Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Good grief, what a dreadful acoustic phenomenon!”
“That—well, I’d mostly grown accustomed to it by now, but still no use. When something’s this preposterous, no matter how many times they repeat it daily, each time I’m startled so badly it takes ages for the reverberations to fade—truly. …And then, y’know, thinking ‘It’s about time for another one,’ sometimes I’ll muster this mischievous defiance—like ‘Go on then, do your worst!’—and lie in wait, timing it perfectly, expecting that bastard to go Boom! right when I inhale—”
“It booms alright? But no use—even when braced for it, I get startled just as badly as when caught unawares. Though lately my mind’s been excessively…”

Just now, Fujimura had encountered the mountain’s usual acoustic phenomenon and—unintentionally—

“Agh!” I too—involuntarily raised a startled voice, and when we both reflexively faced each other with vacant smiles, he launched into such a clumsy, long-winded explanation.

“Even so, that one was ridiculously loud again.”

I had also made such an exaggerated show of surprise that I felt self-conscious, which is why I said that.

The mountain's sound referred to here was the explosive noise resonating from the large mountains encircling the western side of this town where railway tunnel construction had commenced.
—The mountain's twin flanks spread like wings, embracing the bay.
The small town lay nestled in its embrace, steeped in hot spring steam.
From morning till evening, countless blasts—some large, some small—would skim over the town that had grown fully accustomed to them and now maintained its calm silence. At times they would swirl and roar through the nestled streets like a brooding drunkard sighing into his own chest, then vanish over the sea with a leisurely gait.

“No matter how bored we get, there’s nothing more tedious than listening to explanations of such idiotic feelings,” I laughed at Fujimura’s self-important manner of speaking—

“But even I haven’t grown accustomed to it at all. Honestly, a blast of that magnitude would normally count as quite an event for anyone, wouldn’t it?” I too tilted my head with mock solemnity like this, imbuing utter triviality with false significance.

"When sounds exceed a certain degree," he said with philosophical gravity, "they all merge into white clouds' vastness—meaning there was never any distinction between them from the very start."
"In other words, for example—" Fujimura tried to give an example but instead exhaled a thin stream of cigarette smoke,
"No—rather, all phenomena reach out into the infinite vastness of the universe..."

Fujimura, noticing that what he was saying was veering into dreamlike sentimentality, formed a strange smile.
To me, I couldn't make sense of what he was saying at all.

“Even those smaller sounds—how do you think they compare to the noon cannons we hear around Hibiya Park?”

Being practical and moreover slow-witted—I, who couldn't discuss anything without grasping at nearby examples—had uttered those words in a way that withered Fujimura's carefully prepared topic.
Fujimura too—being somewhat like me—was not particularly skilled at conversation.
Uneducated, lacking any particular intellectual curiosity, and even less adept at casual conversation—the two of us had sat there like a pair of owls since earlier, hugging our knees as we vacantly gazed out at the overcast sea—each feeling a faint irritation at this shared silence—.
So even Fujimura—had there been any other kind of topic at hand—would surely never have wanted to bring up something like "the mountain's acoustic phenomenon".

“If we’re calling this leisurely, then all of them must be equally leisurely in their own way.”

I, realizing I had made an utterly foolish comparison, this time vaguely uttered such things to obscure myself.

“They’re somewhat similar.”
“But the feeling differs, you see. With ours—in terms of acoustic coloration there may be no distinction—but the reality’s rawness, you understand…”
“The noon cannon—isn’t that leisure’s very symbol itself…?”

“No—I don’t think that’s quite right!” I said.
It wasn’t that I particularly wanted to contradict him, but having said that, I scrambled for some follow-up remark—yet nothing suitable came to mind readily.

“But—” Fujimura said again.
"You don’t have to force yourself to talk so much—" I found myself thinking.
“But if it were a tour group or something who don’t know about such things…”

Oh, he's talking about the noon cannons—I thought.

“Tour group?!”

“Yeah, don’t goggle your eyes every time…” Fujimura laughed with strained amusement.

“But I can’t help feeling this peculiar nostalgia whenever I hear the words ‘tour group’.”

“Miss Flora?”

“……………”

I made a face that resembled a nod yet didn’t quite.

