Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was the first time he had visited Seiyūtei alone.
――It was midday in May.

“Let me make this clear first—I didn’t come here today on business, you know.”
“...Call a geisha and let me have fun.”

He stood abruptly in the entranceway and made that excuse with a sullen expression.
When she saw him, the proprietress averted her eyes and silently bowed her head.
Because his chest tightened for a moment, he—flustered and desperate to conceal that feeling—forced a cheerful laugh, though he had never wanted to say it.

“Even I want some time to myself for fun when things have come to this!” he declared in an oddly strained voice.
Now that things had come to this... those words already left a sentimental echo in his chest.

Seiyūtei was a house he knew well.
Before the earthquake had destroyed or burned it down, there had been days during those roughly six months when he came continuously—so it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he had been visiting this place nearly every other night.
His father had grown close to a woman named Ochou, and his father’s business consultations kept him so busy that many guests came from places like Tokyo.
Mother, being jealousy-ridden, would abruptly send him to Seiyūtei when midnight approached.
There had often been times when Mother and he would barge in together, making Father’s face turn red.

“The master’s hundredth-day memorial is already the day after tomorrow, I hear.”
“How quickly time passes...”

The proprietress, seeming somewhat at a loss, guided him by the hand—as though taking it—to sit formally by the window.

“You know it’s the day after tomorrow well, don’t you.
I’d forgotten all about that until the day before yesterday.”

Even though Seiyūtei was a place he was accustomed to, he had never come here as the host and alone, so he even found himself unsure where to rest his eyes.
He faced the dining table, extended his slender frame, and sat formally.

“No one would forget.—Besides, there was a notice from your house yesterday.”

“What notice?”

“The invitation—”

“Here, ah! Mother, perhaps?”

There was no need for him to question it further—he had already accepted it as true in his heart—but he feigned ignorance with practiced nonchalance.
He had a habit of affecting such contrived nonchalance in that manner.
And,

The fact that he had made the proprietress spout hollow flattery like “Her Ladyship is quite perceptive” was rather a product of his simian cunning. As he kept stirring up such foolish thoughts within himself, he began to feel he could clearly picture each of his close family members standing apart from one another.

What a pitiful mother—he thought this and, convinced he possessed some coldly discerning eye, indulged in delusions of grandeur.

"My mother is quite the odd one, isn’t she? Preaching morals is all well and good, but alas—her jealousy runs deep. In the end... she reveals her true nature before me—"

“That’s all in the past now.”
The proprietress interrupted him in a scolding manner.
The proprietress discerned the shallowness of his heart.

“I’m getting properly soused all by myself today.”

“From now on, you’re the family head—you must show resolve. Try to understand your mother’s feelings a little…”

“Such rumors—they say ever since the old man died, the house keeps tilting further?”
“They claim it’s because the eldest son keeps striking empty poses.”

“My apologies—while your mother remains steadfast…”

“Flattery, huh!” he maliciously speculated. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t believe this proprietress held his mother in such high regard.

“You know, the other day when I saw you visiting Mother, I couldn’t help but find it hilarious…”

Carelessly, he said such things and felt an irreparable regret. Considering his own figure blithely airing the family’s disgrace, he felt a sense of being beyond salvation. Even so, he thought—if somewhere there existed a man like himself, and someone were to flatter that guy relentlessly from the sidelines, play the listener, and watch his ruin unfold—how amusing that would be.

“Where exactly is my mother being resolute?”

He said with a faint smile.

“She does come through—”

“But you probably don’t think so… If she’s coming through, that’s appreciated, but what’s your impression of her as seen through your eyes?”

“You’ve had quite a bit to drink.”

He wasn’t that drunk yet.
In truth, he thought his mother—as perceived by this proprietress—must align somewhat with his own contemptuous view of her.

He recalled several scenes from when his father was alive.
They were all scarcely different from what one might see in low-grade shinpa plays.

...His father—a feckless charmer swept up in business ventures—and his mother, who outwardly upheld their old family’s prestige while striving to force her husband and son into antiquated education. Yet her husband despised her.

“A man who spent over a decade abroad—abandoning his wife and child, squandering the family fortune—”
“What family status or lineage? They say ours is a rank lower—and there’s Mother, flaunting that very pretense.”
There were times when her husband drunkenly said such things to his son.
“She’s the jealous type, st-st—at her age…”

When Father would say such things, he would laugh in amusement.
And in his solitary heart, he grew melancholy.
He was an older delinquent who had already taken a wife yet possessed neither notable intellect nor skill, idling away his days under his parents’ roof. Thus, even when his father took a mistress and stirred turmoil in the household, he inwardly found a certain glamour in being dispatched by his mother to retrieve him from the pleasure quarters.

Such things happened.

“He’s really late! Shall I go fetch him again?”
In a tone that feigned concern for his mother, he spoke, but deep down he yearned to go where that lively father of his was and join in the revelry.
He had gone to such places with friends several times, but he liked getting drunk together with his father.
Moreover, at his father’s table, the geishas would flatter him just right, so he was overjoyed.

“I’ll go too—take me along,” his mother said.

“That wouldn’t be advisable.”
He made a displeased face.
“I’m truly troubled by this as well.”
“Going to Seiyūtei of all places—”

“So…” Mother laughed briefly.
“I’ll go too.”
“Tonight, I’ll finally give Father a piece of my mind in front of everyone—”

He shuddered violently… No doubt Mother would do it—he thought.

“Stop it. You must approach him gently… It’s cruel to Father.”

Mother and he lined up rickshaws and hurried to Seiyūtei.

“I have a quick errand to run, so you go on ahead and wait there.”

Mother said this along the way.

He encountered Ochou in the corridor.
He felt an overwhelming sense of inadequacy.
He couldn’t even manage a proper greeting.

Ochou laughed happily and said.
“I was just about to call your house—”
“They’re here to fetch you—Tonko’s here too.”

“Oh no, oh no! Mother’s coming!”

“Huh?!” Ochou flinched.

He hurriedly ran to his father’s tatami room.
And he shouted the same thing.
Father was in the midst of shamelessly carrying on, dancing with some absurd fellow.

“I’ll be over there,” Ochou said.

“Alright, alright!”
“I’ll talk Mother into accepting this.”
“What a disgrace!”
“A couple in their fifties.”

“…………”

He silently sat down in his father’s seat at the front.
The previous time he had praised Tonko—a young geisha—in front of his father and Ochou; perhaps because of that, Tonko was sitting properly in the corner of the tatami room now.
He thought it a shame and gazed briefly yet pointedly at Tonko’s face and then his father’s.

“You fool!”
Father laughed and said to him.

“They’ve come… they’re here,” he whispered under his breath.
In the corridor, a strangely crisp set of footsteps echoed.
Ochou fled.
Father turned toward him and opened his mouth wide.

Guided by the proprietress, Mother entered with the manner of someone who had come reluctantly.
She exchanged perfunctory first-meeting greetings with the proprietress.

“I must trouble you in various ways,” she said with forced formality. “I’m terribly sorry for the disturbance.”

The proprietress, at a loss for words, could only bow repeatedly. Father and he passed sake cups back and forth across the low table.

