Pathway to Japanese Literature

He had always been ill-behaved, but as he aged, his debauchery only intensified, and past fifty, he became downright outrageous. After the Tanimuras’ marriage, as Okamoto’s reputation waned and he increasingly relied on them for livelihood support, matters of money, concealed women, and children—things he had either been unaware of or merely observed peripherally until then—now forced him to delve deeply into their intricacies, however repugnant.

Okamoto declared that his life’s hardships were art’s own inevitable fate. Through his demeanor and words, he insinuated that scorning him amounted to scorning art itself. Yet one could not deny that his life’s purpose now lay solely in carnal pleasure, having drifted far from art. When young, at least, he had possessed both integrity and dignity—so Tanimura reflected. Now only the scheming to borrow money, the guile behind using art as a mere facade, became painfully apparent.

Tanimura thought bitterly, but he resolved to respond earnestly to Okamoto’s artless requests and believed it best to suppress his minor resentments. The modest environment he had maintained until this age was irreplaceable to him; therefore, he had considered that preserving it quietly and gently apart from others’ evaluative standards constituted his ordained “lot.” He was neither extraordinary enough to pursue a path transcending that “lot,” nor fundamentally passionate at his core. And setting aside petty resentments, there remained much to cherish even in Okamoto’s eccentric antics.

However, one day—due to a fit of pique—he uncharacteristically ended up berating Okamoto to his face. Though not quite a scolding, he had laid bare thoughts he had always strived to keep locked within his heart—and even Tanimura, who cherished tranquility above all else, found himself taken aback at his own actions.

He said.

“Sensei presumes himself to be an unappreciated genius.” “However, speaking purely from my own perspective, it doesn’t seem you truly believe those grand pronouncements yourself.” “An unrecognized genius must write unrecognized masterpieces, but Sensei—rather than possessing the passion or ambition to create such works—appears to make unrecognized sensual satisfaction your life’s purpose.” “You tell us your decadence represents art’s inevitable fate.” “Then you naively assume we cannot refrain from donating to art.” “Yet the world proves less naive than you imagine.” “True, society often overlooks geniuses—but that applies only to actual geniuses. For talents of your middling caliber—second-rate at best—society makes no miscalculations. Even if they did misjudge and overlook you, you’d merely be one among countless mediocre talents cluttering the artistic landscape.” “You too once enjoyed considerable renown—meaning you weren’t some unrecognized genius but had found your proper station.” “Why has your reputation now declined into obscurity?” “Is it because your artistic realm grew too profound for common minds to enter?” “Yet society’s vulgar masses judge that your artistic realm itself has been expelled from art.” “Being one of those vulgar masses myself, I can see no further.” “The world conventionally interprets that you’ve destroyed both yourself and art through decadence.” “My sole difference from society lies in nostalgically clinging to old-fashioned camaraderie.”

Okamoto panicked wretchedly. Not even a shadow of recuperative bravado remained. His face twisted in pain. Tanimura, seeing this, was seized by a desolate feeling as though he were unjustly tormenting Okamoto, who was fundamentally good-natured at heart. However, on Okamoto’s twisted face, there was nothing but baseness.

★

“I suppose you enjoyed cornering Sensei.” After Okamoto had left, Motoko said. Tanimura had always harbored a physical revulsion toward this manner of evasive speech. It was nothing but a tactic designed to maximize others’ discomfort—sheer spite and cruelty. Motoko wielded it as an inseparable element of expressing affection. That too was a voice of the flesh.

“Please tell me clearly.” “If Sensei were an artist, would you lend him money exactly as he demands?” “Do you mean my approach was cruel?” “I’m already being judged by my own self.” “On top of that, what do you intend to add?” “But I didn’t corner him.” “It’s just that I only resisted.”

“Even so, Sensei was cornered, I suppose.” “Sensei’s face—those contemptible face-holes, you know.” “Human face-holes are contemptible.”

