Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

One day, he compiled his past works into a single volume, and upon beginning to read it, was overcome with such misery and shame that he burned with shame—a world-weary despair.

Above all, in several works featuring a protagonist named Junkichi, he felt such degeneration that he could not bear it.
That "Junkichi" was neither modeled after others nor a fictional character—not only did this give readers the notion of being the author himself, but under such mental preparedness, the author's own attitude of wielding his brush with this garish touch—he could not bear it.
To him, his authorial self had committed unforgivable blasphemy against his reader self.

In "Junkichi's novels," a girl named Yoko would often appear.
Junkichi felt a secret love for Yoko.
With every occurrence, it was betrayed.
Junkichi, lacking strength of character, found even his manner of speaking not as his usual self but wholly catering to Yoko's bad taste.

In reality, that should never have been the case—but had I transformed those mental images from that time into fiction, might Yoko have burrowed into my own heart in such a manner?
He tried thinking this way as well, but even that felt far too hollow.
He could not even comprehend his past self who had imagined such things in his creative works.

...what made him feel most shameless was not the events in the novel, but rather that despite reality having been so indifferent, Junkichi’s attitude toward Yoko amounted to behavior like a fool.
Grinning idly while cracking jokes, affecting sarcasm, deploying cunning, and appearing to bask in some inscrutable delight.

He, too, had memories of love.
There exist memories so bittersweet they seem to invite clear tears whenever recalled.
Even if it isn’t love, he holds the conviction that human sincerity can remain preserved forever in its pure form.—But he, fictionalized by Yoko’s Junkichi (if I may put it this way),

"Could it have been Yoko's bad influence?"
He had considered this too, but couldn't believe himself capable of such accursed weakness.—Yet the fact remained that he had written those passages—as if Junkichi were in love with Yoko...

"It's a lie!"
"It's a lie!"

"Then did I write lies out of sheer boredom?"

That was again something he could not believe under any circumstances.
He was a man who could never indulge in "hedonism" under any circumstances.
He would realize, upon reflection, that even matters he had initially deemed "play" were in fact distortions of single-minded passion, and would constantly feel suffocated.—He was one who idolized romantic love (though he never considered it life's supreme value—).
He believed what should be called the folly for love's sake to be sacred.
For him, there could be no love that forgot marriage.
At the same time, the "love" of married men was nothing but filth—a despicable dalliance, a terrible vice toward women, mere contemptible indulgence.
They were permitted to visit the red-light district only when bearing vast resources; they were not permitted to harbor playful intentions toward women otherwise.

His wife was prone to say:
“When that sort of person takes up hedonism, it’s disastrous—a single-minded obsession, you see—”

“There’s no need for such concern.”
“I’m likely opposed to such an atmosphere and utterly detest it…”

“That part is reassuring, but—”

“To take that a step further—I find myself fundamentally incompatible with all the Japanese customs, traditions, and sentiments around me.”

“Even if you limit it to a small scope, that’s no solution for someone like you—”

A person like Yoko was someone who did not align with his tastes and customs at all.

Therefore, even at that time, he could not have felt anything resembling love for Yoko.
First of all, he did not trust Yoko.
The interest he held at that moment was fleeting—it was contempt.
Yet according to his "Junkichi novels," Junkichi was entirely Yoko’s Junkichi—meaning he possessed no assertions of his own, his heart wholly a reflection of Yoko, her marionette.—The object of his contempt mirrored back as a self equally deserving of contempt.

To elaborate—not that he meant to dwell on folly—he felt shame toward those apparent falsehoods.

"But it should have been impossible to fabricate such lies—unless perhaps there had been some expectation of marriage toward Yoko—at least while he beheld her form before his eyes……"

He thought this as well, but it rang utterly hollow, and no insight came to him.

Far from it—he could even recall feeling a refreshing sense of lightness when she herself broke their pact (which he had considered mere play—) and went off to marry.
He remembers how her mother, with an absurdly self-important air, had shown him the wedding photo published in Women’s Pictorial and said something triumphant—but as for what he himself felt in that moment, he no longer knows.
"Now, this gentleman here—” Her mother pointed at the swallowtail-clad figure standing rigidly beside bridal-gowned Yoko—a man with an undeniably distinguished air, an oblong face, and hair parted precisely down the middle, white gloves in hand—and declared him the son of some company executive who had recently been appointed manager at a branch office “somewhere or other,” soon to depart with his wife for an inspection tour of Europe and America. “You’ll naturally attend the send-off, but we’ll want Father and Mother—uncles and aunts too, ideally—gathered in full force to see them off."
“We’ll never match their entourage, but rest assured we’ve discreetly arranged even outsiders to join. And we’ll have Father lead everyone in hearty cheers…” she declared.

Since her mother seemed likely to grow displeased if he didn’t show admiration, he peered over from the side, but she did not readily turn the page.

“Well, Jun-chan?”

“Isn’t it beautiful—”

“You’ll be getting your own photo taken like this soon enough.”

