Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kishida Kunio

I

“You can read faster.”

In a posture as if hunched over the desk, the husband was tapping away at the Braille machine.

Mitsuko, warming herself at the kotatsu, was reading aloud from a paperback edition of Mérimée’s short story "Matteo Falcone," breaking it into sections and reciting with a rhythmic cadence.

Since their marriage, Mitsuko had assisted her husband’s devoted work in this manner.
Her husband’s lifelong wish was to create a Braille library for the world’s blind.
After finishing middle school, with high school entrance exams looming before him, he suddenly developed an eye ailment; medical treatment proved ineffective, and he completely lost his eyesight.

At one point, driven to utter despair, he had nearly succumbed to self-destruction, but the outbreak of war led him to discover a new way of life.
Seeing many of his friends being drafted and thrown into the crucible of life and death, he thought.
He must not indulge in the privilege of military exemption.
Thereupon, he resolved to thoroughly learn all the skills a blind person could acquire.
Except for the koto, he voraciously mastered the entire curriculum of the school for the blind.

Six years had passed.
He had passed the national examinations in acupuncture, massage, and therapeutic massage, but he had no desire to make a living from those skills right away.
Fortunately, his parents were still hale and hearty.
His father, who ran a leather goods and shoe store, intended to at least spare his pitiable son from worrying about food, so he was able to choose his own path with relative ease.

What he came up with was creating many Braille books for people in the same circumstances.
Above all, he envisioned the happiness of blind people being able to read interesting novels and stories on their own, and felt that someone had to provide this.

“I think we’ll stop here for today.”
“After we finish Mérimée, let’s do Hisao Jūran.”
“You know, that story about going to Tibet you read me before—let’s definitely tackle that one next.”

“Aren’t you hungry yet?”

“I am.”
“What time is it now?”

“It’s five thirty.”
“I’ve already prepared dinner.”
“I just need to warm it up a bit…”

“Make the curry really spicy.”

“Oh, you already knew?”

Mitsuko, his wife, could only marvel at her husband’s sense of smell and hearing.
Sometimes she felt so tempted to test it.
One time, while doing laundry in the kitchen, she tried chatting in a voice she thought wouldn’t reach the inner room, deliberately adopting a tone as if speaking to someone.

“We don’t need that sort of thing here.”
“Let’s leave it for next time.”
“There’s no point looking when we won’t buy it anyway.”
“What a total waste of time.”
“Well, I appreciate the trouble you went to… Yes, goodbye… Make sure to shut the door securely.”
“The wind’s strong…”

Later, carrying tea to her husband with feigned innocence,

“What was that solo performance about earlier?”

Sharply confronted, she burst out laughing.

She was certainly not unhappy. There were even moments when she could feel extremely happy. Therefore, she did not consider this marriage a failure in the least. However, the problem was whether the reason she had voluntarily chosen a blind person as her spouse still held true today.

The man named Mr. Saeki, who had occasionally met Mitsuko's father—a bank employee—on business matters, was the father of her current husband. Mitsuko had once happened to overhear her father relating to her mother at home the story about his son that he had heard from that Mr. Saeki.

At that time, she was twenty-four, and the issue of marriage was constantly on her mind; regarding her father and mother’s occasional discussions about her marriage prospects, she declared that they should leave it to her.

Having started working as an office clerk at a company connected through her father’s acquaintances, she was dismissive of such chances existing at all; yet for her, men began to become impossible to trust.

Indeed, she did not have enough confidence to pride herself on being particularly beautiful. However, she had never thought her looks were so inferior that she would feel outshone by her female colleagues. Rather, she secretly believed that the charm of her expression—enriched by spiritual qualities—was such that, if she presented herself properly, it would be striking enough to attract considerable attention. The men surrounding her, when it came to that, invariably seemed to chase after shallow, prostitute-like women and dote only on those doll-like women made up with superficial charm.

Even so, there were still occasionally men who would approach her with desirous looks. However, they all seemed to take on the guise of postwar decadents as if by prior arrangement. In other words, they were settled upon as a bunch of utterly inconsequential types, neither harmful nor beneficial, seemingly devoid of any merits.

She had grown utterly weary of interactions with the opposite sex.
In other words, she had come to realize that the ideal of love marriage was nothing more than a mere trifling dream when faced with this reality.
At that very moment, a divinely inspired idea sufficient to satisfy her sentimentality floated into her mind.

