Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Why on earth were those fans hung in such a way—five or six of them!—in the transom of this sitting room? As decoration, they were far too garish! Didn’t they somehow seem to hold some secret?

But even so—what on earth were those things used for?
They were indeed fans, but the only ones who would use those as fans must be the Nio!

Taruno had often thought such things whenever he came to his grandmother’s house, but he had never particularly tried to ask anyone about them.
They were fans—fans no different in structure from ordinary folding fans—but the largest among them was nearly half the size of an umbrella.
There were some with gaudy colors like dance fans, and others with simple black ink paintings.

Such fans were spread out ostentatiously and framed on the lintel of the transom where spears, soldier’s hats, bows and arrows, and such were hung.

It was not until Taruno had reached young adulthood that he came to know those were called shading fans. There had been something akin to a hopeless romance, but even without it, he was beginning to feel that same degree of emptiness. If he said he didn’t want to see people and hid away, his chest would inexplicably tighten. He wasn’t the type who could travel. Yet come dusk, he found himself unable to remain alone. Even when engaging in cheerful banter with others, he would suddenly feel compelled to hide his face… It was during this first encounter with melancholy that Taruno made his grandmother’s house his most cherished “hideaway,” pleading to stay for extended periods.

“Now that we have parasols, we probably don’t need such things anymore, but in the old days, we’d use them like this—” Grandmother arched her back and raised one hand diagonally above her face.
“……We carried them like this as we walked.”

If only there were some contraption that let him converse with anyone without showing his face—Taruno, who sometimes found himself indulging in such absurd notions, slapped his knee in delight.
And then, he laughed.

“Like this…?” he asked with exaggerated admiration, but merely mimicking her gesture wasn’t enough—he snatched up some sort of graph that lay nearby and held it like a screen between his face and Grandmother’s.

“But why leave them hanging there so ostentatiously forever?” Taruno had asked his grandmother—now several years later, when he had become a novelist and once again chosen this grandmother’s house as his most favored “workspace,” recently requesting an extended stay.
The state of Grandmother’s house showed no change from how it had always been—down to the positions of those fans.
“The grandfather you never knew—” Grandmother began, speaking of her husband who had parted from her long ago,

“He hated those—” he said.
“He absolutely refused to use them. When we suggested it, he said ‘Well then let’s just hang these up as decorations like this,’ and placed them up there where we couldn’t reach—so they’ve simply remained that way ever since.”

Lately, Taruno was plagued by a mild melancholy.
Even when engaging in cheerful banter with anyone again, he would suddenly feel compelled to hide his face—

The old Chinese flowering crabapple tree in the garden was in full bloom.
Taruno’s prolonged reversal of day and night had resolved itself naturally without effort—lately, he woke at five each morning. This was the result of his “dawn” and “goodnight” gradually extended day by day, much like the shifting seasons: going to bed at daybreak, waking around two or three in the afternoon… until his “good morning” slipped into dusk, then full night, then midnight—until by springtime, it had finally aligned with true morning.
Taruno found the light somehow dazzling.

II

“Is Taki up yet?” Taruno called out from the window to Saikun.

Taruno’s “daytime” friend was none other than the poet Taki—who, if pressed to describe him, possessed not a shred of “shadow.” He visited Taki nearly every day—yet no matter how he tried, he simply couldn’t bring himself to announce his arrival properly at the entrance like any ordinary guest. He simply couldn’t manage it. He would skillfully use stealthy footwork to first peek inside from the window’s shadow. And if he noticed anyone other than Taki there, he couldn’t help but frantically turn on his heel. He was struck by the inexplicable sensation of cold water being dashed down his back—(this absurd figure of his, performing such strange antics in a deserted corner while feeling mocked by the blue sky!)—ducking his head and fleeing. When the house of the friend he had deliberately come to visit was hidden behind him in the shade of mandarin trees, he felt immensely relieved. Taki had many friends of various sorts, and Taruno would sometimes make futile visits for an entire week straight. Cutting through farm paths, descending meandering slopes, crossing bridges—the distance between their houses was considerable, so whenever his attempts failed, Taruno would dash off at tremendous speed should he encounter any of Taki’s household members along the way, not wanting them to think he had come to visit. Upon finally reaching the bridge area, he would catch his breath and rest—this had become routine.
“Where to?”—“Well… I’ve urgent business in the neighboring village.”
“Is Taki in?”—“Some friends have come to visit—it’s quite lively. Won’t you join us?”—“Ah, thank you, but perhaps I’ll call again later when it’s more convenient.”
If one came as far as the bridge, it became impossible to tell where someone had returned from; there, Taruno had at times encountered members of Taki’s household and engaged in such spirited exchanges.

