Pathway to Japanese Literature

Behind the hospital was a narrow, steep slope.
One side was a concrete wall; outside the wall at the top of the slope grew several chinquapin trees thick and deep.
The other side was a high cliff built up with concrete that served as the hospital’s research laboratory.
In the center of the slope lay granite paving stones about two feet wide that formed the human pathway; weeds grew on both sides where coal ash and garbage had piled up and pottery fragments lay scattered.
The entire place had an oppressively damp atmosphere.
Kittens and sick cats were often abandoned there.
The slope’s name remained unknown; it likely had none at all.
Some people colloquially called it Cat Abandonment Slope.

The area of Cat Abandonment Slope on the hospital side was burned down in an air raid during the war.
Only a section of the main building’s patient ward remained; all the wooden annexes and nearby houses had burned down.
As a result, Cat Abandonment Slope was supposed to become somewhat brighter, but instead, the eerie atmosphere deepened.

The cliff on the hospital side was constructed in two tiers.
The middle tier was about four shaku wide, encircling the cliff flatly from the upper part of the slope; the upper tier was a burnt-out square.
In the middle of this middle tier was a sort of cave; when viewed from the upper tier, it formed a basement.
There was a door of iron bars and frosted glass, but the glass was burned and broken, and the entire door hung unsteadily.
Charred corrugated iron had been pressed against it and bound with wire.
If one peeked through the gaps in the corrugated iron, light seeped into the cave from the upper entrance.
There was a square pool like those seen at goldfish shops, with corpses piled within.
Charred and desiccated torsos; skulls with skin burned and festering; ribs scattered apart; limbs twisted at angles; here and there, arms and shins jutted out sharply.
Fire had entered the alcohol tank, recreating the scene of corpses floating and thrashing as they sizzled and burned.
An eerie stench hung in the air.
In another room sat a single tank with a thick lid firmly in place.
There in the alcohol, several corpses were likely bobbing limply.

Someone had glimpsed that ghastly scene, and rumors began to spread.
There were even those who went out of their way to see it.
However, given that they were constantly exposed to air raids, no one could even guarantee their own tomorrow, and thus the burned remains of the hospital’s corpse storage facility left no significant impression.

After the war ended, old boards were erected around the corpse storage facility to prevent anyone from peering inside from outside.
However, paradoxically, the image of its interior revived in the minds of nearby people.
Since they could no longer peek inside, the old rumors were imagined even more exaggeratedly.
Originally having few pedestrians to begin with, Cat Abandonment Slope saw even fewer passersby at night.

Only the dim light of a gate lamp at the foot of the slope was visible, leaving the entire slope dimly lit.
At times, the strange odor from inside the cave would seem to leak out suddenly.
Not only that, but the skulls, ribs, arms, and shins of charred and festering corpses would drift out aimlessly.

The slope was steep, and the granite paving stones of the pathway were smooth.
One evening, Mrs. Sundries Shop Owner fell and sprained her ankle.

According to rumors, when Mrs. Sundries Shop Owner was descending the slope, a voice came from nowhere—or so it was said.

“Hurry up! Hurry up!”

Just as she thought Huh?—the voice came again.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

A shudder ran through her, and she quickened her pace.
The moment she did so, she fell.

Another evening, Kondo Family’s Maid fell and scraped her elbow and knee on the slope.

On her way back from the bathhouse, just as she began climbing the slope, a voice sounded.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

Startled, she tried to turn back rather than continue climbing the slope.
The moment she did so, she fell.

Those voices were likely hallucinations born of frayed nerves.
But in fact, I too have had such an experience.

My mother had begun suffering from pain again, and since the emergency painkillers had unfortunately run out, I went to the doctor’s to get more medicine, even though it was nighttime.
Taking Cat Abandonment Slope was the shortest route.
I calmly climbed up that steep slope.
And after receiving the medicine, I calmly began descending the slope on my way back.
Suddenly, I cast my eyes toward the old board enclosure of that cave-like basement.
I too had peeked inside there before.
When I felt uneasy and averted my eyes, something resembling the strange odor from that time drifted to my nose.
When I snorted and was halfway down the slope, in a moment of relief, it seemed I heard it.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

I ran down the slope.
I didn't feel particularly afraid, but it felt as if something grotesque had directly touched my skin.

