Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

In the nearby temple garden, three to five large gingko trees towered imposingly.
Upon going closer to investigate, there were three in total, but depending on how one looked at them, they could appear as four or even five.
They were thickly clustered.
On those trees, many sparrows were nesting.
From early morning, they would wake up—chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet—making an unbearable racket.
When the morning sun’s rays began to shine, they would flap abruptly into flight one flock at a time, scatter in all directions, and vanish somewhere.
And then in the evening, they would return again.
What they were up to—chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet—they would bustle about noisily, only to fall completely silent as twilight deepened.

Some households in the neighborhood were greatly troubled.
In my house, we instead made use of it.
In the morning it served as our alarm clock; in the evening, our quitting bell.

Because Father was idling about due to his stroke, we all worked.
Putting out a small dressmaking sign, Mother handled traditional Japanese sewing with her needlework, and Sister operated the Western-style sewing machine.
I went out to work.
We rented out the second floor.
And so, we managed to make ends meet.
Mother had always been frail, and with Father’s illness, she did not work at night.
Naturally, they would stop work at the sparrows’ chirping, and it would become time for a late dinner.
In exchange, they would rise early in the morning, along with the sparrows’ chirping.

In that flock of sparrows among the gingko trees, there were parent sparrows and young sparrows born that year.
They all joined in together—chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet, chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet.
There were times when I found them noisy... Oh, what was so noisy about them?
Sing louder, sing louder.
With all your heart, with all your voice—sing louder still.
Even the late-hatched fledglings fluttering unsteadily—sing with all your might, louder still.
Even I, if I were a sparrow...

Though they're quiet now, they must be getting sentimental.
They're annoyed.
They're angry.
And apparently they're sad.

It was the day Mr. Tezuka left for his hometown.
Because it was an early morning train, they got up even before the sparrows.
Mother and Sister were preparing several meals’ worth of boxed lunches for Mr. Tezuka.

I went up to the second floor.

Though it might sound presumptuous to say Mr. Tezuka seemed pitiful and wretched, I wondered how he was faring. Though the severity was unclear, with his chest ailment and gallbladder trouble, he would return to his Seto Inland Sea-facing hometown for six months to recuperate. The previous night, I had returned late from strange circumstances, but Mr. Tezuka had only drunk some sake, his cheeks flushed pink. That was all. Was this truly acceptable? Mr. Tezuka and Sister loved each other. Now they had to part for half a year. Yet nothing had transpired. Everything remained ordinary. Mr. Tezuka had simply been absorbed in conversation in the tearoom. With that, since they needed to rise early next morning, everyone retired early. Come dawn, it was precisely this absence of event that began troubling me.

The second floor—though the mosquito net and futon had already been put away—had no light on.
Oh, the sensation of having intruded where no one was present... I froze.
But soon my eyes adjusted.
It was dimly bright with the first light of dawn from the eastern sky.
On the protruding windowsill where three or four flowerpots were lined up, Mr. Tezuka sat staring fixedly at me.
Strangely ill at ease, I could neither speak nor smile.

“You’re up this early too?”

She wondered how long Mr.Tezuka had been up.

“The night just won’t break, will it?
“The stars are still shining, you know.”

And as Mr. Tezuka turned away to look up at the sky, I felt relieved and went to his side.
The atmosphere was merely paling; the midheaven still appeared dim, and a few stars floated forth peculiarly close and glimmered.

And they had been silent for a while when, suddenly—

“Kikuko,” Mr. Tezuka called my name.

I turned around, but Mr. Tezuka hung his head and lowered his eyes.

“Kikuko.”
“I meant to stay silent, but I’ll confess after all.”
“Once I return home and recover my health, I plan to come back—though who knows when that’ll be—so I wanted to bare my heart to you alone.”
“However you judge me, just speaking this will cleanse my soul.”
“The truth is—I’ve loved you.”
“Truly loved you.”
“Even now, you’re the only one I love.”
“Saying this doesn’t mean I seek your affection.”
“I simply need you to know.”
“That I’ve loved you from the start, love you still, and will keep loving you.”
“Please hold just that knowledge.”
“You understand?”
“Kikuko—you do understand?”

