Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Centipede Kite—this was no rare spectacle in our childhood days, one we were taken to see every year.
In those times, nearly every household—whether grand or modest—carefully preserved a kite fashioned in the centipede's likeness.
My ancestral home too kept one passed down through generations, stretching some three ken in length.
At that size, it hardly warranted pride.
It fell among the smaller class.
Yet this was no plaything for children.
We youngsters weren't even allowed to lay fingers upon it.
Each Boys' Festival saw three adults conducting solemn rites to launch it skyward.
Of karmic tales and legends—of what precise customs governed these rituals—I never learned a thing, having missed my chance to ask.
Only hazy impressions linger from those gaudy kite-flying days.
Still, when I consider how that feverish tradition now lies dream-dead in the past, I—young though I am—shiver with eerie disquiet.

“Oh! Did such kites ever become popular around here—”

Even a young man my own age from our hometown—when I asked him about the kites out of casual curiosity—only stared with doubtful eyes as if I were telling some outlandish tale.
“It must’ve been just some trivial local custom.
“Through a child’s eyes like yours, it probably looked like festivals from across the globe.”
“You mean such backwardness lingered here even into your childhood?”

“I had relatives in B Village, but that place was even more fervent, I tell you.”
“I’d be accompanied by Grandmother and Mother to make the long trek for kite-viewing.”

“Speaking of B Village—that place was bought out by the Central Electric Railway and turned into a railway line, I tell you.”

“B Village?!” I shouted.

“Aren’t you aware? There’s likely not a single house left now.”
“I doubt even the name ‘B Village’ remains.”

“That’s untrue.”
“The Aono family—our acquaintances—still properly exists.”
“I still correspond with Scion F even now!”

“There might remain one or two houses.”

“The Centipede Kite is—” Here I shook my head with apparent profundity, yet enduring the tedium, found myself compelled to explain—however vaguely—this kite’s structure.

Since it was a kite, it was of course made by pasting paper onto a bamboo frame. It formed a gigantic centipede. The thin bamboo had been shaped into rings like large fans—or rather, exactly like the paper-covered hoops from which Pierrots spring forth. These were made into forty-two segments matching a centipede’s legs, each with bamboo appendages at both ends resembling the handles of a fan positioned vertically. At the tip of each leg, a bundle of palm fibers had been tied as substitute claws. The forty-two body segments were connected by two strings that maintained equal intervals between their left and right legs. Thus the segments fluttered open horizontally. The tail was primarily silver-colored, long and forked. Golden eyeballs with windmill mechanisms had been attached to its head, making them glitter dazzlingly in sunlight. The enormous tasseled whiskers swaying in the wind were created by extracting horse tails and binding them together.

Of course they were made by professionals called kite craftsmen, but I had never actually witnessed the production process.
I knew nothing beyond having seen kite craftsmen come about ten days prior to perform maintenance.
At places like the Aono family’s, it was said that even just for maintenance alone, kite craftsmen would stay for three months beforehand, swamped with preparations.
Even each bundle of palm fibers used as claws had to have its weight measured with weights every single year.
In some cases they would replace all the paper each year; in others they managed by simply repainting it.
When the day finally arrived, our family’s kite was far from being part of this league—but each principal owner vied to devise novel designs for their kite’s head section.
The commotion in B Village that day was as bustling as Ōkawa River’s opening ceremony.
Until then their designs had been strictly guarded secrets; spectators waited with bated breath to see what form each centipede would take.
Among competitors there were often tales of spies sent out at midnight to steal glimpses of rivals’ techniques.
One owner plotted to bribe spectators or secretly plant dozens of allies who’d erupt in thunderous praise when his kite appeared—thereby crushing opponents’ morale.
When rumors spread that Family A’s kite eyes were real gold this year, Family B—aghast—hastily coated every scale on their body segments with gold leaf.
In Family C—whose previous head collapsed while gathering white horsehair later listed in his will’s inventory—rumors flew that this year’s new head had finally succeeded in turning their centipede’s whiskers snow-white.
But according to opposition factions (whether due to election grudges or because kite rivalries split electoral alliances? Those prominent enough to own large kites had long fractured into factions), someone spied Family C’s head late at night with sleeves tied back, stealthily dyeing black horsehair with white lead powder.
They claimed rain would expose this fraud—as proof pointing out how he’d checked nightly weather for clear skies before boasting “Our family’s kite this year is truly this!”
Family D’s head raced his two-horse carriage a full ri ahead to a neighboring village bridgehead; peering through a telescope he declared ours flew two ken higher than Family E’s—only for E’s head to retort that longer strings made kites appear lower in certain winds.
These two families competed annually over string lengths.

I clearly remembered the morning scenes of B Village’s kite-flying days.
On a hillside lawn bathed in mellow late-spring sunlight, we had spread out a red felt carpet and were looking down at a hollow resembling horse racing grounds.
For kites grand enough to compete in the festival, each body segment must have measured nearly five shaku in diameter—a single segment substantial enough for one man to carry.
Though each was connected by threads at both ends, when viewed from afar as their bearers triumphantly marched in with them, the spectacle resembled a column of soldiers holding shields and conducting drills.
There was a squad bearing golden shields.
A crimson squad followed.
Another ran in orderly formation, their silver shields glinting.
The crowd strained their voices to send fervent cheers toward their faction’s ranks—yet to me, those scattered fragments seemed incapable of becoming centipede-shaped kites.
No seams were visible; they appeared as nothing but beautiful fans or shields.
I even felt I was watching some unfathomable tribal dance.
…Yet when those scattered shields and large fans left the ground and soared skyward, they transformed into a single gigantic Centipede Kite.
The kite undulated its golden body with leisurely grace, floating almost playfully.
The legs—which from below had resembled dusters with palm-fiber tips—now perfectly mimicked centipede limbs, balancing the torso.
The horse-tail whiskers some had worried were too short looked authentically centipede-like.
Eyeballs spun comically yet fearsomely while scales glittered, showing arthropod-like undulations.
But considerable time passed before it fully resembled a centipede.
First, the silver shield squad advanced a full chō ahead before quietly propping their shields on the lawn.
Retreating another chō, they attached themselves to a single rope at three-ken intervals.
When the wind watcher barked his command, they pulled the rope like villagers hastily drawing well water and dashed out as one.
Simultaneously, opposing shields fluttered upward in disarray.

