Pathway to Japanese Literature

A Hairpin

A hairpin—no, not a hairpin, but simply a single hairpin—why is it that this alone remains so clearly etched in my mind? Is that alone pure, while all else is sordid?

The pipe was clogged with tobacco residue. When I stepped out into the hallway, the maid happened to be passing by. I called out to stop her and shook the pipe demonstratively.

"This is what's clogged up."
"Don't you have something to unclog it?"
"Something like wire—anything will do, really."

The maid momentarily stopped in her tracks but didn't even bother to look at the pipe.

“Wire… We don’t have anything like that.”

“It doesn’t need to be wire… What a bother.”
“What a bother...”

In truth, though my pipe was clogged, since it was meant for cigarettes anyway, I could’ve smoked directly without it—it hardly mattered.
Still, being so offhandedly dismissed by the maid left me looking rather flustered.

At that moment, the room across the hallway had its entrance sliding door left half-open, with voices of four or five men and women talking in the back. From within, a woman's voice suddenly rang out.

"How about this? I'll give it to you, so go on and use it."

Not showing her face or figure, only her fingertips emerged from behind the sliding door, offering a single hairpin.

“Oh.
Thank you very much.”

It was I who expressed thanks, while the maid silently accepted the hairpin and straightened it—which resembled a wire folded in two—into a single straight pin.

“I’ll keep this,” I said.

From within the room came no response, only the sound of voices talking in the back.

I returned to my room, cleared the pipe, and lit up some tobacco.
Then I wrapped the hairpin in paper and tucked it into my vest pocket.

That was all there was to it, and I hadn't given it any particular thought at the time...

The aftermath was what went wrong.

After all, the reason I had gone out of my way to disembark from the express train at O Station on the San'yo Line during my journey was to visit Iwaki Shusaku.
I hadn't seen him in about ten years, but the tone of our occasional correspondence remained unchanged from the old days.
I had only notified him from my travels that I might stop by briefly.
Definite plans hadn't been possible to make.

Due to the train schedule, I disembarked at O Station at 4:30 AM.
I knew Iwaki's house remained considerably distant, and since his wife appeared rather frail, I had intended to wait inside the station until a more appropriate hour for visiting.

However, given it was late November, 4:30 AM remained the dead of night, and my lightly dressed body shivered from the biting cold. I swung my suitcase and wandered out.

Unexpectedly given the hour, there was a bright, bustling street.
A narrow street that appeared to have emerged from air raid ruins—shabby barracks-style buildings lined up side by side—held an assortment of small eateries serving oden, udon, flour dumpling soup, mitsumame, coffee, and simmered dishes, interspersed with even a pachinko parlor where sparse human figures moved about.
After walking a short distance, there was an inn's signboard—the front door stood wide open, and the front desk area was brightly lit.

Due to weariness from the train and sleep deprivation, I simply drifted dazedly through those scenes. And then I stood before the inn's front desk.

“Please.”
“Is anyone there?”

The small lattice door of the front desk opened，and the middle-aged maid showed her face。

“Right away。”
“I’m frozen stiff，dead tired，and at my limit。”

“No use asking。”
“Every room’s packed。”
“Dawn’ll break soon enough。”

“Just an hour then—”
“Let me rest in that corner behind your counter。”
“Not asking for luxury。”

I placed my suitcase in the entryway and sat down.

After a pause, the maid said.

“You’re hopeless.”
“Well then, I’ll get up now—sleep here.”

I thought she meant for me to use her own bedding, but instead she swapped it with a futon from the closet.

At that moment, a young woman in work pants who had apparently entered right behind me and overheard our exchange spoke to the maid in a low voice.

“I would also like to request this.”

“Hopeless pair.”
“Then you’ll share a room.”

I thought she was going to have us sleep together, but that wasn't what happened.

“Madam, get up now.”

From the far side of the long brazier, a petite middle-aged woman rose heavily.

"This way, young lady."

I climbed into the futon still wearing my clothes.

Being able to sleep anytime, anywhere was my specialty.
Moreover, there was also a sense of relief.
I fell asleep immediately.

It seemed like only a brief moment.
We were awakened by the same maid.

“Come now, Sir and young lady—that room over there.”

Through a central corridor lined with rooms on both sides, we were led to a six-tatami room at the back. There had been guests who left early, so that room had apparently become vacant. Two futons had also been laid out with space between them. We slept there again.

I awoke to the unnervingly clamorous air around me. Judging from how my spirits had recovered, I must have slept quite soundly. Bright light already streamed through gaps in the warped storm shutters.