That’s it—if there were a blind man who could love me solely for the beauty of his heart, how wonderfully I could make him happy.
Even soldiers blinded in the war would do.
If it were someone like that, perhaps they would come to understand that my facial features are truly beautiful.
Well, having decided that—where could such a person be…?

As if declaring “He’s right here” without saying the words, Mitsuko was informed by her father of the existence of Mr. Saeki’s son.

“He’s apparently already twenty-seven.”
“He wants to find him a wife soon, but the old man was lamenting that this is another headache.”

As her father spoke, her mother interjected.

“No matter how brilliant he may be, if he’s visually impaired, his future will be fraught with difficulties.”
“If it’s a masseur, they often end up marrying fellow visually impaired people, you know…”

“Well, it seems he wants a bride who can properly see.”
“Because having someone read books to him is the most important condition…”

That conversation had ended abruptly there and then, but about a month later, her father revived the topic once more.

“Saeki came by the shop again today and said he was really troubled after attending his son’s matchmaking meeting.”
“The other party was apparently a daughter who had worked as a nurse, but her looks weren’t worth a second glance—though she was quite a talker, from what I hear.”
“The son was quiet at first, but in the end, he gradually became brazen and started blatantly conducting psychological evaluations... ‘I hear you graduated from girls’ school, but if that’s the case, you must have just dozed off in class the whole time...’ or so he apparently said.”

“My, what a strange matchmaking meeting…”
“People with poor eyesight are said to be short-tempered, you know.”
“He must be difficult to get along with, certainly…”
“Well, we certainly don’t want to get involved with someone like that.”

However, that evening, Mitsuko quietly asked her mother to arrange a matchmaking meeting with Saeki’s son.

II

Persuading her parents was not easy.

She elaborated at length that this hope was grounded in calm judgment and moral conviction, then insisted that a woman’s happiness was not something to await by chance but to build through her own efforts, and pleaded that they not deprive her of the joy of bestowing—with her own hands—even a small new light upon a man who would bear the name of husband.

Toshio Saeki, stirred by the appearance of this unexpectedly earnest woman, felt the blood of his youth surge for the first time and reverently accepted the invitation to a music concert that served as their matchmaking meeting.
And that evening, after exchanging just a few words, the two of them found themselves completely in harmony.

She was with her mother.
On their side was his father.
As they were heading in opposite directions for their return, they parted ways at Hibiya Corner; but when the taxi carrying them began to drive off, Mitsuko suddenly felt her chest tighten and clung to her mother’s hand.

“I wasn’t wrong after all.”
“I think he’s a wonderful person.”

“My, wait… It depends on what they decide…”

“Hmm, I already know the answer perfectly well.”
“Yes.”
“Because I can tell something like that right away.”

“My, my, what tremendous confidence…”
“But for someone like that, he’s not lacking in refinement.”

“That’s right—even Beethoven went blind.”

In this manner, Mitsuko came to be united with her now-husband, Toshio.

In their married life, there were unseen hardships, but at the same time, a deep sense of fulfillment as well; her meticulous attentiveness became direct expressions of affection, and the pride she modestly tucked away deep within her heart—the pride of being someone so indispensable to her husband—brought her a quiet self-satisfaction.

A year passed in the blink of an eye.

And as initially promised, a new home was provided for the couple, and their life took on even greater structure.
From their newly moved-into home in Asagaya, Toshio went out three days a week to teach Braille at the Nakano School for the Blind and Deaf.
On other days, he performed acupuncture and massage at home only in the mornings, as if going through the motions.
And for the remaining time, aside from listening to the radio news, he devoted himself entirely to transcribing numerous novels into Braille while having his wife Mitsuko read aloud.

When it came to pleasing the husband, Mitsuko devoted herself to anything and everything.
She made sure seasonal flowers never ran out in the vase and subscribed to two types of women’s magazines to gain culinary knowledge.

But one morning, while facing the mirror and applying makeup, she was struck by this doubt.

To what extent could a blind person discern a woman’s beauty and ugliness? Does he think I’m beautiful? Or could it be that he concluded I came to him precisely because I’m ugly? I don’t know how my parents or others might have spoken about me from the sidelines, but there’s no way he would accept such talk at face value. By some chance, someone must have casually mentioned my appearance to him—now it must have lodged in his mind, and he’s surely indulging in wild imaginings. I should verify this matter once.