Now they resembled linked lanterns, now stomped both legs comically like a Yajirobe puppet, now appeared to scatter in all directions—but no sooner did one perceive this than they floated midair, undulating grandly before aligning into a single row.
Among the handlers who kept running, those closest to the kite would release their grip one after another.
Gauging this timing apparently required considerable skill.
If they carelessly released it too soon, the kite failed to ascend.
Moreover, if they fumbled and failed to release it in time, their entire bodies would be swept up into the sky along with the rope by the momentum.
While the first handler hesitated, the next one released his grip prematurely—in that instant, *whoosh!*—the first was yanked dozens of feet into the air. Had he slowly descended along the rope, he might have been unharmed, but in his panic, he let go and plummeted like a ball, fainting upon impact—a tragic incident I witnessed firsthand, though such occurrences were apparently not uncommon.

Before I knew it, the kite transformed into a small yet perfect centipede and was swimming through the distant air, undulating leisurely.
The scales glittered.
The two tails twisted against the body, fluttering wildly in all directions.—What had been mere gaudy props from a costume parade now transformed in an instant into a living centipede model, writhing leisurely across the blue sky.

I fell into a dreamlike state and gazed without tiring.
I still remember reflecting on how pitifully meager our family’s Centipede Kite was—regretting that no kite enthusiast had ever emerged among us—and fervently wishing that once I grew up, I would become the owner of a kite far more splendid than that one.

“No matter what you say, the Aono family’s kite remains the most splendid. They don’t bother with half-baked repainting there—they fly it every year with the same design...” Mother said, her hand on my shoulder as she spoke to Grandmother.

“Even so, their way makes the yearly upkeep all the more troublesome.”
“But as a kite, its state only grows better with each added year.”
“At their house, they never once stooped to rivalries—they dedicated themselves to crafting kites with perfect balance and the highest possible ascent. That was the old master’s cherished vision.”

I had been watching alongside F, scion of the Aono family, and though their kite lacked others’ gaudiness, simply knowing an acquaintance’s household owned such an exceptional one gave me an unaccountably swelling pride.

“The Aono family now only has Mr. F and his sister left—they both mainly live in Tokyo, but have you ever met them over there?”

Just the other evening, Mother and I exchanged such conversation while gazing at the moon and enjoying the evening cool.

“Even when you’re away, they still visit the house sometimes.”

“Is that so…”

“But their stories never match! It makes me terribly anxious!”

“How do you mean?”

“One day they’ll declare they’re retiring to the countryside for research—then appear the very next morning to announce a month-long trip to Tohoku!”

“Oh, so are they away now?”

“Here?”
“Well, but they’re usually in Tokyo—”
“They say he’s employed in Tokyo—though?”

“...”

“They say he’s become quite the heavy drinker?”

“...”

“That child studied science, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he graduated from the university’s program a year before I did.”

“Just when you think that’s the case, he can’t stay put like this—if he keeps frittering away his time in such a dawdling manner...”

“……”

“At long last, even the estate has been taken away,” he laughs, but...

“At long last!” I blurted out unwittingly, eyes round as I mimicked the phrase.
Then I muttered ceaselessly under my breath:
“Chiyotsu, how exactly like me you’ve grown!”

I had intended to describe here, just as it was, the extremely crude structure of the kite—which I, the one who had asked the questions, ended up explaining in reverse when made to provide answers—but as had happened then, it seems I again let myself be carried away by superfluous emotions and poured too much futile effort into it.

Our conversations about Aono went on and on, but let us leave them at just the beginning.

It was another evening.
By some chance occurrence, Mother and I brought new life to our reminiscences about that kite.
As midnight drew near, I suddenly transformed into an enthusiastic researcher of kites.
I hit upon the idea of crafting a small handmade Centipede Kite to please a child.
However, when it came to the actual structure, even Mother possessed no greater knowledge than I did.

“That should be fine.”

"I must make it—no matter what—immediately," I declared, my fervor mounting with each word.
For the child's sake—such matters I had utterly forgotten before long.

That night—a rare occurrence for me—I had a cheerful dream:

When morning came and I energetically leaped out of bed, I raced off by bicycle to visit another acquaintance.
A said,
"I’ve never seen a kite like that."
B also said,
"Huh!
That’s unusual! In that case, I’d like one too—so you go ahead and make it first for me."
C said,
"There’s nowhere left to fly it.
Not anymore."

"No—mine’s small! The body’s thickness just needs to be about five inches in diameter," I hastily replied, dejected.
Wherever I went, I found myself being asked to give that same explanation in return.

“It seems there’s no other path but to follow my own questionable memories.”
But I found myself all the more compelled to create it.
Ahh.

“I could lend a hand a bit,” Mother said, surprised by how unexpectedly genuine my brooding and passion were.

I sat amidst scattered rulers, calipers, straightedges, compasses, and other tools, with ice bound to my head, sunk deep in thought.

“Making that bamboo round must be quite difficult; you’d have to ask an umbrella or lantern maker to do it, wouldn’t you?”

“No—I’ll make all that sort of thing myself while I’m here—steadily working through the nights until it’s finished...”

“That—”
“So what?”