I stood dumbfounded.
I felt like a fool.
Then suddenly, I felt blood rush hotly to my cheeks.
At the same time, with a feeling I couldn’t tell whether it was embarrassment or shame, I bit my lip.
When I came to my senses, one of my hands was clasped between both of Mr. Tezuka’s.
I couldn’t move.
It felt as though something had bound my body.
Suddenly feeling Mr. Tezuka’s sweaty, lukewarm palm, the bindings on my body came undone.
I withdrew my hand.
I took two or three steps back.

Mr. Tezuka sat with his elbows on his knees, both hands pressed to his forehead, face bowed.

I went downstairs.
Frustration welled up in my chest.
I wanted to say something—anything—in that moment.
What that single word would be—even if I thought about it, I couldn’t know—but whatever it was, I wanted to say it.
Why did I remain silent and come down?
I grew agitated.
It was disgusting.
I washed my hands.
I went outside.

As I took a deep breath of the chilly outside air... suddenly, that scene flashed back into my eyes.

The old cherry tree having been there was to blame.
Why was the old cherry tree’s trunk so ugly?
While young trees may be glossy, their aged trunks become parched and gnarled—their bark could be described as layered like scales or covered in scabs from skin disease, not a sight meant to be looked upon.
That such delicate, ephemeral flowers bloomed in clusters on those branches seemed strange.

Beside the back entrance, beyond the rough bamboo fence, lay an empty lot that had been cleared of buildings, and in its corner stood an old cherry tree.
Appearing to be a very old tree, its upper parts had decayed and withered, while its lateral branches grew sparsely.
It was near that old tree that I witnessed that sight.
Feeling I had left some laundry hanging out and forgotten about it, and thinking it would be bad if it rained during the night, I went to retrieve it.
The moonlight was hazy.
The laundry was nowhere to be found.
While thinking this couldn’t be right, I lingered there for a moment when something beyond the bamboo fence near the cherry tree caught my eye.
It gave me the creeps, but I peered through the bamboo fence.
A chill ran down my spine.

In the shadow of the cherry tree untouched by moonlight hung a figure as if leaning against its trunk.
It was a person in a white unlined garment.
I held my breath and tried to flee, but in the next instant realized my mistake.
They weren’t dangling—they stood there locked in embrace.
Yet one had their head drooped like a noose-suspended corpse from behind, while the other craned upward as if hanged from the front, their lips joined.
Their heights mismatched.
Eventually they parted and stepped into the moonlight.
That was Mr. Tezuka and Sister.

I was embarrassed.
It wasn’t the kiss itself.
I’ve seen plenty of kisses in movies.
What embarrassed me was that Mr. Tezuka and Sister’s kiss had been ugly and grotesque.
Even allowing for their height difference, they didn’t have to go through such strangling-like motions.
And in such a place—next to that ugly cherry tree—they didn’t need to do it.
There was not a trace of the purity or fragrant nobility that should grace lovers’ kisses.

And now, what had Mr. Tezuka said to me?
He had claimed to love me instead.
Oh—me instead.
How could he utter such a thing?
While insisting he sought no affection from me, he'd gripped my hands in both of his.
Disgusting.
And all that about understanding—"You comprehend, don't you? You'll show me that mercy?"
What exactly did he want comprehended?
Yet there was something I'd nearly grasped.

Even if Mr. Tezuka returns to his hometown, he will keep renting the second-floor room in our house and leave all his belongings there.
While claiming uncertainty about his return date, he likely plans to come back within six months as originally intended.
And during that interval, he means to keep my emotions bound to him.
I remember reading somewhere that to hold a woman's attention—whether through affection or animosity—you must maintain some form of engagement, never allowing indifference to take root.
If not love, then hatred should be cultivated—that being the crucial point.
Mr. Tezuka's manner had carried an undertone of offering precisely that binary choice.
Since Sister occasionally receives marriage proposals whose outcomes during his absence remain unpredictable, he wants to secure my emotional investment as insurance.
He must grow lonely in perpetual solitude.
No doubt the war's ravages on his psyche combined with dreary drafting work at the factory have leached all vitality from his existence.