“No need for anyone to leave,” Father declared expansively. “Today’s just family enjoying themselves.”

If even Mother played along with this farce, he mused, it might prove mildly entertaining.

“It’s pitiful for Shin’ichi,” Mother snapped, her voice sharpening as she turned from social niceties to attack. “He claims he can’t study properly when this boils over every single day.” Her lacquered nails clicked against her obi sash. “This household only settles down enough for scholarly pursuits after dark.”

“Is that so?”
Father turned to look at him.
He grinned slyly and stacked the sake cups.

“Don’t just vent your frustrations on me—you should clearly refuse Father instead.”

“…………”

“If the parent is like this, there’s no way they can discipline the child.”
Mother said such a thing with an ugly composure.

“Oh, come on! If Father’s a fool, then since Mother’s the wise wife, it balances out perfectly!”
“Just write off Father’s failures as charm.”
“—”

He felt an unpleasantness as if he were being toyed with.
But now that things had come to this, only his outward demeanor grew cheaply cunning,

“Very well Mother,” he said deliberately lowering his tone into a somber one.
“I’m not a child anymore so…” he began then trailed off nodding with a smile as though having everything under control.
What he supposedly understood—though there wasn’t any real intent within—
That act skillfully incited the foolish mother.

Mother—seeming to intend to say "I understand your delicate feelings quite well"—pressed her lips together and nodded faintly. And then she stared fixedly at her husband’s face.

At that point, he pitied his father’s position and,

“Well then…” he began addressing Mother, but no words followed—he couldn’t think of what to say next. So he simply smirked with exaggerated understanding, muttering half-heartedly under his breath in the manner of some perfunctory mediator who’d rushed over from the neighboring house.

“Now, now!” he muttered.

If he could somehow distract Mother’s mood and get Father, Mother, Ochou, the geishas, and himself all ecstatically laughing uproariously—how amusing that would be—he thought.
As he thought this, he found it increasingly intriguing—the more challenging it became to contrive a way to make his mother, sitting stiffly formal before him, let down her guard.
Mother had resolved herself to believe that all courtesans were filthy creatures.
When he had once composed a poem praising the pleasure quarters and it was discovered by Mother,

“Do you have the guts to slit your stomach?”
Mother shouted this and shook her fist.

“It was merely recasting a momentary state of mind into poetry,” he answered.
It was certainly when he was twenty years old.

“I would never bear such a child.”

“Even if you claim you didn’t bear me, here I sit properly and breathe.”

“You ungrateful wretch!”

Mother became frantic and rushed into the storeroom.
Soon Mother returned carrying a dagger in a frayed, antiquated brocade bag and, just like the arm of Kusunoki Masashige at Sakurai Station that he remembered from picture books, thrust it right under his nose,

“There!” she said.

When human emotions reached their peak, they inevitably became theatrical.
To ridicule drama's contrived theatricality might be an unnatural act—he still remembered thinking such a thing at that time.

“This is the spirit of the Okamura women I brought when marrying into this house.”

“A woman’s soul?”
He involuntarily shuddered and asked back.

“I don’t know about this household, but when it comes to women, there are none in the Okamura house who’d lose out to a coward like you.”

The foolishness of Mother—who elevated every last thing about her own family as splendid while dismissing “this household,” always eager to hold up his side as prime examples of cowardice—pressed against his chest with a sickening ugliness.

“I am the eldest son of this house—you’re overstepping.”

“You spineless samurai’s brat!”

“What did you say…?”

He snapped into action, suddenly snatching the dagger from Mother’s hand, then swung the sheath through the air with a “Hah!”
Then Mother panicked,

“That’s enough already!” she said, firmly seizing his arm and wouldn’t let go.
He ran into the bathroom and cried.

When he thought back to that time, he couldn’t help but drench himself in ironic ridicule.
"This foolish self-destructive streak comes from Mother’s lineage."

Several years later, during a drunken jest, he told his father about the incident.
Father laughed and slapped his knee—though this was only because he had spun Mother’s words and actions from that time into an elaborate theatrical performance, complete with dramatic embellishments meant to amuse him.
Not only did he omit every trace of his own role in the affair, but he even disingenuously suggested that he had merely laughed and observed from the sidelines all along.

“We can’t discuss this properly in a place like this. At least do us the courtesy of returning home to preserve our dignity.”

Mother pressed Father further in a stiffly formal tone and sought agreement from him,

“Right, Shin’ichi?” she said.
He reluctantly,

“That’s good, that’s good,” he agreed with feigned kindness. And still, to ingratiate himself with Mother in spite of himself, he put on a visibly bitter expression and scanned the room. The young Tonko, whom he secretly harbored feelings for, huddled in the corner of the room and stared at this eerie scene in shock. He felt deeply ashamed before her. …What if I put on a dashing show of filial devotion here, play the upright son, and leave an impression on her heart? He had carelessly run off into such a foolish thought. And reflecting on his own mind clinging too narrowly and selfishly, he felt sick. Spineless samurai! In his heart, he quietly scolded himself.

“Shin’ichi himself is saying the same thing, isn’t he?”
“Well then, let’s go home.”

Stop dragging my name out like that!
—He was so annoyed by his own thoughts.

Until then, Father had been silent, but suddenly—

“Shut the hell up! If I’m like this, no matter what anyone says, I ain’t going home tonight!” he shouted.

At the same time, his heart—which had been seething with irritation until now—cleaved open with sudden clarity. —Father!

No wonder! If I go home now and get openly criticized, who could stand that? Stand your ground!—he spurred himself on in his heart.

Normally, in front of Mother, he found his father’s attitude—never arguing back and letting her have her way completely—utterly exasperating.

Mother stared dumbfoundedly and turned toward him.
He crossed his arms ostentatiously as if declaring himself Mother’s ally and nodded vaguely in acknowledgment under her gaze.

“Go home! Go home! I can’t stand the sight of you!”
Father’s voice turned shrill.
Since Father had never spoken harshly to Mother before, it must have taken extraordinary resolve for him to grow so despondent; as his words broke off, his thick lips quivered urgently.
At home, Father would endure being mercilessly berated without a word—yet here he lashed out like this, all because he cared about others’ opinions?!
He, thinking this way, momentarily despised Father.

“Be quiet.”
Mother calmly began.
“I have done nothing so wrong as to deserve your insults.”
“How dare you act so selfishly and then call people fools?”
“If you have something to say, at least use proper language!”

“I’ll knock your teeth out!”

“Outrageous!”
With that, Mother sneered.

“I can’t stand the sight of you! Oh how I hate it, I hate it all!”
Father shouted this and slammed the table with a bang.

“Master! What are you saying, Master!” Unable to bear watching any longer, the proprietress finally spoke up. “Madam, it’s improper for you to come to a place like this, but...”

Upon hearing that voice, Mother immediately sharpened her gaze. The proprietress, somewhat agitated, continued heedlessly. She must have been Father’s ally. “You should try to understand Madam and Young Master’s feelings.—”

He involuntarily ducked his head. And he stole a glance at Father’s profile—terrifyingly scowling yet somehow foolish-looking.—“Father’s getting all puffed up because geishas flatter him with ‘Master’ this and ‘Master’ that.” Once, he had even tattled such things to Mother and made her recoil in disgust.