“I’d mostly figured out how to connect the body segments, attach the legs, apply the paint—even fix the tail—all measurements set—” I began before slumping dejectedly at remembering the ice on my head.
The head’s assembly—the facial configuration—remained stubbornly elusive.
I understood about the windmill mechanism; knew there must be whiskers.
Parts made sense individually—but how did they coalesce into that face’s particular arrangement?

“When you put it that way, even I…” Mother too reached an impasse and stared fixedly out the window.

"Ah, this is maddening!"

"Still, attaching the eyes in the same round shape as the body..."

"That can’t be right…?"

"A long tongue hung from its mouth."

"That too I had forgotten."
"Ah! That's right!"
"It had a tongue—that much was certain."

"How about the rigging method?"

I started.
"That's right—that too escapes me," I groaned before irrational anger surged: "Those trivialities could wait! When I still can't grasp the head structure or facial layout—having you meddle with subsequent steps from the sidelines only tangles my thoughts further."
"That's enough! If I methodically work through it myself..." My lips tightened as I turned away irritably.

I had intended to begin this chapter by simply transcribing the blueprint’s copy as it was, but even now, no matter how much I deliberate, I cannot determine the head’s structure and the placement of eyes and mouth; instead, I have no choice but to write in that scattered manner solely about the kite of my memories.
So even now, having somewhat recovered from that obsessive fever and gained just enough composure to wield this pen, the greater part of my thoughts still runs stubbornly, hollowly, toward that place alone.
Even now, having become like an empty shell and chasing that foolish dream in a daze, I resolved to at least write an account of that time.
Unless I pray to be saved even by such means, I find myself in a state where I cannot help but continue enacting that same sequence further still.

That period—to clarify—refers to this past summer when I had returned to my seaside hometown, adopting the mindset of a student taking a fine summer vacation to reform my unhealthy drinking habits while continuing my long-engrossed autobiographical fiction work.

II

As days passed, I transformed into a peculiar melancholia patient.
I, who in daily life was driven only by petty urban sentiments and rarely entertained even dream-like fancies, simply became strangely listless.
I became nothing but a doll that smoked cigarettes.
The outlines of all real things reflected in my eyes blurred; emotions vanished; personality perished; I lost the five desires; yet paradoxically my mind grew strangely restless—like a wind-up mechanism that knows no fatigue. Even as I described myself in such terms without feeling any exaggeration, I became a peculiar melancholia patient.
The meaning was shallow, the reason clear.
I simply could not give up on the centipede kite that I could not possibly complete.
Day and night without cease, the only thing that came and went unceasingly through my mind was the figure of that beautiful and grotesque kite majestically soaring through the heavens.
And he compelled in me a limitless yearning, bestowing hollow sympathy.
“Just think on it until next spring—it’s not that difficult at all! A face like a monster leaping from an American jack-in-the-box would do, or else a grinning tiger from a comic panel.”

“That’s right.—I—the real you, that insect—hate you next only to snakes, but with the paper you, I can feel this close.”
"But no matter how hard I try, I can’t recall how to assemble the bamboo head or position the eyes and mouth—can’t see a thing from here!"

“Focus! Remember! We’ll play together next spring—it’ll be fun!”

“I’ve no carefree leisure left—it’s only because I want to make you as soon as possible that I’ve become this haggard and vacant,” I pleaded, gazing enviously at the distant sky.

Again, he would thoroughly despise my stupidity and subject me to relentless ridicule.
"No matter how much you twist your head in doubt, I won't get any closer to you than this."
"Don't go stirring up hopes beyond your reach! Just sit there gaping with those sentimental tears welling up—I'll grant you memories alone, that's all!"

“Mother, because you taught me those extraneous details, I’m forced to squander emotions on worthless feelings—this rebellious urge to avoid that thing’s scorn, these doubts…”
I had forgotten until that moment it even possessed a tongue—what a mercy that had been.
Another superfluous consideration now plagued me—how exactly was that tongue affixed?
What a loathsome tongue it was, flapping insolently in the wind!
“Hey! But even I—when constructing mine—will make something safe! Small perhaps, yet at least comparable to Aono’s kite! Naturally I’ll attach the tongue too! So descend a little—show me your facial structure! The eyeballs’ placement! Whiskers! Mouth framework! How that damned tongue moves—”

“Clumsy as you are!”

“No! I’m trying this hard—just appear close enough for a moment! Even if it shortens my life, I won’t rest until I see it through.”

“A fool’s blind obsession!
“I’m not hiding.
“Can’t you see me swimming right over your eyes?”

“Th-that’s why, I’m telling you!”

“When it’s finished, I’ll show you.
“We’ll talk then.”

“Deafie!
“Don’t play dumb with me!”

“Hmph—making such a weepy face! I can see you plain as day from here!”

“You spiteful devil!”

“Are you feeling unwell? You’ve seemed suddenly listless these past four or five days.”
“What became of the kite talk? Seems you’ve given up already. You’ve been quick to lose interest in things since childhood.”

“Lately I haven’t even been drinking that much!”
“Just when I thought your retching had subsided nicely—has alcohol become so deeply ingrained that abstaining now worsens your condition?”

Having grown so withdrawn I rarely spoke—occasionally moistening my lips from a cup while fixating gloomily on the ceiling—Mother and Wife each nursed distinct concerns compared to my initial vigor upon returning home.
I completely ceased mentioning kites before others.
My thoughts only swelled more fiercely within.

“Usually when he’s feeling gloomy, if anyone speaks up from the side, he flies into a terrible rage—but this time it’s different. He acts like he can’t even be bothered to talk, and lately no matter what people say to him, he doesn’t get angry at all,” Wife reported to Mother as if appraising goods right before my eyes, even going so far as to grab and shake the shoulders.
“Normally doing something like this would cause an uproar!”
“Hey—what’s gotten into you?”
“Is something wrong with your head?”

