Pathway to Japanese Literature

Lately, even when listening to people talk, I've come to smell their words through my nose. Oh, so that's the smell, I think. That's all there is to it. In other words, since I've stopped listening with my head and thinking things through, smell must be what it means to have an empty head.

Lately, I’ve been feeling disconcerted because my dead mother has come back to life. I’ve gradually come to resemble my mother. Ah, again—every time I spot Mother, I freeze up.

My Mother burned to death during the war. Since we were fundamentally separate people to begin with, it felt natural that we'd become scattered while fleeing without even noticing. When I realized I was no longer with Mother, I didn't think we'd gotten separated or wonder where she might have fled—I didn't even register it as a realization. In other words, I was merely conscious of the naturalness of Mother not being there. I had been fundamentally alone from the start.

I escaped to Ueno Park and survived, but when I went to Sumida Park—where many people were said to have died—on what must have been the second day, I came across Mother's corpse. It wasn't burned at all. Her arms were bent with fists clenched, both hands placed near her breasts in a hunched position resembling a gymnastic pose, brows furrowed and eyes closed as if declaring 'It's hopeless.' Her complexion had turned paler than when she was alive, giving her face an expression that seemed to proclaim she'd become virtuous through this transformation.

She was a woman both timid yet remarkably shrewd and tenacious, so while dying in flames would have been one thing, suffocating like that felt unreal—it gave me an eerie feeling I couldn’t shake. Since that time, because I had vaguely felt deceived, lately every time I discover Mother, I recall that faint eeriness from back then.

There was no panic from Mother when I was conscripted. This was because Mother believed that if men and women worked together, they’d immediately end up pregnant. Mother wanted to make me her mistress. This was because she believed that virginity was a valuable commodity, so Mother treated me as a precious object. In reality, Mother loved me. Even if I just lost my appetite a little, she would make a huge fuss and order delicious-looking food from Western restaurants or sushi places. When I got sick, she would become so flustered and confused that it pained her. In return for sparing no hardship to dress me in beautiful kimonos, if my outings ran even slightly too long, she would interrogate me exhaustively about who I was with, where I went, and what I did. When I would receive love letters tossed in by unknown men and show them to Mother, her face would contort in alarm as if I were actually carrying on some affair—then she would finally calm herself down and explain about men’s fearsomeness and the various guises of their sweet-talking ploys. The earnestness of it all was beyond compare.

I, however, did not love Mother. Being loved as an object was an utterly vexing thing. People say I was doted on by Mother and should be happy, but I never once thought I was happy. Because my mother was such a show-off, when my younger brother volunteered to become an airman, she agreed even though she desperately wanted to stop him inwardly. because she found it more satisfying to boast about it to acquaintances and neighbors. At night, she would wait until she thought I was asleep, then get up to prostrate herself before the household shrine, weeping profusely as she pleaded, "Yukio, please forgive me." Yet come noon the next day, she’d be bouncing around like a rubber ball, boasting to some neighborhood aunties about her son’s gallant looks and spouting all sorts of truths and fabrications.

When I was conscripted, I felt utterly dejected, but Mother panicked even more than I did, making it all seem so absurd and her feelings disgustingly unbearable. I liked having fun and hated poverty. This was the one ideology Mother and I shared. Though Mother herself was a mistress, she apparently had two or three other men besides her patron—actors and various instructors—with whom she carried on affairs. She recommended that I become a mistress to a wealthy, generous-tempered, and preferably elderly man. She said that a luxury-loving playgirl like you could never become some constrained wife, but if you absolutely must marry, you should become the wife of either an aristocrat's eldest son or the eldest son of a family with assets over ten million yen. She particularly insisted it had to be the eldest son. She insisted that unless you could freely obtain either honor or money, there was no point in enduring the constraints of being a wife. She said that politicians in transient professions or artists, no matter how famous they might be, could fall from grace at any time, and were nothing but poor, philandering, arrogant good-for-nothings who couldn’t be managed. She utterly despised company employees; in short, my falling in love with penniless youths was Mother’s greatest heartache and terror.

In my fourth year at girls' school, I was invited by my classmate Tomiko-san—the daughter of a large wholesaler—and began playing golf. The reason Mother—who would scowl even if I just went to see a movie—granted my request was because she had heard from others that golf was a pastime for aristocrats, the wealthy, and privileged classes, something out of reach for the poor; hence she bought me the expensive golf equipment without so much as batting an eye. To turn away even if greeted by unmarried young men—be they aristocrats or scions of wealthy families; to not even grunt in response when spoken to; to report each day’s events and seek Mother’s instructions—these were the meticulous directives I received. Yet I failed to realize that her ulterior motive was for me to catch the eye of some elderly tycoon or grand aristocrat, making two schoolgirls going golfing together a preposterous anomaly. Despite being a shrewd operator, she remained utterly ignorant and naive about the world.

Unfortunately, I never had the honor of approaching senior aristocrats or wealthy magnates and instead became acquainted with a movie actor named Miki Noboru. His sole ability lay in flaunting his good looks; he considered his appearance his greatest asset, while any fundamental artistic sensibility had completely deserted him. He prided himself on his guitar skills, claiming that if he were to portray some tragic unrequited love affair of a down-and-out guitarist, his technical prowess would instantly captivate the world and make him the era's darling—but precisely because this was so patently obvious, he insisted his colleagues' envy prevented it from ever coming to fruition. When he persistently badgered us to come hear him play, we both went along, only to find amateurish theatrics completely divorced from his boasts—the man himself listened enraptured as he arbitrarily dragged out notes, elongated phrases, and made them quiver, displaying not just an utter lack of musical sense but also a garnish of poor taste.

Miki tried to woo me but was rejected, so he tried to woo Tomiko-san and was rejected again. Since I remained silent, Tomiko-san—thinking herself the sole object of his attention—smugly opened up about it; but finding Miki’s flimsy pretensions utterly absurd by then, I subsequently ended our association. Soon came an era when golf became untenable, and after graduating from girls’ school, Tomiko-san continued her association with him—rejecting him yet privately taking pride in it. When Tomiko-san invited me after I’d stopped seeing Miki, she smugly assumed jealousy motivated me—but when I mentioned Miki had also tried wooing me ("probably before you," I added), she dismissed this too as jealousy, claiming she’d asked Miki who flatly denied it, all while sniffing haughtily. From then on she grew even more self-satisfied, increasing her ticket purchases for Miki’s performances and study sessions from ten or thirty at a time to hundreds—five hundred at peak. Playing the patroness, she bought him watches and Western suits, exchanged rings, even gave him money, then began staying at hot springs and inns—all while smugly maintaining her virginity remained intact. On such occasions she’d contact me to arrange alibis making it appear she’d stayed at my house. We called these arrangements alibis, though I too had come to ask Tomiko-san for mine.

I asked Tomiko-san to provide me an alibi, but I didn't tell her a thing about who I was with, where I went, or what I did. Tomiko-san had a habit of grilling me down to the roots and leaves, but since I would brush her off with responses like "It's nothing special" or "Not worth mentioning," she would denounce me: how I was inherently sinister by nature, how my secretive tendencies made me scheming, how I lacked any innocence and was just promiscuous through and through—that's why I couldn't act openly or behave properly in public.

I however had no desire to tell anyone about such things. It was so dull—this whole love business. Just that and nothing more.

After graduating from girls' school, Tomiko-san became an office worker—her long-cherished dream of being a career woman—but finding it too stuffy and constraining, she wound up as a department store clerk instead. I didn't particularly want to work myself, but since I couldn't stand being cooped up at home with Mother, I grew desperate to find employment. But getting permission was out of the question—merely broaching the subject would have her tightening surveillance under the pretext that "suitors were starting to swarm," and on top of that, Mother grew frantic trying to install me as mistress to some construction syndicate boss. This boss apparently controlled both a pleasure district and held renown in cutthroat circles, though he was already pushing past sixty and nearing retirement.

While I’ve always been the type who enjoys lively spectacles and didn’t exactly mind watching brawls, my fundamentally unrefined nature—slow-motion through and through, utterly sluggish in every gesture—meant I couldn’t sync with the brisk rhythms and sharp-edged codes of that honor-bound world; there was simply no point discussing it. I didn’t particularly mind being a mistress, but I detested having my freedom restricted—so as long as they let me live richly and allowed me free rein beyond certain obligations, I wouldn’t have refused even becoming some eighty-year-old geezer’s mistress. Having daggers thrust at me over supposedly tarnishing the boss’s name or getting my pinky cut off, being forced to swear loyalty with a blade and having my freedom restricted—I couldn’t endure that.

I had told Mother I didn’t want to, but now that she’d given her approval, if I were to say I didn’t want to at this point, my life would be in danger. Mother threatened, "Are you saying it’s fine to kill me?" Having no other choice, I decided to secretly refuse Mother’s arrangement myself. There was this simple-minded girl from the neighborhood laundry shop—though when it came to delivering messages, she’d steel herself to relay them flawlessly and clearly—a girl so excessively fastidious she seemed deranged. Since she’d developed this oddly affectionate habit of greeting me, I entrusted her with delivering my refusal. Three years my senior, she was twenty-two at the time. This girl followed my instructions exactly—forcing her way to meet the boss and delivering the message without error—so the boss laughed, said “I see,” gave her a reward to send her home, then that very day dispatched a trusted envoy to annul the arrangement. To the young lady, he sent an extravagantly adorned gift from himself, as lavish as a betrothal present.

Amidst all this, mistresses came to be treated like traitors in those times—and since they’d likely face conscription first, Mother panicked and reluctantly abandoned her mistress scheme, proposing marriage to evade conscription instead. But really—the daughter of a mistress? Did she think aristocrats or third sons of millionaires would come courting? Then when conscription arrived, Mother’s face contorted in panic. And that evening at dinner, she dissolved into frantic, disoriented weeping.

Whether most girls in society were like that—I can’t speak for others—but my friends and I hadn’t much cared about things like the war. Men—even college-aged punks—acted possessed by preposterous delusions of being the world’s pivotal axle, stirring up commotions over war, defeat, democracy—righteous fury and fevered cooperation, squabbling and straining till they burst. But we’d resolved to leave world affairs for others to manage as they pleased; deaf to society’s shifts, we’d slip into whatever fleeting amusements each moment offered. Tormented daily by Osandon drills, good-wife-wise-mother ideals, Ogasawara-ryū etiquette till we choked—even simple diversions satisfied us completely. Not even war’s peak phases troubled us. Even branded traitors, we’d nonchalantly encircle places like the Nichigeki Theatre and stand around three or five hours—dreadfully tedious, yet tedium held its own peculiar charm. I’d come to think boredom might actually prove surprisingly engaging. After all—does anything else that’s genuinely interesting even exist?