Mother was letting out agonized moans.
My older sister was stroking the area around her lower back.

“That was quick.”
“Mom, the medicine is here.”
“Will it take effect soon?”

Mother nodded and let out a sound whose meaning was unclear.
Older sister wrapped the medicine in oblate and administered it with water for swallowing.
It was a quiet night with the sound of insects coming from somewhere.
About five minutes had passed when Mother opened her tightly shut eyes.

“This medicine works really well.”
“It’s already healed.”

There was no way it could take effect so quickly, yet both my sister and I remained silent.
Sure enough, the pain returned.
Mother began to moan.
Her moans gradually grew fainter and eventually faded away.
Had she fallen asleep?

Before I knew it, Mother had opened her eyes wide and fixed her gaze toward me. There was no semblance of watching—a completely indifferent gaze. I stared back without flinching. Mother’s eyes lacked any willpower or vitality—they were like inanimate objects. The light from the gauze-covered bulb seemed dimly hazy, and smoke from mosquito coils seemed to fill the air. In that hazy dimness, Mother’s eyes were fixed unblinkingly toward me. They were merely fixed there, seeing nothing. Her eyeballs had lost all vitality; the eyeballs themselves had melted away, leaving only the empty eye sockets gaping open. They were the eye sockets of those basement skulls. They were fixedly directed toward me.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

The voice resurfaced.
The strange odor from that basement overlapped with the sickroom’s foul air.
Mother always had a foul discharge, soiled her diapers, and already carried the stench of death on her body.
The air inside the sickroom, saturated with those smells, was oppressively heavy and strange.
The skull’s eye sockets gaped open toward me.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

Where are you telling me to go? It couldn't be words meant for me alone. Whether directed at Mother suffering in her illness, at Older Sister worn out from nursing care, or at those charred corpses rotting away in the tanks—it must be saying it to them all. It must be saying it to the world, to the entire world.

Older Sister's hand jabbed my knee. Then she pointed at Mother's eyes.

Those eyes were still wide open.

“What’s happening?”

It was a low, tearful voice.
I remained motionless, lost in thought.
Older Sister moved her face closer to Mother’s.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

Mother nodded easily and closed her eyes.
Her eyelids had sunken completely, not closing properly—as if they were slightly open.
Her cheekbones had grown prominent, her nose had sharpened, and her lips were slightly parted.
There was no flesh left behind her ears at all.

“She seems to have fallen asleep, huh?”

Older Sister muttered, let out a thick breath, and lay down her upper body using her arm as a pillow.

We had known she was a patient beyond saving, but her condition had suddenly worsened several days prior, and now she could barely swallow any food. She was constantly nauseous with vomiting urges, had little awareness of the foul discharge, and would occasionally complain of throbbing pain. Beside her, Older Sister stayed constantly, only leaving to prepare meals. Older Sister herself had grown thinner, her complexion turning sallow. Even when I suggested we at least take night shifts in turns, Older Sister refused. She intended to do all the nursing herself until the very end. She said diaper care was impossible for a man. The strange odor in the sickroom had already become part of her, and she seemed not to mind it at all.

The sickroom was four and a half tatami mats in size.
In the next six-tatami room slept my older sister’s husband and their two children.
The husband had to work overtime at his workplace and earn the family’s living expenses all by himself.
Since Mother took to her sickbed, the strain took its toll on his body, and he aged remarkably.
On the second floor too was another family—poor people packed tightly together.
Though everywhere should have reeked of humanity, it smelled more of dust and grime than of body odor.
Only the children cried; the adults didn’t even laugh from their hearts.

Only once did I see my older sister crying.
While my older sister was washing Mother’s diapers, the sundries shop owner’s wife from the neighborhood came over and said loudly.