“Our family has had head ailments running through its bloodline for generations—you’d best take care…” Mother managed a strained laugh.

“Stop talking about the head.”
I quietly shook my head, as if handling a fragile object.

“How boring! I finally got to swim properly and now I can’t even go to the sea anymore.”
“The sea’s dangerous—if you don’t come along with me…”

“Since you’ve resolved yourself to this once and for all, why not begin working on it bit by bit—the body of the kite? You could leave just the head for later, couldn’t you? In time, I might try asking someone I knew from the old days.”

“If it’s such an unusual kite, it doesn’t matter if it’s crude—just hurry up and make it already! I like flying kites too, you know.”

Wife too, casually getting carried away, urged me on from the sidelines—but rather than resenting it, I found myself envying their carefree nonchalance to the point of sorrow.

“No—I’m not thinking about that anymore! It’s not like I’m feeling unwell or anything… other things…” I tried to deny deliberately, but my voice involuntarily thinned into a theatrically fading whisper, suddenly overwhelmed by a heartrending sorrow that filled my chest.

“Oh my, are you going to start crying already?”
“What a spineless man you are! Look at that face—if you’re going to cry, at least cover it!”
“If you go showing me tears, I’ll end up laughing at how pathetic they are.”

“You idiot!” I shouted in bitter frustration, glaring up at the kite I’d provisionally modeled after the laughing tiger face from the Punch-style sketch.
“I’m not crying—this is just my ordinary face.”

The timely wind arrived—no more foolish taunting; I’d make one final push.
The rigging tension felt exquisitely balanced—in this state, I might easily drift into half-sleep.
“Spring they call it—what splendid weather!”

“Ah，it had become so small!”
“It had become as small as a wriggler.”
“When I thought he was the one who had just now said such hateful things to mock me，I couldn’t help finding it all absurdly comical.”

“Hey… hey…”

But there came no answer now.
I, clinging stubbornly to futile longing, squinted up at the wriggler's form.

“It’s no good!” I sighed.

“It’d take your mind off things if you just made it already.”

“Is it really that difficult? The head and face?” my wife asked, leaning forward on her knees to peer into my face.

“Hmm,” I nodded, finally shifting my mind to the kite.

“If Grandma were here, she’d understand.”
“No—I do have a vague inkling myself, but…” Mother too grew more earnest, tilting her head as if weighing some fine detail.

"It's no good!" I let slip a sigh from the depths of my heart.
In my mind, only the shadow of the wriggler remained clearly imprinted.

"Memory! Moreover, for those lacking mathematical talent, memory’s orientation goes awry, rendering it utterly useless."

Mother turned her face red, as if she herself had been criticized.
"When I think back, I can only recall the sight of that small kite rising into the sky."

“It keeps getting smaller,” I murmured.
As we sat on the woolen rug, opening the lacquered lunchbox to eat our meal, a thunderous roar like an unearthly wave of battle cries suddenly erupted from one corner of the basin.
When I looked, the group of kite handlers scattered exactly like spiderlings bursting apart in all directions.

“A fight?”
“It always happens once a year!”
“Let’s hope mediation comes quickly.”

Grandmother, Mother, and I all set down our chopsticks in unison as we spoke these words.
They were all shouting something in unison, but it was too far away to make out the meaning.
Even so, there's something odd about this being a fight?
I thought.

As I looked, they all started running toward us as one.

In the sky, an utterly ordinary wriggler drowsily dozed.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Mother turned to Grandmother and asked.

“It might be a fight—shall we get out of here?”

Soon the group of runners, churning up sand, became a giant sliding magnet that sucked in surrounding crowds one after another, their numbers multiplied manyfold as they reached the hill where we had sluggishly risen to our feet.

“Chase it, oo—!”
“The string’s snapped—!”

We clearly distinguished such cries.
Meaningless screams pierced our ears like firecrackers, swirled into vortices that dazzled our eyes, and transformed into a torrent surging beneath our gaze.
The people’s horrifyingly ferocious expressions cut through before our eyes like pomegranate stones.
I involuntarily stumbled and clung to Mother’s sleeve.
The people’s eyes were strained to the extreme and bloodshot.
The hundred eyes of the people became one and continued fixating solely on a single point in the sky; with both hands thrust high as one, they surged forward like a fierce wind.
We—with most of our faces contorted into mouths desperately calling for support—saw the master of the Aono family charging at the forefront like the deity Idaten.
His hem—not even reaching his shins—leapt up like a tail alongside sleeves that had rolled themselves up as if stripping to the waist; bathed in the setting sun’s rays across his broad chest, thighs exposed, he came running barefoot in white tabi socks, his outstretched hands already transformed into rakes poised to snatch the kite in the next instant.
We saw the absurd figure of the village chief in his top hat—his crested summer haori fluttering like kelp as he charged forth with boar-like momentum.
The numerous beaters following behind also screamed every exclamation imaginable at the tops of their voices, utterly beside themselves as they uniformly pointed at the sky—none had presence of mind to watch their footing; none cast their gaze anywhere but that single point in the heavens. Driven to frenzy’s peak, they ran madly about—springing up only to clutch futilely at empty air, their entire beings palpably charged with desperate resolve to seize it this very instant—they all, like animals mistaking a morsel’s shadow for sustenance and directing their whole yearning toward it, abandoned reason and exiled common sense, ascending recklessly into ignorant impetuosity—leaping unbidden to grasp at emptiness, running only to leap again and form futile fists—repeating utterly futile actions without pause for breath as they charged onward. They would dash three ken only to leap three shaku upward; poised as if plucking fruit, they bounded lightly… Maintaining such motions without cease, they raced ahead with uncanny swiftness.
They leapt over hurdles with uncanny precision without even looking—transformed into Ashura fixated solely on gazing at the heavens as they ran.