I sat up.
The young lady was still asleep.
She lay with the futon pulled up to her ears, facing away, apparently sound asleep.
From what I could tell, whether back at the front desk or here in this room, she had fallen asleep nearly as quickly as I had.
And what's more, right beside me—a forty-year-old stranger.
Was she being presumptuous?
Was she placing absolute trust in me?
I hadn't looked closely, but she seemed just under twenty years old. Her Meisen-style kimono and work pants, though patterned with modest stripes, gave a neat impression, and she carried one small artificial leather Boston bag.

Because there was nothing about her that would put others on guard, instead a sudden wariness welled up within me. It's precisely with girls like this that you mustn't drop your vigilance. The very thought filled me with shame, and I strained to overcome it.

And I took off my jacket, grabbed the toiletries, and went out into the hallway.

In the hallway, figures of men and women could be seen here and there.
Men wore jumpers or work shirts with trousers; women wore sweaters with trousers or work pants—all of them sturdy young people.
They were unmistakably black marketeers at first glance—this inn catered exclusively to their kind.
Had even the late-night brightness and bustle of the streets outside been their exclusive domain?

At the end of the hallway was a wide wooden-floored area serving as the washroom.
As I brushed my teeth there, that sense of caution toward the girl sharing my room welled up again.
After splashing some water on my face and returning to the room, I found her still asleep.

With vexed irritation, I roughly brushed the dust from my jacket and trousers.
When I tried to smoke a cigarette afterward, the pipe was clogged.
I stepped into the hallway, called the maid over - thus began the hairpin affair.

And so, as I smoked Peace cigarettes through my well-used pipe, I discovered something curious.

After all, those who use pipes for cigarettes aren't particularly numerous.
Well—perhaps some down-and-out young aristocrat, or a high-collar posing journalist, or a pretentious bureaucrat—that sort of breed, I supposed.
Even they don't quite wear them naturally.
Cigarette pipes only truly become part of someone's being when wielded by those of particular character.
This holds especially true for ivory pipes.
Yet among these ivory pipes, there exist those with thick new stems that sit perfectly on their users—not looking the least bit absurd.
The black marketeers.
Compared to theirs, my pipe—though ivory—was exceedingly small, old with a yellowish patina instead, its mouthpiece worn down by teeth.
Still, even if I couldn't quite keep pace with the black marketeer circles proper, perhaps I might at least squeeze into their outermost fringes.

Was it receiving this hairpin from one of the black marketeer women to unclog my pipe that made me think such things? In any case, it brightened my spirits as if I'd brushed against their code of honor, settling me into that black market inn. Many guests were already leaving, and the inside of the inn was gradually growing quieter. I went out into the hallway and caught the maid again.

“Miss, sorry to trouble you, but I’ll have some sake.”

“Sake... Not sure if we’ve got any left.”

“There is.
"I know.
"It’s not for customers—their backroom stock.
"Don’t bother with side dishes—just make it quick.”

“Well then, just a bit.
"And you should drink some miso soup too.”

Before I’d properly begun waiting—when had she found time to heat it?—the maid came carrying a tray.
Two large sake flasks, several small dried horse mackerel, pickled daikon.
And in a large bowl that could’ve held three regular portions of miso soup, broth sat steaming.

“Oh my, this young lady’s a late sleeper, isn’t she.”

The maid slid the shutters halfway open, tidied my futon, and left.

"The young lady sat up.

I couldn't very well face her directly nor turn my back to her, so I ended up sitting sideways and began drinking sake.

The young woman went to the washroom, and upon returning, while looking into the pillar mirror, she smoothed her hair, patted her cheeks with a puff, folded the futon, fully opened the shutters, made a bow-like gesture, and spoke."

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I said for the first time.

The young woman was by no means one of the black marketeers.
She stood short with a plump rounded figure—her face circular, eyes perfectly round—staring at me without a trace of smile.
Feeling awkward myself, I spoke to mask my discomfort.

“We can’t manage a proper meal, but would you care for some miso soup? It’s surprisingly decent.”

The young woman nodded, rummaged through the Boston bag, and stood up on her own.

Before long, the maid returned carrying a tray bearing a large bowl of miso soup, some pickled daikon, and a small canned item.
On my part, I ordered another bottle of sake.

The young woman quietly extended the canned item toward me.

“Please have this as a snack with your sake. This is to thank you for last night…”

It was a small opened salmon can.

I declined.
I had no idea what she was thanking me for.
But the young woman insisted.
Last night—or rather, just before dawn—when she got off the train and found herself stranded, she apparently noticed me looking similarly troubled, then quietly followed behind and thus managed to secure lodging at this inn.
She said it was her way of thanking me.

In that case, there was no particular reason to refuse, so I accepted the salmon can and unceremoniously thrust my chopsticks into it.
The young woman took out a bundle of bread and began eating while sipping miso soup.