However, when it came to wives—they were an entirely different breed, with none matching their penchant for whining and self-interest. Were one to inspect the wives of career military men, not a single woman bearing that title could be found who actually liked war. That their marrow-deep resentment of the military and curses against the government stemmed solely from husbands being drafted or conscripted—this I couldn't fathom. I'd have thought seeing those useless, arrogant husband-pests marched off to war would leave them positively refreshed—and yet.

To be economically dependent on men—and for the entire world to vanish just because a single man gets taken by war—what nonsense! I couldn’t stomach such wretchedness.

My mother—though she was a mistress, not a wife—also harbored an extraordinary hatred for the war and cursed it vehemently. Yet true to her mistress nature, her resentment ran bone-deep in the most nonsensical ways—utterly devoid of logic—as she’d rage over trivialities like being unable to smoke cigarettes or eat fish; but above all, what truly fueled her bitterness and hatred was mistresses being branded traitors, leaving me with no prospects.

“Ah, ah, what a world this is!”

Mother would let out a sigh. “I wish Japan would lose soon.” “I’ve had enough of this wretchedly poor country!” “Their soldiers can build an airfield in just two days, I hear.” “They can’t even wage war without cheese, beef, coffee, chocolate, apple pie, whiskey or what have you—how impressive!” “Japan—why don’t you just perish and become their territory as soon as possible?” “The only thing I’ll regret then is Japanese women wanting to wear Western clothes.” “If some official decree comes out saying we can’t wear kimonos—what on earth am I supposed to do?” “You look good in Western clothes, so that’s fine—but really, you, when that time comes, make sure to stand your ground.”

In short, my mother had hastily prayed for Japan’s demise midway through the war, only to scheme about making me a mistress over there already—yet despite that, she would sit bolt upright at ungodly hours of the night and burst into tears, pleading, “Yukio, please forgive me,” and such. “Yukio, hold on—don’t lose!” I’d think one moment—but how exasperating! “You’re a pilot; it’s not like you’re being watched. Just land in enemy territory, surrender, and have them help you already!” “Japan’s doomed anyway.”

Honestly now, she was such a hopeless fool.

Mother had killed my younger sister through excessive doting. After my sister was hospitalized for appendicitis and underwent surgery—despite strict instructions not to let her drink water for twenty-four hours—Mother repeatedly gave her water when neither the nurse nor I were present, ultimately inducing peritonitis that killed her. It wasn’t because of that incident, but whenever Mother showed me affection, I felt only a deathly chill; I never once found it pleasant. It was ignorance. I disliked poverty and ignorance.

At that time, I allowed six men my body without Mother ever noticing. The men’s names, ages, where and how we met—I have no desire to speak of such things, nor do I consider them of any importance. As long as I like them—whoever they are, even men I’ve only glimpsed once—if I need to remember them, instead of remembering, I’ll simply meet a different man. For me, there is not the past but the future—no, there is only the present.

Many of those men had often made advances on me before, but I only allowed them when they’d received their conscription orders and were finally about to depart—the night before deployment, or a day or two prior. Later, I heard there was a trend among girls of pledging themselves the night before deployment to encourage soldiers off to war—but mine was nothing so gallant. I simply couldn’t stand the idea of men getting deluded about rotten bonds or declaring me “their woman,” then pestering me endlessly afterward. Beyond those six, there were two sickly beauties I might’ve permitted—but since their discharge papers meant they’d likely be sent straight home, I didn’t allow it. Sure enough, one returned on the third day, but the other remained hospitalized until the war’s end.

Tomiko was said to be frigid. Perhaps because of that, when she saw a handsome man—tremors racing through her entire body, stiffening up, her chest tightening, fists clenching, feeling suffocated, or so they said—I experienced none of that. I was the opposite of frigid—I felt intense pleasure. Yet I didn’t consider that pleasure indispensable—so in that sense, I’d never once felt the need for a man. Even when I felt it momentarily, it would quickly fade away until forgotten. So even when I’d allowed six men without considering it infidelity, I’d come to think Tomiko—who claimed to involuntarily blush or tremble in trains and streets—was far more unfaithful in my view. I preferred such things ordinary and moderate. Some men employed all manner of peculiar techniques to make one lose themselves, but recalling it later felt unpleasant—as if truly manipulated or humiliated—so I detested men who toyed with women that way during those moments. Such matters needed to remain ordinary, commonsensical, and moderate.

After the war ended, I met Miki Noboru on the street and had tea with him when he suddenly started hitting on me—his techniques were polished and his stamina unmatched, able to keep going for two days and nights without even opening the window while nibbling toast and apples by the pillow—so any unfaithful woman would become obsessed or feel grateful, he claimed. I told him I didn’t like getting obsessed, but he took it as false modesty—"C’mon, it’s fine"—and slung his arm around my shoulder on the street. Though held like that as we walked a hundred meters or so, during those moments I’d be thinking about food or something like that, not about the man holding me.

I never bothered to shake men off when they put their arms around my shoulders or held my hands. It was too much trouble. If they wanted to do things like that—if they felt like trying—they could just go ahead. Then they’d immediately get full of themselves, thinking I was interested, and try to kiss me—so I’d turn my face away. But I often let them kiss me anyway. Because turning away became even more bothersome. Then they’d instantly start demanding my body, but I’d say “Yeah, someday,” and promptly forget those men existed.

★

At the company where I was conscripted, they appeared genuinely surprised that my work capacity—conducted entirely in slow motion—equaled only that of a fifth-grade elementary student. I was promptly transferred to clerical duties, but this too never developed into any sort of problem.

But since I wasn't exactly being lazy—nor had I ever made any special effort, not even for men I liked, given my nature—I didn't feel particularly ashamed, and people were generally lenient. The company decided to evacuate and disperse while keeping the headquarters' administrative functions and part of the factory operational. My manager became one of the factory heads overseeing the evacuation and persistently urged me to evacuate.

What I disliked most was falling ill—and more than that, dying. I’d resolved that if the war reached the mainland, I’d flee to the mountains and survive, but since the air raids hadn’t yet begun, I couldn’t muster the will to retreat to some rural backwater with nothing to do. I was propositioned in order by regular employees, section chiefs, department heads, and executives—following the corporate hierarchy’s exact progression—but only felt any fondness for the executives. It wasn’t that I particularly disliked how the young men pursued me—less through courtship than through indiscriminate physical demands—and while I myself harbored little carnal desire, I considered it natural for men and women to love each other and fully accepted that world. So even if someone like Miki Noboru was lecherous and possessed nothing beyond carnal passion, I never scorned him for it. I couldn’t. Whether you called it culture or education—though I myself didn’t truly grasp it—it was simply that something about them felt spiritually impoverished, and that’s why I grew to dislike it.

Mother’s patron was the owner of a large store but had evacuated to a mountain villa. When word came about a room being available at what might’ve been a farmhouse in the neighboring village, Mother wanted to evacuate there—but since I couldn’t move due to conscription, she agonized intensely—until the air raids began: Kanda was destroyed, Yurakucho was destroyed, Shitaya was destroyed, and sporadic damage began appearing nearby. Finally resigning herself, Mother fled alone with her belongings. Mother, like me, hated illness and death more than anything else; her decision from Yukio’s childhood to raise him as a doctor stemmed from her calculation to prolong her own life even slightly.

Mother came down once every week to check on me. But in reality, it was for secret trysts with a young man—the one thing she wanted to hide from me—yet with transportation and communication being so unreliable, her plans often went awry. Sometimes she ended up bringing men home to drink and let them stay over. I hadn’t a shred of expectation that Mother should live some special way just because she was my parent, and just as I wanted my own freedom, I thought it would feel refreshing if Mother too didn’t hold back around me—yet I couldn’t help pitying how she turned unrestrained when drunk and how cheap those men were.

Mother said there would be a major air raid on March 10th Army Memorial Day, so she planned to return to the mountains by March 9th. Yet her arrangements with the man went awry—she finally met him late on the ninth night, brought him home, and drank with him. I stayed up keeping the maid company as she cooked chicken and meat we’d brought from the mountains for this occasion in the dim light. When the air raid warning sounded, Mother’s drinking party still showed no sign of ending—she came over to where I listened to the radio and started another round of drinks by the dial’s glow. Three planes approached from Boso’s direction but turned back without dropping bombs; after a while, three more followed the same course and also retreated empty-handed. As people muttered about the alert lifting now that they’d turned back, someone at the lookout post outside began shouting: “Enemy planes dropping bombs! Fire! Fire!” Then came a terrible rattling roar overhead. The maid who’d gone to look from the second-floor window panicked—fires were already breaking out everywhere, she cried. Before I could grasp anything through my daze, the air raid siren wailed.

Despite Mother taking an absurdly long time to get ready—drunk and not even wearing her mompe—I, who had only ever known to underestimate night raid damage, lay sprawled in the dark room without even the interest to open a window and look at the flames. Each time I’d toss our belongings into the air-raid shelter and return, I’d let the maid’s shrill voice wash over me—“They hit over there now! Flames here too!”—without really listening.

The man who had finished dressing earlier than Mother and come to my room pressed his alcohol-reeking face against mine. When I turned my face away, he climbed on top of me and began undoing the strings of my mompe, so I slipped out from under him and stood up. Mother was shrilly calling the man’s name. She called my name and the maid’s name too. I went outside without a word. When I swept my gaze around the sky at that moment, none of the words—"spectacular," "refreshing," "awe"—captured what I felt. When such things were done to me, my head would lose all thought like a cotton-stuffed ball, so I forgot about the air raid and shuffled outside—only to find a blazing red curtain before my eyes. Arrows of fire raced through the sky. Pressed together and surging tumultuously, fire raced sideways with arrow-like speed—I was sucked in and stood dumbfounded. I couldn’t think of anything. When I turned my head, every direction showed nothing but blazing red curtains—where could I flee to survive? Yet in that moment, I became feverish with bestial anticipation: if I could escape unscathed from this sea of flames, a fresh world might open before me, or at least draw within reach.

When I surveyed the war’s devastation the next day—far exceeding anything I could have foreseen—I had lost both my home and everyone dear to me, yet I burned more fiercely with hope than ever before. I do not love war or destruction. I detest the terror encroaching upon me. Yet I felt something ancient perishing, something new approaching—though I couldn’t clearly grasp what that something was, I kept sensing that whatever drew near would be no more wretched than the past had been.

It was truly a devastating sight. The national elementary school that had survived the flames now had refugees sprawled across every floor and staircase—men who slept wherever they pleased after nonchalantly claiming bedding that wasn’t theirs, people wearing others’ Western-style clothes or padded kimono coats. “That’s mine,” someone would say, only for the other to reply, “Well, I’ll just borrow it then,” and that would be the end of it. There was also a man who, declaring three was too many for a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl sleeping with her neck—the only part exposed—sticking out like a plaster mask, her face burned and smeared with ointment, stripped off one blanket and took it to cover a woman from his group. Someone rummaged noisily through another’s trunk while muttering “Ain’t there any food here?”, its owner staring blankly at the scene; another declared “A hundred dead over there—five thousand in that park—thirty thousand gone where you’re pointing! If you’re alive, that’s profit enough! Cheer up!”, his ghostly pale face encouraging family members; a man who’d survived by burying his face in corpse-laden mud now felt anxious having nothing in this shelter, saying he should’ve at least taken the watch from a wrist on some body he’d pushed aside. Though this man hadn’t properly washed the mud from his face, most people around had similarly grimy faces—no one even considered washing up.