He had somehow failed to take a wedding photo—though his father, in his robust years, should have properly prostrated himself before the Grand Shrine and conducted a normal ceremony—.

“Oh you, do take a good look at the kimono’s pattern and all—what an uncompetitive person you are.”

“I’m looking at it, aren’t I? Right here—”
He had no secret sorrow to conceal, and so gazed with Daruma-like eyes exactly as instructed.

“Well then, surely you can manage something—just a word or two—”
“So isn’t it beautiful?”

He truly had no other impressions beyond that.
Too beautiful—Yoko’s face bore no resemblance to it at all—he thought.
To him, it seemed he had never truly seen Yoko in such a composed state.
Yoko's face left no impression other than one either mid-bite—she was a prodigious glutton—or laughing while spouting foolish remarks—she delighted in affectations reminiscent of flashy geisha speech and yearned for every custom of the pleasure quarters.
She showed no aspiration for geisha arts, indulging solely in a vulgar beauty that seemed to take pride in its own extravagance.—He found himself unable to connect her bridal portrait with the reality he knew.
He flushed and read the text beside it.

And then—what do you know!
So utterly absurd was it that he could still vividly recall—there, beside the photograph, were listed Miss Yoko’s credentials: having graduated with honors from △△ Women’s School, having majored in linguistics at ×× English Academy—then such accomplishments as studying the three-stringed shamisen under a certain master, dance in some school’s style, tea ceremony, flower arrangement—all presented as proof of her profound cultivation in these arts.
He involuntarily compared Yoko’s face.

But.
Beside the bridal figure, even such outlandish empty phrases did not seem particularly like lies.

On the pretext of being distant relatives—(his father had said such a thing, so when he asked his mother, she said she didn’t know)—
And I cannot fathom my father’s reasoning in having his son live as a dependent in such a household!
he was living as a dependent in Yoko’s household and sharing a desk with her on the second floor.
It was approximately ten years ago.
Yoko had barely managed to graduate from △△ Women’s School through bribery (she had transferred schools twice prior to that) and was two years older than her classmates, yet the same age as he was.
Attending ×× English Academy, he went to the humanities department at Waseda that she and her mothers somehow detested.

Since it was a separate business, he didn’t know the details, but Yoko’s father appeared to be engaged in stock trading alongside running his wool import enterprise.
It was a time of rare prosperity, and to him, the atmosphere of Yoko’s household was always as bustling as a festival, as fascinating as being invited to some splendid villa—yet he often felt an inexplicable anxiety lurking beneath.
He found himself resenting this self who, though seemingly amused, could not fully join their carefree abandon—who instead felt a faintly sweet temptation yet remained unable to shake off solitary musings. Yet this very state resembled a pleasant haze akin to drowsily resisting sleep, where all forms bled at their edges and one slipped unbidden into alluring fantasies.
While drowsing, everything held an alluring glow; but upon opening his eyes wide and hearing their words, even the faintest unnatural hue appeared wretchedly bleak—every confectionery proudly recommended, every restaurant dish boasted of, seemed merely absurd and held no value.

“You’re impossible, Jun-chan! Not understanding the taste of this household’s Western cuisine—”

“If Ms. Y were the one cooking, I’m sure I’d find it much more delicious.”
He spoke without flattery.

“Tsk—even if you spout such nasty remarks, there’s not a soul around who’d take pleasure in them—”

She had absolutely no interest in cooking.
It wasn’t so much that she lacked it as that she loathed it and was incapable.
Occasionally, even then, when her mother would grumble about her utter lack of domestic upkeep regarding cooking or sewing, she would reluctantly take up the needle—only to immediately injure her fingertips or develop a headache.

“If it were someone devoted to artistic pursuits or striving to make their way through scholarship—well, even women can be like men in such cases—but with you, there’s not a single thing one could point to…”

“You’re so annoying, Mom.”
“Women just need to be good at cooking, that’s all.”
In such a manner, she peered at the mirror from a distance.
Even when seated in the tatami room, she habitually positioned the bell-shaped mirror at an angle so her face reflected in the distant dressing table.

“Ah, yes, yes,” the mother immediately agreed, staring intently at her daughter’s profile.
“But instead of just staring at my face, how about trying to capture my terrible sitting posture too?”

And she would mainly engage her mother with theater gossip, evaluations of department store merchandise, and lamentations about her father’s stinginess toward the family—they seemed to believe in the Golden touch dream—all while stretching out her legs or sometimes lying propped on an elbow, invariably munching on something while chattering away whenever he went downstairs.
She detested anything remotely studious or that might induce sweating under the sun—if one so much as mentioned mountain outings, sports, or excursions, things he adored, she would shudder at the mere thought.
She seemed to hardly exchange letters with friends (likely due to her atrocious penmanship); he would imagine young girls using ornate envelopes and stationery, yet neither received nor sent any himself.
He sometimes thought friends might come to visit her, but she seemed to have no social interactions with them at all.
She had been collecting various ceremonial envelopes and such.

