Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was an old woman, Kōkichi’s aunt, who ran a tobacco and sundries shop, and she said that since there was a refined thirty-five-year-old widow in the neighborhood, he ought to meet her.
She was intellectual and beautiful, looking only about thirty.
She worked as an office clerk and was raising her two children on her own, yet there were no scandalous rumors about her.
Though she was too good for Kōkichi, there came a time when she told Aunt that life as an office worker was hard, so she wanted to run a small oden shop.
And then, it suddenly occurred to her,

“Since my nephew runs an oden shop, how about trying to work there?”
“Renting a market stall would cost twenty or thirty thousand yen, and it’s not something an amateur can just jump into.”
“He may be my nephew, but he’s already fifty—lost his wife and kids in the war damage. What do you say, Mrs.—why don’t you just go ahead and marry him?”
“Though I say this, these days lineage and background don’t matter one bit.”
“Even if you’re educated, it doesn’t mean you’ll make money. That oaf’s been dragging his oden cart around since he was twenty—doesn’t have a proper trade but guzzles booze like there’s no tomorrow, getting plastered and staggering all over the place.”
“The wife and kids went through hell, I tell you.”
“But you see, ever since the war, if you throw in some cat innards with your cabbage scraps and line them up, no matter how many pots you stack up, they’ll all sell out—it’s like magic, I tell you.”
“Whether it’s dogs, sewer rats, or mole meat—anything with flesh—if you chop it up at the butcher’s block, it’ll turn into hundred-yen bills, while the wife just ended up getting burned to death while running around in circles trying to skin rats.”
“Without even a moment’s amusement, she ended up being made a fool of, I tell you.”
“Before the tears even dry—if they’re burned, they sell; if they’re lost, they sell; if prices rise, they sell even more—it’s like a dream, I tell you.”
“That oaf just lazes about, but when he haphazardly piles ’em up, they sell like wildfire—even the smelt in Lake Kasumi don’t get caught this easy, I tell you.”
“The wife and kids burning to death? That’s just a sandwich squeezed between dreams of raking in piles of cash.”
“That oaf’s raked in a million or so, I tell you.”
“These days, he’s got middle-aged geishas, young courtesans—keeps two or three geisha as mistresses—built a new house for two hundred thousand yen, and with all that, you still can’t see his money dwindling! So Mrs., these days, if you’re gonna marry, this is the sort of place you oughta go.”
“Even if he feeds the customers mole meat, he himself won’t eat unless it’s chicken or pork loin or something like that, you know.”
“It’s not like you’re marrying that oaf—if you think you’re marrying chicken and pork loin and grilled eel and tempura, then these days, this is the only way to go.”
“That oaf—doesn’t matter what happens to him, as long as he doesn’t end up malnourished, it’s fine.”
“You know, that’s right, Mrs.”

Having been told all this, Kiyoko too agreed—and so it was decided they would meet.

Though Kōkichi had built a splendid new house, he didn’t operate his business there and still put out his old-style stall as always.
In the end, this was how—in the aunt’s way—the money kept rolling in.
To be sure, Kōkichi was diligent in his comings and goings, commuting by bicycle around Urayasu, selling black-market fish to fellow vendors, putting his crew to work pushing goods to teahouses, and dealing in anything from liquor and tobacco to clothing.
Ever since he was young, his small-time schemes and failures in various businesses had served as the foundation, and in any case, he had knowledge of textiles, watches, lumber, paper—anything you could name.
His four years working as a stagehand had also proven extremely useful.

That day, he took a break from business and lavishly prepared the usual chicken, pork loin, grilled eel, and tempura—unaware that these dishes were functioning as the true groom—and as he waited, Aunt brought Kiyoko over. Just as the alcohol was beginning to take effect, she said, "Well then, take your time," and departed.

Indeed, she was a beauty surpassing ten ordinary women as Aunt had claimed—firstly, her occupation as an office worker meant she sported a bobbed haircut and Western attire, her figure slender and elegant. Having never encountered such bobbed-and-suited styles at his age, much like how all Westerners looked identical to him, she appeared every bit an actress.
Since I'm utterly uneducated,

“Heh heh.”