Those following slightly behind came running in a frenzy—waving long bamboo poles in their hands, equally lost to themselves, continuing their bizarre leaping as they dashed forward.

We too had no time to catch our breath.
We had no time to utter a word.
We stood dumbfounded, frozen in place.
In an instant, this astonishing procession of Cross country racers—their dazzling torrent shaking the earth alongside a gust of wind—passed before our eyes; then, stomping out that bizarrely ferocious Fox Trot, they raced headlong over fields, kicked across hills, traversed paddies, and within moments vanished into shadow beyond the reach of our shouts.

“Has that kite’s string snapped? It looks like it’s stopped in the same place as before, but—” I finally managed to ask Mother, my voice tinged with lament.

“Is it really…?” Mother opened her eyes wide with wonder in her pale face and gazed up blankly at the small kite in the sky, just as I did.
“When it reaches that height, you can’t even tell it’s moving away bit by bit!”

Grandmother sat down on the hill and prayed aloud to the gods.
And that Aono's kite had been the village's proudest treasure—a creation imbued with ancestral care that could never be remade, a singular work spared from rivalries plaguing others.
That was why they'd all abandoned their own kites to chase it with such desperate frenzy—Grandmother recounted while wiping her tears.

Tears had welled in Mother’s eyes as well.
Mother suppressed a trembling voice and,

“Oh! Look!
“I understand—look, it’s already grown so small,” she told me.

The kite had shrunk to the size of a real wriggler and floated quietly.
The kite itself wasn’t that significant, but I noticed Grandmother’s and Mother’s tears, and as I gazed up at the small kite, I gradually became aware of my own tears welling up faintly sweet.
With my lashes wet and the kite’s form growing harder to see, I hid in the shadow of Mother, who still kept gazing fixedly upward, and quietly bowed my head.
The wide lawn of the hollow now lay in hushed stillness like the day after a festival, bamboo husks and paper scraps sharing space with vivid heat haze that quivered in the air.

“That’s all there ever was—that’s why I can’t remember no matter how I try. Too damn small…”

“Hadn’t you been saying you were going to make a small one?” said my wife.

“It’s not about the kite. Other...” I trailed off, though beyond the clearly floating image of that small kite, I had no words to divert the conversation. Even though being made to talk about kites only sank my spirits deeper—

Countless times I would rouse myself to begin crafting—focusing only on the parts I understood and brushing aside dreams—but before long both my mind and body had grown exhausted; all practical efforts turned timid, mathematical notions vanished, and in reaction only my delusional tendencies intensified all the more pointlessly. The scope of my delusions was confined solely to that kite’s particular form.

It wasn’t just the head or face—the tail’s attachment, the body segments’ connections, the legs’ balancing method, let alone the hooks’ rigging or paints’ mixing—my mind raced single-mindedly through it all, yet now when I tried to examine individual parts, everything dissolved into irreparable chaos. And that tiny kite—like a wriggler—kept beckoning mockingly from a fixed point in the sky, inflaming my wretched longing ever higher while haunting me ceaselessly with daylight visions.

Three

“You left the inn again last night, didn’t you? Where do you go every single night?”

My wife glared at me with a gaze full of baseless suspicion.
I’d been waiting for twilight each evening to slip away from the seaside inn we’d moved into four or five days prior.
This time she caught me as I appeared in the entranceway poised to depart.

“I came checking earlier today too.”

“Even in daylight?!”

“I come to check every single day.”

“…………”

I faltered terribly for no reason. Even though I wasn’t engaged in any action that should have made me feel guilty about being discovered by my wife, I was stunned.

“Weird!” said my wife, misinterpreting my demeanor as confirmation of her suspicion and fixing her eyes on me. “Last night, you didn’t come back at all—I know it for sure.”

“You—” I began calmly, trying to reason with her, but I loathed the thought of defending myself against my wife’s suspicions, and upon reflection, even my own actions from the previous night had been too vague to grasp. “You shouldn’t harbor such suspicions—not only does it taint your own feelings but my state of mind…”

“Hmph!” my wife sneered contemptuously through her nose.
“What feelings?!”

I felt cruel viewing myself from my wife’s standpoint.
I felt afraid of being perceived that way by her.
But I had no way to explain it.
The more I faltered, the more I provoked my wife’s jealousy.

“In our house, Mother and I were in an awkward position, so you passed it off as studying or some such and moved us to a place like this—no doubt about it.”

“That is so,” I inadvertently expressed my true feelings.

I sat down by the window and gazed out over the sea.
Amidst relentless work that left no moment’s respite, I suddenly felt a quietness akin to having found rest.

“Is that so?” she snapped, her lips trembling with irritation.
“Oh! What shameless audacity you have to say such things so calmly!”

“……”

While living right by this sea, had I not even had the leisure to gaze upon this quiet evening seaside view?!
I was!
……I, still wearing my hat and uncharacteristically composed, gazed at the darkening sea.

“There isn’t a single pen on the desk.”
“There isn’t a single book in the entire room.”
“Did you write that promised postcard to your friends in Tokyo?”

“Right—I forgot! Go buy me postcards, a pen, and ink—quickly! Ah, I’ve done something terrible—I had an appointment to meet here!”
“They’re coming to visit me.”
“While I’m here—”

“So why don’t we just return to our house? Since we’re just carrying on like this anyway…”

“I only stopped mentioning it because it’s a hassle, but I’m not living the kind of bad life you imagine here.”

“Then why not just make kites at our house if you’re so determined?”
“After you finally settled on this project!”

She, utterly oblivious to my feelings even in her dreams, forcibly composed herself and suggested such things.