That evening, in a posture that slightly resisted her husband’s caress, she asked this.

“Hey, you—there’s something I want to ask.”
“Even if that’s all… I believe I’m loved by you just as much as I love you.”
“That’s all well and good.”
“But you—how do you love me?”

“What a strange question.”
“Isn’t this way good enough?”

“I can’t understand through this way.”
“A woman wants to hold confidence that she’s loved precisely because she’s beautiful.”
“When you say ‘beautiful,’ it could mean various things—but does that include physical aspects?”
“Do you think I’m… well… somewhat pretty?”

“I can’t answer like that.”
“If you have everything I require, shouldn’t that suffice?”
“Truthfully, whether you’d be considered beautiful through ordinary eyes—I can’t fathom that.”
“I likely do believe you belong among beautiful women—but that conviction stems only from things beyond my vision, from faculties other than these eyes.”
“Your skin has resilience and smoothness.”
“Your voice carries gentleness and clarity.”
“You wear a fragrance of refined taste.”
“Your sleeping breath stays quiet.”
“And you maintain a woman’s self-respect.”
“That alone satisfies me completely.”
“Even if I never once hear others proclaim you the world’s greatest beauty, I’d feel not a shred of despair!”

“But what you just said doesn’t prove I’m not some freakishly ugly woman.”

“Huh?
“What are you talking about?”
“Proof you’re not ugly?”
“Since when do we need that kind of proof?”

“There, you see? You’re actually trembling in fear that someone might show you proof I’m ugly, aren’t you?… You just can’t stop worrying about what people say, can you?”

“What’s this about people’s rumors? When have I ever cared about such things?”

“But didn’t you just say you’ve never once heard anyone call me a beauty?”

“What I’m saying is… For example… My mother went on and on about what a lovely girl you were when she told me.”

“Your mother might have considered it a favorable marriage arrangement from various angles.”
“That’s why you gave me a passing mark, more or less.”
“You didn’t take those words at face value, did you?”

“Enough of this talk…”
“Your grievance—that my blindness prevents me from appreciating your beauty—may seem reasonable at first. Yet consider this: however beautiful you truly are, I hold the power—no, the right—to imagine you as someone even more beautiful.”
“You’re not so conceited as to challenge that, are you?”

“Oh, I’m not vain.”
“I’m sorry for saying such bothersome things…”

She was moved to realize how boundless her husband’s love was.
And, as if writhing, she pressed her chest against her husband’s.

III

Since they didn’t officially advertise their services, patients rarely came seeking treatment—though there were still one or two people daily who’d heard through word of mouth and arrived complaining of stiff shoulders or back pain.
He would accommodate requests depending on timing but had made it an absolute policy to refuse house calls.
Beyond not needing such income, more than society’s misunderstanding of his profession, he himself found it vaguely galling to be treated as an ordinary masseur.
In such matters, her husband Toshio was strangely prideful.
Yet even his wife Mitsuko had no right to mock this.
She too—when suddenly asked by strangers, “Is this the masseur’s house?”—could never bring herself to honestly reply “Yes.”
“We aren’t masseurs,” she’d explain, “but do provide massage or acupuncture for select clients.” — “What makes someone ‘select’?” — “It’s not about qualifications. If specially requested and our schedule allows, we offer home treatments.”
“We have school duties to attend to…”

For that reason, there were indeed several men and women who continued visiting under those conditions. The fees were not particularly cheap either, yet they endured the stifling formality that prevented casual requests to massage here or there—still coming to him as if he were indispensable, likely because they felt a surgeon-like trust in this unconventional masseur. In fact, Toshio Saeki would first take the patient’s pulse before beginning treatment, sometimes even measuring their temperature. Though extremely taciturn, when in high spirits he would expound not only on basic anatomy and pathology but elaborate on his unique theories verging on life philosophy. Thus lately people had begun addressing him as “Doctor,” though none could say exactly when this started.

“If only you weren’t blind, Doctor, you’d have become a great scholar or politician.”

The elderly man—the local flower shop owner who had once served as a ward council member—was also one of the patients.

“No, I wanted to be an artist.”

“Hmm, an artist? Even among artists, being a flower arrangement teacher seems quite trying these days...”

“Right now, among greenhouse flowers, which one is flourishing most?”