Kōkichi tapped his forehead,

“Pleased to meet’cha.”
“I’m just what you see here—an uneducated illiterate who’s dabbled a bit in Kiyomoto and Gidayū recitations, not one for modern airs and graces. Just the other day, some young courtesan goes, ‘Heh heh, why not learn to dance? These days, it wouldn’t hurt for an old man like you to pick it up,’ and dragged me around five or six teahouse rooms. But with this beer barrel of a body, no way that’s happenin’.”
“Excuse my asking, but you do dance and such things, don’t you?”

“Yes, during company holidays, everyone takes dance lessons, you see.”
“They say there’ll be a party soon, but I’m not very interested in such things, so I’m rather clumsy at it, you see.”

"My wife and children were burned to death in the war damage, but I hear your dear husband fell in battle."

"Yes, he was such a good man who cherished me—though he kept utterly silent and only knew how to show affection through deeds."
"Every day felt complete and joyful."
"You must keep quite a roster of middle-aged geisha and young courtesans as lovers."
"How amusing that must be."
"How enviable men’s freedoms are."
"My own husband often sought his pleasures elsewhere—though I too would occasionally send him out to play when the mood struck."

“Heh, now that’s quite something special.
Why d’you suppose that is?”

The woman giggled softly and did not answer.
When Kōkichi’s blood grew hot and he leaned forward to say, “How ’bout it? Won’tcha stay the night?” she replied, “Well... but I can’t possibly stay. The kids’re waitin’ at home, an’ I only came for the meetin’—wouldn’t look proper now, would it?”

Kōkichi felt reassured then, and so it was settled—“Well then, let’s just have us a quick nap an’ talk things through”—and thus they happily sealed their pact.

“Well then, it’s getting late.”

With that declaration, as Kiyoko stood up without hesitation and began wrapping herself in her clothes, Kōkichi—protesting “It’s still early evening—come on, just a bit longer”—realized he had never in his life felt such bewildering emotions. He could lump together his late wife, middle-aged geishas, young geishas, courtesans he’d dallied with in the past, and even those osandon women as all being the same—but Kiyoko had an entirely different air about her. Under the bright electric light, she nonchalantly bared her naked body and slowly, piece by piece, donned what resembled an ill-fitting shirt—a lack of decorum indeed—yet when it came to play, she was as innocent and passionate as a maiden. Compared to geisha who acted worldly yet had only developed their calculating nature, this one showed how much less ostentatious and deeper in emotion she might be. Moreover, while the geishas’ naked bodies were either emaciated like sculpin fish or conversely plump—their turnip-like legs that killed any allure becoming apparent the moment they hiked up their kimono hems to wash their backs in the bathhouse—Kiyoko’s naked body had limbs as slender and well-proportioned as a mannequin in a display window, white and smooth. When you looked at her face, you could tell she was thirty-five, but her white, smooth, slender and well-proportioned body showed no sign of age. Kōkichi did not tire of looking.

Since he couldn’t keep her indefinitely, Kōkichi reluctantly put on his clothes,

“Well then, let’s hold the ceremony soon as we can.”
“Let’s throw a bash so big it’ll make fish prices at the wharf shoot through the roof!”

Kiyoko didn’t answer, pulling on her socks,

“Don’t tell Auntie about tonight.”

“What’s the harm?”
“We’re gonna be together anyway.”

“It’d be weird talking like that on our meeting day—I don’t want you saying anything.”
“I hate men who do that.”

“I see. My bad.”
“Alright then, I won’t tell a soul, yeah?”

As he walked the woman home,

“Starting tomorrow’s fine,” Kōkichi pressed. “We’ll put off the ceremony—you can come right away. Hell, we could throw a festival-worthy shindig within two or three days if you like—no trouble at all.”

“What does marrying matter?” Kiyoko countered, her voice cool as night air. “Can’t we just keep meeting like this sometimes? Isn’t that enough?”

Her words left Kōkichi gaping at the street’s rubble-strewn shadows. “But you—wouldn’t marrying be better for you too? Raising two brats alone while playing office lady must be rough.” He thumped his barrel chest. “At my place—from sourcing ingredients to simmering the oden—I handle everything myself.”