“We’re not discussing earthly passions here, you fool.—Ahem, suppose some sightseeing group or such were riding around in rickshaws, say in the Marunouchi area—and suddenly heard the noon cannon. How would their shock compare to ours? Just like with acoustic phenomena, once a single emotion like shock exceeds a certain degree, there’s no difference between do-re-mi shocks—no scale of distinction.”
“No—given my current state of mind, even if I were in Tokyo, I’d surely jump out of my skin if I unexpectedly encountered a noon cannon…”

"In any case, such preposterously overblown talk isn't amusing," I said with a gloomy face—for I had been recalling Miss F.

Confined by the rain, we had been transformed into strangely foolish chatterboxes for four or five days already—.
Neither of us had noticed it ourselves, but we had never before experienced becoming this particular breed of chatterbox.
We were akin to fishermen who go out to work only on clear days, now confined by the rain.
But fishermen surely have net-mending work to do; gathered around the hearth with their comrades, they must have been earnestly planning and deliberating their next rope placements—we were but inept apprentices to such fishermen.

What on earth would we become—this uniform anxiety coiled in both our chests.
Laziness, frivolous optimism, trivial heartbreaks, discord with parents—though both of us had graduated from different private universities, we’d learned nothing at school. Now even that sole credential—“university student”—had been stripped away, leaving us dumbfounded with nowhere else to turn.

“Is there no generous fairy tale writer somewhere who’d be kind enough to use the two of us as minor characters in their story?”

There were even times when we discussed such things with unusual listlessness.

Fujimura had been expelled from his family home—through that classic formula of old-fashioned debauchery and old-fashioned parental reproach—and in nearly identical circumstances, he had been staying at my lodgings here in this town, to which I too had been driven out, for about two months now. My situation might have differed from Fujimura’s by about an octave, but when it came to rupture points, it resembled the simple acoustic phenomenon his earlier preposterous metaphor had described. There was no one anywhere who could spare sympathy for the sorrow in a young man’s heart—one who had clashed with his father and fled to such a place, trembling at the memory of that fearsome visage while passing his days in foolishness. Therefore, we had dissolved into an eerily close intimacy. Fortunately, because I maintained this refuge and my mother’s goodwill, we were able to remain as we were—had that not been the case, we would have had no choice but to become helpers in the tunnel construction or apprentices to fishermen.

“I’m confident I could become a fisherman’s assistant, but what about you?”

Fujimura also said such things.

"I'm confident I could take on that role—you know, blowing the conch shell trumpet for departure signals. I’ve got a knack for brass instruments," I replied.

"Where do they sell those?"

"Practicing that might actually be a bit interesting."

"If you could blow it well, you might even become an ascetic."

"I want one!"

"I believe they were definitely selling them in Enoshima."

We would elaborate on such conversations.

Nothing troubled us—so devoid of thought and utterly lacking composure—as much as the rain.
During dry spells—though our mental stagnation remained unchanged—we would summon forced cheer to descend daily to the shore. There we skinny wretches wrestled one another, raced along the sand, practiced handstands, sometimes even took long bicycle rides until dusk found us dragging our feet homeward. Then like failed students drowning their sorrows, we drank liquor we didn’t even want—transformed into antiquated scholars sinking into crude drunkenness—bellowing the same songs nightly, dancing absurd jigs until we vomited, suddenly shouting military-style exercise commands at full volume before collapsing into deathlike slumber.
And come morning, we’d compete to sleep in, then rise flamboyantly around noon to dash barefoot toward the shore.

The house was by the stone wall at the seaside.
From the sandy beach, we would aim our voices toward the window in unison,

“Bring us musubi and cider—tsu!” we shouted things like.
When there was no response after one attempt, we would repeat the same words until a response came.

“If I keep doing this every day, I’ll become truly carefree and unbothered.”

“Over there, they’re building that paint-coated house, right? Apparently they’re going to make it into some Tokyo-style café.”

"That sounds great!" Fujimura slapped his knee.

“On the contrary, in such a place as this, a splendid beauty might suddenly appear, you know.”

“Around when do you think we’ll get driven out to that mountain house?”

"When summer comes, my family members and relatives will probably take turns coming to visit."
"Or maybe the old man’s greed has led to some scheme where he’s palmed it off on someone at an exorbitant price, you know."
“Apparently my family’s finances have been rather bad lately, because..."