The maid Osoyo and I fled with a water-soaked futon over our heads, but when it caught fire along the way, we discarded it; when my coat caught fire, I threw that away too; my haori met the same fate—until we were left with nothing but a single lined kimono between us. Yet through Osoyo’s resourcefulness, we procured a futon and blanket, and through her efforts, three portions of hardtack—though that meant just three pieces for the entire day. An official promised, “We’ll manage rice for you tomorrow,” so despite our hunger, we endured. As I listened to Osoyo complain—“I’ve had enough of Tokyo,” “I want to return to my countryside in Toyama,” “But how can I go back empty-handed?”—I responded with perfunctory agreement like “How true,” though in reality, having nothing didn’t trouble me at all.

From among refugees who had nothing, futons and blankets would come rolling in, and though three pieces of hardtack left my stomach growling, since they said rice would come tomorrow, I found it far more amusing than hunger—sitting there like that, watching people arbitrarily managing things in all sorts of ways. I found the ingenious clockwork of natural human interactions more enjoyable than a bit of hunger. The notion that "when cornered, a path opens" and "things naturally work out in troubled times" formed the principle of life I'd acquired thus far—and my lack of desire to rely on Mother must have stemmed from this knot-like conviction lodged deep in my heart. Though I was raised to be thoroughly spoiled, even when Mother and the maid were both out on errands, leaving me home alone with instructions like "Make whatever you like for dinner," I would search for canned goods rather than touch the meat or fish in the refrigerator; if there were no cans, I'd settle for rice topped with bonito flakes; and if even that cooked rice wasn't available, I could make do with whatever apple slices or leftover cake scraps were on hand. Even with my stomach growling, I would lie sprawled reading a book. So even if you called me thoroughly spoiled, I was accustomed to hunger—and though that too might have been due to my spoiled nature—being spoiled also cultivated a spirit capable of enduring considerable hardship and deprivation. Among the thousands of refugees filling the hall, I seemed to be the one who complained the least.

Because I myself was in such a state of mind, while people’s misfortunes naturally appeared to me as misfortunes—that much went without saying—they also took on a different aspect. To me, it truly appeared as dawn. I continued to feel myself existing clearly in a separate world from Mother, sitting there alone. What suddenly concerned me was simply that I no longer wanted to see Mother—I was here like this, Mother must be somewhere like this too, and that I wished for us to remain forever apart like this.

To me, my state of having nothing was merely the starting form of my rebirth, and others' lack of possessions only seemed like reliable allies keeping pace with my fresh beginning—children cried out complaining of hunger, adults grew pale with cold and anxiety while becoming irritable, sick people groaned, and everyone was covered in mud—yet I felt no disgust toward the filth, no anxiety or fear, but rather something akin to nostalgia. For a girl like me—though I don't know how many such girls exist—concepts like Japan or homeland or nation felt too grand, their words merely hollow and impossible to reconcile. Newspapers and radio screamed of the homeland's crisis; street rumors whispered of Japan's downfall—but I could believe in my own survival, and because I carried this knot in my heart that things would naturally work out in troubled times, I thought I didn't care what became of Japan.

There was no country for me. There was always only reality. The great destruction before my eyes wasn't the nation's fate—it was my reality. I simply accepted reality as it was. I maintained a stance of neither cursing nor hating—simply avoiding what deserved curses or hatred—but there remained one thing that couldn't be handled through this policy of avoidance: Mother, and what people called home. Since I hadn't been born by my own will, since I couldn't choose my parents—but I suppose life generally proceeds through such haphazard collisions. Whether meeting someone I loved or not meeting them was all chance—and since I lacked any notion of "the one" or absolutes—I felt no anxiety about men's affections; it was Mother's case that pained me. I detested concepts like "the best," "my favorite," or "the one." Though people say everything amounts to fifty steps versus a hundred, I believed there was an immense difference between fifty and a hundred steps. It might not have been significant, but at any rate, it differed by fifty steps. And those differences and gaps ultimately appeared as absolutes to me. Therefore, I simply chose.

Since Akakura lay along Osoyo-san's route back to Toyama, I wavered between going to report Mother's death at the mountain villa or showing my face at the company. While I hesitated, the owner of our futon and blanket decided to leave. Just as I resigned myself to heading for the mountains instead, the Managing Director came looking for me. That things would work out—seeing this actually come to pass—is what gave me particular courage.

I did not like going to the mountain villa. Though there was no blood relation between Mother’s patron and me, I still felt anxious about being bossed around and constrained like some parental proxy—and what’s more, boarding those refugee trains to evacuate felt miserably unbearable.

The refugees showed a boundary-less, fiercely protective camaraderie among themselves—yet this very lack of boundaries invited parasitic exploitation. On pitch-black nights when you couldn't distinguish irises from weeds, indistinguishable men came crawling in from all directions. Since I slept clinging to Osoyo-san, she'd shoo them off like cats with hissed "shoo-shoo" sounds—whether they were demobilized soldiers or not—which struck me as absurdly comical. But whether it was the same man or different ones, they kept pressing in without pause, leaving us no chance to sleep except by daylight.

Japanese people always laugh. They say we Japanese even laugh during mourning—does that make someone like me the national prototype? When spoken to, I generally just smile. What I don't do is give proper replies. That is to say, I substitute laughter for responses. The reason being—we Japanese only initiate conversations with such banal remarks that don't merit answers. "What fine weather," "How cold it is"—statements so obvious they needn't be voiced at all. Were I to seriously reply "Indeed it is," I'd feel contemptuous, as if treating them like fools. Hence my inability to respond properly—I simply offer a faint smile. Because I actually like people, I'm incapable of such refined cruelties as looking down on others or treating them with contempt. "What lovely weather," "How chilly today"—I smile my most charming smile as proof that I accept things as they are and never belittle anyone. Then people call me coquettish or brand me a wanton.

I was quiet by nature—if I could get by without speaking, I generally didn’t—and when wanting a cigarette, I would thrust my hand out. There was no need to say “Give me a cigarette” or “Pass me one”—simply reaching toward them made my intention clear—so I’d thrust my hand out silently. Not that I assumed men would place one in my palm, but if they didn’t, I’d stretch my torso toward where the cigarettes lay and thrust my hand out further still, sometimes toppling over in the process. Yet being accustomed to solitude and naturally self-reliant—and lazy besides—even when alone I wouldn’t walk over to fetch one. Instead I’d stretch my body and arm until, the moment I grabbed it, I ended up tumbling over—that was my way. But since I took it for granted that men were kind to women, even when someone placed a cigarette in my palm, I accepted it as natural and had rarely ever said thank you.

So conversely, when I realize a man wants the cigarettes before my knees, I instinctively grab them and silently thrust them out. In such moments I act on instinctive kindness—what must be a woman's inherent kindness toward men. Though generally being scatterbrained and absent-minded, I usually fail to notice what men want. Yet at core being kindness itself—showing indiscriminate care even to strangers—Tomiko-san declares me the most lecherous creature in all creation. To illustrate—should I notice a stranger beside me on the train fumbling for matches, I'll instinctively snatch mine and wordlessly offer them. I held no hidden intentions—this being woman's natural instinct toward men, something to be called kindness rather than lechery. As for Tomiko-san—flushing crimson before handsome youths on trains, body tensing, waist cinching tight—while I don't deem that lecherous either (being instinctual), I do consider it more fickle than my ways.

But men too, just like Tomiko-san, assumed my kindness stemmed from flirtation and would immediately grow familiar—flirting shamelessly or forcing their way in. At the national school shelter—where they endured relentless assaults without yielding until I grew utterly weary—the thought of fleeing the capital with such people to drift toward unknown lands filled me with unbearable impatience at my own spoiled, wayward self.

So when I saw the Managing Director, I felt relieved; I immediately changed my mind and asked Osoyo-san to relay a message to the villa—and thus I was taken in by the Managing Director.

★

Kusumi (Managing Director) was fifty-six.

He wasn't particularly thin, but his six-foot frame made him look like wire. With his pug nose and acorn eyes—a downright ugly man—yet somehow this never bothered me from the beginning. His untinged white hair struck me as endearing instead, those same acorn eyes and pug nose possessing such charm that I found him genuinely cute without pretense or affectation. Since girlhood I'd never cared about men's ages—even as a student I'd been hopelessly enamored with our assistant principal past fifty. That man hadn't been beautiful either.

After the war ended, Kusumi provided me with a house, but he truly doted on me. And one time he himself said to me: "You may meet any number of lovers in the future, but you'll never find a man who dotes on you as much as I do."

I thought exactly the same. Kusumi was an old homely man, so I might find someone I like more than him someday, but no lover would ever dote on me as much as he did. When I say he doted on me, this wasn’t about some passionate display where he’d brandish a cleaver if I had an affair—chasing me to the ends of the earth to demand reconciliation—but rather, he was someone who would forgive me even if I did stray.

He discerned my true nature, accepted all of it, and sought to satisfy it. The constraints he imposed on me were limited to just such requests as "Please try not to have affairs—and if you do, keep me from knowing."

Someone like me, moving in slow motion, simply couldn't keep pace with the world's standard tempo. But when I made time commitments with people or got burdened with obligations, I became tormented by obsessive anxiety—yet being fundamentally slow-motion, I inevitably failed. Back when I worked at the company, I'd arrive two or three hours late, sometimes five or six. Even when arriving at work about thirty minutes before closing time and being told sarcastically, "If you're coming this late, you might as well take the day off," I still went in knowing full well how meaningless such attendance was—which showed how tormented I was by obsessive anxiety. Only Kusumi perceived this; though others might nag that "the Managing Director spoils you," he never uttered a single word of reproach toward me, always rather showing care instead.

I would make travel plans with someone I cared about—say, Kusumi—and end up missing the train by two or three hours. For instance, just as I was getting ready to go out, some retired old man acquaintance would show up saying, “Look here! I made this tobacco pouch from my moso bamboo,” and end up talking for one or two hours. By nature, I couldn’t bring myself to tell even people I disliked to leave by claiming I had business that day—and especially with a friendly retired old man, asking him to go home proved utterly impossible. Since I couldn’t sacrifice either person I cared for by my own will, it simply meant one got neglected under the pull of the immediate force—the force of reality—which for me was an irresistible compulsion I could do nothing about.

Kusumi showed concern for me being that way. So our travels became chaotic mismatches - before reaching any destination, we'd be told "This train goes no further, get off here," meaning the service had been discontinued. Forced to disembark at unexpected places yet never scolded for it, I found this absurdity refreshing, transforming into delightful unexpected journeys like watching a panorama unfold.

