Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Hiroko was now at the peak of happiness.

Setsuzou had been appointed to a senior government position; their only son Tadashi had recovered lightly from measles; the permanent wave she’d nervously gotten suited her surprisingly well; the maid she’d hired for eight yen a month—her first ever—was capable despite being from the countryside; the landlord had agreed without hesitation to replace the tatami; truly, if only her husband’s salary were twenty yen higher, she’d have not a single complaint left in this world.

She was twenty-six by the traditional Japanese count.
Immediately after graduating from girls’ school, she married Ikoma Setsuzou—a Railway Ministry official who had graduated from technical school and was then twenty-seven.
Of course, it was an arranged marriage.
In that he was a husband chosen by her parents, she had pinned her hopes on this unknown young man.
When they met and spoke, he made a better impression than when she had only been shown his photograph; when they were alone together for the second time, guessing each other’s preferences, she found herself feeling far more favorably than during their first meeting; and once they had finally held the wedding ceremony and begun living together, he proved to be so kind, dependable, and admirable that she marveled—could a man really change this much?

At times, she would reflect on whether she was being too indulgent in praising her husband so lavishly—but then again, what other man could possibly surpass him? How much could things like a high income or elevated official rank truly add to a woman’s happiness? As her father back home had long ago said, behind every man’s success there must surely lie hidden a wife’s tears.

Come to think of it, back in her girls’ school days when she and her friends would paint visions of their futures together, they had jokingly added things like looks and such to their list of ideal husband qualifications.

However, when it came to his appearance, he was really not unattractive at all. In photographs he appeared an ordinary man—if anything, giving an impression of excessive ruggedness—but when observed in person, the softness born of his animated expressions not only mitigated his somewhat angular bone structure but revealed him to possess an unassuming beauty demonstrating perfect equilibrium between intellect, emotion, and will. What particularly gave her pride as a wife was how equally well he looked both in his government office uniform and in his everyday kimono. Just look at any of his colleagues. While their gold-buttoned uniforms with red headband-adorned hats could indeed appear smart, when he occasionally came dressed in brand-new serge on Sundays—collar askew, kimono haphazardly worn, heko obi sash tied absurdly high—prancing about like some deranged feudal lord while calling out "Ikoma-kun, you there?", it made him look utterly pitiable.

At such times, she would contemplate a wife’s attentiveness or matters of refinement. She would keenly realize how a husband’s shabby appearance disgraced his wife.

Even so, regarding the fact that her husband—who, through four full years of marriage while drinking more than a little in social situations—had never once given her cause for unease, she truly had to feel grateful. That might be considered natural, one could argue. However, this natural thing was something men of the world could not uphold. By rumor’s account, husbands knocking at their own front doors at one or two in the morning were not uncommon. There were even cases where they had apparently wandered about all night with none knowing their whereabouts. Such things counted as lesser sins—there apparently existed men who, given the slightest opening, would receive letters from dubious women or claim business trips to visit hot springs with female clerks. Just hearing such tales turned one’s stomach. Her husband, though seemingly facing considerable temptations, appeared to harbor no interest whatsoever in women other than his wife. This much at least could hardly be her self-delusion. As evidence... No, if evidence was needed, there was plenty. When she had given birth, he hadn’t so much as glanced at that maddeningly adorable nurse who’d stayed with them temporarily. She had pretended to be sound asleep while listening to his manner of response—so brusque it bordered on absurdity.

Given that their marital relationship was of this nature, they rarely exchanged harsh words. When the wife reported the monthly accounts in a tone brimming with trust, the husband would magnanimously nod “Mm-hmm” while blowing smoke from his Asahi cigarette onto the faces of certain cabinet ministers appearing yet again in that day’s evening paper.

“But it really was a relief. By the time Ms. Nomizo came here, we’d managed to gather most things for our household.”
“That woman—she’s such a show-off.”
“Whenever she buys something even slightly expensive, she just has to casually mention how much it cost.”
“Is the fact that she gets support from her parents really such a boastworthy thing…?”

“How could that be something to boast about?”
“It’s the exact opposite.”
“You saving ten yen each time from my meager salary—you have no idea how remarkable that is.”

“Oh my, it’s strange to be praised for such a thing.”
“I’ve been enduring hardships for your sake too.”