When the proprietress said that, even Father came to his senses and gave an awkward bitter smile.
And then, the tone grew slightly calmer,

“You’ve got no right meddling in a place like this.—Even your precious ‘wise wife’ act’ll end up a laughingstock.”

“It was my fault.
I’m the one who forced Mother to come here,” he said.

“What possible enjoyment could there be for someone my age to come play around in a place like this?”
Father, without so much as a glance at him, spoke somewhat cordially to Mother.
Such things were what Father would often say with deep sincerity, and he never took them as lies.
To be fair, no matter how foolish Father’s words might be, they never seemed to feign emotion in their own way—unlike his own. He had always thought of Father that way.
But he was not a cynic (he wasn’t one with such cleverness of mind), nor was he a filial son to the extent of liking or respecting such traits in his father.
When Father tried to continue a bit more,

“I don’t wish to hear another word about that.”

Mother declared with a truly uncanny force in her tone—to an observer’s eye—.
“Since the parents are no good to begin with… the child…”

He felt a jolt.—I thought I was being a good boy all by myself, fooling Mother just fine… But had she seen right through this heart of mine after all?!

Even having realized this—foolish as he was—he puckered his lips indignantly.
Father, seeming to grasp the turmoil in his heart, wore a lonely bitter smile and showed a look of bewilderment—that you would defy Mother here was the height of foolishness—.

“What am I supposed to do if I go home now?”
Having said that, Father gulped down the now-cold sake in one go.

He stood in the toilet.
Ochou, pressing her face into her sleeve, stood motionless in the corridor at the dimly lit window facing the garden.

II

“The way I’m carrying on like this...”
He puffed out his chest in a flamboyant display, as if delivering a light jest.

“How do I look? Does it suit me?”
It probably doesn’t suit me.
If I undergo training, could I become one?
“But no matter what, I can’t use business ventures as an excuse like Father—what a pain!”

Even as a joke, bringing up his father left the proprietress somewhat exasperated.
He knew full well that no matter how much he puffed himself up and said such things, he lacked the stature to back them up, but he wanted to frequent such places alone until even he no longer felt it unnatural.

“Ha ha ha... It’s a pity—a real pity—that Father died at fifty-three, but maybe it’s just as well. Even if he’d lived another ten years, I don’t think I could’ve done anything to make him happy... Though I suppose that’s not exactly a commendable way to think—”
He started off speaking with unnatural fluency, but as he neared the end, mumbled incoherently under his breath and trailed off.

“Do you still think about Miss Tonko?”

“Ah, I do think of her. I think of her a great deal.”

It wasn’t to that extent, but he raised his voice with reckless clarity.
But even as he said that, Shuuko suddenly came to mind.
Has it already been four years since we got married?!
He found himself thinking this for no reason at all.

“And then?”

“It’s not like I came here today because of that, but…”

He had earlier asked a servant to request that Ochou come.
The reply was that Ochou had gone to his house to help and thus couldn’t come immediately.

“A guest from Tokyo has arrived.”

“Hmm.” So it’s the uncles, he thought.

“It would be best for you to return home today; you must be busy.”

“Don’t get cheeky!”
He shook his head.
The proprietress suppressed a snicker.
“If she can’t come, then have her come even at night—tell her that. Anyway, call a lot of geishas.”
“I’m not going home tonight—no matter who comes to get me, I won’t go back! If Mother herself came to fetch me, wouldn’t that be something…”

III

“I’ll definitely return within five or six days...”
He said this, took a breath, and added, “You can rest easy.”

Ochou silently nodded.

“Even I have proper plans of my own—”
He added this.
But as for proper plans—he laughably possessed none of them, in any form whatsoever.

Even if Mother and the relatives were to exclude you however vehemently, now that things had come to this pass, he himself could serve as Father’s proxy—he would never let you be left destitute—he had meant to subtly imply such sentiments to Ochou.

"Young master, you're my only hope."
Ochou lowered her eyes and murmured faintly.

Though he lacked any real discretion, hearing such words filled him with an inexplicable joy, as if he'd truly risen in status.

"No matter how Mother struggles, I'm already the master of this house," he declared with affected solemnity, leisurely exhaling a stream of cigarette smoke.

"Of course, Madam. There's no rule saying she mustn't consult you, young master."

Ochou knew that criticizing his mother in this manner would only make him grow more elated.
When faced with Ochou and elderly men like Kitahara and Ishikawa—those who had frequented his father’s place until now—he would recklessly launch into abstract attacks against his mother.

Yet for all his bravado in secret, when he returned home, Mother would confront him with endless matters—how all their owned houses had burned down; how the land rent hadn’t increased a single yen since the earthquake disaster; how Father had left behind massive debts; how they were to settle things with the bank; how they should recover the properties invested everywhere?
You mustn’t go out to Tokyo anymore—you have to sort out the family’s affairs… She would bring up these discussions in various ways, but he never gave any response.
He merely turned sideways and wore a vacant expression.
He would feel resentment at being subjected to nothing but gloomy discussions.
Whatever dire circumstances one might fall into, there must be some bright amusement there—for instance, if the house was declared bankrupt, one should stop trying to sort things out and instead let everyone enjoy whatever remained—since his father’s death, his mind had undoubtedly strayed from convention; he would even find himself earnestly pondering such things—the sort of naive, hedonistic notions even a frivolous literary youth might spout.

Just the other day, Mother had said such things to him.

“Do you truly believe you can live on your own from now on?”

“...”
He remained silent because he didn’t think he could do it.
Such abstract—(he had a habit of dismissively labeling any unpleasant conversation as “abstract” and wallowing in self-indulgent melancholy)—...to be intimidated by such effeminate predictions was shameful. Yet it was Mother’s words that truly unnerved him, prompting him to strike a defiant pose.

“If you think you can manage it, then go ahead to Tokyo—but I find that impossible to believe.”
“Father may not have told *you*, but how many years has it been since your graduation? The year you left school, you worked at a newspaper—even then, you procured three times more money monthly than during your student days. Then you spent years idling about the house...”

“Stop it! Stop it! No matter what I’ve done up till now—haven’t I managed well enough?...”

*Everything in this house belongs to me! For Mother—a mere woman—to speak so presumptuously to her grown eldest son... What impertinence!* He puffed himself up with such brazen conviction.

That sort of retort had been unthinkable during Father’s lifetime when addressing Mother.

*Now that we’re here though... She ought to show some respect! Starting with handing over that damn family seal already.* These thoughts churned through him.

“Lately it’s Tokyo again—just hearing ‘Tokyo’ makes me shudder. Leaving your wife and children at home like that—who knows what you’re even doing...”

