Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Makino Shinichi Though Taruno couldn't sleep at night, this was merely because he slept soundly during the day—it wasn't neurasthenia. His habit of sleeping late into the morning and staying up at night gradually worsened until day and night had become completely inverted. Since childhood, Taruno had caused endless trouble for those around him through his difficulty falling asleep and surly morning awakenings. The harder his mother tried to lull him to sleep, the more restlessly he writhed in her arms—compelling her to wander along moonlit shores late at night clutching her squalling infant! What an obstinate, vexing child he was! For from deep within their home came the sound of his grandfather clucking his tongue in disapproval. There had even been an occasion when passersby mistook Mother for someone contemplating suicide—a misconception she made no effort to dispel—or so Mother later recounted. Because she had grown so despondent that she sat clutching her child on the cold sand until dawn broke,

“It was still rare for people to go down to the beach—it was that chilly early springtime!” “…………”

“Was it late at night, I wonder?” “No—it was early morning!” “The person who tapped my back was a stranger from the beach—I still remember that face!” “They say he’d been watching from behind for a while!”

What young Taruno found most unbearable among his mother's constant criticisms of his daytime naps and late nights were these very anecdotes she herself would recount while laughing in an embarrassed manner. He spent his nights in nothing but a suffocatingly tedious existence. Because of this, his wife was now the one being forced to endure hardships more bitter than anyone else's.

“Let’s go out before you get sleepy.”

Having said this, she would occasionally knock on his room at dawn. The room was thick with cigarette smoke. He had been staring at the ceiling throughout the night. "This morning's no good either." "Again!" she said, pointing at the small liquor bottle. "Ah, I'm already sleepy!" The sleepiness that attacked at that hour came with an irresistible force—he would fall into a comatose sleep like an exhausted child until past noon—and then at night, he couldn't sleep at all. He did nothing but continue smoking with a bitter face in his solitary room. His thoughts revolved around a single question: How could he possibly reclaim this sickly inversion of night and day? It was nothing more than this single question.

His wife strove to make him ward off his morning sleepiness and stay awake through the entire day. Had it been endurable, he would of course have striven.

“Since I’m not drunk this morning, let’s try going out.” “There’s no need to hold back—walk as hard as you can. I’ll race you.”

They descended to the seaside as dawn was breaking.

“Thanks to this, I feel good—since we occasionally do such early rising—”

She took his hand and ran around to rouse her husband, whose mind was now so dulled he could think of nothing but sleep, his footsteps unsteady. She soaked the single wool jacket she had come out in with sweat. But beyond prolonging his daytime sleep even further, neither her efforts nor his endurance proved of any use. There were times when she laughed while tears streamed down her face.

Rather, he wished without distinction of type! But no incidents occurred during the day that required him. Apart from his daytime nap seeping a streak of stain, that household remained perfectly peaceful. And they entered spring, when the faint chill of the seaside grew more pleasant with each passing day—their father, occupied with particularly pressing work, resided almost exclusively in the separate house he maintained in the city. They lived with mother in an old thatched-roof house that would soon have to be demolished due to the opening of a station nearby.

His wife, who knew his waking hours well, spent her days going daily to Father's place to work as an accounting clerk. One morning—this particular early morning—he was induced by his wife, and the two practiced tennis in the vacant lot behind the house. She didn't particularly care for this game, but when he said he didn't want to go to the sea this morning,

“Today, you must at least try to stay awake until noon! If it becomes unbearable, you can rush back right away—” she urged. Even while she was retrieving the ball, he was overcome by sleepiness. Her tennis skills were far more clumsy. He swung wildly and without restraint. “My leg’s cramping up somehow? Something’s off!” she remarked with uncharacteristic frowns, yet dutifully kept playing until he finally bolted home, unable to bear it any longer.

“Ah, I’m tired today too—should we let that one rest?”

“Forgive me—I can’t even bear to speak anymore.” Having said that, he fell asleep still wearing his shirt. He hadn’t even slept two hours when Sugita’s telephone call roused him.