“I’m not suffering any hardships.”
“Because you never ration your affection.”

“But…”

With that, she twisted her shoulders and constricted her chest tightly.
She truly wanted to cry.
Could there possibly be another husband who would say such things without pretense—with the casual ease of brushing away a fly from his brow?
She didn’t even realize such husbands were rare, yet still felt moved—thus proving them a well-matched pair.

II

It was a humid afternoon during a lull in the rainy season.
Hiroko had been preparing since morning and was waiting for her old friend Nomizo Wakako’s visit.

After leaving school, they had entered married life almost simultaneously.
Both had managed to marry government officials as they’d hoped, but whereas Hiroko had resigned herself to a strictly arranged marriage, Wakako had enjoyed a slightly romantic engagement period beforehand. At first, this had made Hiroko feel inferior, but some time later, when they shared their newlywed confessions, it turned out Wakako harbored far more dissatisfactions—so much so that Hiroko found herself playing the comforter instead. This role reversal became something the two of them laughed about together.

Three years had already passed since then.
According to the recent official gazette, Wakako’s husband had become a high-ranking official.
While school connections played a part, his attitude toward superiors must have been what truly mattered.
Speaking of which, when he was transferred, she had gone to see him off at the station and exchanged greetings once. Indeed, he struck her as what one might call a talented type—eloquent, yet with a merchant’s humility in his bearing. She remembered feeling that while she couldn’t respect him, she had to concede that such qualities were indispensable for officials in those days.

However, Wakako had in fact never met Hiroko's husband, their timing always missing each other.

And upon entering the sitting room,

“How boring.”
“There’s no sense sending your husband off to some government office on a day like today.”
“A friend comes from afar—or so they say.”
“I didn’t come just to see you, you know.”

“Oh my, oh my—I hadn’t noticed that. But he did say to send his regards. He’ll be late tonight, unfortunately. But can’t you stay over? If a place like this is acceptable….”

“Nah, I don’t really want to see someone else’s husband or anything…. This year, I thought it’d be a transfer, but no luck. Just his rank went up… It was so irritating, I just went out on my own. Because Mother kept pestering me to come.”

“How can you do such things? Aren’t you worried about what’ll come after?”

“Which one?”
“Your husband?”
“Your child?”

“Either way.”

“The husband’s dawdling about‚ and the child likes Papa more than me anyway.”

“You’re as sarcastic as ever…”
“Is viewing the world that way what passes for cleverness‚ I wonder?”
“Doesn’t that leave your heart feeling lighter?”

“What are you talking about? You seem pretty gloomy yourself‚ you know.”

“I’m not gloomy at all.”
“I just wonder whether things should stay as they are.”
“Somehow‚ I feel frightened thinking about what lies ahead.”

“Ah, Lord protect this little dove of yours,” Wakako intoned with mock solemnity.

“A dove at twenty-six? You don’t know I’ve got falcon’s talons hidden,” Hiroko countered, flexing her fingers slightly. “I’ve been thinking... I want to test my real strength someday. Every life needs its great battle—it must come eventually.”

The sushi arrived then, its vinegared rice scent cutting through tension as they ate and talked across the lacquered table.

“That’s quite the comely maid you’ve got,” Wakako remarked during a lull, eyes following Shodai’s retreating figure. “Acting all shy like that... How old did you say she was?”

The maid Shodai covered her face with a tray.

“Nineteen, she says… Country girls—their age is so hard to tell.”

“She has naive aspects and mature aspects… In short, she’s the reverse of urban women.”
“Isn’t that what they call the body outpacing the mind?”

“I don’t know about such logic, but she certainly has strength.”
“What were you doing? Hurry up and make fresh tea.”

While maintaining an air of gentle dignity, Hiroko issued her command.

“Yes.”

A nasal yet beautiful voice resonated.
Wakako narrowed her eyes as if tickled by the sound.

Her son Tadashi rushed in with his hands covered in mud. Having received two nori rolls, he was comparing them to the guest’s face.

“I’ll show you this one’s baby photos.”

It was a neatly organized album.
They appeared to be arranged in chronological order: maidenhood, newlywed days, and motherhood.
Of course, aside from maidenhood, there were no solo photographs.
In contrast to this, here and there, there were solo photographs of just the child and husband taken on various occasions.
The husband’s were bound with those taken alongside colleagues.