He would have preferred to flee even from Taki’s wife if possible; peering through the window as usual, he unfortunately ended up meeting her gaze in that very instant. Without waiting for Saikun’s reply, he abruptly launched into frivolous chatter—voice oddly buoyant—blurting out things like: “My, what splendid weather we’ve been having every day!” and “Lately I’ve become such an early riser—I get bored three times before noon!” and “This house must bask in sunlight from dawn till dusk—perfect for Taki!” and “Fireflies will emerge next month! You’re a Tokyo native, so you’ve never hunted them, have you? Let’s all go together this year!” All delivered with feverish, forced cheerfulness. Even during what seemed like a romantic experience in his past—(yes, he had often visited T-ko’s window like this, yet whenever they met, he would end up confessing that he’d been wasting his time, failing to please her!)—he thought. Unable to bear the silence between them, he ended up rattling off nothing but frivolous remarks in an artificially cheerful manner—utterly unbecoming of someone in love—until he was perceived as an insincere man.

“Taki has gone to the beach alone… Well then, shall we go and see?” Saikun stood up immediately without waiting for Taruno’s reply.

It was a quiet morning beach bathed in radiant sunlight.

What they had mistaken for stones turned out to be living birds; crows and gulls right at the strolling pair's feet noisily flapped their wings as if thoroughly annoyed and soared upward like kites. That morning somehow hosted an absurdly enormous flock of seagulls too.
"It's like a beach in the South Seas!" Taki's wife remarked.

"Oh, my husband's over there—" When Taruno squinted at where Saikun pointed through the blinding sunlight, the only human figure visible was undoubtedly her spouse—Taki, dashing across the sand like a bean-sized doll. This was the same Taki who always wore white calico Western pajamas outdoors by hiking up the hem over baggy pants.
The rising gull flocks kept blotting out his figure as he stretched basketball-player arms toward flying birds, spun wildly, then chased others landing nearby. Lifting legs and swinging arms like a marionette, he misjudged a lunge and sprawled flat before springing up breathlessly as if catapulted by springs!
"Dragonfly!"
No sooner had he done so than he crouched low—Snap!—transforming into a human rice pestle, then a roly-poly doll! Undaunted, he kicked up his legs and leapt again, whirling fists like a windmill—there in amber sunlight, engulfed in snowy gulls, Taki performed his bizarre pantomime.

Taki’s wife called out with her palms cupped like a megaphone.
Her voice didn’t reach him at all.
“Why don’t you try calling him, Taruno-san?”

Taruno managed only a bashful smile, his voice failing him.
If only Saikun weren’t here—he thought.

“With this many around, you’d think you could grab at least one—but no luck! Ah ha!”
“And just when you think… can’t even touch a wing—”
Taki found it strange!
He tilted his head like a ballplayer who’d fumbled a catch.
Absolutely bizarre!
Not that you could blame him for thinking so—the seagulls were already perched serenely just a foot away from them.

“Ahh, soaked in sweat—gotta get this off!”

Taki said this and ducked his head into his shirt.
The shirt being a nightgown that reached his shins meant his face didn’t easily reappear.
Saikun helped partway through.

“What’s this? Playing the dandy, dragging that thing out at this hour!”

Taki pointed at the red-and-white parasol Saikun had brought—the kind meant for midsummer beach use.

“That’s a lie—Taruno-san said he’d carry it.”
“He must be terrified of tanning… this… this man…”

“J-Joke…” Taruno stammered.
“Um, um—you saw that I wasn’t wearing a hat and you—”

“Ha ha ha... Look at that red face! How silly—there’s no need to get so worked up, Taruno-san!”

Taruno’s spine had already turned into an iron rod.

“Damn it!”

Taki's voice had been too loud, making Taruno involuntarily strike his chest—Taki, who had been sitting cross-legged, lunged at the seagull before his eyes and ended up prone.
The seagull flew leisurely a few meters ahead.
Taki, still prone,
"Taruno—" said Taki.

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you been gone four or five days? Where’d you disappear to?”

“Ah!”

“If only you had come! My wife’s friend came by—a real beauty, Yoko-san! If you’d seen her, you’d have surely fallen…”
“If you saw that person—you’ve surely fallen in love…”

“Hey, cut it out, Taki!”

I saw!
I saw!
From behind the window!
Taruno muttered inwardly.

“You haven’t met F-san either, have you?”

“A damn Westerner won’t do for marriage—first off, Taruno here hates foreigners.”

“Hey, what’re you saying? Quit that talk—let’s go home.”