When Mother grew momentarily listless and said this, he formed a spiteful smile.
“Of course they don’t know what I’m doing—if I go to Tokyo, I’ll be indulging in shameless pleasures all by myself.” He intended this as a threat to Mother.
Ever since the earthquake destroyed their house, he had gone out to Tokyo and been hired as a lower-level employee in the social department of a newspaper company he’d once been affiliated with; and timid as he was, he now toiled diligently there—contrary to his mother’s apprehensions—literally leading a virtuous life while fretting over his mother, wife, and child.

“When Father was hale and hearty, things were all well and good, I suppose. I’m not the moneybags you take me for. Yet here you are these days—taking five or six times more than when you last held proper employment...”

“I’m thinking of starting a business in Tokyo now.”
He blurted out such an outrageous statement out of sheer embarrassment.
When he first joined the newspaper company, his cheerful disposition and brisk bustling about made him quite popular; but lately, his colleagues had gradually seen through his shallow intentions, and now he became the target of contempt within the company.

Yet when he returned home, in front of his mother, wife, and Ochou, he would spin outlandish lies he wouldn’t even dream of.
For instance: that he’d be promoted to head of the social department in just half a year; that he alone had the president’s utmost trust; that he was currently serving as the president’s top secretary; that he could take half of each month off; and that since this would bring honor to the entire family, money was the last thing on his mind…

“Hadn’t you learned your lesson from Father’s business ventures?”

“I too would like to undertake at least one business venture.”
“Even if I were to fail in one or two business ventures, what of it?”
“Father undertook countless business ventures and failed them all, didn’t he? I... I...”

“Such capital no longer exists in the house.”

“Father squandered everything—you must’ve had a grand time together with him.”
“I’m the greatest fool of all.”
“What’s wrong with spending a little at Seiyūtei?—” He fixated on the very matter Mother ignored.

“...”
Mother turned away in disgust.
And she bit her lip.

IV

He was nursing his sake in small sips as Ochou poured for him.
The veranda was bathed in the bright sunlight of May.
Shuuko, holding her sleeping child, was engrossed in a leisurely chat with Yuriko—a young geisha who called Ochou “sister”—in a corner of the veranda.
It had been nearly a week since he had come to Seiyūtei.
When he grew tired of drinking, he would occasionally peek into his mother’s house but never stayed even an hour before turning back.
Before he knew it, Shuuko too had ended up coming here with her child.

“Even I can’t go back home anymore—if you’re returning to Tokyo, take me with you.”
Shuuko called out upon noticing his conversation with Ochou.
The fact remained that she had become his ally and quarreled before his uncle and mother.
She remained oblivious to how thoroughly this inconvenienced him inwardly.

“Whether you go to Tokyo or not—having even your young wife come here—this isn’t good.”

“Somehow I feel as though your household suspects us of pulling strings behind the scenes.”

The proprietress and Ochou said in annoyance.
Shuuko could only force a bitter smile.
He resentfully fixed his gaze on Shuuko’s demeanor.

He resented how, ever since Shuuko had come, even at night there could be no lively revelries, nor could he see Tonko’s face—yet he found himself thinking that holing up here in this abnormal state with Shuuko and the others wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
He who had never known experiences matching literary clichés like “seriousness,” “tension,” or “gravity” found himself slipping into a dreamlike state and objectively observing his current circumstances: how the family atmosphere had descended into disarray since Father’s sudden death; how the eldest son was panicking; how his wife had begun openly rebelling against his mother; how Mother was plotting with her brothers to oust the foolish eldest son and install a virtuous younger brother; how the eldest son was growing jealous; and how he himself was lodging at Father’s familiar teahouse with his wife, gathering Ochou and others to voice grievances. As he contemplated these things, he felt as though he were now confronting an “extraordinary” predicament.
And casting himself as the “tormented protagonist” seen in novels and plays, he became a self-styled “grave” hero, stirring up cheap emotions.
During his time at Waseda University, he had joined his class’s literary coterie magazine.
And there was a time when he had felt fear upon encountering their debates.
They were extremely “serious.”
Whenever they opened their mouths, they would invariably shout “art,” sing of “the soul’s anguish,” and swear to “live a blood-soaked life.”
It was a magazine called Thirteen People.
He recalled how, during the year he had been exiled to Atami and spent there out of sheer boredom, he had written at length about his days with Thirteen People… He considered writing about the current incident in a novelistic way.
Then his mood scattered into frivolity.
He had no interest whatsoever in incidents or the like.
His father’s death, bankruptcy, the eldest son’s duties, his mother’s affairs… All of it had been neatly resolved without a shred of lingering emotion.
All the forced “seriousness” and “tension” were blown away without a trace.

“Yeah, Shuuko, it’s better if you go over there anyway.”

“Even you would say such a thing?”
Shuuko stared at him with a hardened gaze, her eyes brimming with resentment.

“Ah, I see—I see.”
He nodded flippantly. “Ah well, none of that matters! Everyone’s so worried—hey there, you little squirt!
“You—dance for us.”

He grabbed Hikari, Ochou’s foster daughter who was training as a geisha, and put on airs.
But his mind was still caught up in the fictional fantasies of novels.
He suddenly recalled his days with Thirteen People.
He had been part of the coterie, but he alone was excluded from their fellowship.

They had dismissed him with remarks like “He views life as a game,” “A slave to his peripheral nerves,” “A sweet-tempered, fickle literary youth,” “He probably doesn’t even notice life’s dark troubles,” “How did someone like him even get into our Waseda University’s literature department? If he’s painting such childish dreams, it’s pathetic,” “He’d be better off singing in some café,” and “Irresponsible drunkard…” And while he did feel somewhat disheartened by this, whether he viewed life as a game or not was something he had never rationally considered; when they said such things, he wondered—maybe he *was* that sort of person? He even began to think so himself. Even after that realization, he couldn’t do anything about it, and so he ended up drifting away from them in a vague manner. And then, with a hollow heart filled with sorrow, he left Tokyo.

“Ah,” he unintentionally let out a sigh.
"What a fool I am," "What an undependable man I am"—even whipping himself like this, no emotion would coalesce into focus.
He had never become what they might have called “artistic” or “serious.”

“You! What are you thinking about?”

“Well, in any case, if I were to take you all to Tokyo…”

“Are you feeling apprehensive?”

“Hmm…”

But he wasn’t particularly uneasy—though neither was he the opposite.

“You must have your old Thirteen People friends—among them there must be one or two who’d properly consult about matters beyond your deliberation, like Mr. Kawahara or Mr. Ishiguro...”

When told such things, he was suddenly assailed by a strange sense of vulnerability.

“It’s bad of me to say such things to you, but—” he muttered excuses under his breath,

“I actually don’t like them very much,” he said.
That was his petty, base pride.
In his honest heart, he would rather have said this—it’s not that they would truly associate with a man like me; it’s a punishment for kowtowing to them all this time, leaving me wretched in moments like these.

“It’s that sort of thinking that makes you hopeless. At least in that one regard, wasn’t your late father admirable?”
“A whole crowd of people came through here, but he stayed friendly with everyone—even when your mother hated it so much, your father never once showed a sour face to anybody, did he?”

“Don’t praise him just because he’s dead.”

“Your heart is twisted—. As Father repeatedly said, setting up a house with Ochou wasn’t solely for her sake—it was truly for the customers’ benefit. But Mother would make such a displeased face if it were our own family…”

“I—I hate your old man.”