Wakako, seemingly not very interested in children, carelessly skipped past where Hiroko had opened it and started looking from the beginning.

“Ah, so this is your husband’s youth we’re seeing here? Isn’t this the arranged marriage photo?”

“Heh heh heh.”

Hiroko laughed.

Pretending to clear the dining table, the maid Shodai stole a sidelong glance at the photograph.
No one noticed the gleam in her eyes, but it was careless of the guest to then absentmindedly reach for the teacup she had begun drinking from.

“Not that one yet.
“Please take Tadashi over there and let him play.”
“My, the soles of those feet are a mess.”
“Quickly wipe them off.”

III

Nomizo Wakako finally rose to her feet in the evening when she realized she really ought to start preparing dinner.

“Hey, Shodai, I’m begging you—listen to what Madam says.”
“Three times a day, you must wipe the soles of your feet.”
“I thought you were particular about cleanliness and let my guard down, only to suffer this humiliation.”
“Now clean up here and look after Tadashi.”
“I’ll make a quick trip to pick up some prepared foods...”

Her husband Setsuzou returned home a little before eight o'clock.
He appeared utterly exhausted.
Even so, after taking a bath and sitting down to the meal, his ruddy forehead betrayed a hearty appetite as he smacked his lips over his wife’s home cooking.

“What’s this… fish roe?”

“It’s roe.
It’s delicious, don’t you think?”

While serving, she suddenly remembered something and rose to head toward the sitting room.
She intended to leisurely look through the photo album she had shown Wakako earlier, something she hadn’t done in quite some time.

“Shodai, where did you put the album from earlier?”

Shodai slid out from the maid’s room and carefully lowered it with both hands from the fusuma cabinet where it was always kept.

“Oh, you knew exactly where to put it away, didn’t you?”

Saying this, she returned to her husband’s side and sat down.

“Would you like more rice?”

“No, give me lukewarm tea.”

“I went to the trouble of making it hot—should I cool it down for you?”
“Aren’t you just being considerate?”

“Is it hot?”
“Yeah, even if it’s hot, it’s fine.”

“Which one do you really prefer…?”

“Actually, I prefer it lukewarm.”

“Shodai, some cold water here…”

This sort of thing happened so often that neither of them thought anything of it, but to someone listening nearby, it seemed like an unnecessary hassle.
Shodai, too, seemed to have gradually come to sense this; even after receiving the bowl, she did not immediately make to rise.
For if the wife were to recommend the hot one again, the husband might well go along with it.

“What the—?”

At this, Hiroko cried out.

Setsuzou looked up from the evening newspaper.

“What do you want to do?”

“The photograph that was pasted here is gone.”
“Look! There are clear marks where it was peeled off—see?”
“I just showed it to Ms. Wakako when she was here earlier… How strange… What could have happened?”

“What kind of photo?”

“What do you mean 'what kind'… It’s your photograph….”
“You know—the one you had taken when you first got that new suit tailored….”
“Ugh—there’s only one copy, and it’s so important….”

“Isn’t it strange?”
“Ms. Wakako wouldn’t have taken it home….”

“Then that’s perfectly fine with me.”
“It’s a photograph—if you wanted it so badly, I would’ve given it to you. What’s the point of...”
“Don’t be absurd—this person wouldn’t just take it without a word.”
“Besides, peeling this off was no easy task.”

Saying this, she glanced up at her husband’s face, but in that very instant turned toward the kitchen with a terrifying glare.

Setsuzou, sensing his wife’s extraordinary agitation, seemed to startle and was about to speak—his chin jutting forward—

“Shodai….”

Hiroko called out in a calm voice, unexpectedly.
There was no response.

“Shodai… Come here for a moment.”

There was still no answer.

“What’s wrong, Shodai… Can’t you hear me calling you?”

At the same moment, she sprang up like a released spring.

Shodai was crouching on the kitchen floorboards, clutching the rice bowl.

“Shodai….”
“Now, if you have that photograph, hand it over….”

“I don’t know anything about it.”

“There’s no way you don’t know. No one but you would do such a thing.”

“But it wasn’t me.”

“Now, don’t be so stubborn—just hand it over honestly….”
“If you do, I won’t get angry—I promise….”