Is thinking such things a sign that I'm cold-hearted? Sister probably didn't think in the same way I did。 Sister was a war widow。 Her married life had been brief， her husband’s death in the war was officially confirmed， and after the war ended， she had returned to her parents’ home。 There were also occasional talks of remarriage。 I wondered how she'd been talking to Mr。Tezuka about those marriage proposals。 And I wondered how Mr。Tezuka was answering。 I wondered if they intended to get married。 I wondered if Mr。Tezuka’s illness had become an obstacle。 Such things—I didn't want to think about them。 The strangling kiss—that alone was more than enough。 I dimly knew they'd even had a physical relationship， but that too must've been no different from their desperate strangling kiss—something grotesque。 The purity and fragrant nobility of true love cannot exist anywhere。 Because from the very beginning， Mr。Tezuka hadn't been a virgin and Sister hadn't been one either。

I am a virgin.
I hold the pride of virginity.

That previous day too, something foolish had happened.

I work at a certain publishing company where my main job is proofreading.
Most people dislike proofreading work, but I like it.
Tracing each printed character one by one and correcting typos makes for a leisurely task.
The characters each have their own expressions—they get angry, grow sad, or laugh.
It wasn't as monotonous a job as I'd imagined.
On the other hand, my proofreading was terribly slow; I neglected cross-checking messy manuscripts and didn't mind dropping a phrase or two if the meaning held, so the editors often scolded me.
It had become established that I was slow and incompetent.

Even someone as slow and incompetent as me was occasionally sent to collect manuscripts for the magazine.
This task carried even less responsibility than proofreading.
Since it involved going to remind them of the manuscript the editor had promised—as a warning when the deadline was near—it amounted to nothing more than a mechanical exchange.

I was ordered to handle that errand in the afternoon.
On the way back, I was allowed to go straight home without stopping by the company.

When the afternoon sun had sunk low, I went to the Writer's place.
The Writer was famous for never keeping deadlines.
Yet for me, such writers were all the easier.

The Writer was not in.
He had gone to a nearby bar, it was said.
I went there.

The Writer was drinking sake.
He was with about three friends.

It was a wide-open room near the entrance.
As I presented my business card and spoke about the manuscript, the Writer listened silently but suddenly said.

“How strange.”
“You bear a striking resemblance.”
“There must be an older sister or a younger sister—someone working at a magazine company.”
“No—or rather twins perhaps?”
“You’re the spitting image.”

This was my second time visiting the Writer's place.
The first time, he hadn't said anything like that.

"So you're not twins, and neither your older sister nor younger sister works anywhere—is that really true?"
"But you really do look exactly alike."
"You're the spitting image."
"Anyone who saw you would mistake you for her."

A peculiar feeling came over me.
Obediently, I settled into the corner of the room.

“Hey, don’t you think she looks just like her?” The Writer said to his friends.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve forgotten the name—still someone from a magazine company.”
“What was it again…”

The Writer furrowed his brows and pondered, then began drinking again.
I kept insisting about the magazine manuscript.

“If we don’t receive it by the morning of the day after tomorrow, we’ll be in serious trouble...”
“The deadline has already passed...”

He must have at least some professional obligation.
The Writer seemed aware of this.

“Very well.”
“I’ll have it written by morning two days hence.”
“But your side...”

The Writer lowered his eyes to my business card, abruptly cut off his words, and stared intently at my face.
Stared at for too long, I stiffened and lowered my face.
The Writer was still staring.
Then he suddenly burst into laughter.

“Oh!”
“You.”
“No wonder there’s a resemblance.”
“You’re the very person herself!”