“Sure I’m built like a beer keg,” he continued, boots crunching gravel, “but every day I bike ten ri through bombed-out neighborhoods buying stock, prep the stall, down a pint after work, hit three bars till I’m roaring drunk—and still keep every scheme running smooth as silk.”

“The tiger might go wild,” he grinned toothily, “but come morning? Quick pick-me-up jab for the hangover, twist my headband tight, stomp those pedals till my ass blisters—don’t even take two minutes’ breather.” He spread meaty palms skyward. “Work with desire as your road buddy like I do? These days I don’t even feel tired.”

Kiyoko looked down and walked in silence for a while,

“But getting married after my husband’s war death feels rather indecent—I can’t abide it.”
“From when my husband left for the front until now.”
“So let’s wait a little longer—more patiently.”
“Must you keep insisting on marriage so urgently?”

“That so?”
“What then—you saying playing the field suits you better?”

“No, I have children at home, and since it’s a rented room, it would be troublesome if you came over.”
“I gave you my company business card, didn’t I?”
“I’ll be there until around four, so give me a call.”
“But I’ll come visit you within about a week.”
“Just wait until then, please.”
“You understand now, don’t you?”

“I see. Is that so.”
“Alright then, I’ll wait indefinitely.”
“I’ll be waiting within about a week.”
“I’ll be at home from four to five-thirty, and after that I’ll be at the food stall—you know where it is, right?”

“Yes, well then—see you later.”
“I might come visit within four or five days—within two or three days, perhaps.”

With those words, they parted.

Two or three days—four or five days—the agony of waiting. Having prepared tuna sashimi and meat hotpots instead of cat innards for customers, even when at his stall, every time he caught sight of a woman passing by, he’d startle, his nerves frayed. Customers who had no way of knowing that worldly charm lay hidden within the fifty-year-old man’s paunch would smirk creepily at the thought that grabbing it might leave them unsettled, but the man paid no mind to such trifles—not even the fact that patrons these days might settle their tabs with something as dangerous as pistols—in his carefree manner.

Finally, the seventh day.
He meticulously bathed, downed five eggs in the morning, prepared grilled eel and chicken giblets for lunch, Yanagawa hotpot and sukiyaki for dinner—having arranged everything for his day off work with no stall preparations made—but even after night fell, she did not come.
So he waited until ten or twelve, thinking she must be putting the children to bed first, but by then he’d become a raging tiger drunk on despair, and with a “Damn it all!” ended up sneaking off to his second woman’s place.

The eighth day came, then the ninth, then the tenth.

If only he'd casually given her five or ten thousand yen back then.
When dealing with a bob-haired intellectual lady in Western dress, he hadn't known how to interact—revering her like a princess had been the root of his failure. This wasn't about immediate marriage; rather, it had been something akin to a mistress arrangement that she'd been inclined toward. His colossal blunder lay in having failed to recognize this.

When Kōkichi went to visit Aunt,

“What the hell’re you yammerin’ about?”
“You ain’t some twenty- or thirty-year-old pup, you bald beer barrel.”
“When even Okuge-sama’s beggin’ in these times, you go geisha-crawlin’ and puttin’ on airs? Makin’ a lovesick spectacle—disgustin’!”
“Go scrub that hangover mug of yours and haul your ass back here proper!”

Despite her words, she made him clutch a bottle of nasal medicine,

“Well then—guess I’ll just go check it out.”

With that, he left—but after a while, when he returned, first with his eyes and face, then,

“That person’s come outside.”

Kōkichi hurried down.
When he saw her face—far from voicing resentment—he simply went limp, his features collapsing into servile pleasantries like “It’s been too long.”

You’d expect Kiyoko to offer some excuse—the company being swamped with consecutive overtime or whatnot—but she doesn’t utter a single word of that sort.

Kiyoko’s first words were these.

“I thought you’d already forgotten all about me.”
“You’ve indulged yourself quite a bit, haven’t you.”
“A woman like me is so plain, after all.”

“Nonsense. Forget you? Not a chance. I’ve spent this past week feeling more restless than I have in fifty years—first time ever. Even so, seeing how this beer barrel shows no sign of denting—guess I’ve really gotten fat from all that karma, huh?”

Kōkichi took out the prepared bundle of bills from his pocket.