“Well, around this time, it’s primroses, I suppose.”
“The price is reasonable too, you know.”

“Primroses are nice too.”
“Hey, Mitsuko—later go get a pot of primroses from the old man’s place.”
“Make sure to pay properly for it.”

“Oh, it’s not like that either way…”

While engaged in such talk and applying acupuncture to the flower shop owner's lower back, a voice called out "Pardon me" from the entrance.

Mitsuko immediately went out to check.

A young police officer stood alone.

"What brings you here...?"

She inquired with faint unease.

"Well, I sprained my right leg and was advised to try massage... Might I receive treatment here?"

"Ah, please wait a moment."

She withdrew into the back and conveyed the message to her husband.

“A police officer... What kind of officer?”

“Young, seems the quiet type.”

“Let me examine him then...”
“Have him wait in the reception room.”

At this point, it was necessary to briefly explain the layout of this house.

First, downstairs contained a ten-tatami Western-style reception room along with eight-, six-, and four-and-a-half-tatami tatami-matted rooms. In the eight-tatami room were one treatment bed, a hand-washing basin for disinfection, a clothes hamper, a small table with two chairs, and a gas stove.

The six-tatami room served as both her husband Toshio Saeki’s living quarters and workspace, containing a desk with a Braille slate, a sunken kotatsu, and bookshelves, while the engawa was entirely occupied by a rattan chaise longue.
The four-and-a-half-tatami room was the family dining room but also served as his wife Mitsuko’s living quarters.
From there, a corridor led to the bathroom and kitchen.

The second floor had two Western-style rooms. One served as the couple’s bedroom, containing a double bed, while a display cabinet held dolls, vases, and a music box. Separately, a wardrobe and a three-panel vanity mirror were tastefully arranged.

The adjacent room was, so to speak, still without a designated purpose—currently neither a storage space nor a spare room, with suitcases and cardboard boxes scattered in one corner. However, between the couple, it had been decided that this would become their future child’s room.

Now, regarding the downstairs reception room: it had only been furnished with a basic set—a table and chairs provided by Toshio Saeki’s father—and even the curtains were temporary ones hastily installed for the occasion. The walls remained freshly painted yet utterly devoid of color, and though the sunlight might not have been particularly poor, the complete absence of heating made it freezing cold enough to numb one’s hands and feet in midwinter.

The entrance had a wooden floor, from which a staircase led to the second floor, and the door to the reception room was also located there. A corridor extended straight back from the entrance, with the aforementioned eight-tatami and six-tatami rooms on the left, and the four-and-a-half-tatami room along with the kitchen and other areas continuing on the right. Additionally, there was a single door connecting the reception room and the eight-tatami room—in other words, it was arranged in the style commonly seen in ordinary clinics where a single door separates the waiting room from the examination room.

However, in Toshio Saeki’s case, since there was no possibility of patients ever crowding in like that, the need for a waiting room was practically nonexistent—a rare occurrence at best.

Thus, in this rare opportunity, the police officer from XX Station found himself making use of it.

IV

Before long, his turn came.

“Please…”

With that, Toshio Saeki pointed to a chair.

A look of clear bewilderment appeared on the police officer’s face. There also seemed to be hesitation, as if he might have come to the wrong place.

“Where does it hurt? Ah, it was a leg sprain, wasn’t it?”

“Well, during patrol, a suspect I was questioning suddenly tried to flee, so I chased after them frantically. At that moment, I tripped over a stone and fell—later when I checked, my kneecap was hurting terribly…”

“Please take off your trousers and lie down here.”

“Should I remove my underpants as well?”

“Please remove anything you can take off.”

“I showed it to a doctor, but what the doctor says can’t be trusted.”
“They said the X-ray results didn’t show any particular abnormalities… But anyway, I think massage would be best, so I’ve been coming to the hospital every day…”

“Understood.”
“The doctor’s diagnosis isn’t particularly useful for reference.”
“I will examine you, and then we’ll determine what should be done.”
“Does this hurt?”

“It hurts.”

“What about this…?”

“It’s not that bad, but…”

“Very well. It’s not as severe as a sprain. A type of contusion. It will heal within two weeks.”

“Please, I humbly ask for your care.”

“What time would be convenient for you? I’d prefer Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays around this time. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, please come between seven and eight in the evening. Sundays are days off.”

“That works.”