“I hate going to the mountains...”

“It’s certain—they’re selling it. That mountain house? Just a shack they threw up as property markers.”

“Then there’s no plumbing for baths either.”

“Baths aren’t the issue.”
“Meaning if we go there, we’ll end up as field watchmen.”

“Watchman!”
“But still... it’s nice just to have that kind of job—”

“I hate this—I might as well just go to Tokyo or something.”

“If you go to Tokyo, I’ll go somewhere too.”

“That does seem preferable.”

“……”

“……”

“Let’s stop this boring talk already.”

“Well…you—how many steps can you walk in a handstand now?”

“I can’t walk.”

“I’ve learned how to do somersaults—look, watch this!”

Having said this, Fujimura stripped down to his shirt and performed splendid somersaults and flailed his way in handstands all the way to the water’s edge. I also practiced that—and then we would return exhausted.

Late spring passed, the toy-like whistle of the Keiben Railway piercing through the wheat fields with a shrill peep, and the sea took on a purplish tinge.
Before long, the rainy season arrived.
In this town that had primarily attracted winter visitors, a proposal arose this year to implement a “summer promotion,” and a public speech event was held at the town’s public hall.

“Shall we go listen to the speech?”

Having been invited by the neighboring town council member, Fujimura turned to me in consternation and spoke.
Without responding to him, I inadvertently turned toward the council member and,

“Around when will the tunnel be completed?” I asked, only to find myself exasperated by the council member’s impassioned, lengthy explanation.

There was still no telling whether it would take five years or ten—now it had become a battle between the mountain and human obstinacy.
“As for the mountain itself—since they’re trying to bore holes through its ironclad belly—it probably can’t stay silent either; it might spit water to defend itself, maybe even spew fire,” the council member went on in that vein.

From the mountain veiled in misty drizzle, about three resounding booms echoed each day, with intermittent blasts rumbling in between.

"But once our project succeeds," declared the Council Member, "alongside the tunnel, our town will become a world-renowned destination."

When he left, Fujimura said, “That person must’ve gone off to practice tonight’s speech—he’ll definitely deliver it in exactly that same tone. Shall we go see?”

“It’d be rude, so let’s not.”

“You’re strange.
“I’m not saying that to look down on that person, you know.”

“Well, I…” I hurriedly added.
I was probably on the verge of neurasthenia—my very existence an obstacle no matter where placed—driven by such outlandish, negative delusions.

“Even if it’s rude… How pretentious.
“But… ah, let’s drop it. I mean, even I—”

“……”

“Hey, quit making that weirdly meditative face.”
“……Ah… The rain’s truly unbeatable. These days—maybe from lack of exercise—even when I drink, it just leaves me feeling awful the next day. If I’m not careful, I end up staying awake all night!”

Having said this, Fujimura lay on his back, gazed at the ceiling, and whistled.

At that moment, the mountain’s acoustic phenomena resounded two or three times in succession.—Fujimura,

“Damn thing!” he said, sitting up straight.
“Still, they’ve been ridiculously frequent lately.”

“It’s not so bad, really.”

I said this in a thin, low voice.
Imagining how the acoustic phenomena—appearing both as something unperturbed by such trifles and as a form racing wave-like over the smoke-hazed houses of this town that seemed to hush itself like a hermit crab whispering *Ah, terrifying terrifying*—might also find hot-spring guests in some room discussing the tunnel, I felt anew dissatisfied with my own deficiency in delicate lyrical sentiment.

“Damn!”
“Ugh, this is awful.”

Fujimura muttered such things to himself and knocked his head with a thump of his fist.—“I’m not usually this easily startled by nature, you know.”

I—no, we—must indeed have fallen into this so-called neurasthenia lately, I wanted to declare—but if I carelessly got carried away, Fujimura, who absolutely wouldn’t want to laugh, would inevitably be struck by even the slightest provocation, and he with such habits couldn’t help devising some sarcastic remark—no, *I* was just putting on a bit of sentimental theater—or so he’d likely say, and this somehow pained me on his account.
I, by nature an egoist who even in my contorted way rarely speculated about others’ emotions, found my heart too cruelly plagued by the rain—warped by routine and driven ever backward.
We were undoubtedly two wooden statues.
Our mouths gaped open and shut, but this was merely an unnatural motion forced through being manipulated by taut strings—nothing more than that.

