Pathway to Japanese Literature

“I’m quite accustomed to drunkards, so no matter how late the night grows or how much you carry on, it’s not as if I’d mind now of all times—”

After making such a preface, Shūko confronted her husband Takino.

When they lived in the countryside, their circumstances were different and the locale was different; now they were in this cramped Tokyo city center, moreover in the state of renting a room—just a single wall away lived others—and if every single night he were to raise his voice regardless of the hour and go so far as to cause a ruckus with stomping about, come morning they couldn’t even greet the neighbors—it was sheer madness…

“That’s different from mere noisiness, isn’t it? If you must sing, at least choose songs that wouldn’t shame you if others heard.”
“You’re no longer a student, are you? To call the neighbors’ mandolin noisy takes real nerve—wherever you go drinking, you’re surely disliked. And as for proper songs—you probably don’t even know ‘Harusame.’”
Shūko let out a deep, aah-like sigh.

Takino sat rigidly motionless, smoking his cigarette without so much as a twitch. And in a low voice:

“Was last night also terrible?” he asked.

“Really now, you should learn something proper—a refined art—”

“What would be good? Nagauta ballads...”

“Your voice is terrible, so that’s also…” Having said that, Shūko forced a bitter smile.

“How much of a racket did I make last night?”

Since he had been alone, he hadn’t gotten particularly drunk and mostly remembered his actions, but finding it all too absurd to feign ignorance, Takino craftily posed that tedious question.—And he even entertained thoughts like looking down on her should Shūko exaggerate even slightly beyond reality.

“As usual.”
Shūko said irritably.

“What do you mean ‘as usual’? You should say it clearly.”

“How much of ‘The Northwest of the Capital’—did you manage this time?”

The Northwest of the Capital—that was the alma mater anthem of a certain private university from which Takino had graduated four or five years prior, having finally managed to complete his studies in last place after repeated academic failures.

“And then, baseball cheer songs!”

“So doing that’s shameful now, is it?”

“That’s shameful.”
Shūko flew into a rage and shrieked in a shrill voice.
Takino, with a look that said to stop because the neighbors would hear, suppressed the woman’s hysterical outburst.

“Tch!”
“What good does putting on airs of restraint by daylight even achieve?”

“Then let’s quit altogether,” Takino growled sullenly, turning his face away with a grunt.

“What a relief!”

“Who’d bother doing it anyway?”

“You declared it yourself, didn’t you?”

“Of course I damn well did!”
Whenever Takino became slightly excited, it was his habit for his sentences to end with a country dialect.

“Then what will you do when drunk next time? However much it may gall you, you couldn’t do anything better than that!”

“It’s none o’ your damn business!”

Takino was biting his lip.
Was there anything else I could possibly do?
He grew slightly combative and tried to think it through, but there was no conceivable solution to be found.

“And since we’re at it, I’ll make one more request.” Shūko continued.—This room lies completely exposed to people passing through the alley. Since it’s hot, we can’t keep it closed. I’d like you to stop sleeping past noon. Your sleeping posture isn’t exactly becoming—there are times you sleep with your mouth hanging open.
“I’d like you to stop stripping to the waist as a habit, and while we’re at it, quit these so-called ‘exercises’—doing handstands and somersaults in broad daylight, performing eye calisthenics the moment you wake. If you must exercise, do something socially proper—there are dumbbells, clubs, and various other indoor tools available.”

“I wonder if that burned down?”
“There were dumbbells and boxing gloves at the house in Odawara, weren’t there? Next time we go back, I’ll find them for you.”

“I don’t need that stuff.”

“You’re the one who learned boxing!”

“I don’t know,” Takino feigned ignorance.
The memory of buying boxing gloves six or seven years prior remained clear.
He had felt a mild curiosity upon hearing his father speak of boxing.
Lacking the courage to perform such acts before others, he forced a laugh for his father’s benefit; yet some part of him yearned to try those stances anyway—making special trips to Tokyo to purchase football-like practice balls and gear. He would secretly hang a ball from his study ceiling to spar unseen, or slip into the backyard at night to suspend one from a pine tree and stage vigorous bouts beneath its boughs.
Discuses, javelins, and swordsmanship equipment—he had bought them all around that time.
But none lasted even a week.
He lacked the drive to seek sparring partners and quickly grew self-conscious about the absurdity of exercising alone.

“Living in Tokyo is such a hardship. So you have to maintain this charade of wearing formal hakama all day long, do you?”

“Even in the countryside, someone as ill-mannered as you…”

“Alright! I’ve made up my mind.”
“From now on I must become a proper Tokyo citizen—can’t go on being this carefree anymore.”
He declared this with grave sincerity.
It wasn’t merely Shūko’s criticisms—he felt driven to hammer such restraints into every corner of his existence.

That night too, Takino did not return until late.

After putting the child to bed, Shūko lowered the lamp and practiced calligraphy.
The surroundings were hushed, and whenever the raucous roar of an occasional passing automobile faded away, the chirping of autumn insects would begin from nowhere in particular.