Women are cruel creatures, Tanimura thought. Yet this cruelty bore no relation to her true purpose. Motoko was likely attempting to corner him. As if detouring to casually pluck roadside weeds, she had drenched Okamoto with that single spiteful remark. "In the Kojiki there's a tale like this," Tanimura countered Motoko. "When Emperor Jimmu once ventured into the fields, seven maidens came passing by." "The foremost among them shone with such beauty that he commanded Ōkume-no-Mikoto to convey his desire for her company that night." "The maiden then fixed her gaze on Ōkume-no-Mikoto and cried, 'Oh! What enormous eyes you have!'" "For Ōkume-no-Mikoto did indeed possess great bulging eyes." "Though in truth, his heart hammered wildly within his chest." "For that maiden would share Emperor Jimmu's bed and become his empress." "Yet instead of consenting—'Understood' or 'I shall await you'—she exclaimed about those protuberant eyes!" "Even amidst joy's fiercest moments—those sudden flashes of rapture—a woman's eyes never fail to spot flaws in others." "Since Emperor Jimmu's age, women's nature remains unchanged—shamelessly indolent, cruel in their audacity, cunningly deceitful." "And all while fancying themselves victims of frailty."

Tanimura had a propensity to feel both hatred and fear toward women’s spitefulness.

He had been sickly since birth—pleurisy, then caries; his youth had been an intimacy with illness. Even if he had grown intimate with Motoko instead of illness, just as illness had been part of his body, Motoko did not become part of his flesh.

Tanimura suspected Motoko might be simultaneously yet separately married to two entities: Tanimura the man, and an entity called Illness that was distinct from Tanimura. During those several times each year when Illness visited Tanimura, Motoko devoted herself to nursing through days of sleepless nights without reluctance. Though not a smoker, when Tanimura noticed Motoko would occasionally exhale tobacco smoke during those late-night vigils, he felt a pang of pathos.

“Does it taste good?” “Yes.” “What are you thinking about?” “Because there’s nothing to think about.” The ailing Tanimura feared the night. Sleep was mostly interrupted, plunging him back into darkness and solitude. Nothing proved as despair-inducing as the nocturnal visions painted by malignant fever. Only through that solitary hope—the prayer for dawn—had he narrowly escaped an agonizing death.

In that suffering, there was no friend as tenderly attentive as Motoko. She kept vigil through nights at his bedside; each time he awoke to despair, he would find Motoko’s unchanging figure there, and when he spoke to her, she would answer. Motoko read books, wrote things, did needlework, or sometimes smoked a cigarette. With Motoko’s pale, sleep-deprived face imprinted on his heart, Tanimura never forgot his gratitude. Yet that alone was not Motoko.

In the night’s play, Motoko was whole-bodied and selfless, like an unreflective girl devoted to her amusements. The only thing that could satisfy Motoko’s greed was Tanimura’s “everything.” Even the weary sweat that erupted on Tanimura’s emaciated brow became dear to her as an inexhaustible spring of love—Motoko would compassionately wipe it away.

Tanimura contemplated his own emaciated body—one that could not withstand even one-fifth of normal labor. He contemplated the strangeness of how that body could satisfy a woman’s healthy carnal desire. This must be what they call pathos, Tanimura thought. Just as a candle gradually burning itself out will eventually extinguish when its flame dies, so too would Tanimura’s flame of life gradually burn on, until the time came when it too would extinguish itself amidst Motoko’s voraciously clung-to caresses.

The fact that Motoko the Devoted and Motoko the Carnal were one and the same stoked Tanimura’s lament and fueled his hatred. Even the decline following desire’s culmination—a decline that would inevitably lead to Tanimura’s recurring seasonal illnesses—seemed to escape Motoko’s awareness. Could devotion be atonement? Decline ends with death; devotion ends with tears. A few days—just a few days—through tears. Yet between Motoko of Carnality and Motoko of Devotion, there existed no logical bridge that could be termed atonement, Tanimura thought. Since Motoko was a thoughtful person, she could not possibly remain unaware that excessiveness became the root of decline and that devotion served—in any case—as its compensation. But what exactly was consciousness? Was it not merely that, within time’s ceaseless flow, he had once entertained such thoughts?

Motoko’s insatiable carnal desire and Motoko’s devotion—Tanimura thought of each as separate, unconnected things. Within Motoko’s single body dwelled separate instincts, housed separate lives, each fervently and blindly pursuing their own thoughts and desires. Even if Motoko’s reason could build a bridge between the two, her true physical body would never cross that bridge to connect them. And Motoko never noticed that her own time was partitioned by distinct lives.