Then, from the back of the house—

“Hiroko… Hiroko….”

Hiroko heard her husband’s voice calling her name. She felt her chest might burst from an indescribable ache. Though overwhelmed by the urge to collapse weeping at his knees, she steeled herself and crawled step by step toward Shodai.

“Are you refusing to hand it over?”
“What’s that you’ve hidden in your clothes?”

Hiroko seized the hands desperately pressing down and yanked them toward herself with full force.

Shodai lost her balance and fell backward. Hiroko collapsed atop her. Hands clawed at hands, hair tangled with hair.

“Hey, hey—what’s going on….”
“Hiroko… It’s unsightly—stop it….”

Setsuzou stood frozen at the kitchen entrance, dumbfounded by the scene.

There was no way that could reach his ears.
Hiroko, panting and teeth clenched, finally twisted one hand into Shodai’s bosom.
But it was already too late.
The photograph, now crumpled, was clenched in Shodai’s palm.
This time, forcing open that palm, Hiroko gave a slight click of her tongue.
The battle was over.

4

“What do you think? I can’t calmly think about this right now. Anyway, the fact that the maid stole your photograph and hid it in her clothes. It’s all so ambiguous. It’s filthy. No matter what you say, this alone is something I cannot accept. What should we do?”

Hiroko came to the tearoom and faced her husband.

“You’re misunderstanding something.”
“Are you saying this is somehow my responsibility?”
“Are you suspecting me of some underhanded conduct?”

“You don’t need to spell it out so plainly.”
“If it’s a misunderstanding, then who will tell me that?”
“When you speak like that, why do you get all flustered?”
“Why must you deliberately downplay this serious matter?”

“I’m not trying to treat this lightly, but I am a government official.”
“The other party has their position too…”

“You mean ‘a mere maid,’ don’t you?”
“That may sound proper to others, but knowing you, I don’t believe that’s true.”
“You’re completely different from other men. What I thought impossible might actually be possible with you.”

“There’s no point arguing like this here.”
“Have her come here.”
“I’ll question her myself.”

“There’s no need for you to try questioning her about yourself.”
“If you’re going to question her, I’ll do it myself.”

When Hiroko called two or three times without receiving a response，Setsuzou—

“Shodai… You needn’t worry.”
“Come here.”

he called out in a formal tone.

“I’ll be asking the questions here, Shodai. You must answer truthfully without hiding anything.”
“Is that clear?”
“What did you intend to do once you obtained that photograph?”

“…………”

“Why did you take Master’s photograph without permission? If you had asked Master, wouldn’t he have given it to you anytime?”

“I could have told Madam.”

Setsuzou added.

“By the way—just to confirm one thing—have I ever laid a single finger on your body?”

Hiroko bristled, but Shodai, at that moment, vehemently shook her head.

“Is that any way to phrase a question?”

To her husband’s expression that seemed to say “What do you make of this?”, Hiroko gave a dismissive glance, and now, this time, she herself—

“Well then, I’ll ask—what exactly do you like about our Master?”
“Go on—say it clearly.”

Setsuzou involuntarily blinked rapidly.
Shodai buried her round chin deep into her collar and heaved a sigh with her shoulders.

“Look, if it’s true, I can’t forgive something like that.”

With that, Hiroko now showed some composure,

“It’s all right because it’s me.”
“I understand wanting at least a photograph.”
“But if you stay here, soon even this much won’t satisfy you.”
“You must be suffering too….”
“In times like these, you must first consider your own position.”
“No matter how much you pine for him, it won’t change our Master—it might sound odd to say, but while I’m here, it’s impossible.”

“Oh, Madam….”

Shodai groaned as though on the verge of collapse.

“In that case, let’s have you stop speaking altogether.”
“There’s no use blaming you any further…”
“Instead, after this incident, you must find it difficult to stay here, and I can’t very well keep you employed either. I can’t send you away tonight, but I’ll dismiss you starting tomorrow.”
“In your new home, forget everything and work cheerfully—that would be best.”
“In time, you’ll find yourself a nice young husband and build a happy family, won’t you?”

Before the words had even finished leaving her mouth, Shodai burst into muffled sobs.