When his friends asked what episode he meant, the Writer laughed again and said something foolish—that he’d thought this person resembled Kikuko Kosugi, but that Kikuko Kosugi was this very person. And since he was utterly serious, without a shred of pretense, it became all the more absurd.

“I thought you looked just like her, but it was actually you.”
“This is quite a coincidence.”
“Have a drink. It’s a toast.”

I refused, saying I couldn’t drink, but was made to hold a sake cup and forced to raise a toast.

The group became merrily animated.

“You bear a resemblance.”

“Who’re you talking about?”

“Yamada.”

“I’m Yamada.”

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

And then there was a toast.

“You look just like someone.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Nojima.”

“I’m Nojima.”

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

And then a toast.

Thanks to that, I ended up memorizing the names of the three others besides the Writer.
And I lost the chance to excuse myself and leave.

While they were making such a commotion, a woman over thirty and a young man who seemed fresh out of school came to visit the Writer.
Both were magazine journalists.

“You look just like someone,” the Writer said.

“Oh? Who?” the woman said.

“Oh? Who with?”
“Very well.”
“This time let’s do feminine speech.”

And so the original four began again.

“You look just like someone.”

“Oh? Who?”

“To Ms. Keiko.”

“I’m Keiko.”

“Oh, what a coincidence.”

And then a boisterous toast.

I was appalled.
Was this truly the real face of the mid-career writer considered spokesman for the new era’s anguish?
Was it some sort of mimicry?
I couldn’t begin to comprehend it—left both appalled and bewildered.
Yet no one else appeared to find it strange.
Keiko Hirota—whose name I soon learned—and the recent graduate too, when finally let in on the joke’s origin, delighted in the “What a coincidence” repartee, joined the uproar in unison, and matching the others’ fervor, drained their celebratory cups.
Sake decanters stood lined in rows.

“Ms. Kosugi.”

To me, sitting alone, Keiko Hirota called out.

“Ms. Kosugi, wasn’t it you who sowed the seeds?”
“What’s with the serious act?”
“Come on, a toast, a toast!”

I reluctantly raised another toast.

“That’s the spirit.”
“We’re all getting drunk tonight!”
“Oh don’t worry—it’s fine.”
“Let’s all crash here.”

At some point，the lights had come on.
I became sad.
I decided to go home and once again asked the Writer about the manuscript.

“I know, I know,” Keiko Hirota waved her hand.

“I’ll write it, I’ll write it, I’ll definitely write it,” the Writer chimed in.

“You look just like someone.”

While everyone kept up the banter, for some reason, the Writer fell silent.
After the toast ended, the Writer spoke.

“Wait a second.”
“I’ll do it alone.”
“…You look just like someone.”
“Who with?”
“With a dog.”
“I am the dog.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”

The Writer banged on the table with his fist to keep rhythm.

“Dog! Dog!”
“Everyone’s nothing but dogs.”

I stared wide-eyed.
The atmosphere had changed.

“If anyone here’s confident they ain’t a dog, raise your hand.”
“I’m a dog too.”
“But there ain’t nobody who can stone this mutt.”
“We’re all dogs.”
“Slaves to habit.”
“Always trodding’ the same damn path.”
“Pissin’ in the same spot, sniffin’ it up, then trodding’ that same damn path.”
“No stink of their own piss—gets ’em all twitchy.”
“A day without hooch—gets ’em twitchy.”
“Nothin’ but drinkin’ day in, day out.”
“But I’ll write that manuscript.”
“Hey—Kosugi-kun—Ms. Kosugi—I’ll write that damn manuscript.”
“Don’t write—gets me twitchy.”
“Don’t scribble somethin’—so lonesome I can’t bear it.”
“So quit your frettin’. I’ll write it sure.”
“Quit frettin’ and get good ’n soused.”
“Get soused and bunk here.”
“Tonight’s a flop-house night.”
“Well... Kosugi... Kiku-chan.”
“You’re a dead ringer for someone.”