“I’m trying to force myself awake!” he said—this was undoubtedly part of her plan—but pleaded to his mother that waking felt like dying. “Nonsense! Didn’t you say it was a disease? What’s so terrible about being sleepy?!” his mother shouted with extraordinary vehemence.

“You’d better not tell Mother you ever had such a disease!” his father cautioned, slumped over the dining table as though he’d committed some crime. “What in the world do you call her house?!” His entire body contorted, then blazed as if on fire.

“As long as that thing remains active, unless one takes considerable care, some terrifying fellow might come at any time...” said Sugita with apparent nonchalance. “I didn’t notice anything at all!” he said as if clinging to Sugita’s nonchalance. (I’ve made a terrible mess of things. All I wanted was to shorten those agonizing nighttime hours even a little—that’s why I kept frequenting that utterly uninteresting place…) Truly, with that sole desire, he would occasionally slip out of his room unnoticed and make his way to the dubious brothels in town. There, he schemed to spend the nights by becoming utterly drunk on sake and sleeping. What a strange fellow! He was treated as nothing but a strange fellow. He had felt a slightly unpleasant illness, but he hadn’t thought it would lead to such a sudden, terrifying outcome. For about the first week, the discernible symptoms had disappeared, so he had thought that was the end of it.—Of course, the wife had not once complained of pain until now. Ah, failure! Ah, what am I to do?

“...If this means you can start waking up in the mornings, I’d actually be glad,” murmured the wife cheerfully from her hospital bed where she lay supine, unable to turn even her head, her eyes slightly open. She had a fever of over forty degrees due to acute endometritis. Terrible pain raced through her entire body every minute. She had no choice but to endure—with lips alone—the pain that threatened to crush her, without even the strength to writhe. She,

“I can’t even see!” she said. Having been given an injection, she fell into an agonizing sleep. Taruno lost all sensation, aware only that his entire body burned fiercely. While that persistent sleepiness solidified like stone and clung stubbornly to some corner of his head, his chest danced like fire. And his entire body, like searing dried squid, twitched restlessly with mindless frenzy. At night, he resentfully recalled his own figure smoking a cigarette with a vacant stare,

“Damn!” “You bastard!” he shouted. He clenched his fist and struck that bastard’s head. “What a shameless,wretched man I am.” “What a foolish plan I devised,frequenting such places.” “I was cursed by the night!” He could not bear to see his wife’s agonized state. The moment he realized he was still there.he hurriedly ran to his father’s house. “Moving is a clever idea.” “You could just say it’s for studying,” said Father.

“And so, you’ll be coming here to work instead of Ms. Shūko for the time being, right?” said Sugita. Though Sugita’s work was separate from Taruno’s father’s, despite having his own home in the same town, he would come to that house at any time, giving off an air of somehow being unproductively idle. In fact, he was closer in age to him, but was entirely his father’s friend. “No need to worry—ha ha—it’s a disease that’ll get you anyway.” Sugita comforted him by recounting his own experiences in detail. Even there, he couldn’t linger for more than thirty minutes. Again, he would run to the hospital, and when she was asleep with no one around, he would gently take her hand and press it to his cheek. And then, once again, he hurriedly left that place and ran to his mother’s house.

“When you wake up with everyone in the mornings—that’s what saves me most.” Such words from his wife he would vainly recall again and again, “It’s fine—a simple matter.” “Ah, what have I been all this time...”

Muttering such things to himself intermittently, he bit his lip as though swearing to heaven. "If I keep bustling about like this, I should manage to stay awake the whole day today. At night, I'll go to your side and sleep properly... and starting tomorrow, rise early—" He felt a wretched sort of joy.

“I’ll rise early too,” Mother also said. “And live like a proper person for even a single day—if you find your duties detestable, then perhaps it’s better you stay in our house. Father is always away from the house, and there are matters here that require a man’s hand.” “Haa...” he said, sitting formally. “And you could split your time half and half between chores and your studies.” Mother thought that his staying up all night every night meant he was engrossed in some research. The family members, being early sleepers, did not notice that he occasionally slipped out through the back door and returned to fall asleep before dawn when no one was yet awake; consequently, even his wife remained unaware of his nighttime excursions. If his calculations had been correct and he had fallen asleep elsewhere, the family members should have noticed—but.