Tanimura could not help but be drawn to Motoko’s carnal desire while cursing. He hated even as he was bewitched by its allure, lamenting his own predicament. Tanimura voluntarily challenged Motoko and, abandoning himself, became bewildered by carnal desire. How much must Motoko have loved that Tanimura! At the end of their play, only Tanimura returned to himself. Never had he cursed Motoko so much as in those moments; never had he felt such shame and sorrow at the baseness of carnal desire. Motoko performed routine tasks with the naturalness of someone simultaneously engaged in cooking, all within the dazed exhaustion lingering from carnal desire’s embers. It was at that moment that he realized such acts of carnal desire were the business of Motoko’s life, its purpose, and all of her existence. Tanimura could no longer keep from averting his eyes. He came to know the fact that he was married to a single entity of carnal desire and found himself unable to confront the true nature of that beast. However, Motoko was not one to overlook the eyes Tanimura had averted. Those eyes were a stone of hatred, but had mostly sunk to the depths of resignation’s dregs.

Motoko maintained an innocent facade. It was also at that time that she wiped away the beads of weary sweat that had spurted out on Tanimura’s gaunt brow. The more he hated, the more her care seemed to intensify. It looked as though she were teasingly saying, "The little boy always sulks at times like this, doesn’t he?" In response to this, Tanimura twisted his neck even more conspicuously, pulled back his chest, and shrank his body. It was also at that moment that Motoko pressed a wet kiss onto his averted cheek, as if bearing down upon him.

What was Motoko? Tanimura's answer was only one: Motoko was a woman. And what is a woman? To Tanimura, all women appeared as nothing but one. A woman was a thinking body and, at the same time, the thought of something bodiless. These two existed simultaneously and yet had absolutely no connection. There existed inexhaustible charm there, and inexhaustible hatred also hung over there, Tanimura thought.

★

Motoko showed not the slightest reaction to Tanimura’s sarcasm. Yet Motoko was not a woman to grow agitated in her demeanor. Even when angered, she remained quiet; only her complexion grew somewhat troubled.

“You would say you have no recollection of ever having outwitted sensei.” “And you would say you merely rebelled.” “Isn’t this like that story about children?” “The one where children throwing stones in play end up striking and killing a frog.” “What counts as mere play to the children becomes a matter of life and death for the frog.”

Motoko continued.

“I too understand sensei’s true motives.” “Anyone could see through them.” “He’s such a shallow man.” “When desperate for money, anyone becomes wretched.” “Since he’d cling to straws to survive, isn’t it inevitable he’d flaunt whatever meager titles or fading prestige he can muster to settle debts?” “With his vulgar schemes masked by artistic airs while begging for funds—who wouldn’t feel disgusted?” “As a woman, I’m particularly attuned to people’s flaws.” “I detest even looking at sensei’s lecherous face.” “That stubble he grows when playing artist—it repulses me to my core.” “But that’s beside the point.” “There’s not the slightest need to cast stones at it, is there?”

Motoko was not a sociable woman. She studied painting, but no distinct inclination toward the ostentatious elements characteristic of literary artists was evident. If anything, she was of a plain, solitary disposition—the sort of person who would indulge in fantasies of spending her entire life with Tanimura alone in primitive living, whether in the shade of a highland forest or by a rural marsh.

Tanimura thought this disposition was deeply ingrained. That she had willingly married the sickly Tanimura, that she endured the gloomy, hermit-like life dictated by his sickness—both were because this disposition lay at Motoko’s core. To find and believe in that naturalness became Tanimura’s solace and relief. There was nothing more heartening than being able to believe that being with him like this—rather than living with another man—was this person’s most natural state. Tanimura believed that the main pillar of stability supporting his reality and propelling him into the future now resided in such a small, wretched place—and he had come to cherish this fact rather than grieve it.

They occasionally had quarrel-like exchanges, but when one grew angry, the other would take on the role of the adult. When it came to cherishing the reality that belonged to them alone, Motoko was not inferior to Tanimura. And even when angered, the two of them never spoke their true feelings. The care that sustained them and the act of finding oneself being cared for came with discomfort, yet when it was just the two of them, they felt no such discomfort—and even if they did sense it, there was a flexibility that allowed them to redirect or divert it elsewhere. Is this really alright? Tanimura wondered. This is really alright? Tanimura wondered. It was because there existed a mind that believed there was no other way than this.

“But why must you speak for the frog? The frog itself doesn’t talk.” “And frogs don’t talk by nature.” “The frog itself will only speak up within the conscience of those involved.”

Motoko nodded slightly. It meant, “I understand.” It meant, “You’re saying unnecessary things.” “You find it unpleasant when sensei puts on airs as an artist and begs for money. Fundamentally, you find being asked for money unpleasant. You find lending money unpleasant. You are not stingy with money compared to me. Compared to others as well, you are indifferent to money matters and possess a generous heart that wishes to help those in need. However, while you find being asked for money unpleasant, the fact remains that you don’t want to give that money. And when it comes to your own problem, isn’t that precisely it? If you begrudge the money, then it’s perfectly acceptable to say you begrudge it. If you find it repugnant, then it’s perfectly sufficient to simply state that you do. Setting that aside, is there any need to expose sensei’s weaknesses? That’s simply cowardly.”