Taruno had also seen F—this Western girl whom Taki always called "foreign girl" or "Yankee girl" instead of using her name, nicknames that might make listeners imagine some vulgar flapper. But what Taruno always saw was a modest F. She was petite yet blessed with limbs as freely mobile as a boy's. He mostly caught her profile—eyes often downcast, long lashes casting shadows over what might have been green eyes. Those translucent blue eyes drew him into faint yet infinite loneliness when he gazed at them. She looked down at her own nose tip like someone contemplating pristine snow peaks. On rare occasions when she spoke, she would politely lift her eyelids each time, showering her listener with vernal breezes. Her lack of animated expressions made her seem noble; that coolness felt pleasant. When colloquial phrases left her at a loss for words, her silence only intensified the sorrow emanating from her solitary figure—a sorrow like sipping springwater from between rocks. Bathed in morning zephyrs, steeped in evening dew, she stood dyed crimson by sunset!
Taruno could not help but marvel at such things.
The exceptionally healthy blonde hair—rare to behold—curling inward at the nape was lovely…… I saw!
I saw!
I saw!
I saw!
Three times in a single day—Taruno muttered in the depths of his heart.

“Hey!” Saikun said to Taki.
“About the firefly hunting—Mr. Taruno knows a very good spot, so he says he’ll show us around.”

Taruno was startled.
He didn’t particularly know any good spots either, but just as he was about to attempt an amusing solo firefly hunt, he had carelessly blurted out such a thing in front of Saikun earlier—a complete blunder!
He thought.

“Is that true, Taruno?”

“Why…”

“Well, when I told F in Yokohama I’d send her some fireflies, she said she doesn’t want captured ones—she wants to chase them herself! That’s the reply I got—but here’s the thing, I don’t know any firefly spots. Well then, I’m counting on you.”

Taruno’s chest began to tremble strangely.

“But wouldn’t you dislike having such a girl accompany you?”

“Hmm…”

“I’d be fine just being told the location.”

“Hmm…”

On the way back, Taruno was made to carry that large parasol by Taki’s wife.

III

She was a grandmother devoted to Zen Buddhism.
And she was a simple, honest, cheerful old woman.
Except for those two times he saw the old woman’s displeased face, Taruno was always the faithful and only grandson.
One time, when he carelessly let slip, “Maybe I’ll have some beef,” the old woman covered her mouth,

“Go eat in the bamboo grove then!” she said.
Another time, when he ran past the vegetable field on fertilizer day while pinching his nose… he was caught and earnestly lectured about ‘reason’ on this occasion.
Otherwise, grandmother and grandson lived a harmonious life for two.—The grandson would sometimes silently draw water from the deep bucket well to assist the maidservants.
He would sometimes cut butterbur and cucumbers for the dining table or shoulder a hoe to go dig bamboo shoots.
He took charge of handling the lamps and lanterns as well.
He swung an axe and chopped firewood.
—For him, doing such work was easier than being idle.
His waking and sleeping schedule simply differed from those around him—it wasn’t that he slept excessively—yet because of this, the mothers thought him a hopeless idler. But when awake at night, he far better maintained an assiduous sentiment toward something, as if guided by his heart’s true inclinations.
He felt awkward when not working.
Occasionally, he would enter that imposing study room—designated as his workspace—with its daunting projectiles and decorations, and sit before the desk, but he could never grow accustomed to daytime studies.

He would sometimes obsessively remove insects from the palm and plum trees.
He would help weed the bamboo grove and assist with tea picking.
When night fell，he would spend the brief time before bed—preferring this to idle chatter—reading tales of filial piety and heroic legends aloud beside the old woman.
There were also nights when they would compete in half-bow technique or lose themselves in tōsen-asobi games until late into the night with just the two of them.
He did this reluctantly but endured the numbness in his legs and even learned some Noh chants from Grandmother.

Be that as it may, for him, daytime was so anxiety-prone that it became strangely, foolishly easy.
Even when he sat in his study, he felt awkward; even when he went to Taki’s place, someone would be there, making him flee back—in such times, it became his habit to hide even from the old woman and retreat into the bamboo grove.

Because the deep bamboo grove ended at a cliff halfway in, even midday grew dim there. And since its upkeep extended to every last corner, no eerie atmosphere arose—not even for Taruno, who, despite his familiarity with nighttime, couldn’t bring himself to walk alone along pitch-dark paths.