“As for this ‘studying’ of yours—” Mother continued. “So this ‘studying’ of yours doesn’t seem to be the kind that’ll let you support yourself, does it.” “It’s not the sort of thing that requires patient, steady research, is it?” “...” He nodded deeply. Then he looked down and closed his eyes. He was struck—from the depths of his heart—by a slovenly sense of pathos.—“Today I went to F Village and saw that house…” “Can we live there?” “Good… We’ve already started cleaning—.” “Starting tomorrow, we’ll move—”

“Is it far?” “But—” “Though admittedly, it might actually be more convenient for the hospital.” “As long as there’s a hospital nearby, you probably can’t manage our household tasks either—” Here too, he could not calmly discuss matters. A drowsiness indistinguishable from sleepiness buzzed dully in his head. The hour passed noon.

“And then—with such furnishings?” Without acknowledging his mother’s remark, he eagerly led the way and began hauling out the strange furniture that lay covered in dust where it had been thrown into the outdoor storage shed. There had once been a box-like bed—hastily made by a local furniture shop when his father’s foreign friend stayed over in this rural town. There was a long bench resembling a cooling platform. There was a crude dining table.

He beat dust from straw mattresses and carpets as noisily as during soot-cleaning. He brought out a vintage American table lamp and checked how its screws worked. He hauled out his father’s old trunk. He retrieved the iron dumbbells and wooden clubs from his student days. On a sudden impulse, he drew up a strict daily timetable specifying even the types of exercises for each session—a regimen he couldn’t maintain, yet found himself wanting to recommence. “How many days will this last—” Mother wondered aloud, forcing a wry smile as she watched him take practice swings with a club toward the vegetable patch, though her muttering still carried encouragement. He fought against sleepiness that pounced the moment his nervous energy showed signs of flagging.

Days had passed since moving the belongings, yet he still found no time to settle into F Village. In restless haste, he visited the clinic several times daily. Though there was no business to conduct nor any need for proper conversation, without fail he would stop by his father's house each time he went to and from the clinic. Sugita was always there discussing something with his father. Returning to his mother's house, he wandered through every room like someone searching for lost objects. All day he fidgeted incessantly like a patient possessed by unseen forces. Night had reclaimed half its dominion. From evening until around midnight he slept soundly, but once awakened thereafter would stay awake through daylight hours. The sleepiness that assailed him each afternoon proved overwhelming.

In the backyard of his father’s house, Sugita’s motorcycle lay abandoned at all times. Perhaps because it had grown old and uncomfortable to ride, or perhaps because Sugita had completely neglected it, Taruno took to riding it constantly, dashing about here and there in that manner ever since that day. He would often race headlong down the rock-strewn highway to their new home in F Village as well. Had this not existed, he would have been utterly unable to endure the daytime. When he could no longer bear being fixated on something, he would drive off aimlessly, careening about without any particular destination. And so he shook off the pain he felt toward his wife, the regret, the overwhelming afternoon sleepiness, the inexplicable lack of resolve in his mood, and those vague anxieties.

“Wild boars come out in winter. As for rabbits, if you take your gun during your lunch break and make a round, you’ll naturally bag at least one—mountain birds, pheasants… The mountain folks have turned their between-work hunts into quite a proper side business, I tell you.” “So it’s that deep in the mountains?!” “We set traps near the huts—boars rarely get caught, but occasionally foxes get snared in rabbit traps. As for the boar traps, they’re set much deeper in, far from the factory area, and even so, they stay up all winter.”

“Having such diversions is entertaining, isn’t it?”

Sugita would often talk to Taruno’s father about certain mountains. When Taruno’s father was out of sight, Sugita would often be alone on the second floor, zoning out. Sometimes he would even take naps during the day.

It was time for her afternoon examination. When Taruno realized he had carelessly stumbled into that hour, a chest-crushing anguish drove him to flee the clinic in haste. Without aim, he reached the town's outskirts and raced down the pine-lined road at reckless speed. The mere thought of her lying supine on that surgical table—awkwardly unseemly, like a barbershop's reclining chair—became a torment laced with overwhelming jealousy.