"Indeed, there was no mistaking its truth," Tanimura thought. Yet within Tanimura's own consciousness, this remained nothing more than a minor matter.

A different raw thought swirled in his head. That was why Motoko had to speak for the frog.

Because here lay a clear fact: while speaking for the frog, Motoko felt no sympathy toward it—rather, she harbored even greater ill will and disgust toward the creature than Tanimura himself did. When Okamoto put on airs as an artist, she had said that his stubble was so repellent it sent shivers down her spine. She had also said that the holes in Okamoto’s face were contemptible. In those words lay a rawness that made one avert their gaze, and there was a simple venom.

Her observations were always constructed upon venom, yet at the same time she harbored sweet dreams like those of an eighteen-year-old girl. Venom could not serve as an obstacle to sympathy—perhaps could not even become an obstacle to affection. Yet in Motoko's case—Tanimura thought—there was an intuition that she did not sympathize with Okamoto, and he could not bring himself to doubt it. Despite that, why? Surely she doesn't truly hate me, Tanimura thought. Ah, well. It's fine. In time he would come to understand, Tanimura thought.

Tanimura felt as if his physical condition had once again weakened considerably. From these faint signs of change within him, he had come to contemplate not merely his body's decline but its utter ruin. Then inevitably he would find himself burning with secret hatred toward Motoko—this must be jealousy of her physical body itself, Tanimura concluded through gritted teeth. And yet I can't escape thinking how pitiful our shared fate remains—both me consumed by envy and her subjected to being envied—though lately I've come to realize clearly enough which of us truly bears sorrow's weight here! But why—why must she too carry some tragic destiny? The question clawed at him relentlessly until finally he spat out words only his mind could hear: Selfish? Damn right I've grown selfish! What law forbids claiming what little will remains when my very flesh crumbles?

★

After that, Okamoto did not show his face for about three months. During those three months, Tanimura came down with his usual seasonal illness.

Okamoto’s request was far too outlandish.

Mrs. Okamoto was a woman who had married into a respectable family, and Motoko among others knew her possessions included many expensive items, but after Okamoto’s dissipation and subsequent decline, she had taken to fiercely guarding them in particular. Okamoto took out items such as diamond rings and seven or eight pearl pieces from those belongings and sold them to a man named Ooki for fifteen thousand yen. Mrs. Okamoto had noticed this, but she did not believe he had sold them and convinced herself he had given them to a new woman. And though he stormed over to the woman’s place in a threatening manner, it was unfortunately the case that this time’s woman was a married one—were her husband to discover this affair, it would carry implications that would not be resolved through mere infatuation, or so it was said. The idea was to have Ooki buy back the items, but since Okamoto lacked the money, he wanted someone to temporarily cover the cost—"This is all I have on me, so please make up the difference"—and with that, he pulled out 3,000 yen from his pocket and presented it to Motoko.

The sums involved were on a completely different scale. Tanimura lived without employment thanks to a modest inheritance from his parents, yet even if his health had been ordinary enough to make him want to work for extra income, subtracting the expenses of his pared-down lifestyle devoted to hobbies would have left no room for extravagant luxuries. The amount Tanimura could provide in response to others’ requests was trivial, and Okamoto could not have been unaware of this. Because the disparity in amounts was so absurd, Tanimura’s mind remained unburdened by any fear of struggling to find an excuse for refusal. He doubted whether Okamoto’s request was made in his right mind.

Everything felt different from normal circumstances. First and foremost, Okamoto had taken to speaking frequently with Motoko. This wasn't merely an act of addressing Tanimura through her—he principally directed his entreaties at Motoko herself, laying bare his heartfelt circumstances. It didn't seem attributable solely to having been cornered by Tanimura's arguments. There was an opacity lurking within Okamoto's explanations. Both his words and demeanor gave the impression of being an artificial construct assembled upon some clandestine scheme.