"With it being this late, he must certainly be coming home drunk again."

Shūko was practicing calligraphy with the devoted focus of a skilled hand while worrying about such things.
She thought perhaps she should encourage her coarse husband—who had no talent beyond drinking and lacked the pure dedication to take up hobbies earnestly—to practice calligraphy even more.

“Well then, shall we say our goodbyes? Ah, that’s fine, right? Let’s drink a bit more at my place—come on.”

Suddenly from the street, Takino's voice—booming and slurred as though shouting—resounded. Shūko, her chest unexpectedly constricted, set down her brush. (It's always the short ones—when they get drunk, they have to bellow these preposterously loud voices, putting on airs—) As this thought formed, Shūko felt both a sickening absurdity and hatred so intense it made her want to spit.

“It’s late already, I tell you!”

That voice was reserved, seeming troubled and low.

"If it's my house then it's fine! Since I'm renting, I can do as I please!"

He must have been driven here from somewhere—Shūko thought. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was nearly two. (Since we're renting—what utter nonsense! The sort of thing some lowly law student would spout. If he were a law student, he'd know about the crime of disturbing peaceful sleep—acting like some Odawara fisherman!) Shūko slapped the desk sharply.

"Let's stop this already."

"Let's continue our talk about art a bit longer."

(Tsk, tsk!) Shūko clicked her tongue sharply.

"If it's about art, shall we talk?"

"And then, shall we sing a song?"

"No more songs."

(It's not just me—anyone would be worn out.) As Shūko thought this, it occurred to her that it might be good if that person came inside too.

"Come on, let's go—want me to carry you?"

“As if I’d let you!”

“I can carry you.”

“Then try carrying me!”

“Alright, here I come.—What’s with this… Hey, ho!”
“Heave-ho!”

With the ill-fitting door creaking open and bumping against the doorjamb, Takino entered accompanied by a guest unfamiliar to Shūko. Takino’s chest gaped open nearly to the point of nudity.

Shūko politely greeted the guest and apologized for the inconvenience. She wouldn't have done so for her usual drinking companions who frequented their home, but that day's guest appeared relatively sober, wearing well-tailored Western clothes with a Bohemian necktie whose tasseled ends draped flamboyantly across his chest. From the conversation's tenor, she gathered he seemed to be an acquaintance from Takino’s student days—and likely a renowned poet.

“Ah, the night has deepened. Autumn will soon be upon us.”

When he sat down at the dining table, the poet let out a sigh that verged on a groan and swept back his long hair.
Shūko gazed intently at the poet’s demeanor. How splendid! she thought.

“Having met Takino again after so long, I was subjected to a terrible ordeal today.”

“You couldn’t possibly drink that much alcohol.”

“Ah, merely a sweet Western liquor. When working at night, I drip a small amount of fine whisky—two or three drops—into my tea. Thus do my delicate nerves glow pale.”

"My, how refined."

"I harbor a peculiar sensation toward what we call the night."

"――"

Shūko nodded as if in understanding.
She didn’t understand, but she had felt that if she didn’t do so, she might be scorned.

“Takino, you’ve long maintained this life of switching between day and night—but tell me, in which world do you discover your true self: the daylight realm or the nocturnal one?”

“I—”
Takino let out a sudden, outlandish cry that dissolved into throaty gurgles before trailing off.

(Go ahead and look!) Shūko felt that way.
And Takino—speeding up his handling of the cup as if to cover something up—glanced at Shūko,

“Hey, bring the sake faster, faster—”
“What’s this? Bringing it out here—” he snapped.

“You said we’d discuss art—that’s why I came.”

“What am I capable of doing?”
Takino once again evaded the conversation as if to cover something up and chattered in an affected tone: “When both your life and mood reach such an impasse, there’s nothing to be done. I ought to devote myself to learning something new.”
“You recited some cherished poem of yours earlier, didn’t you? What was it now? Perform it again for me.”

“It’s Verlaine’s Autumn Song.”

“Ah, right, right—you mentioned something about violins playing without restraint, didn’t you?”

“It’s violon—you should try learning Western music or something.”

“That does sound appealing.”

"That sounds perfect—I could learn it together with you," Shūko said.

After the poet had left, Takino was somehow in a bad mood.
And he continued drinking sake alone.

“You really should take up Western music once we move from here.”

“Well, I’ll think about it.”
“Well now, maybe I’ll sing a song or two.”
“It’s late, I tell you—and you haven’t forgotten your promise from this afternoon, have you?”

“If it weren’t for that song, it’d be fine.”

When her husband declared this resolutely, Shūko felt a flicker of curiosity stir within her.
(What else could he possibly know?)

“Are you saying I can’t even have freedom inside my own house? Am I not allowed to laze around at home even during the day? What’s wrong with doing handstands for exercise?”