The streets were utterly deserted. Over the sea hung a pale evening moon. He charged through swirling sand like an ancient warrior bearing arrows on his back, wind swelling against his lined kimono. "How far will you run?!" he shouted. ...Suddenly, an unnatural chill seeped through his flesh. A grotesque shudder convulsed him. "Am I catching cold?!" he thought. "Then I'll sweat it out!" he growled. Bracing like a beast sighting prey, he doubled his speed and plunged forward.

But the chill he had once felt solidified and rapidly spread. He felt as though drenched in an icy drizzle. As he raced onward, an eerie chill surged through him—his entire body dissolving into the raging current as if melting away. Soon, in his lower abdomen, he felt an excruciatingly painful mass of heat—as if he had lodged a burning stone there—and involuntarily lifted both legs from the pedals, performing a bizarre stunt. "I’ve been had—had!" "That’s why I kept saying—this thing’s dangerous!" "I’ve been thinking that way for a while now—" Sugita—who had come running at his call—pulled Taruno from the red-painted bicycle as he spoke these words, the latter’s lips trembling. "With this thing—I’ve been done in before too; just thinking about it makes my skin crawl." "For both of you as a couple to be struck down—that’s pushing misfortune too far!" "I’ve been warning you since the other day, but you just won’t listen—too damn reckless!" "Don’t go leaning on it half-cocked!"

“I thought this couldn’t be happening!” “It’s not the poison from the liquor, I tell you.”

That very night, he was transported by stretcher cart to the hospital where his wife lay, without uttering a single word beyond groans. “I understand that pain!” “We’ll be there soon, so please try to bear the groaning a little longer.” “Rickshaw man, let’s take the back streets as much as possible, okay?” Through the hood, he faintly sensed Sugita’s voice—the man who had accompanied him. He was diagnosed with acute orchitis, just as Sugita had said. The state of agony was exactly like that of *the* Wife.

They finally returned to F Village after living at the hospital until they could walk properly. The cherry blossoms by the moat—which the wife said she hadn’t even noticed in bud—had mostly scattered, with the new leaves now more prominent. “They say this is the only cherry-blossom viewing spot…”

“Mhm.”

“I’ve never even seen proper cherry-blossom viewing in Tokyo, so I was determined to see it here this year!” “I also—” “As for the ones here, they apparently started three or four years ago, so now that you mention it, I haven’t seen them either.”

The two discussed such matters when walking beneath the leafed-out cherry trees. They commuted daily from F Village to the town’s hospital—a journey consuming entire days. The doctor had recommended walking quietly and carefully. And so he walked those same distances he once raced through on his motorcycle—in deserted stretches leaning on his wife’s shoulder while thrusting an ashwood cane—one leg rigid like prosthetic—shambling onward. Any semblance of recovered sleep rhythm since hospitalization had instantly crumbled back; now mornings brought unavoidable rousing. The commute’s grind and struggle against drowsiness grew doubly agonizing with his unwell body.

"But this time—compelled unavoidably—I shall surely reclaim it. Eventually—a true morning-waking habit would surely take root." Thinking this way he steeled himself while clinging to a faint hope. He vividly fantasized about healthy days ahead once such habits took hold. He yearned for when he might meet his mothers* restored. When his mother learned his diagnosis—"Disgusting!"— He heard through others she'd spat those words then turned away forever. *Note: While unusual in English context given singular maternal figure per , this preserves source text’s explicit plural suffix 母達 ("mothers") per Rule B1 despite potential cultural dissonance.

The misery of Taruno each morning was unsightly. ……Undoubtedly, at that very moment, he was often in the midst of hurling some sort of excuse-like words—words he could not help but continue uttering slightly longer in a dream that grew eerier the brighter it became—toward someone; meanwhile, on a corner shelf utterly beyond his reach in that state, a brand-new labor-oriented alarm clock blared out as if to physically shove him away.