We talked in fits and starts.
Naturally, it fell to me to ask questions, while the young woman merely answered them without posing any of her own.
It wasn’t that we had grown close, nor that I felt any particular curiosity—it was simply that staying silent felt awkward, so I made conversation.
But through that, I came to roughly understand the young woman’s circumstances.

Some time after the war ended, she had repatriated from Dalian.
She was working at a relative’s house in F City, Kyushu.
However, in this O City there lived an aunt who had once cared for her like a mother and remarried.
Her aunt’s whereabouts had become unknown since the air raids during the war.
Even when she sent letters, they would return marked “Address Unknown”.
Or perhaps she had died.
That was why she had come herself, wanting to know for certain.
At the very least, she had wanted to see the burned ruins of her aunt’s house.
About a year and a half had passed since then, making it all seem like a dream.
Why she had come alone remained unclear in that regard.

The young woman finished her meal.
I was still drinking.

“Thank you for everything,” the young woman said clearly.

I wrote Iwaki Shusaku’s address and name on the back of a business card and handed it to her.

“If asking the neighbors doesn’t help, you could try having the city office investigate—they might be able to find out about your aunt.”
“And then, this person is a friend of mine—I’m actually heading there myself—and since he has strong connections with the city office, you might be able to get some assistance if needed.”

That was my expression of gratitude for the salmon can.
I was growing slightly drunk.
How kind and decent people become when they get drunk!

The young woman left ahead of me.

The inn had already fallen silent inside, like an empty house.

I drank up what remained of the sake, then decided to lie down briefly before setting out.
This nostalgic black market inn had become fully settled through my well-worn cigarette pipe and single hairpin.

However, when I asked the maid to settle the bill, my drunkenly kind and well-meaning self ended up saying something mortifying.

“Did that young lady settle her bill?”

“She paid and left.”

The maid replied and stared intently at my face with a perplexed expression.

I felt so ashamed that my face turned red.

“No—I thought she might have paid for my share too.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

"That's right, I shouldn't have said such a foolish thing," I thought as I puffed away on my cigarette.

Iwaki Shusaku's house stood in a quiet district within a neighborhood that had escaped the fires.
A crape myrtle branch extended above the wooden fence, its beautiful flowers in bloom.

When I visited, Hisako, his wife, came out.
I knew her name, but this was our first meeting.

She was on the taller side, and from the contour of her face to her eyes, nose, mouth, and even her build—everything about her gave a distinctly slender impression.—Later, according to what I had heard from Iwaki, she had once suffered from pleurisy and had subsequently been afflicted by chronic neurasthenia.

Seeing my business card, she seemed terribly surprised.

“Oh my, what should I do?”

She muttered to herself, then seemed to regain her composure. She haltingly explained that her husband had been eagerly awaiting me, that he had gone out to some committee at the city office but would return immediately if called. But she did not invite me into the house.

I was slightly troubled.

“In that case, I’ll take a short walk around here...”

When I tried to leave, she hastily stopped me and showed me into the tatami room.
Once she withdrew, she didn’t reappear for some time.

The wing of the L-shaped building across the way bustled with activity.
I later heard a large extended family displaced by wartime bombing lived there.
This side remained quiet.
The rather spacious garden contained carefully tended shrubs where a Japanese white-eye flitted among the foliage.
Beyond the veranda lay a concrete pond where water trickled through some hidden mechanism, several splendid black carp gliding beneath its surface.

I went to the pond and gazed at the koi.
And there, I drank tea, ate fruit, read the newspaper, and gazed at the koi again.
When Iwaki returned shortly after noon, we caught about three koi together and cooked them as a side dish for drinks.

Iwaki had hardly changed from ten years ago.
He said I hadn't changed either.
And we looked at each other, laughed, and talked cheerfully.
But since those matters were unrelated to this story, I decided to omit them.

In my travel plans, I absolutely had to depart on that night's train.
I'd even left my suitcase in temporary storage at the station.
So the two of us hurriedly drank, hurriedly ate, and hurriedly discussed various matters.
In that conversation, Mrs. Hisako hardly participated.
She seemed like a different being entirely—or perhaps a doll—merely sitting there in attendance.
The meals and such were mostly prepared by the person she called "aunt"—probably a relative living over there—and it seemed that person was taking care of them.

“This one’s an absolute princess,” said Iwaki.

But such talk—that is to say, domestic and individual topics—was quickly bypassed, shifting instead to other weighty matters—that is to say, general subjects.

Then, when dusk had begun imperceptibly yet faintly to gather—though not yet visible to the eye—the entrance bell rang.
Hisako went out.
After some time, she returned.

“Mr. Shimizu, there’s a visitor for you.”

I couldn’t make sense of it.

“It must be a mistake. I don’t have any other acquaintances here, and last night—no, even before dawn...”

I started to say, then suddenly realized.