“Delinquents are surprisingly cowardly, don’t you think? Especially this kind of...”

I said such things, laughed, and glanced at Fujimura.

“Especially this kind of…”

Fujimura immediately seized my words and thrust out his chin at me.
“At any rate, if this rainy season doesn’t clear up soon, we’re done for. Even if it *is* the rainy season, does it really have to pour every single day like this…”

“Yeah…”

“Once it clears up!” Fujimura shouted.
“Hmph—I’ll go for a swim, aah—!”

“They say the rainy season won’t end until thunder sounds.”

“You sure know some weird things.—Quit it with the thunder talk…”

Fine rain fell without cease.
Out in the sea lingered an antiquated two-masted sailing ship—an incongruous sight in this modern age—that had remained anchored there continuously for days.
The vision of this ship weighing anchor and setting sail with hoisted canvas seemed nearly impossible to conjure—so utterly was it steeped in the May rains.

II

Fujimura was still sleeping.

It was just past noon, yet the sea’s color resembled that of dusk.—After lying in the futon for some time—each of us gazing at the ceiling while exchanging idle talk—Fujimura had eventually drifted off to sleep without my noticing.
When I looked, he was sleeping with his mouth open, light snores escaping him.
Not long ago Fujimura had teased me about sleeping with my own mouth agape like that, but now as I looked at his sleeping face, I found myself gripped by grievous melancholy.
He must have felt the same when he saw mine—forcing out that mockery to make me laugh and dispel my gloom—yet now my heart couldn’t muster even such effort...

“Hurrah”

I suddenly heard such a voice.
I was startled.
My chest gave an eerie thud.
When I looked back, a strange smile floated on Fujimura's sleeping face.
He had muttered some incomprehensible sleep talk.—Rather than me mishearing it as such, this resembled how train tracks’ clatter or clock ticks might be perceived differently depending on one’s listening.
For instance, whether we render a rooster’s crow as “cock-a-doodle-doo” or “kuck-a-doodle-doo,” whether we’ve been conditioned since childhood to express drumbeats as “boom-boom-boom”—even if one used “rub-a-dub-dub” instead, there’d be no particular objection—in truth, I heard Fujimura’s sleep-talking cry as “Hurrah!”

Oh! I thought. Something cold and sweet flashed across my chest.

(Oh... So that's it! Flora?)

I followed with my gaze the narrow path beneath that window—a single thread stitching through the midslope of the cape jutting far to the right—until it disappeared into a tunnel as small as an arc drawn by a fingertip.

(That tunnel—less than fifty meters long—was indeed called by some imposing name like Kangyodō, wasn’t it?) The place beyond that tunnel—Shiomizaki? Hmm, right.—This time I still hadn’t gone there even once. (If it cleared up, maybe I should invite Fujimura and try walking all the way down that path.)

Following the bay’s contour, the gently spiraling path gradually ascended the cliff’s midslope—Kangyodō crowned its apex, where the cape’s tip directed the path toward the cliff edge, commanding a view of the sheer precipice below. Standing at that promontory’s edge—gazing up at opposing geological faults behind me while imagining the sea dozens of fathoms beneath my feet—I suddenly felt my soles tingle, my whole body trembling as if compressed into a quivering sphere.

There had been a time when Fujimura pointed to that cape and insisted on a long bicycle ride, but even then I’d felt the same trembling, developed goosebumps across my skin, and stubbornly turned the handlebars toward the opposite direction.

“Hurrah!”

That’s right—I had recalled Flora’s exclamation.—When she had shouted like that, I remembered sensing her smile.—No matter how awe-inspiring a vista I might encounter, I could never raise such a cheerful voice.

“Hurrah!”

“…………”

I too leaned against the stone railing with trembling legs and looked down at the raging waves below—well now, I had always thought such words were merely unrealistic model phrases found only in the interjection section of basic English grammar... But indeed, one does say it—in such circumstances—Hurrah......

Unaccustomed to interacting with people of other races, I found myself oddly impressed. Yet toward her—who by now should have grown quite familiar—I felt a fresh, almost brazen artificiality, as though I'd cunningly reduced her to mere research material.