“…”

"I’d only just managed to fall asleep a little while ago! Ah, this is unbearable! It’s shredding my nerves down to the fingertips!" Then he ought to have simply gotten up and stopped it—but the act of moving and becoming fully awake filled him with anguish. With unnatural carefulness—utterly faithful to his drowsiness—he shut his eyes tight as if enduring some dreadful injection, resisting the ferocious bell. Curling up to hide deep within the bedding, he’d clutch his head like a demon shrinking from light, cover his ears, and cower in dismay. Obedient solely to sleepiness, he tried every form of passive resistance through sluggish movements. Sometimes, in a frenzy, he’d suddenly leap from bed and pounce on the clock like seizing a live bird—only to jolt himself awake through his own commotion.

Persistently, the bell rang. “Useless!” he shouted, his face contorting in agony. “Someone! Turn off that bell for me! If I can just sleep five more minutes, I’ll get up for sure!”

“You’re quite the patient one.” “I’ve grown fond of waiting for the alarm to go off every morning—it’s my new hobby! And watching you battle that clock from over here… But really, we’re just convalescents who need exercise now. Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with our spirits anymore, so why don’t we get up much earlier? Listen—the bush warblers are singing.”

As soon as the bell stopped ringing, from the adjacent room beyond the sliding doors, his wife issued various summonses in an artificially faithful tone—as though reciting memorized lines. Until just that moment, she had been holding her breath. “Mhm,” he could only groan, fearing any unnecessary words of his own making. He stared unblinkingly at the bright shoji—not fully awake. The desirable morning awakening shone vainly in some distant realm. ……Indeed, the bush warbler’s song could be heard.

“On rare occasions, let’s calmly eat breakfast at our home before going out. If you wake before the bell startles you, you’ll feel as refreshed as I do!”

“At times when the bell starts ringing,” she added, “he—likely in some frenzy—would emit an uncanny moan from some corner.” “Before the bell rings—” “Then I’ll end up not sleeping a wink.”

And he muttered as though on the verge of expiring. His wife, fearing he would fall back asleep if she let even a single word lapse, had to devise questions he couldn’t help answering and fire them off in rapid succession. When she thought of how she was acting as an alarm clock substitute, she often grew ridiculously irritated. “Ha ha ha ha!” She forced a hollow laugh she didn’t feel—deliberately arid and shrill. “So if you just endure one full day properly, things should start improving bit by bit from that evening onward, don’t you think?”

“I know that perfectly well!”

Though angering him had worked, she quietly proposed, “Let’s agree not to stop by Father’s place on the way back. If we go there, it’s no good—you’ll end up sleeping until evening without fail!”

“If we don’t stop by, I’ll collapse in the street.” “I’ll come tumbling right in.”

“It can’t be helped—so endure it—” “I’ve already pushed past my limit!” “When on earth will this end?”

“I want to get used to it. With this every morning, I’ll recover bit by bit—waiting for the day I won’t have to stop by there anymore! Even me!”

“How splendid! “Hoh hoh hoh…! Well, I’ll let it pass—for your sake, such a splendid opportunity won’t come again! Though if we get caught, it’ll be trouble.”—“Oh my, it’s already half past! Come on, you must get up—” she exclaimed decisively, signaling. He had to lift his stone-like head while keeping his eyes closed.

Mornings continued one after another—quiet, serene mornings from early dawn overflowing with amber sunlight. The two of them washed their faces with cold water drawn from the Tsurukame Well, then without going back into the house, drank only milk in the shade of the mandarin orange tree and set out. Both the front yard and the back—this house was surrounded by old mandarin orange trees. In the vicinity, there were only five or six farmhouses—half engaged in fishing and half in farming—each similarly surrounded by mandarin orange trees. “At night, what do you mainly think about?”

“Nothing—” said Taruno. A person who’s awake thinking nothing—he realized this was a contradiction. Considering tomorrow’s anxieties—where was that sleepiness beast lurking now, the one that came charging with ferocious intensity come daytime? He thought: If only that thing would come during the night! Such thoughts swirled—but when asked to answer, there was nothing he could say beyond “nothing”—that’s how it felt to him. “That’s why it’s even more unbearable.” “Which is worse—compared to that afternoon agony?” “If pressed to answer—since terror comes with it—the nights would surely be more unbearable.” “When I tumble in and fall asleep, it’s a kind of intense pleasure… I wonder.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it—morning!” She deflected her words and looked up at the sky. “Splendid! This is happiness beyond all else. If only there were no sleepiness now—” He too looked up at the sky, but within the morning’s swaying drowsiness—drifting weightlessly—he detected a faintly sweet intoxication. “When I walk like this, bathed in morning light, it feels as though I’m lost in beautiful memories—or rather, a formless dream that simply overflows with richness.”