“This might embarrass you, but being an office worker and raising two children must be tough. Don’t take offense—just accept this.”

“There’s no need for such concern.”

Kiyoko returned the bundle of bills to Kōkichi’s hand with utter indifference.

“Since this comes purely from my feelings, please don’t shame me—just take it.”

“I hate receiving money from men.”
“Though at work, there are those who do such things sometimes.”

“But you—between us, we’re past being strangers now.”

“Because it makes me feel like some streetwalker—I can’t stand that.”
“Like I’m being bought with cash—it’s disgusting.”
“I want to keep things relaxed.”
“That’s why I don’t want to think about marriage anymore.”

“But you’re the one who brought up the idea of an arranged meeting, didn’t you?”

“That was just a misunderstanding of feelings,” she said. “Besides, even after official notices arrive, I hear the men themselves often come home demobilized afterward. So I’ll keep waiting for my husband.”

“My mistake,” he said. “But since that notice did come, it’s not like you can’t face your husband now things’ve gone this far. I’ll give up on marriage too—but take this anyway.” He pushed the money toward her. “Forget marriage—why not just spend time with me sometimes? Ain’t about buying you with cash or nothing. These days even proper officials can’t make ends meet—a woman alone’s gotta be struggling hard. This is just how I feel.”

When he forcibly thrust it into the woman’s obi, Kiyoko remained indifferent in her own way, so
“At least come over to my place tonight—even an hour’s enough.”

“Just one hour, okay?”
“But don’t do such things anymore, okay?”
“When I think about my poor deceased husband.”
“He was so very affectionate toward me, after all.”

“Ah, sure thing.”

At any rate, it was a relief. When he could unmistakably see Kiyoko’s figure under the lamp in his home’s tea room, his heart was filled with boundless relief. He had her eat a feast while he drank sake, pressing the conversation insistently, and managed to confirm once more that strange sensation from days prior. This was no dream. Not some feverish momentary confusion of the heart, but a reality he had truly witnessed—the only thing beyond his grasp being the woman’s heart.

Despite all those rigid words she spoke, what could explain the depth of passion that made her writhe and demand so fiercely in the heat of passion? She showed not a trace of shame at having her entire naked body seen by the man, remaining perfectly composed as he did what he pleased. There was no way Kiyoko could be a professional prostitute, yet she lacked as much shame as the lowest streetwalker. When it came to women with bobbed hair and Western clothes—were they all like this?—Kōkichi could only marvel, bewildered.

“When’ll you meet me next?”

“I’m only free on Wednesdays.”
“The other days I have dressmaking school or overtime work.”
“Since I don’t want Aunt finding out, call me at the company please.”
“And it’d be embarrassing with Aunt—I don’t want you mentioning tonight’s matter either.”

“Don’t need to tell me.”
“Alright then—since waiting’s agony, let’s quit setting fixed dates. I’ll call you.”
“Once a week oughta be alright.”

“Well, but you know, since I feel bad about my husband, I don’t want to do those things anymore.”

“Come on, I’m begging you—keep seeing me till your husband comes back.”

“Okay, but in exchange, you mustn’t tell anyone, you know.”

And they parted.

However, when he called on Wednesdays after that, she would say she was busy that day.
She would say she’d be away on a business trip the following Wednesday.

Then a special delivery arrived, stating that since having the same man call every Wednesday was causing troublesome speculation among people at the company, he should wait until she came to visit him.

Then, about a month later, a letter arrived saying that thinking about her husband who had died in the war made her sad—so regardless of whether he was alive or dead, he should forget about her now; she would remain single for life and devote herself to raising her children.

★

After that, he waited about a month, but Kiyoko did not come.

Kōkichi gradually regained his composure and once again began applying himself diligently to work.

Kōkichi had come to think that since the war, the world had turned upside down.
The oden stall had been his business for twenty years, but in the old days, he could barely scrape by; if he drank a bit too merrily, he would run out of sake to sell and lose any means to restock.

He had thought he would surely be ruined if war broke out, yet the more the burnt fields spread, the more he prospered.
The more prices rose, the more he profited.
The half-year or so immediately after the war’s end was exceptionally special—if he piled up mountains of oden made by mixing whatever meaty things he had—dog innards, cat innards, rats—with greens, stirred them around, and boiled them, however many stacks he made would sell out. There were endless queues; wallets became useless for holding half a day’s earnings, and banknotes had to be tossed into oil drums as there was no other way to handle them.