“It’s disgraceful. If you’re going to exercise, do proper exercise; if you’re going to sing, do proper singing…”

“Quit nagging! ……Ah, drunk—drunk.”

For no particular reason, Takino said such things.
“Don’t mock me.”

“That’s how warped your mind is!”

“I can do anything!”

“Then go ahead and do it properly. Do as you please—see.”

Takino stood up unsteadily.
“Alright then! Let’s give it a try.”
“How about I try dancing or something?”

“I must decline the dragonfly dance.”

Both of them exchanged such absurd conversation in quarrelsome tones. The so-called dragonfly dance was a haphazardly named movement Takino had drunkenly christened himself—a relatively quiet amusement where he'd whistle through his teeth, stretch both arms upward, rise on tiptoes, and drift aimlessly about the room. During this performance, he would rotate his entire head in mimicry of a dragonfly's bulbous eyes, lightly drop his hips to evoke the insect depositing eggs on water's surface, soar high only to pivot into low dives, spread his wings like a kite soaring leisurely, and make observers feel they were witnessing silent aquatic glides beneath azure skies.

Having stood up, he had intended to perform his signature dance, but having been rejected, came abruptly to a standstill.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

He pursed his lips and grumbled.

“How should I know?!”
“Ahh, sleepy sleepy.”

“I don’t know any songs besides that one.”
“As for dancing, I don’t know any besides that one either.”
“If you’re going to call that disgraceful, then what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Enough already, drunkard!”
“So go learn something respectable.”

“Are you truly going to destroy this precious moment—me trying to sing amusing songs and lose myself in delightful dances—with your worthless criticisms and shatter my blissful dream?”

“Please stop—you’re being too loud!”

“Now you’re meddling with how I chatter?! This shackling’s worse than prison confinement! Enough! (Quit your clowning!) When did bird-keepers ever stitch shut caged songbirds’ beaks? You’re exactly like some bug-catcher’s lackey hurling nectar-drunk butterflies from flowers into poison jars!”

“Cease this buffoonery at once!” Shūko brandished her trembling fist. “Save your grievances for daylight! Must you stage these midnight farces? It’s nighttime—neighbors can hear! The neighbors— Agh!”
(Tch—even sparrows would cringe!)
Butterflies? None exist here.
(Starlings or mantises, more like.)

“If they can hear us, all the better—let’s have our distinguished audience determine which of us is the devil!”

Shūko could no longer endure it and suddenly flew at her husband, grabbing the slack area around his mouth as hard as she could.
Then Takino raised his theatrically exaggerated voice even higher and more dramatically,

“Yow!
“Ow ow, someone help me!” he called out loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Ah—burning up—burning up!”

Shūko tore at her own hair and threw herself facedown on the tatami mats.

Takino looked down at Shūko’s figure with affected disdain and curled into a malicious smile.
And he grabbed the sake decanter on the dining table and suddenly gulped it down trumpet-style with vigorous force.

“Burp... Hmm, I can’t just retreat silently after being mocked like this. If singing’s forbidden and dancing’s prohibited too, then this gentleman must demonstrate some proof of being alive while he still breathes—he simply won’t have it otherwise... What performance would suffice? What declaration? What course remains?”

He stared intently in thought for a while while muttering such things before slapping his knee with exaggerated force,

“Alright then!” he shouted.
“Even so—this won’t do… No way forward like this… Alright then! I’ll try military-style exercises!”

Having said that, he assumed a rigid standing posture—but Shūko, realizing she couldn’t endure another of his absurd performances, mustered her courage and leaped at her husband once more.
Summoning every ounce of strength in her body, she finally managed to wrestle him down onto the bedding, threw a cover over his head, and pressed down firmly without loosening her grip.
She blocked the area around his mouth with a clenched fist.
Beneath this restraint, Takino strained with all the hoarse voice he could muster,

“Forward—advance!”

“About face! Forward! Hey!” he kept barking out commands with forced bravado.
But just as Shūko had hoped—those strained shouts, like a trumpet muffled by a stuffed handkerchief, emerged thick and raspingly faint, never carrying to the surrounding houses.

Early the next morning, the gentle scholar living in the Western-style house next door knocked on Takino's late-riser's door.
The scholar had come to deliver both a protest and a kindly reminder on behalf of the neighborhood's grievances.
Takino had no possible retort and could only bow his head obsequiously again and again.

From that day onward, he began sitting at his desk with a bitter expression.

When Shūko looked at her husband’s figure, an absurd sense of amusement welled up within her for no reason.

(He ate his meals in silence and would immediately sit at his desk, putting on an exaggeratedly solemn face while doing nothing but smoke. Not that I had any desire to speak to him either—it was refreshingly peaceful. But what on earth could he be thinking about like that? With month's end approaching, was he perhaps wondering what new lie to tell this time to get money sent from his family back home? He was probably thinking something along those lines—but really, after spouting such wild tales to his mother to come to Tokyo, what scheme could he possibly be harboring? If I were to ask even the slightest question about it, he'd grow terribly resentful at being exposed as a fool and start breaking things—so there was no way to inquire... Ah, what an outrageous man I'd married.)