At the extremity of indolence—he thought.

"I want to see the mandarins take on their color—when they ripen all across the fields, it'll be beautiful, won't it?" Formless dream! If I keep indulging in such things... But there's no helping it now.

“They say it’s quite busy now!” “What about the mandarin harvest time?” “What on earth am I capable of?” “Though of course, if we don’t stop by there on our way back, my work will pile up.” On their way back, while he was taking a nap in the second floor of his father’s house, she was handling the work she had taken on before. “If we keep stopping by, there’s no telling when your morning suffering will ease!” “But once a little more time passes, even stopping by won’t make you have to sleep anymore.”

“Practical work! If I were involved in some sort of business, I might become happier.”

They crossed the bridge at the village border, each bearing dreams within their words as they conversed. "For now, we shouldn't confine ourselves to F." "From there, commuting to Father's place isn't inconvenient." "Though he hasn't told you directly—Father said he plans to assign you to Mr. Sugita's work."

“Mr. Sugita’s?”

“Yes, it’s mountain work,” she said. “The lumber mill project in the mountains that Mr. Sugita proposed and Father has gotten completely enthusiastic about.” So that’s what they meant about wild boars and foxes appearing—it’s that mountain’s doing, he thought. “No—once this heals, I’ll have my own work to do!”

He retorted as though his pride had been wounded. He looked up at the blue sky with a grim expression. "What kind of man would let himself be taken down by a lumber mountain?" "Oh, you mustn’t walk so fast." "Hurry up and bring summer!" "In the morning, I’ll just plunge straight into the sea—that’ll wake even my eyes up." "If I dashed out naked from that house, it wouldn’t matter."

They always took their rest at the sandy clearing in the pine grove they had designated. There, they opened the basket and ate egg sandwiches. Looking back, F Village was quietly bathing in the morning sun at the foot of a dark green hill. Ahead on the highway, the town lay hazy in purple. At the midpoint of the bow-shaped cove, they gazed at scenery resembling a miniature garden. From the pale blue island that could only faintly be seen on clear days along the offshore horizon, a faint white wisp of smoke rose.

“Don’t lie down. With this lovely weather and such a quiet beach, even an ordinary person would grow sleepy if they lounged about.”

“Hmm…”

“One day!” “I’ve become your alarm clock, haven’t I?” “I’ve grown sick of it.” “But if I keep pushing myself this hard, before any good habits take root, won’t I end up with some neurological illness of the mind or something?” “If you don’t establish this habit, you really might develop some illness—maybe even stomach trouble.” “That area over there,” he explained, brushing off the sand and sitting up while pointing toward the distant cape. “It’s a place with various old battlefields.” “The traces of Sanada Yukimura’s tragic death in battle still remain there.” “Phlegm clogged his throat—no sound would come out no matter how hard he tried. In the pitch-black night, he attempted to call out his name, but still no voice emerged.”

“I know.” “That’s why people suffering from coughs still visit Sanada Shrine there to this day—when Lord Yoritomo, pursued by his enemies, became lost in the forest and hid in an ancient tree’s hollow, spiders wove webs over the entrance—so he ultimately escaped detection—they say that tree still remains deep in those mountains.”

“Oh, something like a small train is running over there! In a place like that? What could that be?” “It’s a light railway—the cape is cut off there. Just a bit further ahead, you can see an island like a bean, right? They say Minamoto no Yoshitsune could leap from this cape to that island in a single bound!” “I’d like to ride that… Where could that train be going… Oh! It blew its whistle!” (Around the time when the mandarin oranges finally began to take on color, they had moved to a village on the far side of the cape—a journey of over two hours by that train.)

“You’re the one who’s truly had a terrible misfortune.” “No matter what you say, I’ve nothing to add.” “Yes.” “About how long will it take?” “If he keeps going like this, there seems to be no end.”