So for Kōkichi, the war and this era were incomprehensible; he felt as though he were dreaming, could only think “Look at that!” as he watched the daily stacks of banknotes pile up before his eyes. Thus, even when he first met Kiyoko, it was with the same sense of an incomprehensible dream extending from the war and the era—he couldn’t escape the vague sense that this was simply what the era had become.

However, as restaurant closure orders and other headwinds intensified—being dumped by Kiyoko, witnessing events that would shatter even an ordinary person’s composure—Kōkichi too began disentangling himself from that incomprehensible monster called the era, growing aware of his own solitary position.

"That damn woman’s one hell of a piece of work," he thought.
He needed to do something to settle the worms in his gut or he’d never find peace.
It wasn’t about throwing punches.
Kōkichi had never once in his life struck a girl or a boy.

He wanted to somehow expose her true nature. Piercing through the haze of things that confounded him—the era, widows, bobbed hair and Western attire—he would lay bare that damn woman's very soul within her body. In short—I won't be fooled again, you damn woman—that was the gist of it.

But if he dug one layer deeper—damn her—it came down to this: that damn woman had been good. And because he found himself gripped by a tension-filled carnal desire—damn her—he vowed: Just you remember, this time I'll be the one to trick you. "I'll strip that mask right off you"—he thought to himself, along such lines as these.

No matter how much he thought about it, nothing would come of it given Kōkichi’s mental capacity, until one day—after they had stopped meeting for a hundred and thirty days—he got drunk on midday sake, realized it was Wednesday, decided *Alright then, I’ll go mess with that woman*, and headed straight for her company.

It was quite a large company, but when he inquired at reception, they told him she was in a room on the third floor called something department—he should go there.
Whether one was meant to go clattering across reinforced concrete in geta or wander freely down corporate corridors—utterly clueless about protocol—he finally located the so-called third-floor department. When he timidly opened the door, five or six girls stood lined up right where his eyes landed, and among them was Kiyoko.

“Hey there—hello?”

When he called out Kiyoko’s surname like this, she lifted her face and recognized him—smoothly rising from her seat and emerging into the hallway—

“Wait just a moment now—I was actually thinking of coming to visit you myself today—last week too—I’d started heading over once—but then it began raining—you saw how it was—so I turned back halfway—my work here will wrap up in about ten minutes—I’ll come right away—”

and withdrew back inside.

The company appeared remarkably carefree—though it was only around three-thirty, men and women were already streaming out of various doors to head home.

Soon, Kiyoko came out hurriedly and,

"I didn't eat lunch today, so my stomach's empty."

"I'll fix you up a feast at my place."

Today of all days, he hadn't prepared to entertain a rare guest, but given his trade—with all necessary goods at hand—the preparations were quickly completed.

"There's been trouble at the company, and lately none of us can get any work done."
"The department head and section chief from my division will likely be reassigned to the Osaka and Sapporo branches."
"I might quit the company after all."

“If you quit, you’ll be hard up for food.”

“Oh?”

Kiyoko sidled up to him and leaned her bobbed hair against Kōkichi’s shoulder,

“Single life must be so leisurely and fun.”
“It must be nice to visit your Number Two and Number Three sometimes.”
“Which one is cuter—Miss Number Two or Miss Number Three?”

"They're all the same."

"But hey, there must be some difference, right?"
"The younger one?"
"The older one?"
"I want to be young again."
"I wish I were twenty-seven or twenty-eight again."
"We were happy back then."
"Because my husband was such a good man."
"I'm feeling sleepy today."
"I'll just rest a little while, all right?"
"The futon's right here."

Kiyoko pulled out the bedding.
She moved with the presumptuous ease of a longtime wife.

Kōkichi seethed inwardly.
The woman had no decency whatsoever.
She looked down on him.
Uneducated as he was, Kōkichi believed relations between men and women should hold some poetry—yet here was this creature who kept prattling about hating this or feeling guilty toward her husband, yet couldn't discuss male-female relationships beyond such matters and showed no interest in anything else.