There can be no such thing as a truly ugly person—for beauty does not remain fixed; anything can appear beautiful or ugly in a given moment. To me, Kusumi in the bedroom was always endearing and beautiful. I'm a young woman—strolling tree-lined avenues arm-in-arm with handsome youths, having them carry my luggage or dash off to hail taxis, being doted on while shopping in Ginza as we weave through crowds, exchanging smiles caught between the ebb and flow of passersby.

Kusumi had long since lost those youthful eyes. And in place of that piercing gaze, all that remained were his hacking coughs. But when it comes to connections between men and women, aren't such youthful eyes merely transient scenery? Strolling tree-lined avenues, shopping excursions, cinema dates, café visits—though often considered lovers' exclusive privileges—I instead view them as passing amusements born of fickle desires or spiteful whims, nothing more than ephemeral dreams.

I had shown kindness to six young men departing for the front in my bedroom long ago, and after the war ended too, I had played around with several young men in my bedroom without Kusumi’s knowledge. But that too was nothing more than a landscape of men and women—or rather, a landscape of the flesh. However, as far as Kusumi was concerned, I was no longer a landscape. When I lay alone reading, lost in thought, or dozing off, Kusumi would visit. No matter how engaging the book, how deep the reverie, or how peaceful the sleep—I never felt the slightest regret at abandoning them. I would simply smile, welcome him, seek his caress, and extend both arms to caress him as I waited. I was nothing but that innate, natural coquetry.

This coquetry was something Kusumi had imparted to me. Until then I had never known such coquetry, yet with Kusumi alone I came to behave this way naturally—meaning he essentially created a version of me and fashioned this coquetry himself. It was an act of sincere gratitude. This sincerity manifested not through the heart's contours but through coquetry's form.

No matter how pleasant my sleep, if I suddenly woke and saw Kusumi, in that drowsy half-sleep I would smile, extend both arms to await him, and sidle up to his neck. Even when ill, I remained this way. In the midst of excruciating pain, I welcomed him; I never lost my smiles, caresses, or any coquetry. When the long hours of caressing had passed and Kusumi fell asleep, the intense pain would return. It had become unbearable by then, but during those hours of caressing, I never uttered a word of pain—not even the faintest shadow of anguish ever clouded my smile. This wasn't due to mental fortitude, but rather that my blind coquetry possessed the quality of dulling even that intense pain. They say "writhing in agony," but from excruciating pain I became frozen in one unnaturally contorted position—unable to move any limb—and for the first time in my life let out a moan. Kusumi woke up initially disbelieving, but by the time he frantically summoned a doctor it was too late—because despite the pain I hadn't roused him until he awoke naturally—my appendix having already festered, filling my abdomen with pus. The surgery took three hours where every abdominal organ had to be prodded and rearranged.

The only person who appreciated this innate, naturally cultivated coquetry was Kusumi alone. When young eyes across a crowd exchanged secret knowing smiles, there dwelled spiteful dreams, there flowed floral scents, there lingered youth’s innate allure—and precisely because of this, there also existed boredom, emptiness, and reason betraying itself. In short, they were eyes of spite, playfulness, and infidelity. There were times when I vaguely longed to have my hand held by a beautiful young man or found myself enraptured while spending the night playing around with one—yet after such dalliances, I always felt listless and bored, wearied by the heaviness in my heart.

But when I would gaze at Kusumi with a rapt smile, extend both hands to sidle closer, then press his white hair to my chest while stroking and caressing him with my fingers—lost in affection—my smiling face, my arms, my fingers all became temporary embodiments of sincere tenderness: spirits, fairies, gentle sprites, gratitude made manifest. They no longer seemed like my own arms or smile, nor anything moved by my own volition. In other words, I suppose my true nature is that of a mistress. My love was gratitude—when I had affairs, I would let men amuse me into rapture—but when I myself became natural coquetry and devoted myself entirely to a man, it came from gratitude. In short, I am a born professional woman; in return for having my desires purchased and lifestyle permitted, I naturally transmute into coquetry. In exchange, I never once considered wanting to do his laundry or cook meals for him. I believed such matters could be handled by laundries and restaurants; this was what I considered culture and civilization to mean.

However, there were times when I felt like rebelling precisely because I was so thoroughly content and doted on. Things like rebellion are so grating—I hate them. I don't like wind and waves. I don't like excessive emotions or excitement either. Yet this strange dissatisfaction born of being thoroughly satisfied—was this too just my selfishness? The realization that I was dedicating my coquetry entirely to some old ugly man without even realizing it—this sense of constraint, of bondage—would fill me with bitter resentment. In reality, I viewed such feelings—rebellion, wasteful thoughts, trivial matters—as such, but feelings arising spontaneously couldn't be helped.

When I suddenly regained my senses from a lonely reverie and quiet trance, there were times I saw hell. I saw fire. I saw an expanse of fire—a sea of fire, and a sky of fire. It was the fire that burned Tokyo and burned my mother. And I was jostled and crushed by mud-covered refugees, holding my breath in a corner. I was waiting for something. I didn’t know what it was, but the only thing I knew was that it wasn’t Kusumi.

Back then, amidst those mud-covered refugees overflowing the school—amidst all that misery—I saw being destitute and unfortunate as the breaking of dawn. In the self I now glimpse in hell, there appears to be no dawn. I am probably seeking freedom, but now it appears to me as hell. It's dark. Is it because I’m no longer destitute? Is it because I can love someone more than I do now, yet feel anxious that being loved more than this could never happen? In a wilderness of endless burning fires, I saw my form in loneliness—a piercingly cold desolation. Humans are such pointlessly sad creatures—how absurd that sadness is—I always found myself thinking at such times.

When I was hospitalized, there happened to be a sumo stable master—or someone of that sort—admitted for a boil or some such ailment. His entire group of disciples, from ranked wrestlers down to trainees, made a lively commotion bringing lavish dishes in bowls and pots or arriving with bottles of sake dangling from their hands. Among them was a junior champion named Sumidagawa—a boy from the same neighborhood as me, who’d attended the same national school as the child of a beef shop owner—and one of those I’d allowed on the eve of his deployment. He immediately proposed marriage to me, but being no unreasonable man himself—and given his popular profession where female company wasn’t lacking—when I pointed out how absurd it’d be for a junior champion to settle down, he instead suggested we meet occasionally. Though I used my convalescence as an excuse to end things then, every time he returned from a tournament circuit, he began coming nearly daily.

Sumidagawa, being raised in the downtown district, employed a methodical sumo style of thrusting and driving forward. Though not heavily built, he possessed a muscular physique with strong hips and throwing techniques, and was considered a promising wrestler rumored to reach ōzeki rank. Yet his downtown-bred tendency to abandon straightforward matches left him without the tenacity to persistently cling and fight back. During practice, whether he won or lost, his sumo was always elegant, and when he got into the rhythm, he could thrust aside five or ten opponents and even take on high-ranking matches—such was his inherent strength. Yet in official tournaments, that strength failed to manifest, and he’d lose to weaker opponents because the moment things turned slightly unfavorable, he’d think "I'm done." This was the analytical type’s weakness: precisely because he knew his own flaws, even minor setbacks made him disproportionately convinced of defeat. What he lacked was that tenacity to fight recklessly from a disadvantaged position and cling on stubbornly to the bitter end. The moment he thought "I'm done," he got dragged back and was effortlessly defeated in an instant. This especially happened with weaker opponents; against stronger ones, he usually won. In other words, it was because against strong opponents, he changed his mental preparation and attitude from the very beginning, confronting them with unified careful attention and fervent fighting spirit.

I thought sumo matches were cruel. The strength one possessed proved so unreliable—could it be that beyond sumo technique, physical power, and bodily attributes, such mental conditions and personality traits were also counted as part of one's true capability? When in an advantageous position, he never grew arrogant, avoided overcommitting to throws, and methodically handled each move with careful precision—exuding urban rationality, discipline, and composure—yet became overly sensitive to setbacks; even minor disadvantages his skill could easily overcome became preemptively perceived in his mind as inevitable defeat. So he'd suddenly grow discouraged, and by the time he steeled himself thinking "This won't do—I must fight back here," he'd already been driven into an irrecoverable position, rendered powerless.

I went to watch his practices and attended every official tournament. He would come to my seat and explain each match from the maegashira up to the yokozuna, but through these explanations of lightning-fast contests decided by strength and technique, I came to realize how much psychological time lay hidden beneath their surface. In terms of strength and technique, what was but a mere instant contained within their psyches a greater range of thought than an entire day’s worth of thinking. The grand yokozuna was thrown down—and in that instant before the throw was completed, resignation—I'm done—spread across his face; I felt as though I could almost hear a loud voice declaring, I'm done.

In sumo, once the wrestler himself thought 'I'm done,' the match was over—there was no coming back from that. In other matters, even if one thought 'I'm done' once or twice, they could regain their composure, stand back up, and start over—yet sumo’s unyielding system of competition seemed cruelly contemptuous of humanity, as though mocking us all. The reason sumo wrestlers possessed simple minds and generally straightforward temperaments lay in their life’s structure—where everything concluded with a single 'I’m done,' resolved solely through human psychology’s unfolding; thus despite experiencing within an instant of strength and technique humanity’s most intense pinnacle of compressed thoughts and perpetually witnessing utmost anguish, they finalized everything with a single 'I’m done' as though mocking their own profound sorrow—yet none among them noticed this tragedy, all remaining simple and dim.

Ecchan (Sumidagawa was what we called him in our neighborhood) would settle sumo matches through his own peculiar psychological weakness—preemptively and excessively thinking 'I'm done' even in situations where he needn’t have, then tumbling to defeat after defeat. When watching Ecchan’s matches, his momentary expressions—whether it’s 'Ah, I’m done,' 'Got me,' 'Damn it,' 'Why?' or 'Oh right'—always sounded to me like various loud shouts each time they occurred, and then I could no longer bear to watch.

"You're too sensitive only to your own disadvantages—that's why you fail." "I can't stand people who don't notice their own flaws yet fixate on others', but in sumo you need precisely that obstinate tenacity." "You've always got to grit your teeth and cling on no matter what." "Do that and you could become an ōzeki or even yokozuna." I told him. This counsel fired him up considerably. After winning two or three matches and growing confident, during his next bout came that fatal 'I'm done' moment—when he suddenly found himself at a disadvantage. Just when he'd normally have been finished, whether my advice had taken effect or not, he unexpectedly recovered and managed to push back until achieving an even position. Magnificent—Ecchan had finally seen the light! Just when I thought victory was assured now that he'd reached this point, he abruptly lost focus mid-recovery with all the monstrous strength and valor of an Ashura, sliding helplessly into defeat. After that he reverted to his old stance; losing confidence only made matters worse.

“Why did you lose focus there?” “But you’d recovered that far—if you hadn’t let your mood turn sour and thrown it away, you do have the strength to regain your footing.” “Since you’ve already proven yourself up to that point, now try pushing further beyond it.”

