Pathway to Japanese Literature

Her face was not quite beautiful but well-proportioned, her skin pale with a faint sallowness yet polished, her long-lidded eyes flickering with pupils that caught the light, her lashes long and upturned—a countenance lacking depth overall. Yet at the slightest provocation—a blink, a pensive moment—her eyes would harbor a deep shadow. Having once been a geisha in Yoshicho—and even after the war led to the closure of the pleasure quarters, coming under the care of Yasugi, who maneuvered in political circles, to live quietly in this town near Tokyo—the shadow harbored in her eyes might hold some particular significance. It wasn’t that there were distinct hues of sentiment, or impatience, or desire. It was as if—just as a fragment of cloud casts its shadow upon a lake—her eyelashes cast that shadow into her eyes. Her eyes would softly cloud over with shadow. This shadow was not dark, yet it held an oddly profound depth that drew one’s heart in. One could say the allure of a woman’s body—around thirty-five years old—lurked at their depths. ――Such was the impression I received.

When exactly it had begun, even when I tried to recall, I could not tell. At first, I hadn’t noticed it at all. But once I noticed it, again and again, the shadow in her eyes gradually deepened—such was the way it went. And now, it had become something fathomlessly deep, as if trying to drag me down.

Yet even that occurred only in fleeting moments—in the pauses between words or silences—and would vanish as if wiped away.

“Today, do tell me about Beijing—slowly and thoroughly.”

Those eyes were now calm and clear, even containing a smile.

But why did she want to talk about Beijing again? It was always about Beijing—always. Of course, there was apparently someone among Masayo’s colleagues who had gone to work at a Beijing restaurant. This was from before the war—they’d exchanged a few letters back then, but even when we sent more afterward, no replies ever came, and all contact had been completely severed until now. Yet I had only stayed in Beijing for about three years myself and didn’t have any particularly interesting stories to share. The Forbidden City, Longevity Hill, the Temple of Heaven, parks, markets, theater performances, rows of pagoda trees… That’s all I ever talked about, and even those topics I’d long since exhausted—what else could I possibly have left to tell her? If anything, there were various stories I could have shared about my current work handling administrative tasks—lumber processing, construction matters—but she seemed to hold neither interest nor curiosity in such topics.

“I hear the women of Beijing are quite beautiful.” “In what way are they beautiful?” Explaining ‘in what way’ was difficult. “They say there are even beauties who could bring nations to ruin.”

“Beauties who bring nations to ruin…” Repeating the words, he could do nothing but raise his glass. When he gulped it down, as if summoned by the act, the distant sound of drums reached his ears. The dances at the stalls seemed to still be going on. Though it was March, the air still held a cold bite, yet the town was holding its festival rites. It seemed to be a shrine festival, a festival of recovery, and a festival of defeat. Houses with paper lanterns hung from their eaves were scattered here and there, but peach and wisteria artificial flowers dangled from nearly every roofline. In the shrine’s rear garden, a small circus troupe resounded with festive music, while on the main street, a barrel-shaped mikoshi was being carried around, followed by children dressed as shrine attendants. At crossroads and plazas, tall stalls had been erected, variety shows were being held, and bon dances were performed. Yet the overall atmosphere was oddly disjointed, lacking vigor, with the backstreets standing out in their loneliness. At the bridge’s approach, four or five vagrant-like children, sucking on candy as they battled with menko cards, were watched by children in festival attire wearing red headbands, who sucked on their fingers as they gazed. In the sky where the sunset streamed, many kites wheeled. ―I wandered around town a bit, knocked back some cheap shochu, returned home, made do with shochu instead of eel, and lay sprawled under a blanket reading a book.

The back door suddenly opened, and Oryū-san appeared. “Oh, you’re here.” “Good timing.” “Madam says you should come visit.” “There’s drinks and food too.” “It’s the festival, Mr. Kōno—and you’re studying?” “Do come over now.” “Right away, now.”

Having said her piece without waiting for a reply, Oryū-san left.

――That's how it always was—almost without exception. It might have been only toward me—she never bothered to wait for a response.

She was a woman in her early forties who worked at Tadaoka Masayo’s house; Masayo called her Oryū-san, and she referred to Masayo as Madam, but I didn’t know what their relationship was.

I smoked cigarettes, drank shochu, retightened my obi, passed a little time with such things, and set out. Exiting through the back door and opening the bamboo fence gate right there brought me to Masayo’s kitchen entrance; circling past the bathhouse led out to the veranda. It was originally said to be the retirement home of a certain kimono fabric merchant—a stylish single-story house enveloped by a garden abundant with stones and plantings.