The bamboo grove formed a central depression halfway through. Avoiding bamboo shoots and treading on dead grass, he had advanced four or five ken when looking back—the bamboo thicket he'd traversed now loomed overhead like a suspended canopy. It was a hollow resembling a boat's keel. As he pressed deeper through this basin toward the cliffside, the terrain became a damp stretch locals called the Dry Moat. Evergreen trees stood thick and lush there. When he paused at the moat's edge and tilted his head back, the cliff—mantled in dwarf bamboo and crowned with ancient podocarpus and camellias—seemed to press down upon his very brow. Filtered through sunlight, the shallow water's surface seethed with foamy bubbles like crustacean breath rising through marsh gas. Occasionally he glimpsed young turtles hunting live prey in the mire.

At the base of the depression, a corner that turned to reeds one ken ahead—stretching beyond to the Dry Moat and backed by a black cliff—had become a pleasantly sunlit spot.
Weak sunlight dappled across horsetail and lawn, speckling the ground——.
Taruno had strung a hammock between a camellia branch and cinnamon trunk there.

Even when he craned his neck, only slivers of blue sky peered through.
At times a Japanese white-eye trilled from camellia shade while a breeding toad croaked among reeds.
He would lie in the swaying bed reading books or drifting through night-like reveries.
Before long the surrounding evergreens would morph into undersea kelp forests swallowing his nest.
Leaves shaken loose by flapping wings became minnows schooling through liquid air.

He would also sometimes ride the swing hung from an oak treetop.
When he cut through the wind, a refreshing stream of clear water coursed through his entire body—the water transformed into lightning that roared in his chest or became a meteor’s tail that grazed past his eyes.
When tired, he would sit down and, while gently swaying, reach out to pluck mulberries or gather wild strawberries.

One day, as he settled into his usual swing and became a gentle pendulum, he suddenly noticed a lovely Western girl standing across the Dry Moat before him.
She leaned against the camellia trunk, gazing vacantly in his direction.
The opposite side blurred like a magic lantern projection, and though the glittering light from his vigorous swinging obscured his vision, he kept moving through the arc—stopping abruptly would feel too strange.
Yet through this rocking ship window of perception, he fixed earnest eyes upon her with lighthouse intensity.
...Otherwise I could never maintain such focused observation of another's face!
He swung even higher.

“Rautendelain!” Taruno muttered without any sense of wonder.
And when he looked closely, it was F disguised as the “Forest Maiden.”

At the same time, Taruno discovered himself dozing in the hammock with The Sunken Bell clutched to his chest.

Taruno turned bright red and tumbled down from the hammock. And he, clutching his stomach, tried to laugh, but the laughter was hollow and utterly failed to come.

He, jokingly, raised his voice,

“Craaacks, craaacks! Brekkekkex!” he shouted, yet still couldn't laugh. Far from laughing, he found himself trapped in a gloom as if he'd truly become Nickelmann himself.

“Craaacks, craaacks!” he called out once more, but Taruno’s face only transformed into a sorrowful crow.
He stood dumbfounded.
The foolish, hollow voice merely echoed absurdly through the treetops.—He noticed the corners of his eyes growing hot and frantically leaped onto the nearby swing,

*Laugh! Just laugh!*

Until he could reach it! As he chanted this to himself, he began swinging with wild abandon.

IV

F leaned against the alcove pillar with an air of distress!
Her legs bent like a deer’s in what appeared to be bashful discomfort.

“Feeling cramped? F-san!”
Taki’s wife occasionally wondered.

“No, it’s quite alright!”
F answered with a faint smile, smoothing the hem of her short skirt.

“Do you think I can understand this?”
Taki’s wife flipped through pages of the hefty Western book on her lap.
She only lingered when encountering color plates.

“My! S-ko is such a master of restraint!”
“Oh dear, I’ve done it again—it’s S-ko!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Taki!”

“My! How wicked you can be, F-san!”

And they laughed together.
As F doubled over laughing with both hands on her hips in a mock bow, her slender necklace adorned with spherical ornaments(?) swayed through the air like a spider.

The two continued conversing amiably for what seemed an eternity.—Then when sliding doors at corridor's end opened from behind folding screens emerged crimson-laced armored samurai shuffling unsteadily.
The ill-fitting suit hung absurdly low with tassets drooping past knees.
That visage - mere eyes peering through mask slits - this armored form advanced through tatami space while none believed human dwelled within; stirrup plates scraped floor-center then unfurled wing-like sleeves before obstructing women's path—

“How’s that!” he boasted.
It was Taki’s voice.

They clapped their hands and clutched their stomachs.
The samurai set up the camp stool he had brought himself and plopped down heavily.—Once he did so, it no longer looked like something worn by a human at all.
It was now merely a complete set of armor placed there and nothing more.

“It must be quite heavy!” Taki’s wife called out, imagining her husband—thin as a dragonfly and small-statured—inside the ill-fitting armor.