Had that been all, even now recalling it would bring no heart-constricting feeling—but simultaneously, this cold linguistics researcher detected a sweetly suffocating physicality in her pure exclamations of excitement before sublime vistas; and my very body—already leaning over the railing to gaze at the waves below—having transformed into glass tubes, became perilously intoxicated by some terrifying dream. That’s why even now, merely imagining that scenery makes my vision blur. This occurred a full two years ago.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!”

While gazing at the cape, I deliberately yet furtively repeated that cry—struck by a heart-flushing emotion, erasing the scenery to envision only her before my eyes——.
Unless I strained myself considerably, I could only envision her; the scenery of Kangyodō persistently sought to embrace our insignificant selves.

Fujimura was sleeping, emitting faint snores.

What a rude thing it is to peer at someone’s sleeping face—I scolded myself in such terms.

(...He hardly ever speaks of the person he recently had a failed romance with—and even if their relationship had been intimate, he probably wouldn’t have any interest in discussing such matters with others.)
I, being on the opposite end, am prone to exaggerating my emotional state—possessing a base habit of mournfully proclaiming matters that don’t even reach the level of heartbreak.
He must surely be tracing joyous dream paths of love lost even as he sleeps like this—I must strive not to wake him from his dream.

Before I knew it, the rain seemed to have intensified, and the area around the cape was blurred with a faint smudge of haze.—But on that day about two years prior, when I first attempted an excursion with her to that very spot, it had been a radiant summer morning: rickety horse-drawn carriages bound for Ajirō clattered along, scattering mellow horn notes as they ran.

“If I were to spend three days with Jun in one place, I’d likely fall ill—that’s simply my nature.”

“As I always say, I detest walks. To begin with, no matter how magnificent the scenery might be, it holds no interest for me whatsoever.”

“Could it be you feel that way because it’s familiar scenery from your own country?”

“No—I’ve never traveled anywhere at all. Though I’ve visited this town several times, I’ve never ventured to that cape’s tip. I always volunteered to remain behind as caretaker.”

“What a pitiable guide you are.”

“Well now—since when have I been made your guide? To think you’d walk around with a mute guide—you’re quite the eccentric person, aren’t you?”

“Hohoho...”
“But you know, even if I’m called mute, I’d be troubled if people start taking it too lightly.”

In any case, we walked along a solitary cliffside path in high spirits, exchanging trivial banter while each dragging a cane—now gazing up at the mountains, now peering down at the sea.

“Really—”

I put on an affected smile, my tone half-jesting yet strained with peculiar intensity.
This very stiffness—forcing both words and emotions into theatrical performances to match her speech patterns—paradoxically lightened my heart with frivolous antics, distracting me from the shame I felt toward the woman.
Had I been conversing with a beautiful woman of my own race, I would have turned utterly mute with reserved demeanor.
Yet before her, I remained relatively bold.
Speculation, suspicion, hidebound courtesy, verbal duplicity—though accustomed to such impurities through long habituation, I felt miraculously freed from their grip without ever despising her.

“Troubled? So you’re saying there’s always some scheme brewing in that heart of yours?”

She would refer to me as “Jun,” “Anata,” “omae,” or sometimes even “kimi.”

“Program, you say?”

Unintentionally, I blushed.
I had never used English in front of her—even if I had wanted to, I was not proficient—
Thus I would often misunderstand the English nouns and verbs she interjected into her speech, being subjected to unwarranted anguish—but this time, I was struck with such astonishment that she laughed and said, “You must be in love with me, hahaha!”

“I’m the one who——” she said.
“Who’d have to feel all sorts of unnecessary troubles…… No—plans?”
“What kind?”

“When English gets mixed in, I just stop understanding anything.”

“The fact that I wasn’t some tour group member must’ve been a real stroke of luck for you.”

So that’s what she’d meant by ‘being able to speak Japanese’!
I found myself having to dissect every word like this.

“If that’s how it is, we just wouldn’t have spent time together—and I’d have rather…”

“At least I’d avoid having my pathetic plans pried into…”

"Oh!" I thought.
But I quickly realized that trying to read meaning into it was itself a miserable thing.

“The island visible yonder is called Ukishima, they say—apparently it lies just three ri offshore.”

I explained such things.
Anything beyond this level of conversation was impossible for me—indeed, even our exchanges up to that point must have seemed equally trivial from her perspective. When contradictions arose, it was better to give up on the bothersome act of reflection—so I thought.