Masayo was lightly made up and warming herself at the kotatsu. With only her fingertips slipped into the kotatsu quilt scattered with large plum patterns, her deep maroon kimono draped with a haori slipping off her shoulders, her Western-style coiffure revealing a neat nape as she sat with one knee casually bent—she exuded an ambiguous air, neither quite a Madam, nor a mistress, nor a patron. In the long hibachi, water for heating sake was boiling, and on the dining table, several dishes mainly consisting of fish were arranged.

“Today turned out rather dull.” “Two friends from Tokyo were supposed to come see the festival, but they suddenly couldn’t make it—they had to send a telegram.” “They left me waiting completely.” “Am I their substitute?”

“I’m not happy about it.” “Since both of them can hold their liquor just fine, we might as well drink our fill.” “Oh—you’ve already had a fair amount, haven’t you?”

I entered the kotatsu and accepted the cup. I no longer felt any reserve. Whether as an older sister or a young aunt—I had grown accustomed to feelings close to that. “I went to the shrine alone.” “Look at this.” “Just on a whim, I tried drawing a fortune slip, and it was a great blessing, you know.”

From the folds of her obi, she took out a paper slip. As I struggled with the obscure phrases and characters explaining the great blessing, I glanced up to find her gaze—which had been fixed on the twilight-dimmed garden—wavering slightly before shifting toward me. In her eyes, that shadow I knew so well had settled more deeply than ever before. Feeling as if my own defenses had been breached, I silently handed the slip back to her. "Oryū-san went out determined to match me—said she'd draw a great blessing too. I wonder what fortune she'll bring back."

“Well, I suppose she’d get a half-blessing at best.”

She stood up, turned on the light, and brought a dishcloth from the kitchen.—Her standing figure was not particularly impressive. She was short in stature—or rather, because her legs were short, her upper and lower body lacked proportion. If she were a geisha wearing banquet attire with trailing hems, that might have concealed it, but for some reason she always wore her kimono with shortened hems, making her from the hips down form a stumpy, truncated torso. I found that unpleasant. For someone who showed me such kindness—if she were a sister or an aunt—it would be preferable for her to have a slender figure.

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

After the war’s end, having returned from Beijing, I found myself in solitude. The sister’s family I had relied on seemed to have been entirely wiped out in the war; with no other relatives to support me, I—as a typical repatriate—had no possessions beyond a few pieces of luggage. For a time I was at a loss, but as it happened, in this very town was Okimoto—another repatriate from Beijing—who had gathered a few comrades and set up a modest construction company; when I went to visit them, they welcomed me warmly, and before I knew it, I’d been willy-nilly brought into their fold. Next came the problem of housing. The office was a makeshift barrack, not fit for staying overnight. Okimoto, as if struck by a sudden thought, laughed and said, “Why not live in as a guard?” I had caught wind that Masayo Tadaoka and Oryū-san were often left alone, with her patron Yasugi rarely visiting—a situation deemed careless.

He promptly tried approaching them. The response was unexpectedly positive—the room’s availability posed no issue, but rather that with only women present, having a man around might… On the contrary, they grew wary. Despite this, through their mediation, they arranged for me a six-tatami room in the Taniguchi house whose back entrance stood immediately adjacent. It was a room partitioned off from the main house and slightly protruding—a dim space that might have been a remodeled storage shed. Instead, there were closets in excessive abundance.

The sentiments of a lonely man from a defeated nation—such feelings flattered my spirit, not yet thirty. During the day, I worked on clerical tasks and client relations at Okimoto Construction; at night, I read books on labor and economic issues. I added a corrugated iron awning to the side of the room and cooked for myself beneath it. That self-cooking area faced the back door of Masayo Tadaoka’s house. When I was stoking the fire in the stove, Oryū-san would pass by and offer various pieces of advice. Masayo too would peer through the bamboo fence and come out as if to relieve her boredom, engaging in brief chats for a while; Oryū-san’s advice was always purely practical and useful. But Masayo, for her part, remained utterly indifferent to such matters—whether I choked on smoke or my eyes smarted from sparks from the charcoal fire—and engaged only in trivial chatter. But for me, conversing with her—who always wore some pleasant fragrance—was not without its secret solace.

She showed no interest in my menial tasks but instead gave me various things. When Oryū-san brought them, she would always add that they were from Madam. When she brought them herself, she displayed a natural demeanor and smile without any affectation, leaving no room for reluctance to surface within me. Before long, I found myself even forgetting to say "thank you" in my heart.