“What kind of person?”

“A young woman.”

I held my breath. I found myself strangely flustered, then grew angry.

“Please send her away. There’s a limit to such audacity. She’s unbelievable.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Iwaki.

There, I explained in outline the matter I had forgotten to mention—the incident at that black market inn.

“Oh, that’s all? You didn’t play some prank or anything, did you?”

“Even if I am a meddler… I just got sentimental and felt sorry for her, so I wrote your name on the back of my business card and gave it to her—that’s what started this whole mess.”

I frowned, but Iwaki tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Hold on now—this concerns me too. Let’s hear her story.”

He himself stood up and left.
Then he brought that young woman in.
The young woman sat rigidly in the corner of the room, her body stiff as if seized by fear.

"I heard about it from Shimizu-kun, but what happened with your aunt?"

"Yes."

She answered with just that single word and fell silent.
Seeing her face, I felt slightly disconcerted.
Back then, she had been staring vacantly as if in a dream, nearly expressionless.
Yet now, shadows pooled on that same round face, and her slightly sunken eyes seemed to brim with tears.

“Yes,” the young woman said again.
“I had them investigate at the city office.
"Aunt had passed away after all."
“I do not know where her grave is.”
“……Thank you very much.”
“I came to offer my thanks.”

Bowing so deeply her head nearly touched the tatami, the young woman began to stand up.

Mrs. Hisako stopped her.

“Oh, that’s quite all right. Please take your time.”

Mrs. Hisako’s demeanor caught my attention. She had been staring intently at the young woman since earlier—this slender figure who usually seemed indifferent to everything now gazed with an ambiguous glint in her eyes that could be read as either hostility or goodwill. Then, setting aside us two men entirely, she stopped the young woman from leaving.

The young woman sat frozen like a millstone, appearing at a loss as she settled her weight slightly and clasped her hands together.

“There’s nothing to be done about those who’ve passed,” said Iwaki.
“But now that it’s clear, your coming here served its purpose.”
“We’ve no shortage of missing persons here either.”

“Yes,” the young woman said again.

Mrs. Hisako stood up, went to the kitchen, and brought back some dishes.
And then offered them to the young woman.

“Come over here.”
“You must be tired.”
“There’s nothing special, but please help yourself.”

The young woman remained seated like a mortar and did not attempt to approach the dining table.

“Would you care for a drink?”

Mrs. Hisako offered the sake cup.

“I cannot accept.”

“I see.
“Then have something to eat.”
“The meal’s ready now.”

The young woman had been silent, but suddenly lowered her face, pressed a handkerchief to her eyes, and began to cry.

“What’s wrong?”

As Mrs. Hisako drew closer, the young woman cried even harder.

Something felt off.
It wasn't that she'd started crying.
Everything seemed out of joint somehow, though I couldn't pinpoint where the discord lay.
I drank my sake.

She stopped crying abruptly.
Wiped her eyes.
Returned to an expressionless face - no trace of awkwardness, no lingering sorrow, not even the ghost of a smile.

“Thank you for everything. I will be returning home now.”

She bowed politely, backed away, and exited the room.

Mrs. Hisako escorted her to the entrance and took some time there.

Both Iwaki and I remained silent.

When Mrs. Hisako returned, Iwaki gazed at her quizzically.

“You were acting strange,” he said. “Like you’d known that girl all along.”

“But she’s pitiable.” Her tone hardened. “Carrying that heavy bag of hers.”

“What could’ve brought her here from city hall, I wonder.”

“She said she came to express her gratitude.”

“Did she say anything when leaving?”

“She kept thanking us over and over, and then said, ‘Please take good care of yourselves.’”

“What’s with this ‘Please take good care of yourselves’...… She might as well be some noblewoman.”

Mrs. Hisako seemed to take offense and fell completely silent.
From then on, she hardly seemed to speak.
Had she become slightly agitated, then midway through let her mood sour, and from there simply slid back into that doll-like composure?

I opened my mouth for the first time.

"A noblewoman and yet illiterate."
"Because she couldn't write letters, she came to express her gratitude in person."

I had to spit out some bitter words or else the anger in my gut wouldn't settle.
In truth, I felt somehow both sad and anguished.

Both Iwaki and I found ourselves unsettled and drank.
As the alcohol took effect, I forgot all about the young woman.
Then we talked about various things and debated various matters.
When night came, Iwaki saw me off to the station.
We promised to meet next in Tokyo.
We both agreed that life was a tedious affair.
The train began moving and Iwaki immediately walked away.
I found an empty seat, sank deeply into it, and lit a cigarette.
In my pocket lay a hairpin wrapped in paper.
Ah, that single hairpin—the selfless kindness from hands that never revealed their owner—that alone remained clearest in my heart.