“You go on about bein’ happy with your dead husband—what kinda happiness y’are talkin’?”

“We were happy every day.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is—every damn day, you were doin’ that kinda thing?”

“Of course we did. Every single day.”

Kōkichi guffawed inwardly.
Now her true nature was laid bare.
He had come to despise women so utterly that even he was taken aback by his own vehemence; yet simultaneously, a savage carnal desire welled up within him, swelling into a grandiose sense of himself as some heroic champion of passion.

And so he launched into his conquest.
It was an invasion too.
This was his campaign to vanquish Kiyoko's former husband.

His own carnal desire proved astonishingly vigorous, yet Kiyoko's burned with greater tenacity.
Beneath Kōkichi's heaving chest lay her crushed bobbed hair; though she whispered pleas and pressed for more, he could only wheeze steam-like breaths, drenched in sweat, thrashing about—a beer barrel of utter disarray.

“My husband was sickly.”
“That’s why he often took days off from the company.”
“But his energy was something else entirely.”
“Even when he took sick leave from work, he never left me alone for an entire day.”

Exhausted, Kōkichi heard Kiyoko’s voice through his dulled hearing.

"My husband doted on me in all sorts of ways.
He was incomparably better than someone like you.
You’re no good.
And besides, you’re so clumsy.
I wish my husband would come back alive."

Kōkichi didn’t even have the energy to get angry.
It was a crushing defeat.
He had never been crushed so wretchedly before.

Since the woman had given him such a cold brush-off, he'd likely never come again.
Truth be told, there was no such thing as a brush-off this final.
What a bitch.

He wondered if all women these days had turned out like this.
Weren't they saying every streetwalker nowadays was just some amateur girl or housewife?
What a godawful world this had become.

However, he suddenly thought of his deceased wife. His deceased wife had been filthy. She lacked any feminine presence, resembling instead a laboring household pest. And she had worked all day - doing the laundry, cooking rice, chopping vegetables, mending clothes. Yet even that laboring pest - when it came to the bond between husband and wife, man and woman - had there been anything beyond that? They had shared no topics of conversation. There had been no sentiment either. Fundamentally, she hadn't been like a woman at all.

When he considered this—that this one here was indeed a woman—Kōkichi thought. No matter whose wife, weren't all wives and husbands just like this? Whether it was Yoshi the printer, Tora the sushi chef, or Donhachi the construction boss—whenever those guys went out carousing, they always ended up talking about nothing but that kind of stuff with their wives. When you thought about it, it wasn't that only women these days were like this. This bitch was just an ordinary bitch, wasn't she?

Damn you.
Whether I'm no good or clumsy, that's none of your damn business.

“What are you thinking about?”

Kōkichi didn’t respond.

The woman got up and went to the toilet.
Seeing the handbag left there, Kōkichi tried opening it.
There was nothing particularly unusual inside.
He stole the two letters that were inside and put them into the hibachi’s ash drawer.
It wasn’t something he’d done with any particular intent.
He’d done it just to read one of them.

Though she usually left promptly after putting on her clothes, this time she claimed her throat was dry and busied herself making tea alone, nibbling on tempura and oshinko, picking up old magazines to flip through their pages—killing time in various ways.

“Aren’t you going home tonight?”
“You’re later than usual, huh.”

“Since I meant to come around here tonight, I’d already made arrangements at home. It’s fine.”
“But since it’s getting late, I should be going now.”

“Ah, better not stay out too late—dangerous out there.”

“I’ll come visit sometimes.”
“Within two or three days, maybe?”

“Ah, come on over then.”

“Next time, introduce me to number two and three.”

“Hmph.”

“There was someone who suggested I take over an oden shop, but since that person seemed to have other ambitions, I refused.”

“So he wanted you as his mistress?”

“Not a mistress.”
“As his wife.”

“Then that’s not about ambition either, is it?”

“But he didn’t tell me to become his wife—he just said running an oden shop was a good idea. It’s weird.”
“So what’s the problem?”

"But I don't like that person."

"Then do whatever ya want."

“That’s right. So it’s not strange, isn’t it?”

She said all sorts of nonsensical things, made tea she didn’t drink, killed time extravagantly—and then left.