Even when I encouraged him, Ecchan would wear a sullen expression. Once his confidence crumbled, all that tremendous valor and hard-fought battles seemed to him like fleeting miracles that had passed through his body. After that, his tenacity only dwindled further, until the moment he thought "I'm done," he’d collapse without resistance—clumsily, slovenly defeated. Even though I’d thought it a crude world where only strength mattered, it turned out to be such a delicate world of the mind—so full of contempt for spirit, contempt for humanity, cruelty, and heartlessness—that I couldn’t bear it. A man who once reached sekiwake and was even called a future yokozuna had fallen to jūryō, then to makushita, and finally down to sandanme—and now, despite his large frame, was being roundly defeated time and again. In the world of art—where there’s no clear means to personally decide a contest—even those left behind could retain some pride or lingering self-respect. Yet in sumo, with its definitive wins and losses, those who fall into defeat have no room for such consolations. Cruelty incarnate—contempt for the spirit—as if ripping out people’s natural tender hearts to create malformed freaks of humanity—unbearable contempt for humankind; that’s why when Ecchan won, I found myself unable to praise him, yet when he lost, I felt like comforting him.

Before the tournament began, he had returned from his tour,

“I know your temperament, Sachiko, so I don’t want to sound repetitive—but I can’t help it because I love you. Every time I try to court you, you just say things like ‘Sure, later,’ or ‘Someday,’ or ‘Hmm…’” “So even though this puts me in an awkward position, I’ve grown thoroughly sick of Tokyo myself—all because of the tournaments. I used to wait impatiently for them before, but lately they’ve become such a burden that just having to return to my hometown Edo because of them is agonizing.” “Still, the only thing that makes my return somewhat bearable is knowing you’re here—otherwise, I’ve grown so weary of it all I’d rather quit this profession. But then I figure if I quit, you probably wouldn’t give me the time of day either—so I’m putting whatever bare-minimum effort I can muster into this.” “Given who I am, I’m full of desires—but I don’t want to make any self-centered demands.” “The only merit I can claim is that I’ve come to understand a thing or two about men and women—thanks to being in this line of work.” “We often rely on our patrons for support.” “Patrons tend to have mistresses, but they’re all good people—so even if your patron is one of them, I end up feeling like I want to take care of every last one of those men.” “So from what I’ve seen too, mistresses who cheat never end up well.” “You’ll be punished.” “But Sachiko, you’re the only thing keeping me going now—so I’d never say something unreasonable like ‘Become my wife.’” “Having you spend time with me like this every day—if that could satisfy me, it’d be fine—but when we part ways and I go home, it’s just so agonizing.” “It’s not like other women could satisfy me, you know.” “When I’m out on tour circuits, I can manage to forget.” “Having you right here before my eyes like this—it’s no good.” “While I’m wrestling and only when I return to Tokyo—couldn’t you spend time with me then?”

At that tournament, Ecchan was second-ranked in jūryō—a position where maintaining a winning record here would secure his promotion to the makuuchi division. Because I somehow thought I wanted to encourage Ecchan and help him advance,

“Well then, if you win all your matches this tournament, I’ll go stay somewhere with you.” “A perfect record?” “A perfect record’s brutal.” “That’s just how women are.” “Even if a sekitori played guitar beautifully, that sort of thing wouldn’t win any woman over.” “A sekitori must prevail through sumo.” “If I can believe your flawless record proves your worth, then even I might feel some pride about these feelings.”

“Alright, I get it.” “I’ll definitely do it.” “In that case, I’ll just have to win every single match no matter what.”

However, the result was the opposite. That was simply Ecchan's temperament.

When he was striving eagerly yet faltered at the outset, he would slide helplessly into a quagmire of disarray too wretched to even merit being called miserable. When he lost the first day—it’s fine if you just win all the rest—then lost the second day too—fine as long as you win what follows—by the final day I finally exploded: Fine! Go ahead and lose from the very start then! I’ll still keep my promise! But no—it culminated in a flawless thudding collapse.

Ecchan had that metropolitan fastidiousness about him—so when he stumbled on the first day and thought it was all over, he must have wanted to fulfill our promise by achieving a perfect record and embracing me without reservation. He was of a temperament where something like pity couldn’t erase the feelings he couldn’t convince himself to accept. However, I think that had Ecchan kept his promise and achieved a perfect record, I could only have managed a dutiful relationship—but precisely because he failed so spectacularly, it became pitifully endearing and heart-wrenching.

I encouraged Ecchan and went outside with him. The intermission hadn’t yet begun; Kusumi sat unaware in his seat, waiting for the three elite ranks’ exciting matches. But once my resolve suddenly solidified, I hardly gave him a thought—only the endearing wretchedness of that thudding collapse and this suffocating contempt for humanity filled my chest, until even resentment toward Kusumi, who could blithely anticipate watching good matches, welled up within me.

"I hate places like meeting spots or those sleazy inns." "Take me to a proper hot spring inn in Hakone, Atami, Ito—places like that." "I know how to get tickets right away." "But I have exhibition tournaments for three or four days starting tomorrow." "Unlike the official tournaments, these involve obligations, you see." "Well then, you should take tomorrow morning’s train back to Tokyo." When it came to anything prearranged, I was the type who could only fulfill obligations and never take initiative myself—but whenever an unexpected window opened and my feelings were suddenly drawn in, I’d start doing these strangely intense things that didn’t suit someone typically indecisive: rushing people along without a word of consent, dragging them about. I surprised myself. Women are utterly unreliable creatures, I thought to myself at such times.

At the hot spring, after urging a dejected Ecchan to drink and when we had gone to bed, “Ecchan, I’d forgotten until now.” “Forgotten what?”

“I’m sorry.” “What for?”

"I'd forgotten to say I'm sorry." "I'm sorry, Ecchan." "Why?" "Because it's pure contempt for humanity." "What do you mean by 'contempt for humanity'?" "Demanding you win every match—isn't that contempt for humanity?" "I thought I deserved being punched by you."

Ecchan looked bewildered, but I was the type who became completely absorbed in my own matters. “Does the thudding collapse hurt you, Ecchan?” “You’re not okay.” “I’m actually quite happy.” “Please forgive me.” “I was the one at fault.” “So, Ecchan.”

I stretched out both hands. The natural coquetry I had never shown to anyone but Kusumi suffused my entire being of its own accord, and I was now nothing more than the spirit of my gentle heart.

The next day, Ecchan had regained his brightness. It was because he had been convinced by the notion that a single night with me outweighed his honbasho collapse in value, and this shift in his mindset had lifted my spirits.

“You said ‘contempt for humanity,’ didn’t you.” “So you’re saying my slamming people into the dohyo is contempt for humanity?” “But then you wouldn’t be satisfied unless I’m losing all year round?” “That’s not it.” “So what are you talking about?” “It’s fine already.” “It’s just my own personal thoughts, that’s all.” “If you don’t tell me, it’ll bother me.” “Even if it’s just in passing, you’re talking about contempt for humanity here.”

“If I say it, I’ll be laughed at.” “So it’s just a woman’s sentimentality, huh?” “Yeah, well, that’s right. “What a beautiful sea. “If this were my home. “I’ve been thinking about such things since this morning.”

“You’re absolutely right.” “The sumo ring, spectators, tournament trains, inns—all we ever see are people and dust clinging to us wherever we go.” “Look Sachiko—if us wrestlers start dreading tournaments so bad that going home to Sumidagawa feels terrifying and bleak... then me lazing around here with you like this—damn blissful.” “Don’t you need to return to the exhibition circuit?”

“I just up and quit.” “Even if I get scolded—I don’t give a damn.” “It’s not about social obligations or human compassion.” “Sometimes I just wanna be human.” “Hey, look at this.” “This, this topknot—this thing here.” “It’s a mark that I’m not human.” “Just like chickens got their chicken shape, this is a sumo wrestler’s form.” “Back then, this thing used to be my pride and joy,”

We hadn't brought any rice. Ecchan had asked the inn staff to let us eat once, but since they were truly out of food and in trouble themselves, they told us to manage on our own somehow. When I handed over the wallet, Ecchan stood up with a "Hoick!"

“Can you really get it? Do you actually have connections?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” “Then take me along too.” “There’s a reason I can’t take you along. I’ll make a quick run and come back, so just bear with it for a little while.” Before long, Ecchan returned loaded with two bushels of rice, four chickens, and heaps of eggs, barged into the inn’s kitchen to cook up chanko stew and fried rice, then treated all the maids to a lavish feast. “Do you get it now, Sachiko—the reason I couldn’t take you along?” “In other words, it’s this—the topknot.” “At times like these, see—when sumo wrestlers are starving, farmers take pity and give us rice, cops look the other way. But if I went around sightseeing with a beauty like you in tow, they’d show no sympathy at all.” “Ah ha ha!”

“So, it’s the advantage of the topknot, is that it?”

“Exactly.” “It’s a twisted sort of fate.”

The sea, like molten oil dissolving into the evening haze; along the cape’s shore, scattered lights could be seen. It was a quiet evening. I was not one to understand scenery by nature, but somehow ended up lingering carelessly with a poet-like melancholic pensiveness.

★

In my house, besides the elderly maid and regular maid, there lived a girl named Nobuko-san who was two years my junior. During the war, she had worked as a clerk at the same company, but lost all her close relatives in the air raids. Mr. Tashiro—Secretary to Kusumi—had borrowed capital from Kusumi to open a bar in the black market side business sector. Since Nobuko-san came from a restaurant family and was naturally suited to hospitality work, he formally asked her to serve as the madam on paper—though being just twenty now and having become a madam at nineteen sounded implausible, she was in reality operating the place shrewdly and confidently beyond all expectations.

Due to an unexpectedly long stay that left me short on funds, I had arranged for Nobuko-san to secretly deliver money; however, Nobuko-san came all the way to the hot spring with Tashiro-san to bring it. Tashiro-san had initiated this scheme out of affection for Nobuko-san—the bar madam role being merely a pretext to position her as his mistress—but though Nobuko-san likewise held feelings for Tashiro-san and their outward appearance suggested a patron-mistress dynamic to every observer, she had never permitted physical intimacy.

Because Tashiro-san, Kusumi’s secretary, had come, Ecchan became tense,

“No, leave it be. I’m the black marketeer extraordinaire here—that bastard’s fundamentally someone who does nothing but philander anyway.” Actually, I felt more reassured that Tashiro-san had come. Because he was indeed a black marketeer by nature as he himself claimed; though called Kusumi’s secretary, others handled the actual administrative duties—he specialized in behind-the-scenes work, managing Kusumi’s discarded women and, more recently, had developed expertise solely in illicit goods distribution. It was necessary that I not make an enemy of him.

“So you’ve been kind enough to take advantage of this situation.” “Because you can take a hot spring trip with Nobuko-san.” “You should direct all your gratitude exclusively to me.”