In their countryside days, with separate rooms, even when her husband occasionally sequestered himself in his study for stretches, Shūko couldn’t discern his activities. But here in their rented quarters—merely two adjoining six-tatami rooms without distinction between study and living space—every one of his such episodes laid bare all his movements to her observation. It was truly pitiable.

Takino faced a small desk beneath the window, turned his back to everything in the room, and continued sitting upright.

In the next room, Shūko knitted while keeping a child company, occasionally glancing at her husband’s back.

“I need to close this sliding door.”

Takino set about closing it, but the mechanism was faulty and wouldn’t shut properly. He clicked his tongue impatiently, gave up, and returned to his seat to smoke.—And then he would sometimes mutter something barely audible under his breath, straighten his chest with exaggerated grandeur, tilt his head pensively for a moment, click his tongue sharply, or—more unsettlingly—flash a soundless grin, clench his fists as if grunting “Hmm,” let out a mournful sigh, tap his head rhythmically, twist his lips into a servile grimace… Yet the instant he became aware of Shūko’s presence, he would snap back to attention and reposition himself with stiff formality.—That night, he appeared to stay awake until dawn. When morning came and Shūko looked in, he was sitting cross-legged and leaning backward, asleep as if dead.

Manuscript paper lay spread across the desk, some sheets filled with Takino's cramped characters.

Shūko felt guilty but stealthily peeked at a suitable section.—This is what was written.

"...Even though he thought that, it remained merely a thought—Junkichi's chest didn't stir even as much as a struck match."
He shook his head as if casting off a dull dream and, without looking at the other's face, wore an absent-minded smile while—

"If this were something shameful, your prank might’ve actually worked—(but no, not a chance!)—how utterly shameless I am, this me, this very me," he said.
To Kawase, who tended to take interest only in trivial matters, Junkichi intended this to be his strike back.

“Well now, eight or nine out of ten so-called literary youths are exactly that sort of lot—heh heh heh… Ah, how moldy—positively moldy!”

Kawase, while saying this, exaggeratedly contorted his face and pantomimed pinching his nose.

“There are indeed novels that turn the very struggle of being unable to write into their subject matter—but could anything possibly be more preposterous than that breed of fiction!”

Junkich finally steered the conversation back to the point he had tried to make earlier and muttered with grave solemnity as though delivering some profound opinion.

"I've never read any of those novels myself, so I wouldn't know," said Kawase pretentiously, smoking a cigarette.

"If you find it boring, you needn't even read it! But to call something dull and then vent such peculiar indignation—that's exactly what literary youths do..."

"You love lacing every 'literary youth' mention with that dubious contempt—yet such urbanites undeniably still exist today! And what's more—I can't stand your laughter! What's so funny? Nothing here warrants such mirth! How utterly rude!" Junkich retorted.

“Ha ha ha... Well now... That’s quite a predicament.”

Kawase laughed as he said this, though he showed no sign of being defeated. With a haughty “Ha ha ha,” he leaned back and kicked the air with one sharply creased leg of his white trousers.

“Don’t be absurd—there’s no defeat or anything here! How could anyone endure being forced to concede so frivolously?” said Junkichi, an unseemly wry smile escaping him as he felt as if he’d tickled himself.

Having read that far, Shūko grew bored and considered stopping—but when she saw Takino sleeping beside her with his mouth agape, oblivious to everything, an unwarranted resentment stirred within her, and she decided to skip ahead a few pages.

“—‘But listen here, Kawase!’ Junkichi said with an exaggerated breath. ‘For once, take what I’m saying seriously and hear me out.’”

“Still putting on that clumsy act, as usual.”

“I... I...”
Junkichi spoke in a high-pitched yet oppressively strained voice, strangely stammering: “The thing is... this novel I’ve been trying to write for over a month now—the one I’m completely stuck on—it’s...”
“In short—it’s a novel… about writing a novel when you’ve got nothing to write about. I… I never wanted to say this, but you’ve been hounding me with your fake concern since earlier—I’m spilling this shameful secret against my will.”

Junkichi’s demeanor unexpectedly didn’t seem like an act; he quietly turned his face away.
In that case, Kawase—whose nature was to quietly discern others’ feelings while himself indulging in something faintly saccharine—turned aside with an awkward smile.

“It can’t be helped if you get sentimental about your father—but immersing yourself in that sentiment, reflecting deeply, and then writing about it could serve as a remedy.”
To Junkichi, who since losing his father had become prone to displaying a childish fragility of emotion, Kawase could do nothing but say something to that effect.

"I once clearly told you that it was over," he said.
"When I wrote *The Unfilial Child*, I truly meant it that way."
"To chase after phantoms of those already gone—given my current standing—I must avoid such things."

"You can't help but cultivate that reputation."