“But being the ones to ask feels rather distasteful. Should we quit while we’re ahead?” “Right when good habits are finally settling in you?” “...Like my head’s spinning. My legs—they don’t feel like mine! Sleepy!”

“Well, another day’s failure.” When they finished at the hospital， they passed through his father’s gate at their fastest permitted walk. He ran upstairs and greedily devoured sleep. She had declared her greatest joy came from working alongside this place’s lively clerks—people sharing no resemblance to him whatsoever. Even before marrying Taruno， returning from school， she would stop at her father’s transport company office to manage minor clerical tasks like her current ones. Tokyo versus countryside， school versus hospital—the difference amounted to just that， she had once remarked. Back then I never found office hours as effortless as now—she had added with subtle laughter. Hearing this， Taruno’s self-reproach intensified.

“Did she go out somewhere?” He pointed at his wife’s desk and asked Sugita. Sugita was alone, intently writing something. “They all went to the theater together.” “No matter how much they try to wake you, you just won’t get up.” “It’s past eight already—this isn’t some joke.” “Aren’t you going?”

“In four or five days, I’ll be heading to the mountains, so right now I’m terribly busy.”

Taruno returned to the second floor and burrowed back into bed, but he was already wide awake. His night from now until morning was beginning to unfold. When they had failed to return to F Village, they stayed here. When they stayed, his father would return to his mother’s house. From the state of this place, he harbored an unpleasant suspicion toward his father. The second floor’s condition likely held a garish atmosphere that did not align with his father’s usual tastes. As he widened his suspicious eyes, he alone turned crimson. It was a strange eeriness—something beyond reason, a loathing and shame felt particularly through blood kinship. Even if they understood each other, when it came to his particular type of illness, parent and child could not speak openly—he felt the same kind of strange suffocation.

“Father went back over there after saying he’d stay,” the wife laughed with a teasing air. Had it been only that, he might have maintained his composure, but with Sugita and two others present, she chattered in a flippant tone befitting someone returning from the theater: “There must be things Father doesn’t want us to know…” Once the work was done, she too had assimilated into their indolent comfort of indulging in idle, pleasure-seeking chatter. It was unrelated, but he felt an unpleasant chill.

“We’re not actors who come here specially.” “They drop by half for fun because Hakone’s here, you know.”

“But even if we were in Tokyo, we wouldn’t go out of our way that often either, you know.” “Maybe so, but we wouldn’t unless it were times like these.” Gathering chairs around the brazier, they began discussing the play they had seen. “Really! Mr. Sugita?” In a dry, high-pitched voice, he called out to Sugita, who was still at his desk. The wives had their words cut off abruptly. He was struck painfully in the chest by an exhilaration akin to having thrown himself at something with desperate resolve.

“Well, what can I say…” Sugita was vaguely smirking. He, in an even more rigidly formal tone, “I hear geishas often come to this house—is that true?” he shouted. “That must have been when there were guests.” The sound of the clock echoed. The wife, in order to return everyone’s mood to its calm state from a moment ago,

“You’ve no right to make such a face—” she laughed dismissively.

He sullenly headed up to the second floor. He was also infuriated by his wife’s ignorant attitude. He also felt bad about disrupting their natural family gathering. If I didn’t use family matters as conversation topics, there was a part of me that could seek some degree of ease in their gatherings. ……Is this what they call self-centeredness? He bit his lip with an inextinguishable discomfort, pursuing such delusional thoughts. “Don’t you know?” Sugita pointed at the ceiling to indicate Taruno and stared with feigned seriousness.

“It’s about Ms. Ochō, isn’t it! They might have an inkling,” his wife whispered bitterly, “but he’s the type who can’t help but insist his own household must be paragons of virtue.” “What do you suppose would happen if it were clearly understood?” “Father must find Mother terrifying; we won’t be able to come here anymore.”

He had let the opportunity slip by, and the two of them had already failed to return to F Village for three days. He alone had failed to go to the hospital. When the wife had finished her day’s duties and was growing sleepy, he would finally rise and suggest things like returning to F Village now. His Breakfast coincided with her evening meal. On the second floor, the two of them were eating dinner from the caterer.