“It’s not heavy,” came a heavy, artificial voice from the iron mask—complete with beard and mouth slit—resting atop the armor. “But there’s no way I could fight in this thing.”

“The other day when I went to the Imperial Theater with Papa and the others, I saw a knight wearing the same thing, but that knight fought very bravely!”

“That knight was surely some sort of fabricated model—no, even if not—or rather, had this been tailored properly to my frame, I might’ve shown you even a glimpse of an armoured warrior’s dignity here…” replied the armor without so much as a twitch, sounding disgruntled.

“Oh, thank you—that’s quite enough.”

“Didn’t Taruno’s grandmother make a troubled face? When I borrowed it—”
“When I borrowed that—”

“She was quite pleased.”
“There are still more things I borrowed, F—I’ll show you now. There’s a kamishimo, there are shading fans too. I got one especially for you—I’ll give it to you.”

“What had Taruno been doing?” asked Saikun.

“He was out again today…”

“My!”

“He apparently left saying he was coming to our house, but since it’s awkward, I’ve been playing along with that story—though it’s strange, every single day!”

When Saikun and the ornamental armor began such talk, F drew near the armor and examined it curiously—touching the mask’s mouth slit, tapping the torso, making the tassets clatter noisily... observing every detail.

The armor continued speaking as it was.
“Today for instance, she asked if we hadn’t run into him along the way—but of course he never came here! What could I do? Right!”
“So then—figuring he must’ve gone digging for bamboo shoots or something—Granny and I went all the way into the depths of the grove to check, but…”

“Wasn’t he there?”
“Yeah.”

――――――――――

F, wearing what appeared to be Saikun’s flannel kimono, was leaning against a rattan chair. She seemed to have just bathed, but perhaps because she was always so vivid, she didn’t particularly give the impression of someone fresh from the bath. When the maid carrying the mirror stand chased after her from behind, she waved her hand dismissively. Even without applying any makeup(?), her lips were as red as a camellia flower. Her cheeks were as plump as a peach.

She moved her chair near the north-facing window and was gazing at the distant purple mountain range.
Taki quietly sneaked up from behind and leaned against the back of her chair.
She turned around without showing any surprise and simply smiled up at Taki's face.
Taki had lately abandoned his slovenliness and was always neatly dressed.

They would often playfully hold hands, bring their faces close in earnest conversation, or lean against each other’s shoulders—yet such behavior didn’t even cause the slightest discomfort in Taki’s wife.

“Which one is Mount Hakone?”

“No—Mount Hakone refers to that entire mountain-range over there, you see? Um...”
“In other words, the total... does that work? Understand?”

“Oh! I’d thought it was just the name of a single mountain.”

“Each of those peaks has its own name—Myojingatake, Hijirigatake, Komagatake—where ‘gatake’ works as a synonym for ‘the mountain’... but if you ask me which one’s Myojingatake or what’s what, I couldn’t tell you. I do know those two identical dome-shaped mountains standing side by side are called Futagoyama—”

“By combining them both?”

“Yes. If we were to go to that village at the foot and ask one of the elders, we might learn that Futagoyama splits further and bears two separate names, but…”

“There are two ponds beneath that mountain, aren’t there!”

“There are—I believe one was called Otamaga Pond and the other Hyoutan Pond… Then—” Taki trailed off, redirecting his fingertip as if fearing further detailed questions. “As for this area further out, it was collectively called Mount Ashigara—but which one would be Mount Kintoki?”

“Which mountain has the fireflies?”

“Was F thinking about fireflies—? They wouldn’t be found in those mountains. Even if they were, you couldn’t go hunting them at night.”
“As for fireflies—they’re in places you can visit briefly after dinner, though truthfully I don’t know the exact spots myself yet. My friend Taruno is supposed to guide us…”

“What a beautiful night that must be!
“In streams and fields alike, particles of light swirl and dance—that’s what I heard from Taki.”

“I merely passed on what I heard from Taruno, but my friend said that even our most beautiful adjectives would prove useless there—‘Just imagine! A Fairy Land!’”

F gazed up at Taki's face in rapt fascination.

"I understand perfectly what magnificent vistas unfold in F's mind—and what's in mine, you too—"

"..."
She nodded with poignant intensity.
Then pressed an impulsive kiss to Taki's forehead.

Soon Taki's wife joined them, their cheerfulness orbiting that imminent blissful night they endlessly yearned toward.
When darkness fell, Taki's father materialized and commenced dancing.