"I don't need your sympathy—"

"Enough! I'll have none of this whining."

"Declaring his father done with while fabricating those evaluations—what a fastidious brat that fellow must be."
Junkichi muttered this listlessly and spat bitter saliva.
"That fellow... is me."
"And yet—flinging about brazen sweetness—that same me wrote of Father again just days ago!"
"So tediously long!"
"Shameless cur!"
"What is literature? Novels are pure folly."
"To hear myself speak of *The Unfilial Child*—appalling! What madness to stretch these cursed foolish hands toward Father resting three thousand shaku below!"
As this thought wrenched his chest, suddenly he—

(And yet, for that boisterous old man to have fallen so abruptly silent—how utterly anticlimactic, like fireworks fizzling out.) Such clear-cut clarity rose pale within him, nearly drawing a scornful laugh.

“Hey, hey,” Kawase tapped his shoulder.
“A novel that takes the very struggle of being unable to write a novel as its subject—what sort of nonsense is that? If you’re not going to lose heart, shouldn’t you just keep writing it?”

Oh, right... What had I been discussing with Kawase just now?—Junkichi snapped out of his daze.
(Ah, right—I’d been feeding Kawase that half-baked tale earlier.)

“Hmm, I intend to keep writing.”
Junkichi nodded with affected significance.

In truth, the claim he had made earlier to Kawase—that he had been writing a novel for over a month now, using his struggles with writer’s block as material—was a complete lie.
That was entirely his pretense.
If he said such things, people might think him profoundly thoughtful and believe he labored earnestly over his writing—might even regard him with some dignity. That was how lowly Junkichi had sunk.
That was why he would answer thus when questioned by friends—

“Are you fast at writing? Are you slow?” When asked such questions—

“Being this slow is truly a problem,” he would always answer.
He had finished writing his father’s memoir four or five days prior.
With his dull imagination, once he’d written it, his mind went utterly blank, and the thought of writing a novel never even occurred to him.

“What should I do now? I’m at a loss with this small body of mine.
You’re so multi-talented—I envy you.”
Junkichi said with earnest sincerity.

“Why don’t you try tennis or something?”
“I’ve always hated that.”
“Something new will likely begin before long.”

“Will something begin?”
“But I want some color or change in my life—no matter how trivial—”
“You don’t know the equation for novels—”
“There’s no novel—nothing at all.”

“That’s exactly what’s bad about it—that habit of yours.”
“So in times like these, you should devote yourself to studying—once you’ve grasped the equation, even if you write two or three novels, you won’t so much as flinch… get it?”

“I sort of get it in a way…”
Junkichi said in a despondent voice, “If I detest even reading books this much, there’s no saving me.”
“To keep spouting such things is laughable—no, downright base—but a great hole has opened in my heart.”
“A hollow as vast as a tunnel, desolate and empty—no—rather, this was innate. This guy must’ve used his father as an excuse to grovel and cling in all sorts of ways.”」

Even after reading this much, Takino still lay motionless in sleep, but Shūko felt unbearably bored—the thought of continuing to read further filled her with revulsion, even if begged to do so. To think that all his solemn airs—sitting day and night at his desk, thinking and writing—had produced such idiotic drivel... Far from feeling contempt, she was sick to her stomach.

That night too, Takino pulled an all-nighter at his desk.
Though she felt like provoking him in some roundabout way, since that was preferable to having him drink and make a racket, Shūko quietly feigned ignorance.

The next morning when she awoke, Takino lay slumped over his desk, snoring as he slept.—Countless torn fragments of manuscript paper lay scattered chaotically around him.

Takino slept until around three, and when he woke up, he ordered sake to be brought out—.
By the time he barely managed to finish a bottle of sake, he had already turned bright red, didn’t become particularly talkative, and just crawled into bed to sleep soundly until the next morning.

One morning, a single reply-paid postcard was delivered to Takino, who rarely received any letters.
It was an invitation to an alumni reunion exclusively for graduates of ×× Middle School residing in Tokyo.
Takino drew a double circle over "Attending" and a line through "Not Attending" on the reply card, then promptly sent it back.
Takino would turn thirty next year, but having lived under his parents’ care until quite recently, he’d never had occasion to wear formal summer attire like an unlined kimono jacket or hakama trousers.
The previous summer, since his hometown was by the sea, he had managed without ever wearing a stiff straw hat—he’d had no use for anything beyond a thin wooden hat.

From that summer onward, he had come to live in Tokyo; to his mother, he claimed to be working at a newspaper company while devoting himself to literary research on the side.

About two months prior, a satirical piece titled "Cabinet Appointments in the Literary World" had appeared in the gossip column of a certain literary magazine.
It had likened prominent literary figures of the contemporary literary world to various cabinet ministers.
And as secretaries to each minister, they had selected one literary youth apiece from among those knocking at the doors of these writer-ministers—the ones who seemed least tenacious—then delivered a scathing blow through this ironic analogy by likening them to cabinet secretaries.
Takino Seiichi had been appointed as secretary to Minister of Communications Kitakamigawa Eiji.