All sorts of things arrived. Fish and chicken and vegetables came frequently. There were also canned goods and soap. The silk handkerchief left me somewhat at a loss. The beautiful whiskey glass proved rather unsuitable for my shochu. The ivory pipe—specially fashioned from an old shamisen tuning peg, she said—I quite liked. When the pure cotton unlined garment arrived as sleepwear, I felt strangely wretched.—From my side, there was nothing I could do for her beyond occasionally bringing bundles of firewood from the construction site.

I had never seen Master Yasugi. He would very rarely arrive discreetly, staying for two or three nights at a time, and at other times would bring guests to eat, drink, and confer late into the night. He, and Masayo as well, seemed to be trying to avoid attracting attention in this area as much as possible. Yasugi seemed to have been involved in some way with the military’s past illicit dealings of stockpiled supplies, Okimoto once whispered to me.

Even so, Masayo stood out easily. She was asked to teach shamisen to their daughters and went to several houses for lessons. She was also asked to perform at the festival’s entertainment show but flatly refused.

“On festival nights, staying home and having a drink or something is the most enjoyable, isn’t it.” “I’ve never known such a thing before.” “How about getting drunk and hopping on a festival float to dance?” “Such things belong to one’s youth.”

I found myself drawn to how her eyes would often seem to deepen with shadow.

It seemed the barrel-shaped mikoshi was being paraded out again, and a wave-like clamor of voices could be heard. When that faded, the distant drumbeats continued and then ceased intermittently. A wind seemed to pick up slightly.

Oryū-san returned and, while opening a bag of candied chestnuts, said.

“It looks like it might rain.”

“How was it?” Masayo asked.

“Ah, that? Perfect timing—it’s a half-blessing.” “A half-blessing… we got one, didn’t we.”

Masayo looked at my face and laughed. “Madam got the great blessing and I the half-blessing—how perfectly it turned out! If these were reversed, it would have been quite a problem.” “Even if I were that lunatic Kichi, I suppose it would still be the case.” Oryū-san would say with a laugh that even if she were half-Kichi, Madam was full-blown Kichi.—Once, when returning from the public bath, Masayo snapped the thong of her Azuma geta clean through. After tying it with a handkerchief and shuffling along like a gravely ill patient, a man who appeared to be a doctor passing by asked, “Is something wrong?” Even when she shook her head “No,” he pointed at her foot and insisted, “It looks like you’ve hurt yourself or something.” “The thong of my geta had broken.”

“Ah, I see. Do be careful,” he said. With that, he went on his way, unconcerned. Afterward, Masayo suddenly grew furious. She kicked off her geta, leaving her feet bare in their tabi socks, and strode off briskly. Clutching a furoshiki bundle of bath utensils in one hand and swinging geta in the other—her feet bare in tabi socks, breath ragged as she wrenched open the kitchen door—she looked every bit the madwoman.

Such stories struck me as somewhat unexpected.

"There's more," Oryū-san continued. —One time, she had luggage and came home by rickshaw. “Thank you for your trouble,” she tossed off before going inside. A good while later, when Oryū-san went to the entryway on some errand, the rickshaw man was there sitting on the footboard smoking. When Oryū-san complained he needn’t wait for customers at people’s doorsteps, he looked perplexed and asked, “Isn’t Madam going out again?” Upon questioning, he said he still hadn’t been paid. When this was relayed to Masayo, far from laughing, she sank into a sullen silence. Her displeasure was that of a madwoman’s.

Such stories too were a touch unexpected to me.

“But everyone’s so meddlesome and oblivious, always trying to get ahead of things—it’s utterly maddening, don’t you think?”

“How strange…” “There’s no need for you to get angry, is there?” “Kindness… even a simpleton’s kindness must be bought, I suppose.” “Because they’re fools, their kindness only seems naive.” “Kindness—I don’t believe it’s anything of that sort.”

The kindness she spoke of was utterly pure and untainted. Things that make people’s faces flush or fill them with shame—no matter how benevolent their intent—could not be called kindness. True kindness must be performed with natural feeling, in a natural manner—leaving no ripples in the other’s heart, imposing neither obligation nor burden, not even a sense of gratitude. To summarize her words, that was what it amounted to. And now, moving beyond the doctor and rickshaw man anecdotes, she was speaking about herself. She was speaking about her own conduct toward me. The actual facts were indeed as such, and I had no choice but to acknowledge them unconditionally. And yet—where had she cultivated such kindness?