Even so, Okamoto’s primary focus on addressing Motoko gave Tanimura an ironic sense of interest. Tanimura had never forgotten Motoko’s words. Why did Motoko have to speak for the frog? And Tanimura found himself intrigued by what attitude Motoko herself would show toward the frog’s outlandish entreaty. Motoko appeared to be a person ruled by reason because she suppressed her emotions, but in truth she possessed a delicately nuanced sensitivity along with compassion and broad-mindedness. She was someone who strove to avoid hating or looking down on others whenever possible.

Motoko was asked by Okamoto and took care of Okamoto's woman. That girl too was one of Okamoto’s disciples; she bore his child, was driven out of her home, attempted suicide—the child died, but she alone survived. Afterward, Motoko took her in and provided her with a path to self-reliance; the girl learned beauty techniques and became an assistant at a beauty parlor. However, once she became capable of supporting herself and left Motoko’s care, she reunited with Okamoto.

Okamoto had many other women as well. Many of them were daughters of his disciples, but there had been times when he was coerced by violent gangs for refusing to pay consolation fees or child support, being shaken down for extra money beyond payments to the women. The girl had been driven from her home, struggled for food and clothing, and attempted suicide, but she never made any financial demands on Okamoto. Okamoto had exploited that situation; however, Tanimura concluded there was meaning in how the exploited woman had passively desired this exploitation. At that moment, Tanimura thought: Money forms the boundary between love and hate—to not demand money signifies lingering attachment. To this thought of Tanimura's, Motoko offered no opinion of her own. Motoko seemed repulsed by thinking of someone close to her in such base terms, yet simultaneously appeared never to have considered plumbing such depths within the human heart.

However, Tanimura thought about it this way: that Motoko did not voice her opinion because she actually understood the ugliness of reality concerning the human heart and the true nature of love and hate even more deeply than he did—perhaps finding it too repulsive to put into words. A woman who has known a man cannot live without one again. Regarding such weaknesses, he suspected that Motoko knew the intense language spoken by her very flesh—language too raw to ever become words uttered in polite company.

Motoko disliked socialites, philanthropists, frugal housewives, and intellectual women alike. She generally disliked women and shunned social interactions. “Women’s hearts grow more jealous the closer the friendship—that’s when betrayal comes,” Motoko said. Indeed, she was magnanimous—someone who strove to avoid hating others and to restrain herself from uncharitable interpretations. Her efforts were sincere enough—but what lay beneath? When Tanimura began doubting this, it pained him. Was Motoko—this quintessence of womanhood—not acutely aware that her very flesh embodied woman’s greatest weakness?

When they married, Tanimura was twenty-seven and Motoko twenty-six, but Motoko—who had hesitated about their union—cited as her sole reason that their ages differed by a mere one year. This hesitating Motoko by no means loved Tanimura less than he loved her. Was this to be interpreted as artifice or the true voice of her soul? Or perhaps, for a woman, truth and artifice were indivisible? This marked Tanimura's first step in confronting that insoluble enigma.

“Because there was only a year’s difference between our ages,” Motoko added. “Women grow old faster.” “And someday you’ll no longer be satisfied with me.” Yet reality proved the opposite.

Eleven years had passed since then; Tanimura was now thirty-eight, and Motoko thirty-seven. Motoko seemed not to have aged at all. Motoko had no children. “Don’t you want a child?” Motoko said. Tanimura promptly answered: “Ah, I do want one—thanks to that, if you were to become an old woman.” Motoko’s skin showed no sagging; its luster remained undiminished, and the dense, full sensuality of her flesh felt too coldly contained. Whenever Tanimura became aware of this, he would invariably contrast it with his own body—a gaunt, desiccated form, ghostly pale as if skin were merely draped over bones. Within that body dwelt a sorrowful heart that could feel its own daily decline.

"If I die," Tanimura thought. Would Motoko become prey to some lecherous old man like Okamoto? The trappings of romantic love—whether they existed or not—meant nothing. Was she not merely sinking deeper into the mire of flesh? At that moment, Motoko’s broad heart and warm compassion—would they not be plucked away like peacock feathers adorning a crow, leaving only the crow itself, only this crow called the physical body?

I want to experience love. I want to experience a passionate love that can make me forget the physical body—a love of the soul alone—yet one into which I can blindly immerse myself. If it were possible, I would want to die for that love—Tanimura would sometimes think. Even a love without a physical body now seemed physically impossible for him to sustain; he felt a pitiable awareness of this.

And at such times, Tanimura thought of Nobuko.

★ Okamoto, speaking to Motoko, displayed overt servile baseness each time he entreated. Remnants of a teacher’s pride toward his disciple lingered in his words, but this was rather unnatural—so much so that Okamoto himself had become aware of it and floundered. It was the attitude of a younger man fawning over an older woman.