Not long after that magazine was published, Takino discovered the following passage in a lengthy letter he had received from his mother.

“…Yesterday, upon reading the ×× Magazine that Old Man Ishikawa had perchance brought me, I discovered your name unexpectedly in the literary cabinet column—ah, how weak is a mother’s heart! Unintentionally, I choked up with tears of joy. Now I have come to understand that the words you left unsaid when departing for the capital last month were indeed truthful for the first time. I earnestly wish you to further embody the ancient saying I once taught you—about a man leaving his hometown but once—in this new chapter.”
Though you have been provisionally appointed as a secretary official, do not forget the proverb "pride goes before a fall"—hold fast and never let go. Now that your father is gone and you cannot return, may this autumn find you with a heart bestowed a sword, rising to forge ahead.

“Now that you have attained the position of secretary official, I expect you will frequently appear in social circles; therefore, I have prepared and sent along with this letter one set of our family’s crested formal attire for summer use. As these garments were hastily retrieved during the disaster and consequently damaged, I earnestly request you wear them without fail when attending official functions. I implore you to cast aside your longstanding vice of chasing frivolous trends and instead take these ancestral robes as a moral compass, praying fervently you avoid any missteps at banquets or similar occasions. Furthermore, recalling your lack of proper summer attire for outings, I have enclosed a newly tailored set of haori and hakama for non-official visits…”

The alumni reunion was supposed to be held from six in the evening at a certain large restaurant in Nihonbashi—a place Takino and others had never set foot in.
That day, unusually, he got up from morning and remained restless.

For the first time, dressing in a brand-new haori and hakama to go out pleased Takino considerably.
Even so, he couldn't bring himself to don the crested formal attire when going out.

Takino appeared at the Nihonbashi venue not five minutes off six o'clock, with a slight swagger.
There, he was left waiting alone for over thirty minutes.

“Hey there! Sorry I’m late.”
“I happened to run into this meaningless gathering at ×× in Yoshichō today and barely managed to slip away halfway through.”

“No—I have to wrap things up here and make my way to the ×× meeting.”

“Our middle school days were so blissfully carefree, weren’t they? But hey—no harm done! Being busy’s a virtue. Stealing moments for these academic-style meetups—now that’s got a certain sophistication to it, eh?”

While spouting such remarks, Takino’s old friends gathered in twos and threes with boisterous energy.

Takino, thoroughly cowed, sat rigidly formal in a corner.

(He'll surely come home drunk again tonight—I must rent a house in the suburbs as soon as possible. Leaving it up to him means never knowing when it'll happen—maybe I should steel myself and start house hunting through newspaper ads tomorrow... And yet, though it's already past twelve, there's no sign of him returning. At this rate, it must be something awful—or perhaps seeing how breezily he left, he's gone carousing instead? He did often let slip how wonderful Tokyo's pleasure quarters must be.)

Shūko set down the calligraphy brush and became absorbed in such thoughts.
The thought of him returning and causing another commotion was unbearable.
If only he’d go off carousing or whatever and never come back—she found herself wishing against her will.
If he came to know Tokyo’s beautiful, duty-bound pleasure quarters, perhaps even his Odawara-bred vulgarity might acquire some refinement.

Back when they lived in the countryside, she had occasionally borrowed translated novels and new collections of modern Japanese fiction from her husband’s bookshelf to read.
Among them were novels that skillfully depicted the world of debauchery.
There were masterful novels where characters sank into pleasure quarters, immersed themselves in alcohol, contemplated life’s futility, and made it the sustenance of their art.
There were short stories that depicted in meticulous detail how one was led by dissolute companions to take up drinking, shining with a pearl-like radiance.
There had even been times when she found herself unwittingly moved to tears for the protagonist who fell in love with a beautiful geisha from a distant seaside country and journeyed far by train—though it was another’s affair.
How could he remain so dull-hearted while reading those novels? In his life, there was only drinking—how could one possibly thrive like that? His stagnant mind was plain to see; he couldn’t possibly write fiction. Proof lay in the fact that no fragment of his existence held even a glimmer of light—no lyricism, no contemplation. No profound melancholy weighed his words, no glimpse of life’s weariness… Just spinelessness, crude jokes, slandering others, fawning flattery—and when she recalled every experience she knew of her husband, even there lay no trace of “novel.”
She prayed from the heart that tonight her husband would be invited by old friends and go to the pleasure quarters.

Devoting valiant prayers for her unreliable, incompetent husband—she fashioned such thoughts and found herself unwittingly enraptured by her own self.

At that moment, though she couldn't make out the words, a car blaring an unbearably raucous noise came to an abrupt halt in the street.

He’s here!
She realized this and snapped to attention, rising to her feet.