“Precisely so. Recently, with eateries being ordered to close, Nobuko-chan found herself in such dire straits that she’d have to turn to prostitution just to eat—that’s when she finally came to appreciate my worth.” “The service has been somewhat different lately.” “So when I heard about this situation, I figured it was the perfect chance to properly court Nobuko-chan here at the hot spring.” “Today’s the day it’ll bear fruit.” “Nobuko-chan, how about it? Being confronted with this scene right before your eyes—if you don’t have a change of heart here, I’ll be at my limit.”

“I’m truly sorry, Sachiko-san. I was going to deliver the money alone, but I ended up consulting Mr. Tashiro on my own. It’s just that I got worried—if we leave things like this, later on…”

I too had anticipated that Nobuko-san would do this for me.

Nobuko-san maintained surface-level sturdiness and shrewdness—she had handled office work with efficiency back at the company, and even after starting the bar business with an old maid assisting her, she would bicycle out for supplies, clean the shop, manage everything alone without borrowing help. Beyond that, she would even do shopping runs for three houses across and both neighbors’ shares. When the neighboring storekeeper fell ill and couldn’t operate their business—yet faced food shortages if they took to bed—Nobuko-san would shut her own shop and work at theirs instead. She was that rare kind of kind-hearted woman.

So while she appeared active and outwardly robust like a model worker, in reality she turned no profit. She never so much as glanced at lottery tickets or treasure draws—utterly devoid of fantasy and rock-steady—yet when it came to others’ affairs, she’d disregard all profit and loss, devote herself completely, only to squander her hard-earned pennies in an instant. Tashiro-san had set his sights on Nobuko-san’s beauty, energy, and shrewdness with grandiose plans to make serious money, yet reaped no gains whatsoever. Worse still, Nobuko-san set aside ten percent of sales untouched—even when her own earnings were nil—and delivered that ten percent straight to Tashiro-san’s wife. Everything unfolded contrary to expectations, leaving Tashiro dumbfounded—this from a man who endlessly chanted “Money, money, money,” who’d do anything for cash—yet he abandoned his expected financial windfall due to poor business performance and instead came to cherish Nobuko-chan’s guileless nature.

“But Nobuko-chan, clinging to virginity just for your body—how utterly pointless.” “That ‘it’d be bad for my wife’ nonsense—listen here, ma’am (he addressed me thus)—humans are cheating creatures by nature. Christ himself said: ‘To even glance at another man counts as adultery already.’” “Mind and body ain’t separate things.” “Faking purity through your body alone—that counterfeit act won’t fly.” “That’s why you oughta follow ma’am’s example—I’m tellin’ ya!” “Ma’am here don’t give two hoots about cheating or bodies or any of that rot.” “Which means there must be some connection ’tween our old man and ma’am here that goes beyond mere affairs.” “You gotta see this part clear.” “Get hung up on physicality, and that’s why college punks and market riffraff keep worshipping you—breaks my heart how you can’t see the idiocy of it all.” “Why can’t you grasp basic logic here, huh, ma’am?”

Tashiro-san had Nobuko-san live with me out of his earnest desire to somehow impart my philandering spirit to her, and though he specially courts her assiduously right before my eyes, I merely laugh and watch, never once lending him a hand. “Ma’am, please do something to help change Nobuko-chan’s mindset.” “It’s no use. “When it comes to seduction, you’ve got to be self-reliant and independent.” “You ain’t got no sense of friendship, ma’am.” “All these gentlemen and ladies have obligations.” “What it means is mediating a friend’s love affairs.” "I bring a woman to meet a friend." “So then, I strut around like I’m better than my friends, and I put on airs.” “This is the privilege of philandering, I tell ya.” “Therefore, when a friend appears before me with a woman, I act like his subordinate and a dullard to flatter him.” “They call this a gentleman’s refinement and duty—when men and women become friends, without exception they must cultivate this refinement and sense of duty. Otherwise, they’re truly heretics among ladies and gentlemen, I tell ya.” “Since you’re ma’am—the greatest lady among ladies by nature—I’d think you’d manage something even without me saying so, but...”

College students would flirt with Nobuko-san or send her love letters; a couple of those market rowdies—real characters—would also try courting her or slipping her notes, and groups would drag her off to so-called dance parties under false pretenses, even though she didn’t know how to dance, leaving Tashiro-san in such a fret—"They’ll take advantage of her! That lot’s capable of anything!"—that he couldn’t settle down until she returned. Despite all his talk about "the body" and "virginity," it turned out he wasn’t actually like that, so I teased him. Because really, you don’t have to become some pathetic damaged goods—after all, if someone you loved got raped in some thief-or-robber fashion, anyone’d sleep poorly. He courted her so ardently, but Nobuko-san wouldn’t say yes. Yet Nobuko-san did like Tashiro-san.

Nobuko-san, who bore no resemblance to me whatsoever, took pity on my fragile nature and hazy unreliability, worrying over me like an elder sister despite being older than I was. Yet in truth, beneath her outwardly tough demeanor, Nobuko-san lived anxiously—unsure of her path, wavering over business matters, love affairs, and every triviality of daily life, as if treading on thin ice—all of which I knew full well. Though my silence meant I never comforted her with kind words, Nobuko-san, with no family to rely on, made me her sole pillar of strength.

“Ma’am, however, that was unwise. “The act of infidelity, you see, must absolutely be done without anyone noticing.” “But losing your patience here would be even worse.” “Since that’s the worst possible thing, you’ve got to go back pretending you know nothing.” “And look—so you stayed overnight with a sumo wrestler. That much is already known, so there’s no helping it. But you stayed together without any relations—listen here, insisting on that point is what matters most.” “You gotta insist—keep insisting—even if they’re doubtful, ’cause humans are creatures that’ll inevitably start thinkin’, ‘Maybe there really wasn’t anything after all.’ If you stick to your guns about there bein’ no relations through and through, why—I tell ya—even the person themselves’ll end up believin’ it.” “Got it?”

However, Tashiro-san was more preoccupied with his own affairs than with mine. Nobuko-san had said she disliked sleeping in the same room as Tashiro-san, but he—for his part—had his complexion change somewhat and said, "Nobuko-chan, that’s not acceptable." "You can’t humiliate me to that degree." "For a man and woman like us to come to an inn and stay in separate rooms—that’s just poor form on your part. There’s nothing more mortifying than this." "Even if we sleep in the same room—I’ll try persuading you, sure I will—but I won’t resort to violence. You’ve got to trust me on that much. If you shame me to that extent—Nobuko-chan, I’d be like a man with zero integrity, I tell you."

When the men were soaking in the hot spring, Nobuko-san said to me,

“What should I do, I wonder.” “I made Mr. Tashiro angry, but it’s painful.” “Being courted in bed—first of all, I’ve never shown my sleeping face to a man before, don’t you think?” “Being courted in bed—I don’t want to make Mr. Tashiro feel miserable or see him in such a wretched state, so I might just end up giving in.” “If I give in like that, afterwards it’ll just feel so hollow and pathetic—don’t you think?” “That’s right.” “So then—if I might as well be the one to give in.” “I don’t know—it’s like I’m giving up.” “Sachiko, what should I do?” “Please tell me.”

“I don’t know.” “I’m not much help at all, so please don’t be angry, Nobuko-san.” “I truly don’t understand a single thing about myself.” “I always just let things take their course.” “But really, what should one do in Nobuko-san’s case?” “You mustn’t act out of despair.” “That’s true.”

At that evening’s dinner table, I said to Tashiro-san: “Even someone as worldly as you, Tashiro-san, can’t grasp Nobuko-san’s feelings.” “Nobuko-san has no family—so her virginity must be something like family to her.” “If she were to lose even that family, there’d be this dark sense she’d have no choice but to become a woman of the night.” “Even a philandering, hazy woman like me has some measure of those feelings—since women lack life skills like men do, for us chastity must be something like family. It’s a dark thing, somehow.” “Therefore, if you wish to take Nobuko-san’s sole family—her virginity—you’ll need to establish a foundation for living that lets her survive even without family.” “You must provide a guarantee of life free from future anxieties.” “A verbal promise won’t do.” “You must clearly demonstrate it with tangible proof.”

“That’s what they call an impossible demand, ma’am.” “Your boyfriend’s a man of means alright—but most men in this world ain’t rich at all.” “Treatin’ virginity like some geisha’s deflowerin’ deal—that’s insultin’ to the whole notion.” “Course I’ll take care of Nobuko-chan.” “Same way I treat her right now.” “And that deflowerin’ fee business—outrageous.”

“I wonder if that counts as a deflowering fee. In that case, mine was free too.” “There you have it. Virginity’s fundamentally free, I tell ya.” “My Mother meant to sell my virginity off—that’s why I rebelled. But thinking now, if a woman’s got no family, her virginity might be her only capital. Geisha become proper geisha after their deflowering, don’t they? What I mean is—losing that grounding force of virginity brings this anxiety, this fragility, this darkness that could make someone turn into a woman of the night. So protecting your virginity means protecting life’s foundation itself.”

“That’s an unprecedented sharpness you’ve got there.” "For a ma’am like you to defend virginity—women form their united front only to calmly betray themselves, I tell ya." “The principle of a strike’s a common purpose, but one where you empty and betray yourself? No such strike exists.” “You—if virginity’s family to her, I get Nobuko-chan’s loneliness.” “But that loneliness is sentimentalism—at root, a harmful, useless demon of an emotion.” “Stake a woman’s whole purity on virginity alone, lose the virginity—poof—purity’s gone.” “Hence becoming night women.” “But you—purity ain’t some trinket.” “It’s soul-stuff.” “Japanese wives—those so-called wives—are monsters birthed from virgin-purity’s wrongheaded ideology.” “Slaves to money and breeding bugs.” “Bodies? Swap five husbands or ten—without soul-purity, worthless.” “Now you—Mrs. Sachiko here—born not giving a damn about bodies.” “Love converts to gratitude and goods—calling yourself a love-professional lady?” “Magnificent. Takes your breath away.” “But you—of all people—no! Sympathy strikes won’t do.” “You gotta stay you.” “Sumo wrestler—right? If Mrs. Sachiko forgets infidelity’s grand spirit to praise virgin virtue—” “This humble servant wouldn’t come clean up your mess.” “I respect you absolute—approve your every tendency and act—hence my dogged service.” “Can’t have zealous loyalists lamenting now.”

Tashiro-san's persistence was too relentless for me to feel at ease. If it were me, I wouldn't feel inclined to forgive—though for different reasons than Nobuko-san—but since Nobuko-san both loves and respects Tashiro-san, I couldn't fathom guarding virginity so obsessively to that extent. Truthfully, I just found the whole affair irritating.

That night, after Tashiro-san and the others left for another room,

“Hey, Sachiko-san—don’t ya think Nobuko-san seems kinda pitiable?”

“Why?” “Because she was sullenly, dejectedly brooding. She must hate it.” “It can’t be helped. That’s just how it is. All sorts of things happen, you know, when a woman’s alone.” “Hmm.” “What do you mean by 'all sorts of things'?”