“Who with?”
“Woof woof, you know?”
“I’m the woof woof.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”

When they raised their glasses in toast, the force of draining them nearly made the Writer collapse.
Those nearby supported him.
The Writer righted himself and raised another toast.

“You look just like someone.”

Keiko Hirota took the lead.

I quietly slipped away from my seat, put on my shoes, and stood on the earthen floor.
Strangely enough, no one tried to stop me.
They might have thought I was stepping out to get some air because I was drunk.
Or perhaps I was no longer interesting enough for anyone to pay me any attention.
I slipped outside.

It was already dusk.
As I trudged along the weedy path far from the city center, tears welled up in my eyes.

What reckless yet sad people they were.
The Writer and all the rest were exactly like that.
The evening wind winding about my skirt’s hem carried autumn’s first breath.
I sank into contemplation, tears pooling in my eyes until I wiped them away with a handkerchief.

However, when I saw the bright lights of the bustling street near the suburban train station, I suddenly felt a sense of having been deceived.
It wasn’t that anyone had deceived me.
It wasn’t that the Writer or those people had deceived me.
It was simply that I had been deceived by myself.
In other words, everything was a lie.
Everything the Writer and everyone else had said and done was a lie.
Then where does the truth lie?
The truth lies solely within me.
It exists nowhere else; it exists solely within me.

That thought felt strangely alien.
I had never experienced such a thought before.
So to speak, the entire external world turned to artifice, leaving me alone in a wilderness.

And yet, strangely enough, I didn’t feel lonely.
A tiny, tiny glimmer existed within my heart, and it became strength and even joy.

Only now did I clearly realize.
All of those people had lost their virginity.
It wasn't about spiritual matters.
It was purely a physical matter.
The men had already lost their virginity; the women had already lost theirs.
It was about the flesh.
There was a foul smell.
Even something like crashing together—they could do it without a second thought.

But as for me, my body maintains its virginal purity.
Even with the same flesh, its fragrance differs from that of young courtesans.
There isn’t a trace of that rancid smell.

With a kind of resolute determination, I returned home late.

The meager dinner with Mr. Tezuka had already ended.
While listening to everyone's mundane small talk, I furtively finished my meal.
After that, nothing happened.
The expectation that something would happen was merely a fantasy conjured by my virginal body.
For bodies that have lost their virginity, most things would be possible.
Moreover, even if that possibility may spread in all directions, it ultimately amounts to nothing more than superficiality.
For virgin bodies, possibility is confined within the category of purity.
Though restricted, it can extend infinitely far, infinitely high, infinitely deep.
It’s not impertinence—not at all.
Could this not be the pride of virgin bodies?
Through this pride, I would lodge my protest against Mr. Tezuka, against that Writer, against all other decayed flesh.

The eastern sky grew rapidly brighter.
That brightness reached the zenith as starlight faded away, yet a dimness lingered in the air.
The temple's gingko trees emerged distinctly, each overlapping layer of green leaves rising up while sparrows within them began their chorus.
Their calls echoed one another—chit-chik chuk-chuk chit-chik chuk-chuk—swelling like a tidal surge.
Sing louder! Sing louder!
Sparrows—you too must be virgins!
So fiercely it threatened to burst my chest...

Ah, I strangled the life from my thoughts.
The sparrows—all those chirping, clamoring sparrows—how could they possibly be virgins?
The only virgins are this year's fledgling sparrows.
How could one distinguish between them and the parent sparrows?
Flesh, the essence of flesh itself.

Across the heavens, light—not the crimson light of sunrise, but a sightless white radiance—had swelled imperceptibly until, reflected everywhere, the shadows of things vanished.
I felt something akin to dizziness.
I entered the house and told Mother I had a headache.
Using the excuse that I might have caught a cold from staying up late last night, I burrowed into my futon.
It had been arranged that someone would see Mr. Tezuka off to the station—but who would actually go?
Let Sister go alone.
I refuse to be part of any strangling kiss farewell.

In a dreamlike state, I seemed to truly doze off.
When I opened my eyes, tears were flowing.