“Rude bastards! They kept egging me on till I had no choice but to do it! Laughing at me—what nerve! Some first-class restaurant this is! That’s why I held back at first, damn it all! Worthless corporate hacks!”
“What the hell kind of geisha are those?!”

“We’ve arrived at your residence. Now do hold on tight.”

Supported by the driver, Takino staggered into the house.
The driver’s assistant brought his hat, haori, and one of his wooden clogs.

“What’s wrong with imitating cicadas? There was nothing else I could do—I racked my brains and gave it everything I had! Go ahead and laugh if it’s so amusing! But calling me some hick and mocking me—what gives, you third-rate bastards? Classmates my ass!”

“What a splendid state of affairs!”

Shūko sorrowfully scrutinized her husband’s disheveled appearance from head to toe.

"For geisha entertainment to work, the customer’s gotta have the right spirit to let the geisha enjoy themselves—what the hell’s that?! Come out! C’mon out!"

“This is your house, I tell you.”
“Stubbornly digging in your heels here won’t do you any good, I tell you.”

Takino, who had clearly drunk far too much, no sooner entered the tatami room than he collapsed like a stone Jizō statue where he stood. And gasping for breath, he shouted something incomprehensible to Shūko—"Cicadas! Cicadas!"—in ragged bursts.

That night's alumni reunion reached its peak as a grand success, with nearly twenty old acquaintances gathered.
As the alcohol flowed and the banquet grew boisterous, several geishas arrived.
Takino had been tense from the start—the alcohol doing little to loosen him up—but when geishas appeared he grew even more rigid, merely darting sidelong glances about.
When the geishas finished singing, the guests began taking turns performing.
They sang three-part ballads; someone belted out a folk ditty.
Takino too had wanted to contribute something, but knew nothing suitable.
Then each guest showcased their party tricks.
One man demonstrated his Kiyomoto singing; the next chanted a sonorous Nagauta ballad.
After these main acts concluded, some performed kouta ballads while others sang hauta folk songs. One delivered a six-section song before ostentatiously belting a boisterous popular tune that ended with a sharp "Stoton!" crescendo. Another briefly stood to dance a stanza of the Iris Dance with an apprentice geisha, while two men rose to perform a comedic dialogue song featuring exaggerated Chinese-style gestures and pantomimed hand movements.

“Mr. Takino’s just been sitting there watching since earlier without doing a thing.”
When the brief performances lulled, a man sitting on the opposite side—flushed with jovial excitement—pointed him out.

“Tch.”
Takino’s heartbeat grew abnormally intense.

“After things have gotten this rowdy，your not doing anything’s a tasteless move.”

The extremely beautiful geisha sitting beside Takino said "What's the matter with you?" while giving his shoulder a firm tap, whereupon the next courtesan in line—a somewhat older one—

“A skilled hawk hides its talons,” she chuckled lightly, whereupon the red-faced man across from her followed up with a vulgar pun that seemed to chase her words.

“So it seems Takino-kun has his eye on someone!” the red-faced man roared with laughter.
The whole group roared and clapped their hands.

“If you’re going to act falsely accused, you can’t very well hold back now.”

“Over there—how’s this for the strings’ tuning?”

“We’ve been waiting!”

“Then why don’t you perform an Iso-bushi?”

“No, no.”

Such voices surrounded him like arrows.
The unvented drunkenness coursed oppressively through his body.
His head suddenly flared up—the pent-up intoxication bursting forth—and his vision swam.

“Alright! Then I’ll do it!”
He stood rigid as a rod after declaring this.

“Oh ho! The secret technique!”
“Where’s your master?”

“Japandance! I’ve been waiting for this.”
“I’ll need the musical accompaniment.”
Such voices assailed his ears in fragments.
Simultaneously, the geishas collectively took up their plectrums, striking up a lively yet drawn-out accompaniment—the sort he recalled hearing used by magicians or Maruichi at variety halls—played in melodious ensemble.
He inadvertently staggered forward into the very center of the tatami room.

He stood there for a moment—then strode purposefully toward the pillar and,

“Take this!” he shouted, suddenly leaping onto its very top.……Hunching his body as small as possible, he clung tightly.
And closing his eyes, he lightly pinched his nose with his left hand,

He cried out loudly, “Meeen, meeen, meeen.”
“Meeen, min-min, meeen.”

In the momentarily quietened great hall, the shrill cicada cries evoked the stillness of a midsummer noon, resounding crisply through the space.

But the next instant, the great hall overflowed with jeers and curses.
"You're mocking us!"
"That bastard's been scowling from the start—trying to sabotage this special occasion."
"He's been sneering at our diversions all along—no doubt ridiculing us from the beginning."
"What an insolent wretch—a Waseda hick scholar!"
"How utterly tasteless!"
"Drag him down and crush him flat!"

In the shadow of a tree branch, a cicada was perched.
It continued crying out relentlessly, lamenting the passing of summer—Takino had absolutely no ill intent; he’d simply intended to depict such a serene and lonely landscape.
He had earnestly drawn a watercolor painting and added a cicada as an accent.