“All sorts of people make passes in all sorts of ways, I suppose.” “Is that how it is...” “Me? I’ve hardly ever made passes at anyone or been hit on myself.” “But if she’s brooding so sullenly like that...” “You caused me plenty of trouble too, didn’t you?”

“I see, so that’s how it is.” “And this is how it all turns out?” “What’s this ‘punishment’ nonsense?” “What? “About ‘punishment’...” “You said it yourself once. ‘Mistresses who cheat never come to any good,’ you said. ‘They get punished.’ What exactly is this ‘punishment’?” “Did I say that? “Don’t recall a thing. “But you—you’re different.”

“Why?” “I’m a cheating mistress too, you know.” “You’re not cheating.” “Your heart’s just too soft.” “Aren’t most mistresses like that?” “Enough already.” “But I can’t keep making you suffer—I’ll make a clean break.” “From now on I’ll just throw myself into sumo, nothing else.” “But how can I do that without remembering you?” “I won’t remember.”

“Am I really that unimportant to you now?” “Even if you remember, there’s nothing to be done about it.” “I hate remembering.” “I can’t understand you at all.”

“Why did you give up?” “Well you see—I’m just some broke low-rank wrestler who can’t climb the ladder.” “And you’re a high-maintenance party girl.” “It can be let go.” “Can’t be helped.” “If it’s something you can let go of, then it wasn’t worth much to begin with.” “Same goes for me.” “So I’ll forget.” “Guess that’s how it works.” “How tedious.”

“What is?” “This kind of thing...” “You said it.” “It’s so dreary.” “I’m just tired of living.”

“That’s not it at all.” “I like being alive.” “It doesn’t seem interesting.” “Because it seems like something unexpected might start up again.” “I just really hate this kind of thing.” “What do you mean by ‘this kind of thing’?”

“This kind of thing.” “So?” “Isn’t it clammy?” “Wouldn’t it be cleaner without it?” “Isn’t it suffocating?” “Why must it exist?” “Must it be necessary?” “Can’t things be settled unless it exists?”

Ecchan didn’t respond but heaved himself up sluggishly, opened the closed storm shutters, thrust his feet into garden clogs, and went outside. Whether it was moonless or moonlit, I neither looked at nor considered the outdoors, but Ecchan returned after some time and thrust his large hands against my chest. Though he likely wasn’t exerting full strength, my eyes rolled back as I went limp—then Ecchan thrust his hand onto my shoulder, grabbed me, and yanked me upright.

“Hey, let’s die. “Die for me.” “No.” “I can’t take it anymore—I won’t let you say that!” I was suddenly grabbed and lifted up, then hoisted onto his shoulders. I was in a faint-like state and had been placed on his shoulders without resistance, but when I bit into the nape of his neck, some inexplicable resolve surged through me, “It’s fine. I’ll scream. I’ll shout ‘Murderer!’ If that’s still okay with you.” In his rattling attempt to push open the storm shutters, he braced one hand against the wall rail,

“Isn’t forcing your will through cowardly?” “I detest dying.” “Do you truly believe you can coerce this?” “If you want death, why not die alone?” Ecchan finally released a steam-like groan, set me down beside the storm shutters, shoved his feet into garden clogs, and walked away into the outer darkness. I didn’t call after him.

I was born unable to turn off the lights even when sleeping. Even during the war, I couldn't sleep without a small bulb lit, and what I hated most about the war was the darkness. When the light disappeared, I hated it because I couldn't see anything. When I woke at night and found the light off, I would panic, thinking "Have I died?" In other words, I must have been someone extraordinarily predisposed to fear death.

After about five minutes had passed, I gradually grew frightened. Outside, there was no sign of anything. When I went to Nobuko-san’s room, the two were still awake, but after explaining the situation, I decided to have them let me sleep in Nobuko-san’s futon. “So the sekitori still hasn’t come back, huh?” “Yes.”

“Maybe he offed himself.” “Who knows?”

“Hmm, whatever.” Mr. Tashiro began drinking his brought-along whiskey with Nobuko-san as company, but I fell asleep before them. Numbly, I fell asleep at once.

★

When summer came, we lived at a hilltop inn along the coastal highway. The rented annex was an independent five-room building complete with a bathhouse, where Kusumi and Mr. Tashiro commuted to Tokyo nearly every day from this base, while Nobuko-san and I enjoyed swimming in the ocean during daylight hours. I woke up around seven-thirty every day. After finishing breakfast and seeing Kusumi off around nine, I would lie down and read three or four pages of a magazine before growing drowsy. I’d doze off and wake again around eleven or eleven-thirty. I had almost no appetite during the day. Sometimes I would get an intense craving for ice cream, for cider, for cold coffee. I sometimes saw them in my dozing dreams. After lunch I would go to the sea, return around four, take a bath, do some laundry while at it, then lie down and start reading a magazine only to doze off again. Kusumi would return, and I would usually wake from his presence. Evening had come. The sea was growing dim with twilight, dusk settling in. I watched the sea for a while. When Kusumi turned on the light, I said, “Wait a bit—leave it off for now.” After a while, I said, “You can turn it on now.” I washed my face, wiped down my body, touched up my makeup, changed into a kimono, and headed to the dining table. The bright light and the feast-laden dining table put my mind at ease, giving me a calmness as if I had returned to my hometown. I picked up the serving chopsticks and offered them to Kusumi, then to Mr. Tashiro. I found more pleasure in watching people eat than in eating myself, and greater joy in listening to their conversations flourish than in speaking my own.

I had grown annoyed at how I sometimes said unnecessary things these days. When receiving gifts, I found myself uttering phrases like "Thank you very much." In the past, I would simply smile. If given something rare for the season, I might naturally comment, "How unusual this time of year"—that alone didn't particularly bother me to say. But when presented with unwanted items, though I said "thank you" and smiled, my voice turned quite cold. When my mother received something that pleased her, she would make a big show of delight, yet toward gifts she cared nothing for, she adopted an air of turning her back on them. Through childhood eyes, this had appeared vulgar and base, making me curse her ignorance and lack of cultivation. What had been fine before—when I always smiled sweetly without speaking—now troubled me, for I'd naturally begun saying superfluous things like expressing gratitude. Whether using formal "thank you very much" or casual "thanks," there was a natural distinction in my words and tone. When that distinction vanished and my voice turned so cold it would have been better left silent, I'd suddenly recall Mother's material greed—that repulsive hunger of hers—and shudder.

I preferred having someone I liked choose things that matched my style and bring them to me over selecting and shopping for items myself. When going out shopping together, I hated being consulted on every little thing—"Should we get this or that?" I wanted them to decide on their own and insist on their choice. Kimonos, accessories, and personal belongings were my world—if I chose them myself, I couldn't escape my own limitations, but when others selected them for me, there were new discoveries and creations. I would uncover fresh, unexpected aspects of my own tastes, feeling happy as if a new world of myself had been born.

Kusumi knew this aspect of my disposition. His shopping choices were excellent, with Mr. Tashiro serving as his advisor for those selections. I preferred having Kusumi choose even my Western clothes' patterns and cuts over selecting them myself. Because the tailor shop kept my measurements on record, unexpected garments would arrive that left me enraptured. Even before Mr. Tashiro and Nobuko-san, I would spontaneously cry out and fling myself at Kusumi.

I had to change clothes three times a day to feel alive - morning clothes from waking until seeing Kusumi off, daytime clothes, evening clothes - even when not going out. Even when dozing for a nap, I couldn't feel at ease unless wearing my favorite clothes. When given beautiful shoes, I grew so desperate to walk in them that even on rainy days I couldn't resist going out for a stroll. All the more with clothes - of course even a single hat or handbag - each time I would walk through town without purpose. For me, the most delightful outings weren't movie or theater visits but these wanderings; when I wrapped myself in satisfying garments, I could feel more alive than ever.

I was most tormented by how to express my gratitude to Kusumi for providing this sense of purpose that made life worth living. My affairs were essentially of the same nature as my joy in clothing—which meant what tormented me about them, unlike with hats or dresses or shoes, was the other party’s willfulness or persistence. I never felt guilt over the affairs themselves. Yet at this beach, though university students and drifters and black market gentlemen and others invited me for tea or walks or dancing, I always shook my head in refusal. At those times, I thought doing such things would be unfair to Kusumi. And I came to consider that refraining from affairs was one way to express my gratitude toward him. That thought somehow felt too housewife-like, and I hated it. Every time Mother spoke of duty and human bonds, I felt displeasure and rebellion, cursing her ignorance—yet I found it unbearable that I too had naturally become domesticated, moving like a puppet of those same obligations in daily life, and I suffered whenever I glimpsed Mother’s reflection in myself.

I knew affairs were utterly tedious. Yet I also thought boredom itself held considerable charm - that life amounted to little more than this. I could spend whole days gazing at Kusumi's six-foot frame without tiring - his broad shoulders contradicting his thinness, those sturdy bones jutting sharply; ribs forming distinct ledges; hip bones protruding; buttocks shriveled to fist-sized mounds; knee bones thrusting forward while thigh flesh tapered away as if pared down; calves reduced to rough sticks devoid of swelling - tracing that skeletal landscape from crown to sole and back again. Sometimes I'd forget this was a human body with tiered ribs, playing with its hollows and protrusions like a musical instrument. Lying prone, I could pass days studying my face in a hand mirror - teeth, tongue, throat, shoulders, breasts - every detail. To me, boredom resembled a nostalgic vista. The Hakone peaks, Lake Ashi, Otome Pass - was scenery truly beautiful? If it were beautiful, then I thought this meant boredom itself was beautiful. Within me lay a lake reflecting landscapes - Boredom Lake, Boredom Mountain, Boredom Forest - so that standing at Otome Pass became Otome Pass scenery, viewing Lake Ashi became Lake Ashi's form; I realized I was projecting my heart's ennui onto these provisional vistas to contemplate it.

“My sweet old man, Santa Claus.”

I said while caressing and tending to Kusumi's white hair. But then again,

"My dear child, my dear ice cream, my dear little white shoes." Kusumi, exhausted, fell soundly asleep. However, after five or six hours he would wake, rise to gaze vacantly at my sleeping face, and when night paled into dawn, open the shutters to look out at the sea. But how could I sleep so deeply like this? At any time, as much as I wanted, I felt I could sleep almost endlessly. I suddenly woke. Kusumi had risen and was gazing vacantly at me. I unconsciously stretched out my arms and smiled sweetly. Kusumi nodded quietly once with an exasperated look yet faintly shining eyes.

“What are you thinking about?”