“It must be hard for you.”
“Taking care of an adult baby must be exhausting.”

After that, Older Sister was sobbing quietly on the veranda.
It wasn’t that she’d grown sentimental over some perfunctory sympathy.
Nor was it that she begrudged the sarcasm.
That Mother had become completely incontinent like a baby must have been what saddened her.
She kept sobbing quietly, her tears simply wouldn’t stop.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

Rather, let the whole world just disappear.

Even on that Cat Abandonment Slope, there was a woman resting her body.
She lay sprawled on the rough grassy ground, her tattered jacket—so worn its stripes were indistinguishable—with collar and cuffs undone, her lower body neatly wrapped in black *monpe*, barefoot except for one *geta* on her foot while the other lay flipped over near her toes, one arm serving as a pillow as she lay mostly prone.
Her skin was smeared with mud and dust, her hair reddish-brown and disheveled.
She looked dead at first glance, but faint breaths still seemed to stir.
She remained motionless like that indefinitely.
Had she collapsed from exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep?
The early autumn sunlight was shining only on the tips of her feet.

In that patch of sunlight, a kitten—the kind often seen on this slope—with patchy black stripes on its thinning fur and an emaciated body moved unsteadily about, sniffing around the woman’s geta. It seemed to be crying, but its voice was so faint it was nearly inaudible. The kitten crept from near the geta to the tips of the woman’s feet, sniffed around awhile longer, then slumped face down into the grass.

All of this I saw after noon. When evening came and I went to check on a whim, both the woman and kitten were gone, the slope now dimly cold as dusk settled. The old boards enclosing the basement looked darker still than the gathering twilight.

On those old boards, at that time, the faint light of the crescent moon shone.

It was the night I kissed that woman just once.

I drank alcohol-brewed shochu at a stall and got slightly drunk. As I was about to head back, I ran into her stepping off the train. From something like her mentioning she’d been to see a movie—without really talking or making a point to walk together—we ended up side by side. She was the girl from a shop that sold fruit-related sundries. She wasn’t their actual daughter but someone who’d come from rural relatives to help out, and she seemed rather old for it.

The woman took the lead and headed toward Cat Abandonment Slope as if it were nothing.
Does she think there's nothing to fear because there are two of us?
As for me, of course I wasn't scared.
It was a windy, unseasonably warm evening.

The slope's granite paving stones were too narrow for two people to walk side by side.
The woman started descending first.
The footing was dimly lit and treacherous.
It wasn't much of a wind, but the chinquapin tree thicket rustled with a sweeping sound.

When we were halfway down the slope, a dog barked ahead at its foot.
The barking soon stopped.
The woman came to a halt.
I stepped off the paving stones into the grass.
When we stood side by side, she began walking again but kept pressing her body closer toward mine.
Eventually she too left the paving stones and entered the grass on my side.
I became sandwiched between her body and the concrete wall, unable to move.
When I took hold of her arm, she tightened her armpit around my hand.

What a fool she was.
If she meant it seriously, I'd conquer her—such was the idiotic combativeness I roused in myself.
I stopped and embraced her shoulder with my free hand—she buried her face against my chest.
As I drew nearer while holding her like that, she too lifted her face.
It was a slow, cold kiss.
The reason it lasted so long was because she wouldn't pull away.

Throughout that kiss, I gazed over her shoulder at the old boarded enclosure of the basement across the way.
There, the pale crescent moon's light was shining.
That light—and the basement beyond it—seemed to be sneering at our pitiful state.
Something sickening began churning in my chest.

I quietly pushed the woman away and started walking in silence.
I finished descending the slope and parted with the woman.

“See you,” the woman said.

She was a round-faced, plump woman, but her cheeks were merely ruddy—her skin not like an apple’s but like a tangerine’s.
See you—is that really what the fruit shop girl says?
After parting with her, I spat a couple times.

Since then, I made it a rule not to see her anymore.
What conquest?
Wasn’t it merely that I had been conquered by her?