“This won’t interfere with your duties? If needed, I can prepare a certificate.”

“No—more importantly, how much would this cost?”

“I’m not a panel physician, but let’s consider your income. Is fifty yen per session too much?”

“In that case, that would be about six hundred yen, right?”
“I’m sure it’ll work out.”

“Normally I charge two hundred yen per session.”
“But since this is an on-duty injury, I’ll make a special exception.”

“A masseur who voluntarily shows such consideration—now that’s rare indeed.”

“I am not a masseur.”

“My apologies—are you a massage parlor operator then?”

“Don’t call me an ‘operator’.”
“I am a licensed therapist.”
“This title isn’t ideal either, but…”

“There aren’t many trades with respectable names.”
“‘Police officer’ makes for an unpleasant title too, doesn’t it?”

“But ‘officer’ has a friendlier ring to it, don’t you think?”

“There! ‘The cop’ll take you away’—that’s what folks say to scare kids.”

“How long’ve you been on the force?”

“Heh, barely a year now.”
“Don’t let looks fool you—I graduated Naval Academy right before surrender.”
“‘Military man’ ain’t exactly a title that warms hearts these days.”

“Oh? So in better times you’d be some swaggering navy ensign?”
“Bet you’d strut worse than you do now.”
“That ‘no backtalk allowed’ officer voice of yours?”

“I simply wanted to look stylish, so I volunteered for the Naval Academy.”
“If only police uniforms were a bit more elegant… Ha ha ha.”

While exchanging such banter for nearly an hour, the police officer received a knee massage; then, while the masseur washed his hands, he pulled on his trousers and secured his holstered pistol.

“Mitsuko!”

And then, at that moment, her husband Toshio called out toward the back.

“Yes.”

To his wife who had come out,

“Since I’m done, go make an entry in the medical chart.”

His wife Mitsuko once more bowed toward the police officer.

“If you please, your name and address…”

“Shigenobu Fujioka.”
“For the address…my workplace will suffice.”
“Please record it as XX Police Station.”
“Date of birth: June 20, 1921. Do you require my registered domicile?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“And the diagnosis?”

And with that, she turned toward her husband.

“Contusion of the right knee joint, minor internal bleeding, swollen lymph nodes.”

Toshio Saeki said it with confidence.

“A local massage session for one hour, correct?”

There was no response.
That sufficed.

Thus, the new patient Shigenobu Fujioka appeared punctually at the appointed time in the Saeki household’s treatment room the next day and the one after that.

A week passed.
Fujioka expressed his gratitude with satisfaction, saying he felt much better.

At the end of the second week—and that day happened to be a Thursday—Fujioka arrived slightly earlier than usual.
However, on that very day, her husband Toshio returned home late. Since Fujioka had already become a somewhat familiar face by then, Mitsuko took the initiative—thinking the reception room would be cold—and ushered him directly into the treatment room.
And then, while lighting the stove,
“How are you feeling, sir?”
She made polite conversation along those lines.

“Thanks to you, I think I’m completely better now, but… truthfully, I feel a bit lonely thinking this might be the last time I can come to your house.”

“Oh, why is that?”
“I don’t believe there’s any such fortunate matter to speak of.”
“If the pain were to linger indefinitely, that would truly be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

She felt his earnest confession course through her spine like an electric current, but deliberately said that to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“No, I can endure the pain in my leg, but there’s another pain I cannot bear right now.”
“If I told the Doctor that, he’d probably scold me for it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If you’ll excuse me… I believe he’ll be back shortly.”

In a flurry, she rushed into her own parlor.
And she sat down in front of the vanity.

Was this truly an entirely unexpected event for her?
Was there not a single thing for which she bore responsibility?

V

She put her hand on her chest—it was something she didn’t need to ponder.
Shigenobu Fujioka was, among all the men who had ever appeared before her eyes, outstandingly sharp.
He had the physique of an athlete, the looks of an American character actor, and on top of that, a politeness that suggested good breeding.

She had been so startled at their first meeting that her heart nearly leapt. Though it was by no means what one would call emotional turmoil, she found herself somehow enjoying seeing him each day, and when the time came, she would catch herself feeling giddy. If it were just that, it would still have been manageable. She would invariably face the mirror and think of him. She first considered what kind of eyes he viewed her with. She didn't want to be thought ugly—that much she knew. If she counted for nothing to him as a woman—how humiliating that would be—even such thoughts began to trouble her. If she were more beautiful—if she could make his eyes widen—how happy, how exhilarating that alone would be. As her self-esteem swelled to such heights, her makeup became painstakingly meticulous.