Mother was already doing laundry at the back door.
Father sat vacantly on the veranda.
Though called a stroke, it was mild enough that his limbs and speech remained unaffected—he was simply prone to excessive weeping.

I washed my face, scrubbed my tear-reddened eyes thoroughly, smoothed my hair neatly, and went to see Father.

“Oh, oh—you’re up.”

I smiled.

“Good.”
“Has your cold improved?”

Father was already crying.

“You must feel lonely.
“Mr. Tezuka has gone.”
“You must endure it.”

What on earth was Father even saying? Wasn’t it Father himself who long ago worked in the factory’s general affairs section alongside Mr. Tezuka’s father and liked Mr. Tezuka?

“It’s not me.”
“Father must be lonely.”

Father nodded and sniffed.

“Sister must be lonely too,” I ventured.

Father nodded again and began to sob quietly.
I couldn’t understand at all what he was thinking.
Was he crying from joy or sorrow? I couldn’t even tell.

In the gingko trees visible off to the side, the sparrows’ voices had ceased. In groups, they must have scattered in a flurry and gone off somewhere.

“Oh my, the sparrows are already gone,” I said. “Since it’s fully light now, they’ve gone off somewhere.”

Finding it painful to remain silent, I had uttered something utterly obvious, but at that moment, I became earnest.

“Father, those sparrows in the gingko trees—are they noisy or pleasant? Which is it?”
“Is it better for all the sparrows to disappear completely, or better for many to stay?”

“Hmm... The sparrows.”
“Do you like them?”

“I like them.”
“They can be noisy sometimes, though.”

“That’s right, that’s right.”

Father took one big breath but remained clueless about the sparrows, looking utterly bewildered.
I pressed further.

“When autumn comes and the gingko leaves have all fallen, what will the sparrows do?”

“They’ll do the same.”

“Will they still live there, I wonder?”

“They’ll stay.”

“In that case, it would be good if we humans were like sparrows too.”
“Even if our house burns down in an air raid, we can live in the ruins; we don’t have to toil every day; we can just chirp chirp all day long—and I’ll sing until my heart bursts.”

I had tried saying it—half pouring my own feelings into it and half meaning to comfort Father—but he was already clutching his nose.

“It’s because I can’t work.
“To all of you too, I’m sorry for causing trouble.”

Even as he spoke these words, Father had already begun weeping quietly.
The sparrows meant nothing at all to Father.
But let human matters come up, and he’d burst into tears instantly.
I too found myself suddenly blinking back tears.

“It’s all right，Father．Working is something to be happy about… Oh，Mother is doing the laundry，I suppose．”

I stood up and fled toward the tearoom.
If I were to show tears, Father would undoubtedly start crying out loud.

I drank a little tea in the tearoom but skipped the meal.
I didn't want to eat.
Without going to Mother, I went out front.
It wasn't exactly a walk, and having nowhere else to go, I went to the vacant lot out back.
There was that unpleasant, ugly cherry tree.
I passed by it and entered the temple grounds.
The gingko trees towered luxuriantly.
Leaning against the trunk, I cried.

It wasn't sadness.
To call it sadness—everyone was sad.
Father, Mother, Sister, Mr. Tezuka, the Writer—they were all sad.
But I alone was different.
I felt unbearably precious to myself.
Something profoundly important existed within my own body.
Virginity...
I would protect it through.
In its name, I would protest against everything.
They say even an inchworm has spirit... but what mattered wasn't some half-hearted resolve.
An inchworm... No, I refused insects.
Virginity wasn't some insect.
It was like a flower.
However small, however useless—if it stayed pure and fragrant—I had to protect it desperately.
This world had lost both male and female virginity.
I would rebel.

I cried.
I cried out of joy.
In the gingko trees, there were no sparrows now.
Little sparrow, little sparrow, come back.
Chirp chirp, chatter chatter, chirp chirp, chatter chatter—make your noisy commotion.
Sing until my chest bursts.