“Right now, we’re talking about your father, aren’t we?”

“When we were in Atami, you did nothing but bad-mouth my old man—said you didn’t even want to see his face.”

“You said it too, didn’t you?”

“Shut up—your petty-mindedness is vulgar! First off, I can’t stand your mother either—just imagining her flapping those thin, flappy lips of hers to spout idiotic, self-serving drivel gives me goosebumps… A duck-faced hag—and you’re her spitting image!”

“What about your own mother?”

“…………”

Ochou and Yuriko tried to calm him with “There, there,” but he would not relent.

“Your father’s a scoundrel! Give me back the money, give me back the money! Because of that scrap-paper geezer, the household lost ¥20,000!”

“Thanks to my father, your father was able to take out loans. A scoundrel like your father—even in Odawara, proper people wouldn’t deal with him.”

“That’s right—your father, who wormed his way into such people’s graces with smooth talk, is a scoundrel.”
“The character’s no good, I tell you.”
“You’re nothing but some lowlife of unknown origin!”

At first, he had not been so dispirited, but when the phrase “¥20,000” suddenly surfaced, he—whose mind had been unhinged since his father’s death—would snap at even hearing such monetary matters, provoking fits of violent rage.
And then, shouting such antiquated phrases that even his mother might use, he abused Shuuko—who had done nothing wrong.
When he imagined the heart of Shuuko’s father—who had done nothing but spout clever empty talk and preyed on families with marriageable daughters—his resentment even extended to Shuuko’s own complexion, as if she were cut from the same cloth.
“If a man is a man, then that’s precisely why he should show proper parental affection.”
He had even been told such things by Shuuko.

Just the other day, when he and Mother were sorting through Father’s documents, they unexpectedly discovered a loan certificate bearing Shuuko’s father’s name, leaving them both stunned.
The fact that he had selfishly married a woman like Shuuko filled him with unbearable shame toward Father and Mother.

“What on earth has become of Shuuko’s family lately?”
Mother asked him in such a manner, somewhat hesitating.

“How should I know? I haven’t the slightest idea.”
He muttered sullenly.
Admittedly, both he and Mother had long vaguely known that Shuuko’s father was not a man of good character.

“That family’s no good—they’re rude… Rude to me, I tell you.”
He raised his voice beyond normal volume and ingratiated himself with Mother.

“This is truly troublesome.”
Mother said this while striking a visibly irritated, disheveled pose.
Then another thought rose in his chest: ...What’s this ‘troubled’ nonsense?!
To think everything belongs to oneself is so shameless… With such thoughts, he sneered derisively at Mother.
And recalling the attitude Mother had maintained toward Shuuko until now, he thought it no wonder Shuuko resented it; then considering how from Mother’s perspective even Shuuko must have seemed utterly detestable—What a shallow mother!—he found himself feeling paradoxical sympathy toward her.

“That old man is truly a terrible fellow.”
He was in a light, playful mood.
“So you see—even Shuuko has her similarities! That girl has a truly terrifying heart.”
“There are parts that even I can’t stand!”

“Given that, I can’t blame you for flying into fits of rage now and then—she’s downright insolent! What on earth makes that woman think she can aspire to be an actress?!”

“Even if she did apply, what’s the point? Slap some white powder on that face and it’d still be a blank slate—”

“Chuck-chuck-chuck…”
Mother laughed with apparent delight.
“Honestly! Provincial folk—you just can’t fathom their sensibilities.”

“Of course, she bears no ill will—if only she did harbor some malice, that’d be preferable…”
He felt as though he were skillfully manipulating his mother.

“Well, that’s true—those raised in such a hand-to-mouth existence have no sense of hardship. …So all you need to do is drill proper discipline into her.”

“If she were to receive such things from a halfway decent family, it’d only make her feel stifled, wouldn’t it?”
He had intended to lace his words with a fair amount of sarcasm, but Mother failed to catch on.

“Indeed, indeed,” Mother nodded readily.
Then once again, he felt resentment toward Shuuko all on his own.
Compared to me, is Mother actually the decent one after all?
He felt that way.

“Now that it’s your era, you mustn’t disgrace the family’s honor even if you waste away.”

He was just about to burst out laughing.

He—though a young man—couldn’t help feeling he understood that servile, meddlesome disposition all too well. There were times when, observing his mother’s attitude toward it, he found it intriguing. If one were to persistently display such tenacity, it would be interesting—but he even felt a sense of insufficiency in thinking so. If I were born a woman and grew old—no doubt I’d turn into some antiquated, servile yet stubborn old hag with a downright spiteful disposition—he found himself indulging in such fantasies.

“That one’s mother too…”

“Hmph hmph hmph…”

The mother and son, who fancied themselves seated upon a modest hillock as they relished sneering at others, melted into an eerie intimacy and bore vulgar smiles.

“I misjudged you.”
“You’re truly an unmanly person.”
Perhaps because they were also in front of Ochou and the others, Shuuko’s face turned pale and her lips quivered.
“You’ve been putting on a saintly face about money matters all this time—it’s all a sham!
“The things the parents discussed and agreed upon…”

“Oh, I see now—the parents who profited are just fine, but we’re the ones who got the short end of the stick, aren’t we?…”
He adopted a composed demeanor—but upon recalling how until now he had grandly postured about financial matters with such apparent nobility before Shuuko, he felt a perverse satisfaction at having loosed an arrow at himself.

“...What kind of artist are you?! Even though you put on such a respectable front, saying all those nice things whenever you meet friends…”

“I’ve been deliberately feeding you respectable-sounding lines all this time.”

“You big liar! Such fraudulent artistry…”

“Oh, that’s right—that’s right.”
“I’m no artist or anything of the sort—I wasn’t born with noble sentiments like you, after all—.”

Having grown quite drunk, he—truly in such a mood—while spitefully sulking, twisted his face into a sneer and thrust it toward Shuuko’s nose.

“Drop dead!”
Shuuko let out a shrill scream and, without thinking, clawed his cheek with all her strength.
When he saw the woman become so intensely agitated in that manner, his heart felt utterly hollow and unraveled.
And he felt an indescribable pleasure.

He wanted to provoke Shuuko even more and smirked while saying,

“Spare me the excuses—let’s have you return the money first, heh heh heh…”

“Returning the money settles things—but how will you compensate me for the shame I’ve endured?”

“Oh, how very righteous! But 20,000 yen is a bit much. Ah, you can go ahead and think that...”
He had said it jokingly, but when he suddenly came to his senses, his head was nothing but a hazy, unfocused fog—as if in a dream.

“Because you harbor such contemptible notions, I alone end up being mocked by everyone in this household.”
“What exactly do you think of your own wife? Let me hear that first.”

“Ah, how amusing—how amusing!”

He, feeling oddly elated, staggered to his feet.

“O Mitsu—let’s dance together.”
“Shuuko, enough already—enough! …Anyway, let’s all sing ‘Ume ga E no Chōzubachi’ together.”