Instead of answering, he would wipe the sweat from my forehead and eyelids, sometimes pull the futon up to my neck, or simply gaze at me in silence. When I returned from the hot spring after being met by Nobuko-san and Tashiro-san and parting with E-chan, I developed a fever on the train and was bedridden for several days upon returning to Tokyo. Tomiko-san, who came to visit me, bluntly remarked at my bedside: “Your body’s magical, isn’t it? When you’re struggling for excuses, you conveniently develop a fever—even regulating it to about 102.6 degrees. A born enchantress.” But I had scarcely any feelings of struggling with excuses—more than anything, I hated being ill far more than making excuses. Who would deliberately adjust their fever to 102.6 degrees? Yet whenever I awoke intermittently from my fever, Kusumi was always at my bedside—replacing my ice pack, wiping away my sweat—and I felt a profound relief: not relief from evading excuses, but relief in discovering a force that battled the demon of loneliness in my heart’s depths and safeguarded me. When I wordlessly stretched out both arms toward him, he nodded deeply and asked, “Does it hurt?” Though his eyes held no particular glimmer or shadow of any striking emotion, why did they seep so deeply into my heart as if melting into it? When I took his hand and said, “I’m sorry,” his eyes still showed no particular shadow of emotion, yet I could lose myself in a profound relief—a spacious calm like the very awareness of being alive itself.

And yet he had come to this coastal inn and, as if suddenly struck by the idea,

“If you still love Sumidagawa and can’t forget him, I’ll have you marry him. “I’ll provide a proper sum too.” “Why would you say such things?” “Don’t you care for him?” “I don’t. “I detest him now.” “This sudden ‘detest’ makes no sense to me.” “It’s true. “Stop torturing me. “Affairs hold no pleasure for me whatsoever.” “But consider—an aging man like myself... “Were our positions reversed, I might say such things. “Yet I cannot believe a young woman like you would speak this way. “Because I genuinely cherish you, I must wish for your happiness. “It grieves me to see you shackled to someone like me.”

“What you’re saying makes no sense to me,” I said. “If you truly loved me, you wouldn’t tell me to marry someone else. You’ve grown tired of me, haven’t you?” “That’s not it,” he replied. “There was a time when you fell ill. You never noticed, but when you slept, you’d sweat profusely. Shadows would form around your eyes—distinct when you were asleep but vanishing when awake. The skin around your eyes grew slightly swollen too.” “As I watched you sleep,” he continued, “I became convinced it was consumption. I tormented myself imagining you wasting away—so emaciated you might stop breathing any moment. The thought of witnessing that... I wished I could die first.” “I no longer particularly fear my own death,” he said quietly. “It’s drawn near enough that I’ve come to regard it as an old friend—a stroll we’ll take together someday.” “But you’re different.” His voice softened. “When one reaches my age, the world divides sharply into realms of youth and old age. In my youth, I possessed none of youth’s vigor—prone to solitude, even misanthropy. Though I saw all young hearts as equally bleak back then, age has given me this instinct... this endless yearning for youth.” “I cherish it,” he murmured. “Youth must be happiness itself. The young mustn’t die.” His fingers tightened around mine. “Given this instinct I’ve developed—this reverence for youth—what prayers could I possibly make for my most beloved girl? Is it truly so unnatural that I’d sever my own happiness for hers without hesitation...?”

Kusumi had effectively abandoned his wife, daughter, and son for my sake, since he now lodged at our coastal inn instead of his home and commuted to Tokyo from there. How would people speak of us? Would they claim I'd deceived Kusumi? They'd likely envision the wretched obsessive madness of an old man blinded by love. Yet I thought nothing of such matters. To children, parents mean nothing at all. And even if parents fall in love, I consider it an unavoidable trifle. Kusumi hadn't concerned himself with such things either. I knew this. He was blinded by loneliness before ever being blinded by love—hence couldn't truly be love-blinded at all. Age had loosened the screws in his tear ducts until tears spilled constantly. They fell even when he laughed. But when emotion drew those tears, he shed them not for me, but for humanity's fate. A man with such a lonely soul viewed life through abstract concepts, grasping even his present reality only through such constructs. Though claiming to love me, he loved not my actual self but some idealized notion of a beloved woman—apprehending my reality through that very abstraction.

That’s why I knew. Because his soul was lonely, his soul was cruel. Were he to find a lover more charming than me, he would have coldly forgotten me. Yet such a soul—one that coldly abandons others only to find itself abandoned first—received hell’s punishment; but because he didn’t hate hell, because he loved hell, he became that demon who could contemplate marrying me off for my own happiness and departing alone, all while dismissing it with “Well, that’s just how humans are.”

However, he must have had another reason. Even a man as solitary and coldly dismissive of both himself and others as he was felt anxious at the prospect of me escaping him. And fearing that I might someday flee of my own volition, he concluded it would be better to let me go by his own will and remain satisfied. The demon was selfish, utterly self-centered, an absurdly spoiled child. And the reason he could do such things was also that he didn’t truly love me—the real me—but rather that within his life of abstract notions, I was merely one well-mannered toy among others.

Tashiro had come to this inn and was living separated from Ms. Nobuko by a sliding door, yet he still hadn’t achieved his objective. Mr. Tashiro had a habit of staying at his own home around the third day, and the next day would go out of his way to boast things like, “Yesterday I showed my wife some affection,” but his connoisseur philosophy—his philosophy of infidelity—seemed to have developed cracks. Mr. Tashiro may carry himself like a grand master versed in the ways of human relations, money, and desire, but since he’d only ever dealt with geisha and prostitutes—never knowing proper young women—he didn’t realize that women who proactively offer themselves were exceedingly rare unless they were inherently ambiguous types like me, the mistress variety. Women have an instinct to resist even when forced by someone they adore—to say they dislike just their bodies, or even if not dislike, to claim dislike; to insist “I hate this” despite desperately wanting to surrender themselves. I too possessed this same instinct, but I’d consciously suppressed it—I considered such instincts utterly trivial. Women want to be assaulted by their lovers. Men have the privilege to receive both a lover’s body and gratitude through initial coercion—but Mr. Tashiro, since he only knew complicit women of the trade, and being a man-about-town of the pleasure quarters—though quite the philanderer himself, considered assaulting a lover who resisted with cries of “I hate this” to be an unthinkable taboo. And he had been wooing Ms. Nobuko for ten years as if each day were no different from the last, but their romantic path would probably never progress unless he resorted to assault. Because it was so foolish, I wouldn’t tell him. And though he sometimes looked about to burst out laughing, Mr. Tashiro would sober up and say, “Nobuko, don’t you ever feel any physical desires?” “You’re twenty years old already—isn’t this all rather ridiculous?”

And while inwardly revering the sullenly silent Ms. Nobuko as though she were a holy virgin, he privately took pride and satisfaction in having at least secured her spiritual respect.

However, since Ms. Nobuko in fact had little in the way of physical desires, she seemed to be suffering over something else—but Tashiro, who kept harping on money-money-money and calling her a slave to currency even as she worked tirelessly, cutting back on her own living expenses while taking losses to help others, would say, "It’s fine, Nobuko. That’s just fine." But was it truly acceptable? She found herself doubting whether using income earned through such personal austerity to aid others could genuinely be called a virtuous deed.

Ms. Nobuko was unfazed by losses since Mr. Tashiro and the rest of us were supporting her, but she agonized over whether she could manage this way if she became independent—and being a practical, action-oriented realist, her anguish was sincere.

“For a woman to run her own business—don’t you think that’s wrong, Ms. Sachiko? If I keep running my business like this, I won’t be able to show kindness to anyone anymore—I’ll turn into a demon of money. If I don’t do that, I can’t keep going.” “I suppose.”

I could only give vague responses. Nobuko’s anguish was sincere, and there was indeed a risk she might become the very demon of money she agonized over, but what struck me as absurd wasn’t Nobuko herself—it was Tashiro, lurking in her shadow with his unyielding pragmatism, that man who’d never lift a finger unless there was something in it for him yet was fundamentally, absurdly sentimental at his core. “Life ain’t something you can control,” Tashiro says, and while I agree with that sentiment—whether he truly feels it the way he claims—here’s a man who declares everyone’s just philandering vermin, money-grubbing vermin, self-serving vermin, yet privately treats Nobuko like some holy virgin, this rare creature immune to self-interest—how does someone sustain such contradictory saccharine delusions? I lose all sense of coherence.

I think I will die in the streets. I consider it an unavoidable fate. I pictured the evacuation shelter at the national elementary school after the air raids—if dying amidst that filthy jumble of red demons and blue demons counted as a place of death, then I wouldn’t mind ending up there someday. When I lay wrapped in a straw mat on the verge of death, blue demons and red demons might come for a nighttime visit, and I might die being mounted by demons. Yet if I were to die quietly in a place with not a single soul—a wasteland, a patch of burned ruins cloaked in darkness, the dead of night without another living being—what on earth should I do? I simply couldn’t endure that desolation. I wanted to be with blue demons and red demons; whenever, whoever—be it demons, monsters, even men—I wanted to flirt as vigorously as possible, and I wanted to die while flirting.

When others couldn't eat rice or gruel, nibbling on beans and coarse grains in desperation, I had grown sick of chicken, cheese, and castella, had twenty- or thirty-thousand-yen nightgowns made—yet when my thoughts drifted hazily, all that surfaced was death: dying in the streets. It felt as if that was truly all I could think of. I hated insect noises and the shakuhachi's wail. Those sounds kept me awake, but beneath the clamor of clattering trot jazz bands, I could fall asleep with ease.

“I still don’t want to sleep.”

"Why?" "It's because I still can't sleep."

Kusumi endured and sat up. Having no stamina left—since lying down would make him sleep—he sat upright watching my face, but soon began nodding off. I reached out and shook his knee. He startled awake to find me smiling up at him from below. I knew that more than the irritation of having his nap interrupted, it was my smiling face in those moments that filled his heart.

“You still cannot sleep?” I nodded. “How long was I dozing off?”

“About twenty minutes.” “Twenty minutes, huh? I thought it was two minutes though. What were you thinking about?” “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“You must have been thinking something.” “I was just watching.” “What?” “You.” He began bobbing his head again. I watched it. He would never see anything but my smiling face whenever he awoke. Because I was simply smiling and gazing at him.

Go ahead—go anywhere as you are. I don't know. Even to hell. Even if my man turned into a red demon or blue demon, I'd still just keep smiling sweetly at his face with all my coquetry. I was gradually stopping thinking altogether—my head emptying out—just staring and staring with this coquettish smile, becoming less even aware I was doing it.

“When autumn comes, let’s go on a trip.” “Ah, yes.”

“Where shall we go?” “Anywhere.” “What an evasive answer.” “I don’t know, you see. Take me somewhere surprising.” He nodded. And he began bobbing his head again.

I was washing the Blue Demon's tiger pelt loincloth in the mountain stream. I forgot to dry the loincloth and ended up falling asleep by the mountain stream. The Blue Demon shook me. I woke up and smiled. Cuckoos and lesser cuckoos and mountain doves were calling. I preferred the Blue Demon's out-of-tune booming voice over such things. I would smile and hold out my arm to him. How utterly boring everything is. But why is it all so nostalgic?