Even if she were gone, even if she were gone permanently, I wouldn’t feel the slightest sting.
But regarding how the woman who looked like she’d collapsed, along with the abandoned kitten at her feet, had vanished without notice—though it had absolutely nothing to do with me—I felt a cold wind blow through my heart.
This feeling—the basement would not mock.

The corpses in the basement—those charred corpses, those corpses that were likely bobbing in alcohol—though purchased by the hospital as unclaimed remains, must have once been someone’s blood relatives.
It is those blood ties—those human connections—that whisper in the dead of night.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

This was no ghost story.
It was the whisper of a sad, helpless heart.
The collapsed woman who had vanished to parts unknown also whispered in the same manner.

"Hurry up, hurry up."

Even that kitten whispered to me in the same way.

Where should I go? —I returned to dying mother’s side.
Since Older Sister was handling everything,I just needed to stay by her side.

Mother had complained less frequently about the pain.
The doctor conversely said her crisis was approaching.
Had she even lost the strength to suffer?
It was a heartrending sight I couldn’t bear to watch.

All visitors too were received only in the three-tatami entranceway and sent on their way.
This three-tatami space was a shared area between our family and the second-floor family, serving as a reception room for both households.
When friends came, I would converse with them there.

A middle school friend from the old days visited one evening, carrying a bottle.
We drank in the three-tatami entranceway.
He was proud of that liquor.
Far superior to the alcohol shochu flooding street stalls, he claimed it was Alcohol Whiskey.
He’d added a little color and a touch of flavor.
It was his own invention.
Supplying this to drinking establishments would yield considerable profits.
He intended to mass-produce it and make an enormous profit.
"The raw materials are available in any amount," he suggested to me. "Why don't we do it together?"

“Illegal work or whatever—who gives a damn?
“I’m gonna supply our fellow countrymen with good liquor.”
“And get them good and drunk.”

During the war, he had been conscripted and made to trudge all over the Kanto Plain, returning only after being demobilized following Japan’s surrender.

According to him, a soldier’s main job had apparently been simply crawling across the ground.
They had to keep their bodies as low to the ground as possible, crawl forward as quickly as possible using their arms and knees, and collide with imaginary enemy tanks along with the explosives on their backs.
Crawl as low as possible, crawl as fast as possible—keep crawling and crawling.
That was our daily work.

“When the war ended and I stood up, I felt dizzy.”

“Is it the same as the dizziness when you’re drunk?”

“No, it’s not like that.
“When you’re drunk, the outside world spins round and round.
“Ours made our heads spin round and round.”

“We,” he said, using the plural form.
But that was not limited to soldiers; it would become an even greater plurality.
Most people, in some sense, were crawling along the ground.
Those who stood up and felt dizzy were still the lucky ones; many others remained crawling on their bellies until they collapsed completely.

Such people were gathering around Ueno Station, swarming about.
It wasn’t as if the wind had blown them there.
Nor had they been swept there by a broom.
Crawling on their bellies, crawling on their bellies, getting stuck, they naturally came together.
And like a garbage dump they piled up, generating stifling heat.

Let them scatter alcohol.
Alcohol shochu would be fine.
Alcohol Whiskey would be fine as well.
I was in favor of my friend’s Alcohol Whiskey.

“Will you work with me on this?”

“Wait a bit longer.”
“I’ll think about it.”

During the war, I worked at a munitions company, but after Japan’s surrender, it was dissolved. With the severance pay from that time, I hadn’t particularly burdened Older Sister’s family’s livelihood nor faced any great want for pocket money—but it was clear that continuing like this would soon leave me cornered.
I had to do something.
However, I disliked working for some company.
I wanted my own work—something I could definitively call my own.
That said, bootlegging Alcohol Whiskey was problematic.
I wanted money, but I had to avoid becoming attached to it.
All attachment is shallow.

That wretchedness—I had been shown all manner of it during the air raids.