"Oh, right."

She gazed at the open sea with eager eyes.
“Won’t you guide me out there next time?”

“I hate boats.”

“I like boats!” she laughed.
I felt pleased sensing she was gradually coming to understand my temperament.
I’ll never pander to her ways—I vowed silently.

“So what was this plan of yours?”

Not yet!
Annoyed yet determined to evade, I solemnly—

“Quite—” I said.
No matter how bizarrely our verbal exchanges might contort themselves, I found it amusing that she never seemed to find them strange.

“Even a mute has dreams—dreams permitted to him alone. There’s an old Chinese proverb of profound meaning that goes like that, understand?”

I heedlessly let slip this careless remark.
I found it amusing how she momentarily stiffened in surprise.
"As though a mute gains but one dream, permitted only to know himself"—I had chanced to recall this half-remembered, dubious old saying, yet the very moment I struck that foolish pose while uttering it, I was suddenly seized by an uncanny loneliness and sucked into a cavern of silence.
I turned sideways and gazed at the distant blue island floating distinct against the horizon.

We entered the tunnel of Kangyodō, its exit projected like a magic lantern.
The tunnel's faint darkness rescued my heart.
The sound of her shoes and the dragging of my geta grew suddenly distinct.
When she had nearly included me as a human element in her landscape photograph while walking earlier, I panicked—thinking she might someday explain to someone back home: "This is a Japanese youth I once associated with—in summer they nonchalantly walk public roads wearing such hats, such clothes, such bare feet"—and if that someone were her future husband, how utterly wretched that would make me—thus spinning these paranoid speculations,

“No thanks—if I carelessly let someone like you take my photo, there’s a risk I’ll end up being used as reference material later,” I said while skillfully dodging out of frame and letting her take landscape shots devoid of human figures. Yet there I stood wearing my summer uniform: a bark-cloth hat I never removed in warmer months, a threadbare yukata, that bulky black merino heko obi coiled awkwardly around my waist—its circular form threatening to slide clean off—with clunky garden geta thrust onto spindly legs that could barely support them.

In the dimly lit tunnel, only the sound of her shoes and the heavy dragging of my geta became distinct.

The moment we exited the tunnel—or rather, at what might be called Shiomizaki, or perhaps Kangyodō—we emerged onto the mountainside that had been cut through, where Kangyodō’s exit forced us, supported by the railing on our right, to cast our eyes down at the cliff beneath our feet.

Here, we return to the beginning of this episode.

“Hurrah!” she exclaimed.
I had not mentioned earlier that at this moment she unexpectedly grasped my hand—when her interjection filled me with a sweet ache (Of course she’d say such an interjection, I thought even as—) she took my hot hand in her cold one.

Ah!
I still cannot forget that.
What eternally grieves me is that such opportunities were never granted when there was no scenery—and what saddens me most is having to conclude that she from that time, that landscape, together form the one and only dream for me: terrifying yet delightful.

But I have heard it said by many women—that those with warm palms have hearts of the opposite nature—yet my hands are always warm.
Let me believe in such superstitions—I still find it amusing that through her I conducted practical research in English grammar...

I gazed at the smoke-veiled cape while pressing my palm gently against my cheek.
What a warm palm this was!

"Maybe I should devote myself to linguistics or entomology from now on!"

The thought had crossed my mind casually, but I didn't let slip even a wry smile.
In my vexation, I conceived an outlandish sort of self-delusion.

"It would be more interesting than becoming a fisherman's apprentice or field watchman."

When I'd earnestly thought that far, I suddenly felt utterly foolish—just how insincere was my heart? Feeling this way, I put on an embarrassed smile and involuntarily slapped my forehead briskly with that hot palm.

Fujimura was still sleeping.
And he carelessly mumbled something so indistinct that one might want to ask him to repeat it.
No longer could "Hurrah!" be heard—it had become mere mumbling, exactly as those trite adjectives for sleep-talk suggest.

III

“Hey, aren’t you going to wake up already? It’s a beautiful morning today!”

Fujimura’s bright voice shattered my dream without warning—and indeed, amber sunlight flooded every crevice of the room. The radiance pouring through the wide-open window bathed my entire face. No wonder—in my leaden slumber, I had been desperately gulping at cold drops tumbling from the moon, insufficient to moisten my parched throat, like a fish floating in water obsessed with catching each precious bead.