Tanimura, watching this, realized there was another layer to it. It was not that a single soul was groveling, but that a man’s physical body itself was groveling. And he felt something uncanny in the fact that the groveling physical body was that of a man over fifty, while the body being groveled to belonged to a thirty-seven-year-old woman. Tanimura felt only pity and disgust toward the groveling Okamoto, but he harbored jealousy toward the body of Motoko being groveled to.

Okamoto’s groveling appeared inherently instinctive. It was also appealing to Motoko’s instincts, but he found that the silent groveling spoke more intensely than the verbal pleas for money. The financial pleas seemed to be nothing more than a mechanism to open a pathway for groveling. Okamoto was laying bare what people ordinarily strive to conceal—things that should not be exposed without shame, their weaknesses. Tanimura had always feared that a person’s ultimate weakness could in fact become their very charm. The major reason Tanimura feared and suffered concerning Motoko was connected to that. In Okamoto’s groveling, a baseness that laid bare that weakness faintly shimmered.

Motoko generally remained silent when dealing with that Okamoto. She maintained her coldly dignified bearing without faltering. There was an immaculate, snow-white grace about her. Of course that was only natural, Tanimura thought. Wasn't it only natural that Okamoto's madness held no particular consequence for Motoko as she was now? And Motoko must have felt greater disgust than Tanimura at Okamoto's groveling and been suppressing her discomfort. Okamoto knew that. Okamoto was not making an issue of the "current" Motoko. His groveling was addressing the true nature lying at the very depths of Motoko. It was the weakness of the shameless physical body itself. And what Tanimura sensed from Okamoto's groveling was not Okamoto's groveling itself, but rather Motoko's shameless physical body projected from it. Tanimura suffered from jealousy toward that physical body. It had become difficult to look directly at.

Motoko’s composure was sharp.

“Wouldn’t you consider speaking frankly with Madam?” “And if we were to visit Mr. Ooki together, couldn’t you arrange to pay in installments?”

“Well, you see… Mr. Ooki isn’t a man who understands compassion.” “He’s sure to demand the full amount in cash.”

Motoko nodded. “It is not an amount we could buy back.” “You are aware of our circumstances, are you not, Sensei?”

“No, Madam. If you would be so kind as to buy it back, I would explain the situation to my wife, and the items would certainly be entrusted to your care, Madam. The actual value of the items exceeds thirty thousand yen. Since that Ooki fellow is offering fifteen thousand yen, can you not infer how valuable they truly are?” “Sensei is quite wealthy, aren’t you? We haven’t seen three thousand yen in years.” Motoko returned the bundle of three thousand yen to Okamoto and stood up. And she said decisively.

“It is not merely a matter of the amount.” “We only wish to be allowed to assist in matters where we can rightfully be of service to you, Sensei.” As Motoko showed signs of leaving just like that, Okamoto called out to stop her.

“Madam.”

Okamoto’s face contorted into a crumpled mess. Okamoto thrust out his left hand as if to restrain her in order to stop Motoko. That hand slowly withdrew, and for some reason found itself clutching his own chin. At the same time he pressed his right hand against his stomach. And he made a strange gesture as if thrusting his face violently backward. Then suddenly letting out a sharp "Hii!" sound, he broke down sobbing. He was a wretched sight. Motoko stared fixedly at that spectacle but immediately turned around and left. She did not give even a glance to Tanimura.

★

Among Okamoto’s women was one named Fujiko. She too had once been Okamoto’s disciple and worked for a time as a café waitress, but after cutting ties with him, she had now become a stockbroker’s second woman. As her residence lay along Tanimura’s walking route, he would sometimes stop by. She was a woman of voluptuous physical beauty with a well-proportioned figure measuring about five feet five inches, and among her fellow painters, it was rumored she was better suited to being a model than to painting. There was an undeniably vulgar sensuality in this woman’s demeanor, so Motoko did not look favorably upon Tanimura’s frequent visits. She would tease Tanimura with remarks like “You’re such a pervert too,” and express her disdain. However, Tanimura, conversely, precisely because Fujiko was a woman who blatantly displayed her carnality, felt no need for reserve around her and could speak freely. Tanimura could comfortably say to Fujiko the kind of explicit talk that couldn’t be uttered even between men. Fujiko’s position was similar—there had been no need to dwell on distinctions between men and women.