No matter how much she clung, not a single penny would come out, Kōkichi thought, sticking out a red tongue of mockery in his belly.

After Kiyoko left, when he read the letters, one turned out to be an ordinary message from a female relative, but the other was a man’s letter containing the following.

Suddenly saying you want to marry me—you shouldn’t treat people like fools.
I didn’t notice until the scandal with the department head and section chief broke out, but apparently you’d been involved with both of them.
On weekends with the department head, on days you claimed to attend dressmaking classes with the section chief, on Tuesdays and Thursdays with me—you managed to juggle three men with remarkable duplicity.
When I proposed marriage, you said we should only meet occasionally since your husband might return alive—yet now that the department head and section chief have been transferred away from Tokyo, you dare suggest marriage? Don’t take people for fools.

The letter was roughly along those lines.

Kōkichi was in a peculiar mood.
What a brazen hussy she was.
What an appalling hussy.
Yet somehow he felt clear-headed.
All doubts had dissolved.
Had she not come here, he wouldn't have grasped the situation.
With her being that lustful, he couldn't fathom why she refused marriage.
That her demeanor had been off today finally made sense.

He thought it utterly regrettable—had he read this letter while that hussy was still present, he could've thrown a proper tantrum and ejected her with satisfaction.

★

However, on the evening of the third day, Kiyoko came dressed in formal kimono.

Kōkichi, who had convinced himself she wouldn’t come, was dumbfounded—and realizing *Madam* must now be truly desperate for men, he felt an inexplicable fury.

This hussy—since she was starving to her core—no matter what happened, he couldn’t just bend to her whims. If he kept falling right into her plans, a man couldn’t maintain his dignity.

Kiyoko paid no attention to Kōkichi’s demeanor,

“Are you busy? I just thought I’d drop by. I’m quitting the company, so I’ll have free time now. I’m thirsty.”

and barged right in,

“Let me have some tea.”

Kōkichi sat cross-legged, straddling the brazier,

“Haven’t you been parching that throat of yours raw lately?
“Did you quit the company?”

"Yeah. There was internal turmoil—factions and cliques and Communists and such."
"It got too bothersome, so I quit."
"Now I'm wondering how I'll make ends meet—my dressmaking skills still being so poor, I can't go independent."

"That figures."
"Or was the Section Chief some dressmaking prodigy?"

"The Section Chief doesn't know dressmaking."

“Then you can’t do dressmaking at all either, can you?”

Kiyoko seemed to have noticed but remained composed,

“Me, you know—
“Because I’ve been learning since girls’ school, I’m quite skilled.
“I finish all my Western outfits myself.”

“How about it? If you quit the company, will you get together with me?”

When he posed this proposition, Kiyoko took it at face value,

“Well…”
“But you’re not a complicated person.”
“My husband was a very kind and understanding person.”

“What day’s your dressmaking day?”

“Monday, Wednesday, Friday—but I don’t go anymore.”
“In the past, it was Mondays and Fridays without Wednesday, you know.”

“Well well—Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays with the Section Chief; Saturdays, Sundays with the Department Head; Tuesdays, Thursdays with Mr. Itō. So you’re booked solid all seven days out of seven!”
“What kind of man was your husband anyway—the type who wouldn’t get angry even if his booked-solid wife slept around with the Section Chief, Department Head, and Mr. Itō?”

Kiyoko's complexion paled slightly, but she immediately regained her composure.

"Being a widow means all sorts of tiresome rumors get spread about you."
"When someone tries to make me their own and fails, they spread rumors out of revenge."

"Since it's coming from those who've claimed you as theirs, there's no mistake about it."

“Well then, I’ll be going.”

With that, Kiyoko made as if to stand, then poured tea she wouldn’t even drink.

“Mr. Itō’s the jealous type, so he’s suspicious by nature.”
“Men have their own dalliances and such, right?”
“I’m the serious type.”
“But I can’t help it sometimes.”
“Hmm, is that so? Do all men think that way, I wonder?”

She made an ambiguous remark and tilted her head.