The old man, thoroughly in high spirits, waved a Western goblet for the youths attempting to head to the firefly gathering!
He performed playful frolics in heavily rolled-R English and such.
The old man, further emboldened, performed an antiquated, peculiar dance with F as his partner.
F swayed her upper body lightly, seemingly just keeping time with her partner’s dance; whenever they faced each other during intervals, she would pinch both ends of her skirt and bow in a formal pose—this being her accompaniment. The old man moved his waist like a rice-sowing farmer, shook his shoulders like a pompous general, stretched his arms fern-like, all while executing exceptionally skillful steps.
The old man’s figure resembled a gorilla dancing before a noblewoman.
The old-fashioned noblewoman maintained a smile within the bounds of the dance, her eyes upturned in an expression of perfect contentment.—Taki leaned against his wife’s shoulder as she tended to the gramophone, his gaze fixed intently.

――――――――――

Taki settled into a chair and lay back.
It was a lawn under mandarin orange tree shade.
On one armrest of Taki’s chair leaned Saikun—engrossed in knitting.
On the other armrest leaned F, gazing up at the sky.
She gently swung the toes of her crossed shoes.

Taki heartily hummed an extremely childish song he seemed to have created, taking inspiration from that impression of the seagull-covered beach from some time ago, without the slightest restraint.
Exclamations of “Ah!” and “Oh!” poured freely from his mouth.—And those feeble, comical antics of his from that time—his hopping and leaping—had all been transformed into solemn-seeming (chiefly through his vocal inflections), hollow “symbols of yearning,” rendered as groundless ornate phrases.

But the women seemed bewitched by the foolish poet’s words.
When the poet paused intermittently to seek the women’s impressions, Saikun’s eyes shone with reverence; the foreign girl pressed a kiss to the poet’s hand.
Evidently Taki had prepared in advance for F’s sake—the somewhat convoluted passages (though these were few) he translated into English and read aloud.

“Every impression from our firefly night—rather than Taki’s poem—I wish to present to Papa as my own feelings; Papa will assuredly write you a letter of gratitude.”

Taki nodded.

The tips of F’s lacquered shoes were kicking at the light filtering through the leaf shadows.

――――――――――

Taruno, his face buried in the boxwood hedge like a bee, peered intently through opera glasses at the tips of F’s shoes.

As she looked up at the sky and smiled, her large, round eyes transformed into massive green stones that engulfed Taruno’s glasses.
The milky expanse of sky, aglow with light, undulated like waves on a spring day—it was her dew-beaded chest whitening Taruno’s glasses, her lips transformed into lotus blossoms that enveloped his face—.

The handful of scenes likewise cited in the preceding four sections were merely those most easily narrated—hastily compiled in a careless manner—from the countless “stage scenes” that Taruno daily observed while holding his breath: peering through gaps in blue windows adjoining clusters of trees or lurking beneath boxwood hedges.

……In the end, Taruno was a pitiful “spectator” driven by uncanny ardor.

Five

Dwarf bamboo grew thickly.

Taruno, upon reaching the sun-drenched hilltop where sunlight bathed his back, began swiftly descending the steep, densely vegetated slope that abruptly became a cliff there—clutching at akebi vines like a plummeting stone.

In the depths of that bamboo thicket, even at midday, it was dim.

One day, as he sat on the swing by the dry moat as usual, absorbed in thoughts as deep as water’s depths, he suddenly looked up at the sheer cliff before him—
“That’s it—if I make this my route, I should be able to reach Taki’s house in five minutes!” he realized.
“No matter how many times I come and go, no one will ever find me out,” he thought, a lonely smile playing on his lips.
No matter how much he resolved himself, he could never bring himself to visit Taki’s room where F resided as a proper guest.
Taruno, who would normally peek when others were present in hopes of finding Taki alone only to flee back, now made no attempt to speak even when he did find Taki alone.
He remained endlessly waiting for F to appear.

For Taruno, there existed no shortcut as desirable and convenient as this cliff.

For Taruno, ascending and descending this cliff had long ceased to be any trouble.
While muttering something entirely different under his breath, he could now descend even such a perilous path through near-unconscious movements.
Having fled Taki’s brightly lit window to reach this place, he would revert to singular emotional exhaustion and desolate ease—akin to theatergoers wearied by the spectacle stepping out into some night-skied playground to draw deep breaths while awaiting the next act’s rise.

The spots where he clung—the camellia trunk, green bamboo, wild mulberry branches, Japanese hackberry trunk—each took on an unnatural sheen from Taruno’s daily touch, like park exercise equipment. Within the dwarf bamboo, a faint path had formed unnoticed. The root nodules of trees that served as footholds were selected. The trees he leapt to cling to were chosen in a zigzag pattern, like obstacle pegs hammered into a toy marble run.