Among the stories he heard from Fujiko was one about Okamoto’s failed romance. Among Okamoto’s disciples was a beautiful young lady from a respectable family. Because she was a coldly composed person, even Okamoto found it difficult to make advances. Yet when he heard this young lady had become engaged—with the added detail that her fiancé was supposedly the most eligible bachelor in all three provinces, brimming with happiness—Okamoto suddenly resolved to woo her. He had apparently deliberately grown his beard into an untamed thicket and wrapped half his face from forehead downward in bandages before setting out leaning on a cane and groaning pitifully. And when he confessed his love to her, she—true to her unflappable nature—reportedly declared plainly: “I detest frivolous jests. Kindly withdraw.”

Okamoto had told Fujiko this story, and having understood there was no prospect of success, he had instead felt like casually wooing her—it was merely that he had taken an interest in trying such a pathetic approach to courtship, or so it was said. Okamoto was both morally bankrupt and thoroughly unscrupulous. Yet in Okamoto’s sexual proclivities—the very ones society would most vehemently condemn—Tanimura found himself strangely drawn, his inclination to forgive growing stronger. For instance, such antics as wrapping his uninjured face in bandages, growing a wild beard, and going to woo some hopeless young lady—regardless of their morality—contained a stupidity that no half-hearted womanizer would ever bother attempting, while simultaneously possessing an originality in staking curiosity on unconventional attempts. In any case, this aspect—the soul of a born artist—was squalid yet intriguing, Tanimura thought.

The day’s fifteen-thousand-yen money discussion struck Tanimura as a play staged from the very beginning, much like the bandage-wrapped visit. The amount of fifteen thousand yen was preposterous from the outset, and it stood to reason that Okamoto himself knew full well this monetary scheme would never materialize. Even his explanation for needing the funds had been disjointed and utterly lacking in conviction. The only sincerity permeating his performance had been its coquetry.

“Hey, Motoko.” “Sensei’s story is strange, isn’t it?” “This business about needing fifteen thousand yen—it’s all a fabrication, isn’t it?” “You know full well it’s an impossible request, don’t you?” “However, if we assume it’s a fabrication, why would there be any need to do such a foolish thing?”

Motoko answered this decisively. “It’s because you cornered Sensei.”

It was an unexpected answer.

“Why? Why would my cornering Sensei become the cause of this absurd money discussion?” “Sensei came here to harass us. It’s revenge spite—he means to trouble us by acting utterly pitiful. Since you’ve inflicted such wretched humiliation on Sensei, he’s likely planning to play the miserable fool to make things difficult for us.” “Could such a thing really be possible? In the first place, we aren’t troubled in the slightest, are we?” “But that’s just how people’s psychology works. They’ll suffer wretched humiliation. In such revenge, people either resolve to attain a respectable position and show them up, or if that prospect seems impossible, they make a show of becoming utterly wretched to cause trouble—that’s the mindset. It’s the reckless spite of revenge.”

It was strange logic, but the reasoning held together. Such psychology could indeed exist in reality.

But in Okamoto’s case, was that indeed the truth? First and foremost, did Motoko truly believe that? Motoko declared Okamoto’s coquetry to be "miserable." And she might not yet realize—not “now”—that the one being addressed by this miserable man dwelled within herself. That she probably did not realize this now was likely true, Tanimura thought. And he thought he had discovered that within her current lack of awareness lay many secrets.

★

There was a college student living nearby who would come to have the Tanimura couple look at his paintings. His name was Nishina. He was a man who needless to say had no talent for painting—nor even any taste for it. He was merely driven by curiosity—the sort of curiosity that compels one to collect matchbox labels—and would paint pictures simply to bring them over and show them off. He had now graduated from university and become a government official. His paintings were atrocious, yet his grasp of art theory was fully formed; he would obsessively lose himself in fervent debates that greatly vexed Tanimura. Driven by that same peculiar curiosity, he voraciously read whatever books on art theory or aesthetics he could get his hands on—a jumble of ideas lacking any coherent system, yet more than sufficient to trouble Tanimura.

Nishina was well-groomed. Though pomade was hard to come by in those times, his hair gleamed with meticulous care, and from his necktie down to the tips of his shoes—his cigarette case, lighter, watch, pencil, pipe, every last one of his belongings—if asked about their country of origin, manufacturer, or model, he had tens of thousands of words’ worth of explanations at the ready. In stark contrast, he was colorblind to the scenery of his mental world; he paid no heed to the winds, clouds, or mists of the heart—to such things—and yet, they remained utterly untended.