Oryū-san, who didn’t drink much, briskly finished her meal alone. Before I knew it, rain began to fall, its sound murmuring under the eaves. The distant drumbeats too ceased, the depth of the night palpable. A thought suddenly arose in my intoxicated mind—that I might have overstepped a bit. I had entered the tea room and engaged in idle chatter several times before, but this was the first occasion where I lingered long over food and drink.

I tried to forcibly sever myself from the lukewarm air of the room, the kotatsu, and my indulgent complacency, and rise from my seat.

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

From the cupboard, a new one-shō bottle was brought out.

“Since it’s the festival, we might as well drink through the night. Shall we play some Hanafuda during the break?”

As for Hanafuda, Oryū-san was very fond of it and quite skilled. Masayo was not very good. I was the worst at it. But such things didn't matter at all. I was fond of the Rainy Ono no Tōfū card, and as I kept fixating on it, my losses gradually piled up. There were times when Oryū-san would deliberately let me take the Ono no Tōfū card. But Masayo would always compete with me for those cards, and when she snatched them away, she’d rejoice with childlike delight. After playing for about two hours, we would grow bored and crave sake again.

Oryū-san had already gone to bed.

The wind seemed to have died down, but the rain was intensifying and abating in turns. This change didn’t seem to stem from mere imagination—it could be distinctly discerned by ear.

“Hmm… Somehow, I feel almost afraid to return to Tokyo…”

Masayo stared intently at my face.

I had thought that was still something far off in the future.

—The mistress of a certain house in Tokyo had fallen ill, so it was simply a matter of requesting Masayo to come—with Oryū-san accompanying her—and that was all there was to it. It was probably a backdoor-operated restaurant or something of the sort. It seemed Yasugi’s influence had also been at work.

“Are they telling you to come quickly?” “It’s been settled that anytime is fine, though.”

She filled the sake flask and poured it into the copper pot. “Mr. Kōno, you were against it, weren’t you.” “I don’t approve either.” Then, I couldn’t make sense of it anymore. As for whether it would be better for her to return to Tokyo or not, I found myself all the more unable to comprehend.

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

“I don’t know about that.” “Here or Tokyo… well, they’re much the same anyway…” “They really are the same.”

She began to light a cigarette but suddenly stopped, her eyes harboring a deep shadow. The surface held a faint haze, growing darker toward the depths where nothing of the outside world was reflected—only what lay within remained enclosed. That shadow crept toward me imploringly. At the same moment, the grooves on either side of her nostrils—only one side—began to etch themselves deeper. Don’t cry—I screamed inwardly—then muttered in the same breath: Don’t go to Tokyo, go wherever you want. —At that moment, I myself had unwittingly gathered tears in my eyes. Had I been completely drunk?

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

“Silly you, crying like that.”

“You cried too.”

“I don’t cry, you know.” “I was just drunk.” “I was just drunk too.” When I buried my face in the kotatsu futon, my head grew dizzy, then sank steadily downward. As if leaping up from that brink, I raised my face, smiled, and drank again...

With the sensation of having merely dozed off drowsily, I opened my eyes. Because the room was utterly unfamiliar, my eyes snapped open. The faint two-watt glow of the electric snow lantern burned dimly. A cedar ceiling from the age of the gods, transoms, an alcove, hanging scrolls with fresh flower arrangements... Because there was a water jug and tobacco tray at the bedside, I drank some water and took a drag of a cigarette. Then I changed into a kimono. Up to that point, everything was clear, but beyond that, it became tangled with what happened last night.

My patched and utterly shabby undershirt was neatly folded in the clothes basket, yet I felt unbearably wretched. I clearly remember that though I'd been brought here by her and had somewhat resisted being made to remove my kimono, I snatched the undergarments she tried to fold neatly and hurled them aside. Even so, she had gone and folded every last piece. Had I been wearing a proper undershirt, I might have accepted that kindness without qualms. —Afterward, she slid in beside me wearing nothing but her underkimono.

When had she gone, and where? There was no longer a pillow, nor any trace of anything there. But that had not been a dream. In the fluffy double-layered futon, I—unaccustomed to such things for so long—found myself at a loss with how to handle my own body. Not only that—how cruelly I had been toyed with. She had often seemed to chuckle quietly. She whispered to me a story about a certain monk.—That monk would often come to drink at restaurants in geisha districts and such places. She too had become a patron. When she said, “Even monks have become open these days, haven’t they,” he laughed brightly. “Do you know what they say? ‘Flesh and wine shall not pass through temple gates.’” “If flesh and wine pass through the temple gates, everything becomes defiled.” “But if it’s outside the temple gates—whether you drink wine or indulge in impurity—it doesn’t become depravity.” “That’s the doctrine.” “If you too upheld the temple gates’ doctrine of chastity, you mustn’t let men pass through them.”