“Please don’t say such unnecessary things,” I pleaded feebly, then suddenly clutched my head in sorrow and collapsed right there.
Truly, I had moved here solely to escape the agony of being at our house—where my mother and wife would vainly urge me to make kites, only to make me feel wretchedly disillusioned by a kite-making desire that burned fiercer than any flame within me.
Admittedly, I had also come to hold the hope that if I went about things this way, I might easily put kites out of my mind and finally begin my creative work.

When I found myself alone, my longing for the kite—perhaps freed from all restraint—transformed completely from its state at our house and began consuming me unabashedly.
I could not sit still in the room for even a moment.
Crossing my arms and tilting my head, I paced restlessly like a caged animal.
Having avoided Western liquor for some time, I grew accustomed to it again—each circuit around the room ended with me pouring another drink.
Bottle in hand, I strode grandly round and round like a shadow from a revolving lantern.
I collapsed onto the floor and writhed like a wriggler.
Like one who had swallowed poison, I clawed at my hair and struck my hollow bottle of a head.
In the end, drunk beyond reason, I would chase single-mindedly after that kite and routinely go careening into the night streets.

Though it was my hometown, that place had become utterly unfamiliar to me. The reason was that after moving to Tokyo following the Great Earthquake, whenever I returned here, I would always inexplicably shrink from public eyes and go nowhere except to my mother’s house—covering my face as if fleeing. Therefore, all that remained for me was the impression of a once-dim, aged town that had vanished overnight.

I had no idea. I saw a strange town with wide roads where gas lamps blazed as if it were daytime, without a single tree in sight. Thinking this must be a dark alley, I fled into it—only to find painted bars and cafés lined up in a row, beckoning customers. Certain this was the area around the acquaintance’s teahouse, I dashed inside—only to discover a movie theater. Though relieved to encounter no familiar faces, when I stopped passersby to ask about the teahouse’s whereabouts, they merely shook their heads wordlessly. Cafés should have existed nowhere but before the station. In what seemed to be the area where I once lived apart from my mother’s house—a place backed by bamboo groves—Chinese noodle shops, ice shops, and izakayas now stood in rows. At my mother’s former residence stood rows of upscale sake bars echoing with lively shamisen music. I staggered into the neighboring bar.

“Are you a college student from Tokyo?”

“Hmm…”

“Oh! How delightful—I’m from Tokyo myself.”

I shifted to the Western restaurant next door.

“An-chan, you’re so disagreeable! Who ever said we were acquainted?”
“You’re downright wicked—pretending not to know me!”

……Tumbling out into the thoroughfare, an unexpected taxi came passing by.
"I want to see Aono—even if he's forgotten about the kite, just looking at his face would save me somehow." I would mutter like this to myself.
In my frenzy, I would often race my car the full ri to B Village.
I shouted at the top of my lungs, waved my arms, and stamped my feet like pounding a forge bellows.
I clearly tasted the intoxication of having splendidly thrown myself into being one of those desperate kite handlers who followed behind Aono's father and the village chief.

The Aono house had been utterly effaced along with the surrounding landscape, reborn as a shoddy Western structure clinging to the hillside. A lone lantern floated in the void. Beyond the fields stood this solitary dwelling.

“I thought it was about time you showed up.”
“I went to your house today—just returned this very moment, you know.”
“Oh! Can’t even walk?!”

"I should know Aono isn't home... Ah, yet here I've come again."

I was rescued and, upon sitting down on the long chair, immediately leapt back up.
“I came to see Aono. …Well, goodbye.”

“You’re doing this every day.”
“How utterly rude! Coming suddenly and leaving suddenly like this!”

“Back then, Fuyu-chan was still a baby… so Fuyu-chan wouldn’t know about that.”

“Spare me the old tales.”
“Today your mother made me listen to stories about my family’s past again—how utterly tedious.”
“Ask me anything you like—it won’t matter a whit. I’m quite content with my life now. Why not abandon Tokyo and build a house like this next door? They say it can be done for a thousand yen or so—I’ll even give you the land for free.”

“When will your brother return?”

“I told you I don’t know!…”

“Hmm, this will do.”
“That’s right—you drink too, don’t you, Fuyu-chan?”

I vigorously downed the Western liquor Fuyuko had taken from the shelf.
“Oh, Father’s oil painting was supposed to be hanging here—what became of it?”

Having said that, I pointed at the wall.
Certainly there had hung paired portraits of both parents.
I wanted to see their father’s portrait.
—Now when I looked, Fuyuko’s photograph occupied a large gold-edged frame in its place.

“Wasn’t that last year?”

“Is that so?!”
“That portrait of Father remains vividly in my memory too.”
“The portrait too?”
“No—the portrait remains vividly.”

“What on earth are you staring at that spot for? I have no desire for any old things from my family’s house, but I still can’t let go of that horse.” Fuyuko said this and looked up at her photograph in equestrian attire. I had been clinging to the lingering attachment toward the father’s portrait that should have been there.

“That’s probably right—after all, Fuyu-chan practically grew up with that horse.”

“No way—” Fuyuko wore a bitter smile that seemed unamused. Her eyes were looking at my face, yet—to put it another way—her retinas held no reflection of reality; she was staring at something formless, gazing through some bright, untroubled vision with single-minded intensity—shining roundly in such a manner. Her eyelids showed almost no blinking. The words that spilled from her lips were, for her, nothing more than an idle whistle blown in passing—such was the impression they gave me. I was drunk and besotted on rotgut liquor, doing nothing but single-mindedly chasing the shadow of the kite. And her murmured words were nothing more than distant whispers to me. They were merely exchanging disjointed words at cross purposes. It was merely that they had rarely intersected at some point… She was gazing at my face. I was gazing at her face as well. But on my retina too, her face did not appear as it truly was. My crude eyes, upon meeting the siblings’ father’s gaze, could not help but stir the fragile kite’s yearning.