In a room of the neighboring house, a couple who had been burned out were taking shelter.
They had a single cart.
When the air raid siren sounded, they would haphazardly load the cart with miscellaneous items and evacuate about three hundred meters ahead to an air-raid shelter within the burned ruins.
No matter how late the hour, they did this.
As soon as they heard the alarm, they would spring up, load the cart with things, wait a moment to assess the situation, and then pull it out.
The man pulled the handle, the woman pushed from behind—clatter, clatter—making noise in the midnight streets as they headed toward the burned ruins.
Some time after the all-clear sounded, they would return with a clatter, this time a bit more slowly.
Then they would unload the cart and go back to sleep.
The cart’s contents were nothing but trivial things.
Futons, blankets, pots and pans, dishes and small bowls, a small trunk, some rice, furoshiki-wrapped bundles—all appeared to be items they had prepared in advance.

Were the burned ruins, and the air-raid shelter there, truly safe?
To be sure, the rows of small houses were equivalent to neatly stacked firewood against incendiary bombs; being there was no different than being amidst firewood beneath flames.
However, since they were taking shelter in someone else’s house, they ought not to flee alone but instead cooperate with the household members in shared efforts such as fire prevention, moving belongings, and evacuation.
But they, the couple, would flee without a second thought for anyone else, pulling their clattering cart.

The cart’s load consisted of trivial things, but these were undoubtedly immediate survival necessities.
It stood to reason that what we need most to survive are the most trivial daily necessities.
That fact must have been something they—the couple—learned through their experience of being bombed out.
And their caution must have been entirely appropriate.

Even so, there was something shallow about the entirety of that couple’s affairs.
Could they possibly want to live even at a minimal level by going to such lengths?

The spectacle of the great fire I rather recalled with a certain exhilaration.
As far as the eye could see stretched a sea of flame.
Amid this fiery expanse, the trunks of copses and utility poles stood towering, spewing flames.
To one side billowed thick black smoke that trailed whitish into the sky.
In that sky, airplanes reflecting the fire's glow like silver darted back and forth.
Both heaven and earth blazed bright while roaring with a deafening tumult.
Magnificent.
For those who perished or were wounded within it, their deaths and injuries must have been meaningless yet catastrophic all the same.
Yet that conflagration remained magnificent.

What made me say such cold-hearted things was that cart’s clattering noise.
Especially that noise in the dead of night.
It was despicable.
It was pitiful.

Afterward, their cart was stolen, and then they left for parts unknown.

Let them have some Alcohol Whiskey too—yes, that’s right.

My friend’s liquor was indeed well-crafted.
And potent.
I was pretty drunk.

“Making money isn’t the goal. I want to get as many folks soused as possible,” he said.

He himself was already thoroughly sloshed.
Even before coming over, he’d apparently knocked back plenty, then kept chugging more.

“Hey, let’s go drink beer now.”
“There must be a house around here that serves beer.”
“Lead the way.”
“I’ve got money.”

With nothing but nori and takuan pickles as drinking snacks, I felt somewhat sorry for him.
The liquor had run out.
“Beer’s just sober-up water,” he declared.

When we went outside, he was completely unsteady on his feet.
Not only was he drunk—this guy was still dizzy too, I thought.
After doing nothing but crawl around, in complete defeat, he suddenly stood up.
He might feel dizzy; he might stagger; he might stumble.
It wasn’t just him.

I took the lead and began climbing Cat Abandonment Slope.
He followed behind and let out a heavy breath.
He let out another heavy breath.

Everything had gone quiet. When I turned around, he lay prone in the dimness.
In that filth where coal ash mixed with kitchen refuse and dust, he had both hands planted.

“Hey, what’re you doing?”

“Stupid fucking slope.”

He tried rising, staggered again, then leaned against the concrete wall.
There he crouched once more and retched violently.
His back twitched convulsively before he vomited again with another heave.

I stood watching.
I could do nothing but watch.
If I intervened, it would only make things worse.

Some time passed.

“You alright?”

“Nah, it’s just a stupid slope.”

Leaning on the concrete wall, he gradually climbed up.
When he reached the top of the slope, he unexpectedly started walking briskly away.
He emerged onto the wide road, then headed toward the train street without hesitation.