Shuuko did not know the song.
So, seemingly deciding to stop teasing the drunkard, she turned her flushed face away.

Realizing that letting this opportunity slip would only lead to more trouble, Ochou ordered a few young geishas to play the shamisen.
Not "Plum Branch's—" but a lively tune he didn't recognize began.
O Mitsu gave a half-hearted shout, struck the hand drum and beat the taiko.

"Ah, how refreshing!"
"At this rate, I'll be Father's true heir, I tell you..."

Suddenly, his throat tightened.

His drunken head melted away brightly, relentlessly and without reflection.

“Hands together!” For no reason at all—he felt compelled to do so—and quietly closed his eyes without thinking.

Father, I want nothing. I am grateful for every one of your failures.

It’s been some time since I last saw you—can we not discard these distinctions between existing in this world and not existing at all!
You see—you understand, don’t you? …I don’t feel the slightest sadness or loneliness—isn’t it splendid!
Shall we have another grand drink today?

There was even a time when I—having been invited by you—though Mother and Shuuko made such troubled faces—still couldn’t bear not to go, so I ended up deceiving them: wearing nothing but a tennis shirt, shouldering a racket, leaping onto my bicycle, and rushing here. At the time, I felt terribly embarrassed before the guests and geishas, but you remained unperturbed—you didn’t laugh even a bit.
The fact that you didn’t laugh—on the contrary, I found it rather amusing, I tell you——.

Well, such things don’t matter at all.
You seemed terribly worried about me when I was becoming poor, but such cowardice has completely vanished from me now—… After all, weren’t you actually poor yourself back then!
Back then…

He aimlessly conjured up such trifling words, but they were merely like smoke idly inhaled—leaving no mark on his heart. His mind remained pale, vaguely bright, and utterly clear.

O Mitsu, straining her throat to the limit, let out a chicken-like cry and frantically continued beating the drum—.

“O Mitsu—you’re pitiful too! Stop putting in so much effort for something so absurd! No matter what comes of it—I’m hopeless.”
“What’ll become of you lot from here on out?”
And what’ll become of me from now on?...

His fragile mind plunged deeper into sentimentality.

Ochou too was playing the shamisen along with everyone.

Just then, his three-year-old child who'd been put to bed in the adjacent room let out a shrill, fearful wail.—Shuuko, who had been glumly staring vacantly at this scene before the gathering, hastily rushed into the neighboring room.

He suddenly contorted his mouth into what at first glance looked like a smile.
That was his weeping face.
Gurgling in his throat, he stared wide-eyed like an owl, tears pooling in his eyes.
And when Ochou and the others made to stop playing their shamisen out of consideration for the next room, he kept his face bowed while tightly twisting his lips, vigorously pumping his outstretched arms up and down as if begging for something—urging them to keep going.

V

“Even Mother isn’t thinking of things that aren’t in your best interest, you know? First of all, in a situation like this—you leaving the house vacant and staying over at a place like that—isn’t it a bad look?”

“I’ll go back, but even if I run into Mother or Kiyochika Okamura, I won’t say a word to them.”
“You understand, right?” he emphasized.

Kiyochika was his mother’s older brother by two years, but he found calling him “Uncle” here so irksome that he deliberately used the long-winded full name.

“It’s fine as long as I’m here.”
Miyahara spoke in an irresponsible tone, as if he believed his duty would be fulfilled simply by bringing him back.

Miyahara was an elderly man, considerably older than his father, who had been handling various minor errands for their household since his father’s lifetime.
He was a man who somewhat resembled an innkeeper in demeanor, skilled in hollow flattery, yet during Father’s lifetime, he had scarcely exchanged a word with him.

“At the very least, you must clearly settle the matter first.”
“After that, there’d be no problem with you going to Tokyo or doing whatever you please.”

“What ‘matter’?”
“Whether I do what I like or not is none of your business.”
“Moreover, I’m no longer in a position to have such luxuries from now on.”

"How could that be? As long as you keep yourself steady, there's nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried about anything at all. Whether I straighten myself out or not—I am who I am…"

"How enviable to be young and bursting with vigor."

“Tch!”
“What the hell’re you spoutin’?”

Miyahara was a man who wouldn’t get angry no matter what harsh things were said to him.
To some extent, he was taking advantage of that.

Drunk and unsteady on his feet, he was urged by Miyahara to leave Seiyūtei, which he did with sluggish reluctance.
Shuuko had also returned during the day accompanied by Miyahara, but having declared she absolutely refused to stay, was now at Miyahara’s house.

He followed behind Miyahara, closed the poorly fitted lattice door of the temporary structure, and entered his own entranceway.
His chest trembled ominously.
When he was a child, lining up at the starting point of a sports meet, he had experienced a similar feeling—he thought.

Contrary to his expectation that Kiyochika and Mother would be sunk in brooding thought, they wore relatively bright expressions.
Kiyochika sat facing forward with his legs spread wide in a rough sitting position, drinking sake.
And when he saw his face, he abruptly recomposed his indeed smiling expression into a stern one.

He sat down abruptly by the threshold without a greeting.
Realizing that Mother resented his attitude, he audaciously took a cigarette without a word and leisurely blew out smoke.

“Hey, bring me some sake too!”

He called out toward the kitchen.

“What did you come back for?” Kiyochika glared at him, eyes fixed.

“What do you mean, ‘What did I come back for’?!”
He retorted in the same thick, affected voice Kiyochika used.

“What is this?” Mother cut in sharply.
“Greet your uncle properly.”

"What a nuisance."

Having said that, he stared fixedly at Kiyochika’s sagging cheeks. This was the first time he had adopted such an attitude toward his maternal relatives—how deeply must Kiyochika and Mother’s pride have been wounded? Imagining this pleased him. Yet his heartbeat remained abnormally intense. Miyahara, absorbed in the moment, kept vigorously twisting his pipe.

Kiyochika and Mother were likely blazing with scorned resentment like fire... While thinking this, he gazed evenly at their pallid faces flushed with agitation and mustered the force of his unspoken rebuke: You fools! In this matter, I’m different from Father!

“What did you come back for?”
Seeming to have lost all composure, Kiyochika repeated the same question.

"What am I doing here?"
“Hmph.”

He poured sake into a teacup and tried to gulp it down in one go, but it was so foul that he couldn’t manage it.
He did nothing but put on a bravado like a fox’s.
Until now, whenever he met Kiyochika, he had always behaved properly, keeping his knees formally aligned, addressing him as “Uncle” and referring to himself as “I”.
This too was due to Mother’s upbringing—she imposed unyielding strict decorum upon her own family members.
That might be all well and good—then why don’t they apply those same standards to themselves… He knew that even when Father was alive, whenever he was away, Kiyochika and Mother would derisively criticize him.

“Greet him properly—the greeting—”

Mother deliberately tried to steer the conversation back there as she confronted him.

“I said I don’t want to!”
“Who the hell gives a shit—”

He nonchalantly tilted his face up toward the ceiling.
They’re all too happy to listen to slander about Father’s brothers… What hypocrites they are, lecturing about manners!

“Don’t you put on airs, Okamura Kiyochika!”