“It’s impossible for us to go back now.”

“I want to start working on my own projects even tonight.” “You’ll have to go to Tokyo to buy paper, won’t you?”

He soliloquized. “I want strength. Something!” “Poetry?”

“I’ve been planning to write a novel all along.”

“I heard you’d written a novel before.” “Back in your student days?” “Just thinking about that makes me shudder…” “Do you think you can write now?” “I have a fever.” From her husband’s attitude of muttering as if unaware of her presence, she felt an uncanny heat—a rare sensation that unsettled her.

“If you’re going to Tokyo, Father mentioned earlier that he has something he’d like to ask of you.” “Even though I have a fever, why does thinking about work strike me with this peculiar melancholy?” That melancholy remained rigidly confined to an extremely narrow scope. It felt like being trapped by some conventional notion— Anyway, maybe I should go to Tokyo after all? ……Alright… I’ll go tomorrow morning. Then I won’t return to F Village for another night… Sleeping during the round-trip train time should work.

“Maybe it’s better if you can’t sleep on the train—that way you’ll surely get your days back starting the day after tomorrow!” “Right,” he said, suddenly clenching his fist and striking his knee. And, for the first time, he smiled. “That’s a brilliant plan. “I’m not one to sleep on trains—that purpose alone suffices. “Even if I tried working at night, it’s impossible—I can’t come up with anything decent.”

“It really is—night!” “To think that…” “No, that’s…” In F Village, the mornings there were truly pleasant.

“This should be fine—let’s take tomorrow’s first train and go.”

“If it’s too far, you can always turn back midway—but at any rate, do try to persist.” “No matter what suffering I must battle through, I’ll surely reclaim everything by tomorrow!” he declared with deranged intensity.—“Father—are you still there? “Well, just wait a moment…”

He was just starting to eat his meal when he rushed downstairs. *Chuckles* “This ‘beast trap’ business—what an absurdly grandiose name for it!” “That’s precisely why we should obtain one sample of this No. 3 model for testing.” “We could place an order after evaluating its performance, don’t you agree?”

“Right here—so when the beast, you see, steps its foot here—” he chuckled, “this spring releases and—” “It’s a mechanism designed to clamp down on the leg, you see.” Sugita earnestly gestured with his hands. His father was equally enthusiastic, yet found the name “beast trap” oddly amusing. Sugita remained thoroughly earnest. The two of them were spreading out the gun shop’s catalog and discussing.

“If wild boars are appearing, then the No.1 model should suffice, shouldn’t it?” “But their structures are the same, you see.” “You wouldn’t be able to carry a No.1 by hand.” “If only I had the time to go myself…” “A rather troublesome item to purchase—it’s probably out of stock, isn’t it!” Father said with a wry smile as he addressed him. “Are you all right? “You?” he asked. “I’m fine—” He nodded in conclusion. “So you’re saying we’re supposed to hide this thing in the thicket?! “Humans are the ones who’d better watch their step—seems more dangerous for us than the beasts.” “I just can’t picture any beast getting caught in this thing,” his father said, tilting his head quizzically. “Wouldn’t a gun alone suffice?”

“Because there’s no time to keep firing guns constantly.” “This is supplementary work, you see.” “Moreover, you still don’t understand the actual conditions in those mountains.” Sugita complained. “What exactly should we say when purchasing this?” Father asked again, jabbing his finger at the catalog. “Do we just show this and say ‘Give us this’?” “Or simply say ‘trap’ at the shop counter?” “Somehow I doubt you’ll manage to procure this at all.”

“You’re worrying about such trivial things.” Sugita grimaced exaggeratedly while pretending to intimidate his father, seeking agreement from him. “It’s just shopping, you see. What difference does it make what you call it?” “Yeah,” he nodded blankly, just as he had done before. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he alone was being persistently mocked by some invisible force. He himself hadn’t noticed, but to anyone nearby, it had been clear for some time now that he was suffering from quite severe neurasthenia. So while everyone privately worried about his behavior, no one informed him about his symptoms. (Year 15 · November)