“You—what purpose do you have for painting, I wonder.” “Nishina.” “When people take photographs, there’s typically a purpose—like creating a memento.” “And things like commemorations or preserving memories hold far more meaning than painting wretched pictures.” “Yet when it comes to your paintings, it’s evident they serve neither commemoration nor memory—isn’t that so?” “You’ve rendered them far more squalid than nature itself exists, in a thoroughly shameless guise of falsehood.” “How would your aesthetics explain this, I wonder?”

Every time Tanimura saw Nishina’s face, he never failed to tease him. Nishina would grow flustered and defensive, brandishing art theories, but Tanimura never engaged with them earnestly. He would spread his body and employ the tactic of needling from the sidelines. “There’s a Japanese proverb—or maybe it’s not exactly a proverb, I don’t really know—that goes, ‘When a dog faces west, its tail points east.’” “I don’t know how much truth lies in your aesthetic theory, but this aphorism, at any rate, is an unshakable truth.” “But you insist on slightly angling the tip of the dog’s tail westward and declare, ‘As you can see, the tip isn’t pointing east at all!’” “Isn’t the true nature of your art theory essentially something of this sort?”

Tanimura was innately skilled in this type of argumentation. Since he maintained mental composure toward Nishina, this method only grew more acerbic against the younger man's agitation. Nishina—cornered by Tanimura—turned his fawning toward Motoko. As Nishina's sycophancy seemed born from Tanimura's own caustic remarks, Tanimura had long let such behavior pass unexamined. But witnessing Okamoto's groveling brought sudden clarity. Nishina's fawning lacked Okamoto's baseness. He never exposed vulnerabilities nor abandoned self-restraint. The over-ten-year age gap between Motoko and Nishina lent his deference an air of naturalness.

Mentally obtuse Nishina was inherently a sensual man. Because a dull sensuality pervaded every aspect of his demeanor, Tanimura failed to notice the need to pay particular attention to any single part. In Nishina’s fawning lay the same quality as in Okamoto’s—it was addressing Motoko’s physical body. Through Okamoto’s fawning, Tanimura had discovered this. At that moment, Tanimura made an even more unexpected discovery—one concerning the true nature of frogs.

Tanimura thought. Could it be that his attitude toward Nishina over these past few years had been fostering Motoko's resentment? He constantly cornered Nishina. He mocked his works. He made him feel miserable. And he would make him angry and take pleasure in it. Motoko harbored a secret resentment toward this Tanimura. And when a somewhat similar situation arose in Okamoto's case—was she not using him as a proxy to vent her long-suppressed resentment?

Tanimura wondered if Motoko, who secretly burned with such resentment, might perhaps be in love with Nishina. Motoko had loved Tanimura with all her being, and there had been no change from then until now. The only thing that had changed was that they had aged—the freshness had faded—and where there should have been love there was now caregiving; where there should have been devotion there was now a tendency to perceive constraint. Tanimura harbored not a shred of doubt about the purity of Motoko’s soul; there remained only profound gratitude for their long journey together.

All people have dreams. This reality could not be satisfied by any form of happiness, and dreams—having severed the chains of bondage—would always run wild across infinite realms. Without allowing that, how could people live? Moreover, how could one love and cherish a person who cannot even possess dreams? If people possess charm, it is because their hearts hold undisclosed secrets; when both dreams and secrets vanish from those hearts, how could anyone love such an unfeeling husk?

But what of Motoko’s dreams? Escaping the shackles of this reality, what did Motoko dream of? In dreams, thinking of Nishina would be permissible. But what was Nishina thinking of—what was he dreaming of? Tanimura considered the fawning of the two men. Could they know something about Motoko’s heart—which he himself could not grasp—and the nature of her concealed dreams? The dreams of Motoko that could not be fulfilled in this reality, and the reality that Motoko could not fulfill—though these were none other than himself—in short, he had no choice but to confront the cold truth that Motoko’s dreams were something he lacked, and that he alone could never know them.

I'll die, and then where on earth will Motoko wander off to? Tanimura always imagined the worst. And he could conceive of nothing but the worst. Tanimura could not endure the fear of death. I mustn't overthink this, Tanimura told himself. I must pour nothing but utmost care and affection into this modest reality, this modest life— However, Tanimura wanted to experience a passionate love. A love devoid of anything called physicality, existing solely in spirit—more intense than any flame—a fierce love that rages and burns itself out. I want to vanish along with that love, Tanimura thought.