“How dare you address your uncle with such disrespect!”
Kiyochika snapped his mouth open and shouted.
Mother glared at him with eyes blazing.

"If it comes to this, no matter how they try to shake me—I won’t budge!" He summoned such resolve within himself.

"If you abandon the household, who do you think will manage it? It’s precisely because of your uncle Kiyochika that we’re being cared for with such kindness."
"Even if we had ten brothers in this family, not one would be worth a damn!"

Mother launched into her tirade with a voice like shattering glass.
Regardless of her words’ actual meaning, hearing this sort of complaint from Mother always churned up a fury from his gut—a visceral reaction beyond reason.
All thought vanished—nothing remained but the urge to retch, as if some rancid dish were being thrust beneath his nostrils.

“If you’re going to talk back so insolently, why don’t you handle everything properly yourself—you can’t even write a single letter right—who do you think has been managing the money?”
“Who do you think—”

Mother’s words didn’t reach him clearly.
His ears and head were nothing but a dull roar.
All he felt was the discomfort of listening to a scratchy old record.

Mother being Mother, Kiyochika being Kiyochika—that bastard could sit there unashamed even while she sang his praises right to his face!
Such thoughts flitted through his mind.
Kiyochika wore an insufferably smug look, chin jerked upward as if letting Mother speak for him.

“You should thank Uncle.”

“Who asked you to?! That’s unnecessary meddling!”
He shouted, stood up abruptly, stamped his foot once like a sumo wrestler with a thud, and immediately sat back down.
He thought even a sake bottle might topple over, yet he had failed the conscription exam based on weight alone; since then, not even five hundred monme had been added to his eleven-kan-something bulk—a heft insufficient to so much as ripple the sake in Kiyochika’s cup.

“You have no right to return to this house.”
“Get out! Go anywhere!” shouted Kiyochika, his body as bloated as a mortar.

“It’s my house.”

“It’s my house.”
With every word, Mother sided with Kiyochika.
So this house did seem to belong to Mother.
He hadn’t known such a thing until just recently.
I’ve done as much as I can for Mother.
—I don’t know if it was about that or something else—Father once said that to him.

“Even my brothers—they’re all useless—but they don’t have the malicious streak you and your lot do.”
Father had also said that before.

“I’m quite malicious myself, you know.”
He smirked and retorted.
Every fragment of his father’s memory consisted solely of drunken exchanges between father and son.

“Is that so?” Father pondered briefly.
“Does that face of yours actually resemble mine?
Or does it come from your mother’s line?”

“My face takes after Father’s, but my heart’s from Mother’s side!”
He declared with an exaggerated grin.

“That’s not true at all,” Ochou interjected from the side.
“The heart…”

“Enough already,” Father said, waving his hand cheerfully. “You don’t have half the guts I do.”

“Ha ha ha… Isn’t Father’s ‘guts’ a bit off-target?”

“It’s the guts to not even flinch when you take a loss.”

“That’s not the case at all. Whenever you botched something, didn’t you often end up sulking in bed with a sullen face for five or six days straight?”

“Well, that…” Father’s smile faded momentarily. “That’s not about regretting losses, you know. How should I put it… I sometimes get like that. It’s like… I get so depressed I don’t want to do anything at all… I suppose you could call me a ‘terminal pessimist’ or something—though it’s hardly fitting for someone like me.”

“An optimistic misanthrope! Is there even such a thing? I don’t know.”

“There’s no such thing!”

“St-stop it already! Such talk—”
He was suddenly overcome with disgust and turned his gaze to the garden.

“Don’t you have any friends?”
After a while, Father asked such a thing.

“I do have them, but…”
He felt disheartened, having said that.

“Relatives are no damn use.”

He couldn’t quite understand why Father would say such things.

“I hate everyone too.”

“It’s fine while ‘I hate them’ suffices, but…”

What a detestable man Kiyochika was.

“What’s the use of you saying such things—”

From such talk, their conversation eventually shifted to the topic of friends.
Father talked about things like having two close British friends.

At that time, coterie magazine gatherings were held once a month, and he reluctantly went up to the capital on rare occasions.
—For some reason, Father began saying things like, "If you have friends who’d come visit, why not invite them all here at once?"
he began saying such things.
The last time he met them,

he suddenly remembered that there had been talk of, “Why don’t we all go visit Takino’s Odawara sometime soon?”

“Then I’ll ask them when I go next time,” he answered Father.

“What do all those people mainly do?”

“They’re at newspapers, women’s magazines, middle school teachers…”

“I can’t stand the magazine folks and teachers, but newspaper companies are fine.”

“They all seem to be quite impressive.”

“Tokyo newspaper companies must be something grand—not that I know any in Japan, mind you—but back when I was at school in Philadelphia, there was this friend of mine, Ben Wilson, who’s still working as an editorial writer for the New York Herald. I just sent him a letter the other day. Ah, he’s the one who sent you a music box when you were a child.”

“Right, right, the one that plays ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, How I wonder what you are’… Right, right—it might still be around, you know.” He spoke in an oddly meticulous, lyrical tone.

“There was a time when I wrote Ben a letter and told him my son had now graduated from university and become a newspaper reporter.”
“By the way, you quit without me even noticing, huh?”

“I just came to hate being a newspaper reporter, that’s why.”

“Then what’ll you be?”

“I’d like to go to Europe or somewhere next year.”
He grew embarrassed and blurted out something reckless.

“Going there once or twice might not be a bad idea.”
Father always boasted about his own long years living abroad, and whenever such topics arose, he would put on a deliberately nonchalant air.
And yet he himself couldn’t even be bothered to go to Tokyo.
“Maybe I’ll go off somewhere next year too.”

He deliberately went to Tokyo to fetch the coterie members.
Half had refused due to train fares but ultimately backed out.
The remaining five or six came.
It was then that Shuuko learned the names Kawahara and Ishiguro.
Father suggested inviting them to Ochou’s place without explanation, but he declined—they were mere acquaintances.
At that time, he had commandeered a new house near the sea under the pretense of solitary study, so he decided to lodge them there.

“Even if you have to take on debt, go all out.”
Father—who loved hosting guests—grew increasingly animated, only to be met with Mother’s disapproving glare.

This was a gathering to critique creative works submitted to their monthly coterie magazine.
Since he had never once hosted these meetings himself, people had occasionally made snide remarks about it.
Six or seven members arrived.
It marked his first time drinking sake with them.
“Let’s skip the ‘critique session’ tonight,” proposed one of the group.

They grew drunk almost immediately.
Uncharacteristically, he remained sober throughout.
These were men utterly lacking the collegiate spirit he cherished—trading remarks like “How big’s your bonus?” or “Might buy an electric fan,” or “Screw the Japanese literary scene!”—their conversation never rising above fleeting trivialities.
Midway through this, the far sliding door opened soundlessly to reveal Father standing there in formal haori and hakama, offering a stiff bow.
A sudden jolt struck his chest.

