suffered some injury. “The geta strap snapped.” “Ah, I see. Be careful.” Unfazed, he walked on past. After that, Masayo suddenly became angry. She took off her geta, went barefoot in her tabi socks, and strode briskly. Clutching a furoshiki-wrapped bundle of bath utensils in one hand and dangling geta sandals in the other, barefoot in her tabi socks as she breathlessly flung open the kitchen door—her appearance bore every resemblance to a madwoman.

Such stories came as a bit of a surprise to me.

"There's more," Ms. Oru went on to say. —One time, when she had luggage, she returned by rickshaw. "Thanks for your trouble," she said dismissively before entering the house. Some time later, when Ms. Oru went to the entryway on an errand, she found the rickshaw man sitting on the footboard smoking a cigarette. "There's no call to wait for fares at someone's front door," Ms. Oru scolded, to which the rickshaw man replied in puzzlement, "Isn't Madam going out again?" When pressed, he explained he still hadn't been paid. Upon hearing this, Masayo didn't laugh but sank into a profoundly sullen silence. Her displeasure resembled that of a madwoman.

Such stories also struck me as somewhat unexpected.

“But everyone’s so meddlesome and clueless, always butting in—isn’t that just maddening?”

“How strange…” “There’s no reason to get angry, is there?” “Kindness… even the kindness of good-natured people must be bought and paid for, I suppose.”

“It’s because they’re fools that they appear good-natured.” “Kindness—I don’t consider it to be anything like that.”

The kindness she spoke of was utterly pure and untainted. Things that made people’s faces flush or caused them shame—no matter how well-intentioned—could not be called kindness. True kindness had to be something done with natural feeling, performed naturally, leaving no ripples in the other’s heart—imposing neither obligation nor burden, not even allowing gratitude to take root. To summarize her words, this was what it amounted to. And this now moved beyond the doctor and rickshaw man—she was talking about herself. She was talking about her actions toward me. The actual facts were indeed as such, and I had no choice but to acknowledge them without reservation. Yet where had she acquired such kindness?

Ms. Oru, who didn’t drink much alcohol, had promptly finished her meal by herself. Before I knew it, the rain began to fall, its sound pattering against the eaves. The distant drumbeats ceased, and the depth of the night could be felt.

A thought that I had perhaps gotten a bit carried away suddenly welled up in my drunken mind. There had been several times when I’d gone up to the tea room for idle chatter, but this was the first time I’d lingered long at a table with food and drink.

I tried to forcibly sever the tepid air of the room, the kotatsu's warmth, and my utterly indulgent mood as I attempted to rise from my seat.

“My, how calculating of you. There’s still sake left, you know.”

A new one-shō bottle is taken out from the cupboard.

“Since it’s the festival, let’s just drink through the night anyway.” “Why don’t we play some flower cards during the break?” As for flower cards, Ms. Oru was very fond of them and also quite skilled. Masayo wasn’t very good at them. I was the worst. But that didn’t matter. I liked the rainy Ono no Tōfū motif, and as I kept fixating on it, my losses gradually piled up. Ms. Oru would sometimes intentionally let me take the Ono no Tōfū motif. But Masayo would always compete with me for those cards, snatch them away, and innocently rejoice. After playing for about two hours, I grew tired and wanted sake again.

Ms. Oru had gone to bed first. The wind seemed to have died down, but the rain kept growing stronger and weaker. That change didn’t seem to stem solely from my state of mind—it was something I could clearly discern with my own ears.

“Hmm… Somehow, the thought of returning to Tokyo feels frightening…” Masayo stared fixedly at my face. That was still far in the future, I thought. —It was simply that the mistress of a certain house in Tokyo had fallen ill, so they wanted Masayo to come, with Ms. Oru along as well. It must be an unlicensed restaurant or something of the sort. It must have had Yamasugi’s connections as well.

“Are they telling you to come quickly?”

“It’s been arranged that I can come anytime.” She filled the sake flask and transferred it into the copper pot. “Mr. Kouno was against it, weren’t you.” “I don’t agree either.”

When that happened, I couldn't make sense of anything at all. Whether it would be better for her to return to Tokyo or not, I understood even less.

“Mr. Kouno, you’ll be going to Tokyo someday, won’t you?”

“I don’t know about that. Here and Tokyo are pretty much the same anyway...” “Exactly the same.”

She was about to light a cigarette but suddenly stopped, her eyes taking on a profound shadow. The surface held a faint haze that deepened toward the depths, where nothing of the outside world was reflected anymore—only what lay within was enclosed there. They crept toward me imploringly. At the same time, the grooves on either side of her nostrils began to deepen—but only on one side. Don’t cry—I screamed inwardly—and then, Don’t go to Tokyo, go ahead and leave for all I care—I muttered both at once.—At that moment, I myself unwittingly let tears well up in my eyes. Was I completely drunk?

Her hand firmly grasped my hand. I wiped the tears from my eyes with a handkerchief, received sake in my cup, and smiled.

“Silly boy, crying like that.” “You cried too.”

“I don’t cry, you know. I was just drunk.”

“I was just drunk too.”

As I buried my face in the kotatsu quilt, my head grew dizzy, then began sinking heavily downward. As if leaping up from that abyss, I raised my face, smiled ambiguously, and drank again...