Having once heard from someone somewhere that when dismissing a maid one should first inspect her belongings, Hiroko marched briskly into the maid’s quarters and overturned the lone willow trunk.

There was only one change of clothing inside.
Instead, stacks of old magazines and bundled letters spilled out from between the undergarments.
The letters had all come from her hometown, each addressed by the same woman’s name.

“Who is this?
A friend?”

“Yes.”

“May I look at them?”

Though Shodai wore a troubled expression, Hiroko paid it no mind and selected the thickest of the letters, unfolding its contents.

Thank you for your letter.
You say you’ve completely gotten used to Tokyo—is that really true?
If the house you’re in now is such a splendid one, I tell you, you should stay there forever.
The one called Madam—what kind of person is she? I want to see her once, I tell you.
As for a modern Tokyo madam, I wonder if she’s like the ones you see in the frontispieces of Fujin Club.
For Master to speak to you directly is quite something, isn’t it?
We who don’t go work in the spinning mills have nothing to enjoy at all.
Rice planting is about to start, but our fields are another struggle with water.
The Virginity Club hasn’t been the same since you left—it’s grown lonely without you.
O-hide had a baby last month.
It’s a girl, looking just like O-hide—so fair-skinned! We’re all snickering behind her back—have a baby too young and your youth’s ruined for good, we say.
We made a pact: if a man isn’t at least a high school graduate, we won’t marry or even court him. But speaking of that—you’ve already found yourself a sweetheart? Don’t tell me your luck’s *that* good.
You have to be careful, or you’ll get tricked if you let your guard down.
Tokyo’s full of men who’re all show and no substance—that’s what they say.
College students are delinquents up to ninety percent, they say.

Your sweetheart says he’s a college graduate, but I checked into that.
I want to become a nurse, but I don’t have any connections, I wonder.

"I had a friend in Tsuruoka send me a book on reading faces. It's fascinating. I'll check what kind of face your sweetheart has, so send me a photo. This isn't like superstition. Physiognomy's a proper science."

Having read this far, Hiroko nearly burst out laughing.

“Wait… You were planning to send our Master’s photograph to this woman, weren’t you?”

Shodai covered her face with both hands.

“He must be your university-educated sweetheart, no doubt about it.”
“Come on, put this envelope away properly and go wash the dishes at the sink—quickly now.”

After Shodai got up and left, she suddenly looked at the closet shelf and found stationery with a letter started in pen.

It’s nothing but rain every day, and Tokyo’s no different from anywhere else.
This summer I’ll probably go to the coast to escape the heat, but I’ll send letters, I tell you.

Since there’s another maid now, I’m practically just playing around all day. Looking after the child is only during daylight hours, so I’m free at night. I get to watch movies too, and sometimes take strolls in Ginza.

When I learn makeup techniques from Madam, it really shows results, I tell you. But since I can’t pour myself into it like she does, I still haven’t scrubbed off all my country grime—though he says every time we meet, I look so changed he barely recognizes me. There’s some flattery mixed in too, I tell you.

Master and Madam get along as harmoniously as zither and lute—even in Tokyo there’s hardly another couple like them, so it’s quite a sight, I tell you.

Madam is first and foremost a ninety-point beauty, and if you think Master leaves Mr. Aota in the dust, you’d be absolutely right.
Oh, come on—you’re just trying to trick people by pretending you can read faces.
You’re saying such things because you want to see what kind of man my sweetheart is.
In Tokyo, alongside night stalls, you’ll find physiognomists standing around idly.
No one pays them any mind.
But more than that, even when I keep asking him to give me his photo, he just won’t.
If he says, “It’s fine because we can meet whenever we want,” then that’s exactly what happens.
But just you wait—I’ll get him to say it properly.

He's twenty-six and properly holds a Meiji University diploma, so there's no mistake about it.
He's still platonic, so don't you worry.

Hiroko carelessly tossed the letter papers onto the shelf.
And then,

“You… you…”

With her bloodshot eyes lightly pressed with her fingers, she walked down the corridor as if groping with one hand and followed her husband, who seemed to have already gone up to the second-floor bedroom.

Soon, from that second floor came her husband’s shrill voice:

“Hey, you idiot—that tickles… Quit it already.”
“I won’t speak to you for a while…”
“How pitiful—look at that woman.”
“Even if she dies now… I won’t know or care…”