“I still dream of riding horses at full gallop—my heart races as if becoming the wind… For me, that was a kind of secret pleasure…”

Despite my desperate attempts to stop her, Fuyuko sneaked into the stable. “If Father catches me, I’ll be scolded—but I simply cannot sleep at night unless I ride this one last time in the evening.”

Having said that, she urged me to ride together.
I must have been in my first year of middle school then—I was an extremely small-statured boy. When I rode in front and Fuyuko, holding the reins, straddled behind me, she had to crane her neck just to peer past my side to see ahead.
She gradually increased the horse’s speed while issuing various warnings to counter my timidity.
I remained rigid in an excruciatingly awkward posture, stiff as stone (I couldn’t bring myself to stare straight ahead like a proper rider; I lacked even the composure to force an embarrassed smile, yet being overly flustered would have wounded my pride).
I was mainly listening to the sound of hooves.) How Fuyuko behind me so refreshingly transformed her entire body into a free whip, effortlessly cradling my form in her wings without the slightest hindrance, and how splendidly she fulfilled her role as a rider—all this could be safely inferred.
Had there been no reassurance, I could never have stayed mounted on that wildly galloping horse’s back even for a moment.

Fuyuko made a sound like a steam whistle with her lips.

"You're not scared, are you!"

"Ah," I nodded.

"That's right—lean your body forward more!"
"Don't become a sail…… We're going to the riding grounds."

"Is everything alright? It's not getting dark yet, is it?" I muttered with as much dignity as I could muster in my voice.

“I usually leave much later.”
“When dinner was ready, I’d slip away for a moment.”

The basin that had been a kite-flying site before Fuyuko knew of it had by then transformed into horse racing grounds.
When arriving at the horse racing grounds, it was my custom to dismount and become a spectator.

She who carried Fuyuko began running like an unbridled steed.
Fuyuko pressed her small white face tightly against the horse’s neck, showing not a flicker of resistance to the vibrations as she sank her limbs into its back. Whether due to the evening haze hanging low at that hour or some other cause, even when they passed right before my eyes, I could not discern the rider’s form.
I could see nothing but the unleashed horse wildly galloping at will.

Yet at the very instant I faced the horse head-on, I saw two eyes beneath its mane—radiating an unnatural sharpness—piercing through the haze.
I lost sight of the horse and was pierced by a radiant gaze.

“Don’t go asking me to ride horses—even if you go out, Fuyu-chan, you’re perfectly fine with it, aren’t you?” I exclaimed, changing my words as I felt more oppressed than anything by those eyes.

“That’s it.”

She dismissed it as a matter of course.—“But Father and the others probably think I’ve never even gotten close to this.”
“Even if I get scolded, I’m not scared—but somehow that’s what makes it fun. I hide on purpose and play with this one.”
“When horse races approach, all sorts of folks gather and make a huge fuss practicing—but not a single one can do it as well as I can. I pretend not to notice and watch from afar—somehow I’ve come to love that…”

I felt a flicker of resentment, but in Fuyuko’s demeanor as she spoke—no trace of smugness, no hint of mockery—I sensed rather a lonely intensity. What’s more, an easy dependence on her welled up within me, plunging me into a strange dreamlike state.—With the clattering hoofbeats echoing like my own tranquil pulse, I raced along the nearly darkened country path. Unlike on the way there, I was struck by the thrill of feeling like a proper rider myself; forgetting Fuyuko was behind me, I swung the reins in rapturous abandon.

“I wonder just when Father became obsessed with horse racing.”
“We never noticed until the very end, but it seems even just for the horses alone, our entire family fortune had turned into debt.”
“…………”

I had heard it all began with the kite.
Now branded in my chest remained only those two blazing eyes of the master as he had chased after it.
I was chasing after his portrait.

“What an absurdly passionate enthusiast.”
“He’d cook up some strange purpose, become obsessed with it, then die in a fluster… It got on my nerves, so I went and replaced the portrait too.”

“Show me that portrait!”

“Ugh, don’t shout so loud!”

“Where have you hidden it?”

“Brother sold it off—forced it on Uncle, he did.”

“To Uncle?!”

“When I was a student, I went there—for English studies and such… Yokohama’s—— Lately, he’s become a diplomat and gone off to some strange country.”

“I… I… I don’t know any uncle like that! Ah, that’s… really…”

“It’s not because it’s a sibling’s portrait that he bought it—absolutely not! That preening fool could never declare ‘Yes, this is my brother’ if anyone asked about such a grotesque painting. ‘In our homeland, this was how people appeared back then’—that’s the extent of its charm. It’s been reduced to nothing but a specimen.”

“…………”

Provoked into defiance, I sharply bit my lip.

"Hahahaha! When I think of it that way, I do feel somewhat pitiful."
"To imagine that conservative old man becoming some display piece in a strange country's parlor—"

"...Your manner of speaking is rather outrageous."

"Tsk!" Fuyuko clicked her tongue sharply.
Startled, I scrutinized her face again, but found no awareness of my presence there.
I couldn't discern what target her tongue-click had meant.
She simply maintained her unchanging gaze through those infrequently blinking eyes, staring leisurely all the while.

“I’m the one who wanted that portrait—”

We sat facing each other, our separate thoughts clouded.
The words she murmured seemed nothing more than peripheral concerns even to herself—we simply sat there facing one another.

“The fool who sold it may be an idiot, but Brother—he seems halfway to self-destruction—”

She spoke of Aono's recent foolish activities and told how they—the siblings—were being treated by old acquaintances. They were called the mad siblings; no one would associate with them anymore...