“Hey—don’t mess around.”
“It ain’t Mr. Itō’s complaint, but don’t you dare look down on people.”
“When I say let’s get married, you come back with ‘let’s just fool around sometimes.’”
“That’s how it is.”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays with the Section Chief; Saturdays and Sundays with the Department Head; Tuesdays and Thursdays with Mr. Itō—with that kinda schedule, you can’t get married.”
“Even if the Department Head and Dressmaking Section Chief get exiled to Osaka and Hokkaido, even if you dump Mr. Itō, and even if the wind starts blowing my way—it ain’t gonna work.”
“Hmph. Men—really, they’re all like that.”
“Since Kotchitora and Mr. Itō both think the same damn way, if you dare mock me now by talkin’ marriage after all this—shit, keep messin’ around and I’ll kick through your potbelly, tear through your ribs, and yank out their fuckin’ guts!”

A beer-barrel-shaped man rarely lost his temper, but when he did, sweat poured forth, steam rose, and he became a spectacle akin to a boiled octopus in a furious frenzy.

Kiyoko also wore a slightly awkward expression.

"Is that so."

And then,

“Well then, I’ll be going.”

She stood up and put on sandals.
“Well then, see you again.”
Innocent as ever, she was smiling.
“I’ll come again.”

And she went home.

Hmph! That freakish goblin-cat—if she dares show her face again, I won’t stand for it! Kōkichi had no choice but to swallow these words.

If she came again, he might forgive her this time—the thought flashed through his mind then.
But she probably wouldn’t come again.
He was terribly disappointed.

Various things came to mind.

What a charming woman she was.
She means no harm.
The way she doesn’t notice sarcasm might suggest a dull mind, but it’s really just innocence.
They all confess so naturally.
But being that undisciplined and so vulnerable to lust, she can’t be relied upon.
That’s the desperate cunning of hunger—anything will do.
But when you get down to it, aren’t all people like that?
Even Yoshi, Tora, and Donhachi’s wife—at heart, they’re all the same.
Even I myself am no different.
If that was the case, then what had he even been angry about? He couldn’t begin to fathom it—and with that realization, Kōkichi began to feel a deep sadness.

Kiyoko never came again.

There had been times when Kōkichi considered asking his aunt for help, but he stubbornly clung to his pride—certain this would only make them scorn him further—and as months passed, his emotions settled completely.

One day while searching near the hibachi’s ash drawer, that letter resurfaced. Feeling an odd nostalgia, he read it through: correspondence from a female relative who also seemed to be a widow, rather advanced in years, commiserating over their shared circumstances. She detailed her daily rituals—thirty minutes of sutra recitation each morning brought tranquil pleasure; afternoon incense-burning and koto-playing fostered serenity—but tending her fields and watching crops grow day by day mattered most of all,

Moreover, occasionally composing playful ditties in the stylish vein and singing them with catchy rhythms has been quite a diversion, which I humbly recommend to your good self as well.

it says.

What a peculiar widow she was.

Then one day Aunt came,

“That woman ended up with a temple monk.”
“They’ve also hung a dressmaking sign at the temple gate.”
“They’re solid folks.”

“But they wouldn’t have any dressmaking skills.”

“With a sewing machine, anyone can manage it, can’t they? Even a lout like you could run a restaurant if you’ve got a knife. Lately she’s been practicing sutras, y’know. They say he’ll get his monk certification soon and start doing funerals. When your time comes, his chanting might be decent enough—I’ll make sure to request him for ya.”

Kōkichi felt an unexpected calm settle in his chest.

It’s bound to be some half-baked monk, but that’s just fine as it is.
When you think about it—hell, there ain’t much difference between me and that monk.
When it comes to that woman, any man’s bound to end up the same way—so what’s it matter? Monk stays a monk, oden guy stays an oden guy. Pair her with a monk, she takes up sutra-chanting; pair her with me, she’d have been griping a sashimi knife before you could blink.
Ain’t that just precious?

Compared to the widow reading sutras, burning incense in the afternoon, tilling fields, and occasionally composing stylish ditties to sing, he couldn’t begin to fathom how much more poignant this side was.

“Heh heh—that dame goes and recites sutras at funerals while whacking that wooden fish.”

He tapped his forehead and grinned, but whether it was thanks to that dame’s sutra recitations, he felt an oddly clear sensation in his chest.