With the drowsy sensation of having only half-slept, I opened my eyes. Because the room was utterly unfamiliar, my eyes opened wide in realization. The faint two-watt light of the electric snow lantern was glimmering dimly. A Jindai cedar ceiling, transom and alcove, hanging scrolls with flower arrangements... Because there was a water pitcher and tobacco tray by the pillow, I drank some water and took a puff of a cigarette. Then I changed into a kimono. Up to that point I was clear-headed, but beyond that everything became entangled with what happened last night.

Even though my patch-covered, utterly shabby undershirt was neatly folded and placed in the laundry basket, I felt unbearably wretched. I was brought by her and seemed to resist a little when she made me take off my kimono, but I clearly remember snatching away the removed undergarments she tried to neatly fold and throwing them down. Even so, she ended up folding each and every one. If I had been wearing a proper undershirt, I would have accepted that kindness without hesitation. After that, she slid over to my side in her underkimono.

When had she slipped away, and where to? The pillow was gone now too, with no trace left there. But that was no dream.

In the two-layered, plush futon, I—long unaccustomed to such comforts—found myself paralyzed by my own body. Not only that—how cruelly I'd been played with! She had kept up that muffled chuckling all along.

She whispered to me a story about a certain monk—this monk would often come drinking at restaurants in the pleasure quarters. She too became his patron. When she remarked, “So even monks open themselves up these days,” he laughed jovially. “Do you know the precept forbidding those who consume pungent herbs and alcohol from passing through temple gates?” “Once garlic and liquor cross those gates, everything becomes defiled.” “But outside the gates—whether you drink wine or taste impurity—it won’t constitute degeneracy.” “That’s the doctrine.” “If you possessed the temple gates’ sense of chastity, you must never let men pass within them.”

Though it had the air of a vulgar anecdote, when rendered in her terms, it ceased to be anything indecent.

“Listen, I want to keep things pure between us forever.” When had a former geisha like her developed such convictions? Or was this too something meant solely for me? At any rate, I’d smashed my head against those ridiculous temple gates. And beyond them—how shamelessly we’d both wallowed in pleasure. She toyed with me; I toyed with her. Yet through her words, it all became some pristine communion.

I sat atop the futon and recklessly puffed on a cigarette. Rage welling up from the pit of my stomach and affection etched into my flesh twisted together, igniting into flames. If she had been there, I would have lunged at her and done who knows what. But when I stood up, my head swayed and my legs wobbled. Was I still drunk? I drank water again. And I left the room. It was the inner room. I went along the corridor toward the kitchen and was checking the door's fastening when Masayo appeared, dragging the hem of her draped robe.

Bright sunlight streamed through the transom glass. She gazed at me with dazzled eyes cast downward. A deep shadow once again settled in those eyes.—Strangely, at that moment, I recalled different eyes. In Beijing, while living with a friend, we had employed a maid there; when moving out from that house, drunk on alcohol one night before leaving, I had grasped that maid’s hand. She had lowered her eyes silently as if pondering something until a deep shadow came to dwell in them. That now overlapped perfectly with Masayo’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m going home now.”

“You’re leaving without even eating?” “I don’t want any right now.” “What about some shochu?” “Later.”

How ordinary and timid a reunion it was. She opened the door for me and lightly grasped my hand. I stood there. I shoved my feet into the flattened geta and went outside. In the cold air, the morning sunlight glared intensely, and I felt dizzy.

My room had been left wide open. I dragged out the futon and burrowed into it. Forcing away the jumble of thoughts, I devoted myself entirely to sleep.

When I awoke near noon, Oru-san must have come at some point, for a large tray had been placed by my pillow. Two sake bottles stood accompanied by modest side dishes. I furrowed my brow but still reached for the liquor.

Kindness, kindness... I set down the cup, took out a glass, and gulped down the cold sake. Kindness... Was last night’s incident too something that arose from her kindness? Even so, I didn’t have the courage to affirm that. I was just miserable. I drained the sake and poured myself some shochu. Then I washed my head with cold water, put on my high-collared work clothes, and went outside. I decided to take the day off from the construction office and went to the sawmill. I watched circular saws and band saws freely cutting through lumber for about an hour. Then I wandered around the fields and strolled along the river embankment. —It wasn’t in vain. The thoughts gradually began to coalesce.

Carrying garlic and alcohol while loitering before temple gates was such a vulgar act. Scatter all that garlic and liquor across the earth! Kick down every gate—whether temple gates or women's gates! Yet why did Masayo's so-called pure kindness constrict my heart this way? Even with the shadow gone from her eyes, why did her kindness alone tighten around my heart? Be strong, grow stronger. After all, wasn't she ultimately just a foreigner to me?

I played for a while with the children flying kites on the river embankment. Then I returned home. The sake bottles had already been taken away, tray and all. I too immediately set off for Masayo Takaoka’s house. After calling out from the kitchen entrance, I went around to the garden veranda. I intended to take an ironic stance.

“I’m sorry about yesterday’s feast.” “I only came to express my thanks…”

To Ms. Oru, who was urging me to come up to the room, I said that.

“Oh, don’t mention thanks… It’s just the hangover talking.” “A thank-you is a thank-you.” “I’m not drunk anymore.”

I no longer felt miserable, yet I felt defeated. I hadn't been sarcastic in the slightest. Masayo remained silent but appeared to be making frequent eye signals. When Oru-san went into the kitchen, I stepped out onto the veranda.

“Are you angry about something?” “I’m not angry at all.”

“But…”

“I’m just regretting being lazy.” “I see. “I’m sorry.”

When told so frankly, this too felt like my defeat. But the impulsive word regret was true. It wasn’t about the body. The mind had been lazy.

I returned to my room while puffing on a cigarette.