His voice could be heard at the entrance.
No—his footsteps sounded at the doorway.
She listened intently.
After a brief pause, she slowly stood up.
She tested a smile meant to greet him once in the mirror.
Within the limits of her expressions, she crafted a charm dignified enough to avoid servile flattery.
And with that same smile, she appeared at the entrance.

“Welcome… Please…”

But regarding its effect—there were moments when she could summon something akin to confidence, and others when she felt nearly disappointed.

And on this very day, she couldn’t help regretting that its effect had grown far too potent.

Her husband returned precisely on time.

“I believe today’s treatment should generally suffice…”

“For precaution’s sake, might we continue a while longer?”

“Objectively speaking, I consider you fully recovered… But if you wish, shall we continue for another week?”

Mitsuko was listening to this conversation from behind the door.
She felt a flutter of unease, as though some momentous decision had been made.

That night, as she listened to her husband’s snoring, she thought about such things.
I will never do anything that would betray this husband.
Just...I wonder if there isn’t some way to let him know the mere fact that I’ve captured the heart of a certain handsome man...
And not through any method that would needlessly provoke jealousy—it would be enough if it simply made him realize that the woman I am is different from the ordinary women around here.

From then on, Fujioka began arriving an hour or even two hours earlier than the appointed time specifically on days when her husband went to school, engaging Mitsuko in conversation.

Without saying anything more intrusive than that, he quite naturally spoke about his upbringing and stated that while everyone has beautiful youthful memories of relationships with the opposite sex, he himself unfortunately lacked any such experiences.
“Already, my youth is slipping away.”
“No matter how faint, if I can now imprint the visage of a radiant woman deep within my heart, I would consider that sufficient to die content.”
“The reason I requested to continue treatment for another week was solely for that purpose,” he stated emphatically, without much sarcasm.

She was understandably at a loss for how to respond, but managed as noncommittal a reply as she could muster.

“Would someone like me even have such value?”
“But I’ve no right to criticize your whims either.”
“If that’s all it is, then it wouldn’t trouble or harm anyone.”
“Having heard those words now, I’ll deliberately refrain from thanking you.”
“Because that would already be improper—dangerous even—for me as a married woman…”

“I don’t want any thanks from you.”
“But you won’t call it unpleasant, will you?”
“Exactly. As I see it, your husband cannot possibly judge for himself how beautiful you are.”

This remark pierced her heart.
Then he pressed on as if to overwhelm her,

“There, you see?”
“You secretly regret that.”
“The fact that you’re beautiful must be for someone’s sake.”
“It must be for someone who properly understands it.”
“Don’t you agree?”

"No."

Mitsuko said with tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

“No, my husband thinks of me as more beautiful than I really am.”
“Yes, I said it myself.”

Then Fujioka,

“There isn’t just one measure for beauty.”
“If how beautiful you are isn’t clearly understood, then what good does it do?”

As he said this, while fixing his gaze on her face as if mesmerized, he blinked deliberately several times.

She met Fujioka’s gaze with an intoxicated look.

But at that moment, she heard the entrance door open.
She stood up as if rescued.
Her husband was removing his shoes while,

“Is he already here…?”
he asked.
“Yes, just now…”
She answered under her breath.

That week also passed without incident.
However, even after that, Fujioka persistently appeared when her husband was away, and she found herself making no move to shoo him from the entranceway.

On one such day, struck by sudden inspiration, she poured her husband’s leftover wine into a glass and set it before Fujioka.

His eyes immediately reddened around the rims. “Is it hot in here?” he remarked while undoing his jacket buttons.

Feeling vaguely guilty about having given him wine, she quickly cleared away the glass,

“Is it really that hot?”

While saying this, she turned down the gas valve.
As she began to rise, Fujioka’s upward-gazing body was already pressing close behind her.
He reached out his arm as if to embrace her shoulder,

“Just once, okay? Just once…”

With a gesture demanding she part her lips, he pushed forward forcefully.

“You mustn’t… Truly, I beg you to stop at least this…”

While saying this, she escaped from his grasp, slid open the sliding door, and disappeared into the inner room.
But it was no use.
He had known there was no one else there.
He boldly chased after her.
Like children, they chased each other from room to room.