I gradually fell behind, and around the time he reached the train street, silently turned back.
It’s pointless to keep associating with him any further.

The fact that he had vomited on Cat Abandonment Slope left me with a strange impression.
A sliver of suspicion arose—that it wasn’t that man who vomited, but someone else entirely.
Once when someone stood leaning against this slope’s concrete wall, I stared intently and the figure vanished.
Again on the hospital-side mid-section where someone sat—when I stared intently—the figure vanished.
Such forgotten memories were now resurrecting.
Indeed on this slope, invisible shadowy figures lurked.
That one must have vomited.

When I stood atop the slope, only the distant gate lamp cast a faint light. The granite paving stones glowed faintly white, and a gloomy air stagnated deeply between the concrete cliff and concrete wall.

I stopped.

Right there, amidst the chinquapin grove casting deeper shadows into the darkness, there was a vague figure.
Who is it?
When I stared, the figure vanished.

I averted my gaze.
Then, once again, that figure appeared.
It wasn’t so much seen as sensed.
When I stared at it, the figure would vanish.
When I averted my gaze, it would appear again.

I approached it while keeping my eyes averted.
Since it seemed to dislike being seen, I mustn’t look.

“Who are you?”

It said the same thing: “Who are you?”

“Do you hate being seen by people?”

“You’re the one who hates being seen by people,” it countered.

“Hate it? Don’t flatter yourself. Try staring straight at me instead.”

“I’ve been watching all along.”
“Why do you keep turning your face away?”

I was at a loss for words. If I were to look directly at it, that thing would surely vanish. Taking advantage of me looking away, it was staring intently at me. "What am I supposed to do?" I thought, growing increasingly restless as I fixed my eyes. In the direct line of sight was the old boarded enclosure of the basement.

From the pile of charred corpses, a single white-boned hand jutted out abruptly. A white-boned leg also jutted out abruptly. The hand seemed to be trying to reach out somewhere. The leg seemed to be trying to run off somewhere. As for where—their directions were discordant.

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

The one who whispered was not the skeleton.
It was a figure standing rigidly right beside me.
I looked at it.
The figure was also looking at me.
Eyes were hollow pits—nothing but the empty sockets of a skull.

“Ah.”

Those are Mother’s eyes.
Weren’t those Mother’s eyes—the ones that had been unseeingly directed toward me?

“You….”

The moment I began to speak, its figure vanished.
A cold shudder ran through my entire body.
I had an ominous premonition.
Mother’s death was sensed.

A strange odor drifted in.
It was the stench of corpses in the basement.
It was also the stench of Mother’s sickroom.
Mother.
Why did Mother—the one who had nurtured this me, this flesh, in her womb and brought me forth—discharge such foul waste?
Uterine cancer—it was merely an illness, and I knew that was the reason.
But that decay was pitiful, sad.
Mother... wasn’t the only one.
Everything around me was drenched in stench.
Go on—smell the woman who had collapsed there.
Go on—smell the abandoned cat.
Go on—smell what my friend, or rather someone, had vomited.
Go on—smell my older sister living in the sickroom.
Go on—smell the couple who had been rattling along with their cart.
Go on—smell the filth between the teeth of the woman I’d kissed over there.
Go on—smell every last thing.

Before I knew it, its figure reappeared, standing faintly by my side.

“What is it?”

“Hurry up, hurry up.”

“Where are you going?”

“Go wherever you please.”

When I looked back, the figure had vanished.
A place where one can do as they please? How could such a place exist?
Even if it did exist, I detested escape.
The path I wanted to follow was one forged through sheer willpower.
Wind—blow away this stench of Cat Abandonment Slope.

I descended the slope step by step, planting each foot firmly.
I didn’t look back any longer.

Mother was dozing fitfully.
She was semi-comatose.

The next early morning, Mother died.
Older Sister slumped dejectedly, with no strength to do anything.
Brother-in-Law was also dazed.
I took the initiative to handle the funeral arrangements with great care.