Even blindfolded now, he would never mistake which tree branches to grasp when leaping down; even if military commands were barked for each sequential movement, one would find no variance in the tempo of his motions compared to previous attempts. Wherever he leapt, an iron bar would surely lie; wherever he raised a leg, a blue void would await. With the mechanical precision of calisthenics—gazing at birds in the azure sky—his limbs moved unconsciously to execute even that perilous “bat” maneuver among the branches. With such practiced ease, Taruno reverted to his days as a champion of this discipline who once played across various apparatuses—leisurely pulling vines, launching into flashy techniques with hollow bravado, clanging and leaping to make green bamboo leaves rustle... Like an audience member sneaking onto a night balcony, electrified by the performance; or conversely, like a student fleeing an exam hall upon realizing failure—scratching at his disheveled hair all the while—heaving crab-like whispers of self-mockery—glistening with faint tears in owlish eyes—.

The camellia branch there, wings spread above eye level, made an ideal "horizontal bar" for leaping; the ancient oak clinging upside-down to the cliff resembled both Yosemite’s strange rock formations and a carved horse with a luxuriant mane. Having transformed into a monkey, he leapt from the akebi vine to the camellia staff; darting from camellia staff to hackberry treetop as a white-eye bird, then disguising himself as a Trojan warrior to hide beneath the oak’s shadow.

Upon reaching the cliff base, he climbed a green bamboo stretching like a carp streamer pole, bent it to trace a ballistic arc, and vaulted over the damp earth in one breath. Now the twin green bamboos on both banks arched over the dry moat like fish-trap baskets, perpetually poised for the acrobat’s appearance.

He covered himself with the blanket and became a stone inside the hammock.

And then, after remaining utterly still for a while, the figure of F that had lived so achingly in his heart until now would become someone as distant as a fairy-tale character.
This was nothing more than his usual pre-writing torment!
There were times when he could believe this.
……No sooner would he think this than he’d suddenly transform into a private who’d heard reveille and leap up, then become a secret theatergoer with a lover onstage—his heart racing as if struck by the opening bell—hurl himself onto that primitive-era weapon-like leaping apparatus to turn into a stone projectile, and madly scramble back up the cliff he’d just descended—a frequent occurrence.

——He became a stone within the hammock.

He let out a heavy sigh and sat up.

He hurriedly adjusted his dignified bearing and slipped out of the bamboo grove toward his grandmother’s house.
He transformed back into an inconspicuous stroller on flat ground, dragging his garden clogs with hollow clacks.
Then he sped through vegetable plots, cut across the garden, verified his solitude beneath the Chinese quince tree now fully veiled in fresh leaves, straddled the waist-high window, and vaulted into the study.

In the alcove, the crimson-laced armor that had been missing for four or five days had reappeared.
Only the small shading fan decorated with gold-leaf scattering of aged cherry blossoms showed chips across its surface, while the transom’s arrangement had been restored to its former state.

Taki must have come to return what he borrowed today—when would F leave?—Taruno muttered while alternately gazing up at the transom and studying the alcove ornaments.

Whether it was because Taruno had been startled when shown the armor that had suddenly begun moving on that occasion, as he vacantly stared at the suit of armor there—which he had never paid any particular attention to before—he felt as if Taki’s voice might leak forth at any moment from its square-jawed mask.

“Well now—the firefly hunt’s well and truly canceled!”
Taruno muttered.
Then with somehow fearful trembling while recalling F’s demeanor, he approached the armor, tapped its helmet, and inserted his fingers into its faceplate.

Taruno never intended to lie to Taki and the others.
"There's a famous spot for Genji fireflies!"
"I saw the firefly battle!"
"My eyes were overwhelmed by a blizzard of fireflies!"
"With swarms of fireflies dancing over the water—the stream there formed stripes of light!"
"Looking up at the sky—it was like stars shattering and scattering!"
——Indeed having heard such an extraordinary tale from his grandmother—even Taruno found himself involuntarily widening his eyes.

One evening, he drove his motorcycle beyond the village outskirts under the pretense of scouting, crossed the pine-lined road, followed the embankment—This must be the spot! He ascended the riverside where he thought [the spot] would be, but in this area, even if what they called fox-fire lanterns came fluttering toward the lights, no one paid them any mind—they only occasionally emitted faint, flickering glimmers. Small fireflies no larger than bladder beetles—he merely caught glimpses of such creatures flashing briefly on the opposite bank now and then, not even encountering any child hunters.