She thought of hiding on the second floor but reconsidered that this would only complicate matters; opening the parlor door, she tried to lock it from the inside.
But that, too, was already too late.
The door was pushed back.
And there, on the sofa in that room, she finally gave up resisting.

“You’re terrible…”

And she muttered, her lips genuinely pursed.

For a moment, everything fell silent—then came the clattering sound of shoes outside the entrance.

When she suddenly looked up, through a gap in the window curtains, the figure of the husband using his cane to knock mud from his shoes came into view.
This is bad! she thought.
But in that split second, there was no time to think of anything.
As she suddenly sat up, she signaled with her eyes for Fujioka to quickly hide somewhere and then went straight out to the entrance.

“Oh, why are you home so early?”

“The afternoon classes were canceled.”
“They said they were taking the students somewhere on a field trip.”
“Is someone here?”

“No.”

"No," she reflexively denied and took her husband’s hand.

Her husband always went upstairs immediately to change clothes, but today, he made no move to do so.

"Oh, where are you going?"

“It’s cold—I need to warm myself a bit.”
“Light the stove.”

He strode briskly into the treatment room and made that characteristic blind man’s gesture—sweeping his head as though surveying the entire ceiling-encompassed space.

“The fire’s lit? That’s a relief.”
“But today isn’t one of your appointment days, is it?”

“Well... Earlier, I just...”

“Ah, I see.”
“But that’s strange.”
“Did you use alcohol in this room?”

“Ah, earlier, I wiped this table with the cloth I used to clean the wine bottle.”

“Mitsuko, you mustn’t lie… There’s another person in this house.”

“Oh, you’re saying such strange things—I don’t like this.”
“Who on earth is here?”

“I want to know that clearly…”
“You should tell me now, shouldn’t you?”

“Since there’s no one here, I can’t possibly tell you.”
“You’re not acting like yourself today.”

“You’re not acting like yourself either.”

While saying this, her husband Toshio Saeki circled the table and abruptly thrust out a hand to grope across its surface. There lay the pistol Fujioka had earlier discarded—leather holster and all.

Mitsuko's complexion suddenly changed.
And then, she involuntarily tried to let out a sharp cry.

But already, her husband’s hand had touched the pistol’s case and stopped moving.

Six

The husband was silent; the wife was silent.

The husband pulled the pistol close and took it out of its case.
Then, after briefly verifying its shape with his fingertips, he gripped it ready to pull the trigger and moved the muzzle up and down two or three times.
Then, slowly, he started walking.

“Hey Mitsuko, what am I supposed to do? If this misfortune was born of my own foolishness, I’d endure any amount of it. But I can’t stand being mocked without reason. And those who mock me just because I’m blind—I can’t forgive that. Well then, I’ll find that man and make you see.”

The moment he finished speaking, he abruptly threw open the parlor door and—

“Trying to escape through the window?”
“I won’t allow it.”
“Move and I’ll shoot!”

The muzzle remained steadily aimed at Fujioka's back as he cowered by the window edge.

Mitsuko had been trailing soundlessly behind her husband.
Fujioka's eyes whispered urgent messages to hers.
She lunged at her husband and seized the pistol-gripping hand.
But this proved futile.
Shoved away with force, she crumpled limply across the sofa.

Taking advantage of that moment, Fujioka approached the next window without making a sound.
Then, the muzzle rotated smoothly from left to right, precisely tracing the path of his movement.

When he realized that escape through the window would be difficult, Fujioka quickly shifted his body toward the door facing the opposite entrance.
Having done so, he waited for the muzzle to follow him, then suddenly bent his body and raised one hand to turn the handle.

As the door flung open, the pistol suddenly rang out.

Fujioka's crouched body lurched forward down the hallway and stretched out at full length.

Mitsuko covered her face with both hands.

“Mitsuko, call the police.”
“The rest I’ll leave to you.”
“I don’t ever want to become someone who can see.”

Having said that, he threw the pistol onto the floor.

On that floor, affected by the blast from earlier, several faintly white petals from the fully bloomed potted primroses placed on a stand lay scattered.
And a single strand of Fujioka’s thickly pomaded black hair—now utterly motionless—had snapped clean off at the root and lay fallen at the foot of the staircase.