Having drunk sake before bed as usual, I would typically dream of water—but in this daytime moon vision, when I finally caught one of those rare falling drops in my mouth, it burned as hot liquor instead. How wretched—and thinking this, even that moon’s hue seemed uncanny……

"That's not the moon—it's this glass I'm throwing! Look, here!"
"You're such an idiot—thinking it was the moon..."

A man who looked like Fujimura said this.
When I looked, an ordinary champagne glass sat on his palm.

"What...!"
"No wonder..."

“I’ll toss it again—this time try to drink it properly.”

“But I’ll pass on the booze—the glass is fine, but what was in it earlier was as raw and hot as oden shop sake.”

“For someone who mistakes a glass for the moon, that’s more than enough…”

“Oh, it *is* the moon after all! You’re the liar here! Ahh—I’m parched—whether it’s the moon or oden or whatever, just give me water already!”

I muttered such things.
Was even my belief that Fujimura had awakened me earlier also a dream?

“Hey, you should get up already—let’s head out.”
“It’s a splendid day!”

Fujimura, growing slightly impatient, shook my shoulder, and I finally awoke—the weather was indeed as splendid as I had imagined in my dream.
No—I must have woken up once earlier and unknowingly fallen back asleep.

“You really sleep soundly!”

Fujimura laughed incredulously.

“I must’ve had my mouth open.”

Feeling this way, I preemptively asked.

"We’re both fools, aren’t we?" Fujimura laughed.

The first good weather in some time left us somewhat carried away.—We walked along the beach with our chests puffed out.
There was an old calisthenics command about moving forearms flat—in such fashion, Fujimura walked triumphantly, bending and stretching both arms stiffly.

"The sight of us walking like this… it can’t help but resemble honor students taking a stroll between study sessions..."

“Two promising young men…”

“Stop it—you’re making me feel guilty… But why don’t we reform ourselves properly for once and start some research?”

Fujimura said this in a joking tone that nevertheless carried profound despondency.

“…………”

In truth, I had no choice but to engage in my usual frivolous antics.

“Since we hadn’t exercised in a while—whether looking up at mountains or down at the sea, our eyes got dazzled… For two or three days, we probably wouldn’t be able to manage any amusement beyond walks.”

“Well then, how about looking up at the sky!”

I said such things and went so far as to dramatically look up at the blue sky.

“Hey, stop that!”
“Here of all places…”

Fujimura hurriedly urged me onward as I had stopped.
We, pressed by the mountains, were making our way along the narrow path to Shiomizaki—a cliff where with each step, the sea transformed into an abyss below.
Perhaps because it was our first sunny day in some time—or maybe we’d simply been drawn to the unfamiliar scenery—without any particular discussion, our feet moved that way of their own accord.

From the western mountains, the usual sound resounded crisply that day.

By the time we reached the tunnel, we had already fallen silent, merely dragging our feet aimlessly. When we emerged from there, we leaned against the railing like those bound by duty and looked down at the sea.

“Oh…”

I let out such an interjection.

“Cut it out already!” Fujimura pulled at my sleeve.—The rainwater runoff, still turbid from the storm, swirled into whirlpools that crashed against rocks, sending up plumes of spray.

A tea stall where an old woman kept watch alone stood immediately behind us. The last time I had come here, I didn’t seem to have noticed such a thing.

When we sat down at the tea stall and looked ahead, the cliff covered half the sky. Twisted pines jutted out above the horizon. Though unseen below, waves roared thunderously. The tunnel exit appeared to gaze fixedly like a single eye—now that I thought of it, this cliff facing the sea had the rounded shape of Daruma’s head.

“Even drinking beer feels tiresome—I’d probably get drunk...”

Fujimura looked up at Daruma’s head and said this.
Indeed, the position where we were resting our wings like flies corresponded precisely to Daruma’s shoulder.

“Is the old woman staying here?” Fujimura asked.

The sound escaping from the tunnel resonated as though channeled through a tube, undispersed.
The sound of dragging geta could be heard.
Boisterous voices drifted through.
We were silently gazing at the tunnel exit.
The wind passing through there was especially cold.