Though it had the air of a risqué joke, when rendered in her words, it ceased to be lewd.

“Hey, I want to keep things pure between us forever.”

When had such conviction taken root in her—this former geisha? Or was that too something meant solely for me? At any rate, I struck my head against that absurd temple gate wall. And outside those gates—how shamelessly we both indulged in pleasure! She toyed with me, and I toyed with her. Yet according to her, it had been a pure connection.

I sat atop the futon and puffed away at cigarettes with abandon. The fury welling up from the pit of my stomach and the attachment carved into my very flesh twisted together in a blazing surge. If she had been there, I would have pounced on her—I myself didn’t know what I might have done. But when I stood up, my head swayed and my legs were unsteady. Was I still drunk? I drank more water. And I left the room. It was the inner room. As I made my way along the corridor toward the kitchen and checked the door’s latch, Masayo appeared dragging the hem of her tanzen robe.

The bright sunlight outside streamed through the transom glass. She gazed downward at me with squinting eyes. A deep shadow had once again settled in those eyes. —Strangely, at that moment, I recalled another pair of eyes. In Beijing—while living with a friend and employing a local maid—on the eve of vacating that house, I had gotten drunk and grasped that maid’s hand. She had silently lowered her eyes as if pondering something, but before long, a deep shadow came to dwell in those eyes. That now overlapped perfectly with Masayo’s eyes.

“What’s wrong?” “I’m going back now.” “Without even eating a meal.” “I don’t want it now.”

“What about the sake?” “I’ll come back later.”

How ordinary and tentative that reunion was! She opened the door for me and lightly grasped my hand. I was there. Thrusting my feet into the flattened geta, I went outside. In the cold air, the morning sun's light was intense, and I felt dizzy.

My room remained wide open. I dragged out the futon and burrowed inside. I forced away the jumble of thoughts and slept with single-minded focus.

When I awoke near noon, Oryū-san must have come without my noticing, for a large tray had been placed by my pillow. Two sake decanters stood there accompanied by small tidbits. Though I furrowed my brow, I still reached for the alcohol. Kindness, kindness... I set down the cup, took out a glass, and gulped the chilled sake. Kindness—had even last night's... that... sprung from her kindness? Still I lacked the courage to affirm it. I was simply wretched. I drained the sake and took another swig of shochu. Then I washed my head with cold water, put on my high-collared work clothes, and went out.

I decided to take the day off from the construction company and headed to the sawmill. I spent about an hour watching circular saws and band saws slicing freely through timber. Then I wandered through fields and drifted along the river embankment. —It hadn’t been futile. My thoughts were gradually cohering. Carrying pungent liquor while loitering before temple gates—what idiocy. Dump all that defiled drink onto the earth! Gates—whether monastery gates or a woman’s gates—kick them down! But why does Masayo’s so-called pure kindness grip my heart this way? Even now that her shadowed eyes no longer trouble me—why does her kindness alone tighten its hold? Be strong. Be strong. After all—isn’t she ultimately just a foreigner to me?

I played with the children flying kites on the river embankment for a while. Then I went home. The sake bottles had already been taken away along with the tray.

I also immediately went to Taoka Masayo’s house. After calling out from the kitchen entrance, I made my way around to the veranda side of the garden. I intended to adopt a sarcastic attitude. “Yesterday, you treated me so generously—I’m terribly sorry. “I just came to say thank you, that’s all…” To Oryū-san, who was urging me to come up to the room, I said that. “Oh, calling it gratitude… It’s not just because of a hangover.” “Gratitude is gratitude. “I’m not drunk anymore, you know.”

I no longer felt miserable, yet I sensed defeat. Not a shred of irony had materialized. Masayo kept silent but appeared to be signaling something through urgent glances. When Oryū-san went to the kitchen, I slipped out to the veranda.

“Are you angry about anything?” “I’m not angry in the least.”

“But…”

“I’m just regretting having been lazy.” “I see. “I’m sorry.”

When told so candidly, this too became my defeat. But the word "regret" that had escaped me in that instant held truth. It wasn't about the body. My spirit had grown negligent.

I returned to my room, puffing on a cigarette.