"Of course that's only natural...and yet..."
"You know how I've had this nervous disposition since childhood—how I can't bear to keep my hair long? How I've kept it cropped like a child's all these years?"
"Now they're even adding nonsense like that to their mad ravings."

“The other day, it seems such hairstyles were all the rage around here—”

“Who knows.”……Only my mother now maintained proper contact with them, but lately I sensed something in her attitude that treated us like patients too—so I avoided visiting as much as possible. These days, I rarely exchanged words with anyone outside. Only Genji remained as he always had, taking care of us—that— Just as she tried to continue, I suddenly struck my knee and cried out in delight.

“Genji is here! Then there’s something I want to ask right now!”

Fuyuko continued speaking as if oblivious to my agitation. “Far from paying the old man a salary, we’re actually being taken care of by him—even this house…”

“It’s fine to wake him, right? Where is he sleeping? I want to meet him!”

Even this house was built with his funds—it seems he might even intend to leave us a small portion of his estate… Fuyuko went on with such explanations, but just as I was about to bolt from the room, she quietly restrained me.
“It’s no use even if you meet him.”
“His head’s gone strange—he only remembers my face and Brother’s now.”
“And he’s become terribly deaf now.”

Having said that, she—though I too had occasionally noticed it and wondered what it was used for—I thought to ask, but grabbing the homemade megaphone I hadn't had a chance to inquire about, I opened the door and let out an "Ohtsu."

“If you want to talk to Genji, you’ll have to use this.”
“But even if you use this, words won’t get through.”
“It’s only signals.”
“Between us, about ten different types of signals have somehow developed over time—they suffice for all our basic needs.”
“He doesn’t know a single character.”

I clutched my head and dropped heavily into the chair.

It seemed “Ohtsu” served as a substitute call—soon Genji emerged from the adjacent room, came to Fuyuko’s side, and sat at his master’s feet with the same gentle smile of old.

“You’ve kept well, haven’t you?
First off, there’s something I need to ask you.
If anyone would know, it’s you.”

Overflowing with nostalgia, I forgot Fuyuko’s warnings and impulsively seized his hand, shaking it fiercely.

“It’s useless, no matter what I say,” Fuyuko laughed desolately as she thrust the megaphone at me.
Genji beamed all the while, producing a cup he’d brought himself and tilting it gratefully with each sip.
He’d apparently been drinking alone in the other room until now—merrily downing a different sake from ours that he’d carried over.

“If you blow that again, he’ll go back this time.”
“Sometimes we sit facing each other like this until all hours of the night—Genji enjoys this more than anything.”

I gazed vainly at the wall, my eyes filled with something resembling tears.
Ah, has that painting too gone to such a distant land? How far must I chase that kite alone? Ah, how I long for those eyes of the master.

“Even so, Brother claims to be out looking for work—but I’m certain he’s holed up somewhere around A Town’s obscene houses…”

“That’s right—all those little eateries around there seem to be Number Nine types… It’s A Town, near where my old home used to be.”
“But Aono isn’t around there.”

I vacillated between vague thoughts of Aono’s whereabouts and peering into the megaphone I held，vainly pondering how I might convey my intentions to Genji．

“Well，maybe he’s in Tokyo．”

“Even if asked why I go，I have no way to answer—so I haven’t told my family about coming here．Though at home they probably suspect I’m off on some unsavory escapade．”

“Brother might be performing the same sort of act somewhere else too, you know.”

“Huh? What about? Why?!” I asked back, unable to grasp her meaning—but she kept murmuring in that unchanged tranquil tone, as though my words never reached her ears.

“How tragic when that sort of passionate soul loses their fortune.”

“Ah, I want to meet him!” I let slip a sigh like a soliloquy myself.

“Brother’s face seems exactly like the Mother I never knew, but his heart is just like Father’s.”

“Do you think so…?” I cried out, my voice trembling without reason.

“And as for me—unlike Brother—my face takes after Father—” Fuyuko’s voice rang in my ears with an odd freshness.
Her words resonated as though they had pierced through my innermost feelings, imbuing me with a brightness that made me feel I could entrust myself to her without reservation.
“If you want to recall Father’s face, you should look well at my face…………”

…………

As if struck by something, my eyes stung, and before them—

“There!”

As she said this, she playfully widened her eyes and thrust her face forward. I fixedly stared into those eyes,

"That's it! I hadn't noticed until now," I blurted out. ……(But these weren't the master's eyes. Wouldn't the master's eyes have granted me such stillness?)

Fuyuko, as though she had forgotten what she had shown me, continued staring innocently and fixedly close to my eyes.
I was pierced—sharply, gratifyingly, delightfully—by that gaze.—When I strained my ears, I heard the clatter of hooves.
A refreshing mane swept lightly across my cheek.
I felt a whistle that sounded like a wind instrument.
I became a skillful horseman, cutting through the wind as I galloped my steed.
Her eyes gleamed within the evening haze.—I, peering intently from beneath the mane at the figure of “Mosquito Larva” gradually drawing near, felt a smile form.

“Don’t you think so?”

…………

I lived solely within that vividly unfolding illusion of mine.
My heart whipped my entire body into action—clicking my tongue, spurring the horse, chasing headlong after the kite.—The moment my gaze was sucked perilously close into Fuyuko’s pupils—overcome by drunken rapture, forgetting even Genji’s presence—I emitted a bizarre shriek and clamped both palms flush against her cheeks….

＊

Nothing but the same kind of nights were repeated for me.
Therefore, while the verbs in certain parts of this chapter should rather be written in present narration—and this would align with my current state of mind—given that the Aono siblings are now both hospitalized in a mental hospital where visits are prohibited, I have for the time being unified the narrative into past tense.
(Showa 2, January [1927])