But since Taruno could no longer proceed by car and had turned back, he remained certain that setting out on foot and venturing further upstream would surely lead him to the kind of firefly habitat described in the stories—yet when it came to actually trudging along such a dark path alone, an unbearable timidity overcame him. That said, the thought of rounding up those reckless souls across the bamboo grove who clung to similar hopes and setting off without any clear plan felt like a burden too heavy for him alone to bear.

“Hey, Taki! And I can’t blame you all for thinking me a liar—what am I to do!” he pleaded to the armor that stood solemnly at attention as though awaiting orders from the living.

“And when I think how I’m gradually being shut out by all of you—it’s so lonely.”

“Did you go out earlier?”

When just the two of them had finished their quiet dinner, Taruno’s grandmother inquired with undisguised displeasure.

………

Taruno was—oh, that’s it! Had he been discovered again?! He realized this but deliberately widened his eyes in feigned ignorance and tilted his head. He had been certain there was no chance anyone would find it, but unbeknownst to him, his grandmother alone had already discovered that pathway. ——“Oh... right... just went to Taki’s for a bit...” he muttered half to himself in resignation.

Grandmother had always urged—even forced—him to socialize with others, but when he did visit people through back routes—“How preposterous!” she would exclaim—it drew her sharp disapproval. “Sneaking through a pathless bamboo grove—it’s not like you’re a burglar!” she lamented, deeply dissatisfied that he would leave through the front entrance only to never approach from it properly. And Taruno said not a word.

“Mr. Taki was likely out—he appeared here just before you returned! Again!”
“When they asked where he’d gone, I couldn’t possibly say he’d come to your house… How mortifying!” she gasped.
“It’s beyond shameful how this keeps happening—‘I slipped out quietly to dig bamboo shoots or—’” But when I said that, Mr. Taki just smirked and—

“Your bamboo grove is quite remarkable—it always has bamboo shoots, no matter the season!”

I blushed,

“Or else—” he involuntarily trailed off,

“I have business to attend to…”

“I’ll go check on it—please wait a moment—” she entreated and stood up, but Mr. Taki, thinking he might encounter someone along the way, returned down the original path with youthful vigor—“The mere fact that your single misdeed could cause such immeasurable trouble for everyone! I’d have been better off never noticing!”
The anguish I feel is indescribable—I’ve been made to learn such lies for the first time in my life… As things stand, I can no longer face Mr. Taki!…

“That—” The grandmother pointed at the distant bamboo grove—though the surroundings were still bright, that spot alone had already plunged into pitch-black darkness.
“Can’t you put a stop to that?!”

“……”
Taruno could do nothing but bow his head in speechless defeat.
—And he clearly longed for blue-eyed F.

“Well? Your answer?”

“……”
Taruno was breathing with his shoulders.

“Or perhaps you and that foreign woman—”

“!”
Taruno jolted.
He stiffened.

“If you’re so fond of that foreign woman, why don’t you marry her and go off to America or somewhere—I’ll bid you farewell.”

“…………”

How had Grandmother come to know these secret feelings of his?—As he thought this, Taruno found the old woman terrifying.

“I saw an alluring Western hand mirror on your desk—what’s the meaning of that? When I checked the pocket watch you left behind here, there was a photograph of a Western girl pasted inside the lid!”

“…………”

“I’ve heard your strange sleep-talking!”

“…………”

“Before I knew it, you’ve developed a terrible habit of sleeping in!”

“…………”

When confronted with this observation—the time of morning awakening was gradually lengthening, and nighttime falling asleep was following suit!
And yet he had stopped doing any outdoor work like before!
If it weren’t for dinner time, he wouldn’t even meet face-to-face with Grandmother!
He noticed.

“At any rate, I want you to stop cutting through that bamboo grove—”

“…………”

“How about returning to your own home for the time being…”

“…………”

“You should go home.”

“……but—”
Taruno, who had drawn his forehead nearly to his knees, whimpered in a voice as thin as a mosquito’s.
—He would surely regain a healthy life and return; until then, no matter what happened, he wouldn’t even glance toward his own home—such was the promise Taruno had exchanged with his mother when coming to his grandmother’s house.
It was Taruno’s grandmother who regarded sleeping in as a sin.
It was Taruno who had originally exchanged a firm promise with the old woman and eagerly requested to stay.

“……I’d been worried there was no drizzle even after the rainy season started, but well, it’s good—the rain had come. Now I could rest easy… A dry rainy season is ill-omened.”

“…………”

Taruno didn't so much as glance.

“Now then, do give it some thought.—Anyway, I must go offer a lamp at the household altar.”

Before long, the sound of the grandmother striking the wooden fish could be heard.

As Taruno quietly raised his face to look outside, a man in a straw raincoat darting into the bamboo grove at a trot caught his eye.