“I’m Saitou Shigesaburou of the △△ Newspaper.”
A slightly intoxicated one of them said this while going over to Father’s side,
“Are you Takino’s father? You don’t look like a father at all.”
“Why on earth did you come wearing hakama?
Coming back from somewhere?”
He was red-faced and whispered quietly to Father.
He did not know who had ordered it, but Father’s banquet meal had been prepared and brought in.
“If Takino doesn’t come to Tokyo either, it’s no good, see? Holed up in this backwater...”

“Please, do take care of him.”

“The countryside does have its charms once in a while—but a spirited young man staying by his parents’ side… see?”

“Indeed, indeed,” Father agreed cheerfully.
“Isn’t there some way to make use of him?”

“Shall I arrange a position at my company? I’m currently in charge of parliamentary affairs, but we could use one or two more young reporters…”

“Hmm, that’s a fine idea. A man isn’t worth his salt unless he gets into politics.”

“I’ll make arrangements as soon as I return.”

He felt he could no longer sit there so rigidly. Father going around asking everyone to look after his child—they must all be snickering inwardly at that, no doubt.

"In this area, the pleasure quarters are rather... lively, I hear. Even our company men occasionally whisper about them."

"Oh, I couldn’t possibly…"
Having said this, Father’s face flushed faintly, but perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, he suddenly boomed with forced cheer, "How about it, gentlemen! Shall we go out drinking…?"

“Alright, alright! Agreed!”
“We aren’t students anymore, see?”

“I…” his father said.
“Though my head’s gone bald like this…”

“Well now, Takino’s old man’s got style…”

Saitou wore a sneer so superficial you could spot it across the room as he mocked them.

Father leaned close and hissed about why he hadn’t called geishas here too.
He kept up his spiteful pretense of deafness—until Father, prodded by his silence, cut short his farewells and left in the waiting rickshaw.
“Come to Ochou’s later. Ochou’s place.”
He kept repeating it all the way to the entranceway.
When Father’s rickshaw clattered out of earshot, they all exploded with laughter.

Even after they had left, when evening drinks came around, Father would often talk about them with apparent delight.
There had been no response from Saitou afterward, but he did not tell Father that.
After that, he met them just once in Tokyo, but since not a single word about Odawara came from anyone’s lips, he was rather relieved.
At the time of his father’s death, among his friends, they were the only ones who had known his father, but he had not notified anyone.

“All our relatives are heartless—if anything happens to me, you’re the only one who’ll be in trouble.”
“There’s not a single person in our family you can consult with—”

Father would often say such things, making him feel unpleasant.

VI

“You have no right to call yourself the eldest son, you ungrateful wretch! You can’t even handle your parent’s funeral properly, and yet…”

Kiyochika said that and tried to overwhelm him in one go.

“Even if I die, I don’t want anyone handling my aftermath—”
His chest choked up tearfully as he realized his voice had grown so thin it nearly handed Kiyochika an unanticipated defeat—so he suddenly roared loud enough to shake the house,

“Fa-Father said that to me!” he bellowed hysterically.

“You’re mad,” Mother said.

“You all might as well have killed Father!”

The “you all” he referred to included Shuuko as well—it was Kiyochika who had said it.

“That’s right,” Mother said.

“I’m not soft on some woman like Shuuko!”
He shouted with raw conviction.
It seemed Kiyochika and Mother had been whispering behind his back that Shuuko was egging him on to rebel against her.

“What man lets himself get mocked by his own wife?”
Kiyochika sneered venomously and barked out a laugh.

“Then why did you speak so ill of me behind my back? ...Cowardly bastards. I don’t consider such people my mother or uncle.”
Frustration alone surged through him, leaving him speechless.

“Is having a wife all you need?”
Kiyochika sneered further.

“……”

His heart, which had been in a state of extreme agitation, abruptly cooled as he theatrically imagined a stage play.
If this were a Shinpa play, my role would be a pretty good one!
Thinking this, he felt that if Mother and Kiyochika were brought onto a stage just as they were, they would earn considerable applause—but at the same moment, a sudden cold sweat broke out on him, his heart shriveling like a bug as he quietly gazed at their figures.

“I’ll never set foot in this house again.”
“Once I divorce Shuuko, I’ll take you bastards on!”
His emotions had flipped upside down in some bizarre way, making him blurt out this clumsy declaration to Kiyochika.

“Do what you want. No need to consult anyone about ditching your own wife.”

“…”

He was stuck for words again.
Should I really divorce Shuuko? Come to think of it, even I find that bastard father of hers infuriating beyond measure—such were his thoughts.
“I might as well leave carrying Father’s mortuary tablet on my back.”
“……”
He shook off his tears.
“You could go alone for all I care, or take all three of your family with you…”
Kiyochika muttered with satisfaction, as though sensing victory.
“What did you say? Say it again!”
He snapped into an utterly common, brawling tone and rolled up his sleeves without a second thought.

“I’ll say it as many times as you want—a hundred times if I have to!”

“Yeah, that’s amusing. Go on—say it a hundred times.”

“What kind of twisted scheme is this?”
Mother cut in from the side.
Kiyochika couldn’t possibly repeat it a hundred times—and seizing on that opening, Mother had no choice but to suppress his despicable drunken attempt to badger him relentlessly.

“I won’t agree until I’ve heard it a hundred times—you said it yourself, so go on and say it!”

Even Kiyochika, for all his bluster, was thoroughly overwhelmed by this—recoiling involuntarily like some third-rate actor playing a liar caught in his own farce. Kiyochika sullenly turned away,

“If you’ve got complaints, I’ll have you voice them when you’re sober,” he muttered under his breath.
“What’s this? A greenhorn like you swilling booze…”

“Whatever it takes—say it a hundred times!”
“Come on—since I’ll keep count, start already……”

“Silence!” Mother shouted in a sharp voice.
“You degenerate scholar! Don’t you feel even a shred of grief now that your father’s dead?!” Kiyochika bellowed.

“Back when Father was alive, you sure looked down on him—you remember that, don’t you?”

“The mourning period for Father is three years,” Mother said.

“To you—even after being told all this—have you no response at all?!”
Kiyochika solemnly straightened his posture.

“I don’t care.”
“I don’t feel the slightest bit sad.”
“Well... suppose I’ll head out to Seiyūtei again—”

“You damned wretch!”

“Father would surely be delighted… if I were to be under your care, Mr. Kiyochika…”
Though it was bitter sarcasm born of frustration—surely he could have found sharper words—he nonetheless turned away with affected haughtiness, as if he’d dealt some petty blow.

“You utter fool!”

“Quit your tricks, whisker-face!”
He struck the table with his fist.
“What happened to saying you’d repeat it a hundred times?
Go on—say it! Say it!”

In the end, Kiyochika and he began grappling with each other.
He had resigned himself to being easily overpowered by Kiyochika—who he had even thought was three times his size—but finding himself stronger than expected, he felt like a different person.
But in an instant, he was pinned by the back of his neck and effortlessly thrown into the bedding.
In no time at all, his head and all were bundled into the bedding, leaving him unable to move a muscle, yet his mouth remained as sharp as ever,

“You’ll regret this!” and “I won’t agree until I’ve heard it a hundred times!”—he kept shouting these lines endlessly.

(13·8)