But he thought that if only the spectators had stayed quiet a little longer—he would have portrayed through the cicada's persistent shrill cries a scene where a mischievous boy crept closer with a netted pole to capture the pitiful insect. The cicada, sensing the boy's approach, would keep singing as if reassuring itself while quietly circling the treetop—then just as the net drew near, with a defiant "Not so fast! You won't catch me!" it would release a stream of liquid and soar skyward. This was how he had considered concluding his performance—though now he patted his chest in relief that he hadn't gone through with such a thing.

Shūko thought she must find a house in the suburbs at the earliest possible date. If they established a suburban home, she mused, her husband could be himself and she herself—each might finally lead the cultured existence they had perpetually yearned for.

"The second floor shall be your domain, while downstairs will constitute my complete private space," she declared. "You must refrain from commenting on my decorative choices—provided they cause you no inconvenience, that arrangement should prove satisfactory."

“That might be fine.”

Takino answered listlessly, his head heavy with hangover.
The evening sun was streaming into the very center of the room.
Takino lay on his back gazing at the ceiling, and his wife bent over her knitting.

“If it’s in a house in the suburbs, you could drink late into the night without causing trouble, you know.”

“I’m thinking of quitting drinking now.”

His wife looked pleased, yet widened her eyes,

“And then what will you do?” she asked.

“I think I’ll take up the trumpet again.”

“You were first trumpeter in middle school, weren’t you? There was that photo of you holding one.”
“But surely you don’t mean that old trumpet?”
“Heh heh heh...”

“Well—the ones called cornets or horns used in bands. Even those school songs I could play right away.”

“That might be acceptable, but I thought you meant a military trumpet again! Even in the suburbs, if you played that...!”

“I’d rather try playing that one—that’s where my real skill lies.” With that, Takino momentarily deflated before unconsciously puffing out his chest. “I want to properly show you my expertise.”

“Stop it, you’re being ridiculous.”

“When the imperial family made their appearance, I was the only one who played Kimigayo.”
“The principal gave me a notebook as a reward.”
“The fact that I received a prize after being praised by others—there’s been nothing else besides that.”
“I had the worst relationship with the gym teacher—in regular drills I was always dead last. But on ceremonial days, I’d stand at the front blowing the trumpet with full dignity. The trumpet squad were all big louts who resented my joining, but my trumpet tone was unmatched. Even that gym teacher who kept trying to exclude me couldn’t rival that. During the sports festival marching formation, I alone blew the trumpet beside the school flag—the female students watching all gasped in admiration.”
Takino, oddly animated, began chattering away rapidly.
(On the return from live-fire exercises, the troops would be utterly exhausted, with no energy left to sing marching songs.
Light streamed from the windows of the village houses.
“Takino, I’m counting on you here,” someone said, and “Right!” I stepped forward to take the lead.)
And as soon as he grabbed the trumpet tucked under his arm, he played a resonant march with lingering echoes.
The entire army’s pace promptly aligned with cheerful precision, and the valiant sound of boots resounded through the twilight forest.
(Even when shifting to a gallop, I could keep playing without missing a beat.)

It was something that had happened twelve or thirteen years before.
(Back in fifth grade I'd scorned that thing and abandoned it—so much time had passed since then, but could I still do it now?) He was lost in such thoughts.

“It should have been at the country house until just recently... Could it have burned down?”

“What shape’s a ‘horn’ supposed to be?”

“You’re so annoying—”
“I’m not thinking about such things now.”

“I don’t care about military trumpets—pull yourself together, you know—”

Takino muttered under his breath, feigning deafness to Shūko’s voice.
“But the trouble is, with that trumpet you can’t properly tune the notes—you have to blow with all your might just to get a sound out of it. Whether practicing or performing properly, you can’t manage to play it softly.”

“What are you even saying? How ridiculous.
Let’s just move to the suburbs sooner rather than later.
Growing flowers or something might be nice, don’t you think?”

“What’s the use of the suburbs anyway? If playing the trumpet causes trouble, we’ll just go back to the countryside.”

“Tch! Even the countryside…”

“Let’s retreat to some backwater beyond Odawara—I want to go where no one will complain no matter what I do, and then…”

“Here we go again—do you mind stopping this nonsense? Heh heh heh.”

Shūko cast off her laughter and stood up to prepare dinner.
Takino envisioned the clear, tranquil countryside landscape, poured his entire being into earnestly dreaming of playing that trumpet, and lately found himself immersed in an invigorating trance unlike anything he’d ever known.

“And what about the alcohol?”

“Of course.”
“You’re so damn noisy.”
He frowned in apparent annoyance and muttered, then once again fixed his gaze obstinately on the ceiling and remained motionless.

From the next morning onward, Shūko began making it her daily routine to take her three-year-old child by the hand each morning and go house-hunting in the suburbs.

(Year 13, September)