Two elderly men who appeared to be spa guests from the countryside emerged from there, cheerful and bearing curious smiles.
They were cheerfully discussing the scenery.

And coming beside us, they sat down.

Despite the young men breathing like frightened insects, they remained utterly bright and filled with pleasure.

As for what kind of conversation the two old men had exchanged, I have no recollection of it now; needless to say, they were gratefully appreciating the long-awaited fine weather while trading cheerful exclamations about this sublime view.
Had I remembered their conversation well enough to insert it here, this cluttered prose of mine might have gained some fluidity—substituting for my ineptitude at description—but since I’ve forgotten, there’s no help for it. Only the bright voice of one old man, casually uttered in country dialect, remains in my ears even now.
One of them looked up at Daruma’s head and,

“If ya went an’ tumbled right off that there peak, what d’ya reckon’d happen?!” he exclaimed in a brisk, jesting tone.
Drawn by this, the other man also casually raised his eyes.

“Turn to dust, I reckon! Ha ha ha!” he boomed with hearty laughter.

Fujimura and I inadvertently exchanged glances and put on embarrassed smiles.
Indeed, we too must have been struck by such thoughts.—We found our own spineless indecisiveness laughable.

By the time we were leaving, we had transformed from ordinary pessimists back into our usual ordinary optimists. With our arms around each other’s shoulders while walking through the tunnel,

“Ah ha ha!... That ‘Turn to dust’ line was brilliant!”

“Tumble right off the peak, ain’tcha?!”
“That’s really clever... Ha ha ha!” we said—though surely no one else would find such amusement in it—and precisely because of that, we… with that very mindset, grew strangely exhilarated, laughed ourselves silly, and repeated the same words over and over.

“Sotepen” meant “summit”; “korobarikottara” meant “if one were to fall”; “dzuraa” meant “wouldn’t it?”—each being dialect terms with roughly those meanings. Moreover, since these were rustic expressions from the region where we grew up, the old men’s conversation resonated directly with us, requiring no explanation.

Four

My novel "Kangyodō Landscape" ends here; yet I should perhaps append a brief note that even now, six years having passed, we remain in much the same state as before.

I remain exactly as I was back then—now hounded and harried, passing desolate days in a makeshift dwelling: a nameless thatched hut in some Tokyo suburb.
The only difference from those days is that by chance I came to have a woman whom I took as my wife and became the father of a child.
For about a year following my marriage—continuing from six years prior—I lived in that town; though visits from an old friend named Miyata, who had fallen into the same circumstances as Fujimura, did relieve some of my loneliness. Now, however, both houses in that town have passed into others’ hands as a result of my father’s many failed business ventures—and I am still not permitted to return to my family home.
Now I have made up with my father, but a new discord with my mother has arisen.
And I—still idly dreaming the same dreams as back then—have yet to establish any concrete research direction.

As for Fujimura’s subsequent movements and activities—I shall omit them. Since they were practically identical to my own.—For someone like me, married life could never bring happiness; having never even dreamed it might, there was no surprise in it now. Therefore, I felt no particular envy toward Fujimura, who remained single still.

“The XX Mountain Tunnel’s been spewing water—construction’s halted, they say.—You see it in the paper?”

The other day, Fujimura—who had come to visit after some time—said this with particular emphasis, as though the matter concerned us.

“I didn’t notice.”

“But the train’s finally reached there, huh? Shall we go see?”

“But even if we go now, we can’t become field watchmen anyway.”

“Ha ha ha, what a predicament.—Have you heard from Miss F?”

“Last year, she became a Mrs.”
“Were you disappointed?”
“I can’t stand Westerners—not one bit.”

“Tch!”
“You’re making an awfully composed face there,” he said laughing. “So this is Musashino after all—you can see the resemblance. At least in a field like this, we’re safe—”
“—because there’s no risk of tumbling down.”

“Right, right! That’s what made us laugh back then!” I slapped my knee and gazed uneasily out the window.

When we had grown quite drunk, Fujimura brought his mouth close to my ear and whispered, "When my wife's around, I get all stiff-like—can't act how I used to."

"I-I too...—"

I grimaced as if it were someone else’s business while agreeing with Fujimura, thrust out my chin toward the sole adjacent room beyond the sliding door, and kept up a resentful expression for a short while.

(14·6)