When night fell, the shop staff and young men who seemed to be stockbrokers would gather with the master—who brought geisha back with him—and form a circle to indulge in flower-matching games.
It was said to be a shop that had suddenly prospered, and indeed, when viewed through that lens, the distinction between master and employees grew utterly chaotic—though he, for some reason, felt goodwill toward this very disorder. Undisciplined young drunkards would sing wildly without restraint, or stir up disturbances by flirting with women, heedless that this was the master’s own household—such scenes were hardly uncommon.
He, of course being unfamiliar with both drinking and the flower-matching game, would typically retreat to the second floor and put on an air of importance, but once the gatherings began, Yoko would never appear at her desk.
The commotion rang as clear as if held in one’s hand; with books rendered unreadable and no one to converse with, even he would end up carelessly wandering out to spectate.

The sight of Yoko engrossed in work was something he had never witnessed except during the flower-matching game. And this alone seemed to be quite skillful. She didn’t mind staying up until two or three in the morning.

“Five kan down and I can’t back out now!”

She would say such things while solemnly tilting her head.

She would call out “Come on!”, rolling up her sleeves or forgetting herself to sit upright with knees drawn up. Just when you thought she might relent, in the midst of this close match, she would suddenly snatch up the stack of cards piled at the center—

“Damn, don’t mock me!” she cried, and in her disappointment, without thinking gave her own cheek a sharp smack, “What a lewd thing I’ve done!”

She muttered such things with deadly seriousness, not a single eyebrow twitching.
No one seemed to pay any heed to her words, but he—so startled was he—felt his chest begin to tremble.

“Last night, I won this much!”
“Shall I treat you?”

She would shake her wallet before his eyes.

“What’s with that look! Do you think this is disgusting?” “Money? I’ll spend it all on you!”

“Of course I wouldn’t! I’m not a child—who’d draw a bluff card?!”

When banquets commenced, she would speak in an unusually mature manner to tease the young men and, as a woman of her age, casually toss out vulgar jokes he could never have imagined.

“Tar-san!”
She would playfully call him things like that.
“You should try having a couple of drinks.”

“What’s with this ‘An’? Wasn’t it me?”
“Wasn’t it me?”
The young man named Tashiro laughed.

“Our dear Mr. Taruno here—no matter how much he drinks, he never gets drunk at all, you know.”

“As if I’d get drunk,” he said resentfully.
(According to that “Junkichi’s Novel,” he had groaned resentfully from something like jealousy stirring toward Yoko—so it was written—but in reality, it was simply, disgustingly——.)

“Kisō-san, you didn’t go straight home the other night after leaving our place, did you?”

“Gahahaha! Please keep this between us—”

“You fool! You actually take me seriously when I say such things—even about keeping it secret! Liar! That night when I stopped by the shop for a moment, you weren’t properly sleeping alone, now were you?” After saying such things, she would make the other party feel ashamed and double over laughing.

“Your sleeping posture—I was utterly shocked! Can there truly exist someone in this world with such atrocious sleeping habits?!”
“...Ahahaha...”
“Is that true?”
“Ever since then, whenever I see you walking around with that stiff posture of yours, it’s so unbearably funny I can hardly stand it.”

Whether it was Tashiro or the youth called Kisō, even when teased by her in such fashion, they betrayed no trace of displeasure; instead, as if striving to humor the girl’s whims, they would bow with studied earnestness or roll their eyes in exaggerated pantomime.
By her account, Tashiro and Kisō were vying to outspend one another in courting her favor.
Yet though she sneered venomously at them behind closed doors, in person she alternated spiteful jabs with calculated kindness—proving it was hardly only the men, as she claimed, who played at being “pushy.”

“Hey Mother—next time that Kisō fellow comes over, do keep an eye out casually. It’s beyond ridiculous! The moment he finds an opening, he starts giving me these... these indescribably peculiar looks.”

“Oh?”
“Come to think of it, that man does linger whenever he visits.”
“So mercenary.”
“When you’re not around, he just finishes his errands and scampers right home.”

“At first glance he seems meek enough, doesn’t he? But don’t be fooled—he’s quite the handful.”
“Why, just until recently he was cozying up with some maid at a cattle dealer’s in Kayabachō! And despite that, he still struts about like Adonis himself!”

“But isn’t he rather handsome?”

“Oh, Mother—!” she denied with a serious face.
As her mother said, Kisō was a tall, bitter-handsome man whose beard always left a bluish shadow where it had been shaven.
“Do you actually find someone like that attractive?”
“You must be joking—it’s not like he’s some silver-flinging spendthrift or anything.”

“When it comes to you, Y-san, there’s no rival.”
The mother took pleasure in her daughter’s robust self-esteem, which regarded even such a handsome man as nothing of consequence.

“You see, despite how he looks, they say that person’s a terrifyingly jealous type—apparently that’s why the woman ended up losing all patience with him—”

“Well! And who did you hear that from, I wonder?”

“Tashiro-kun told everyone—me included—what those louts are saying to him: ‘That Yoko’s carrying a torch for me without even knowing I’ve got a woman already!’”
“Like hell they are!”

“What on earth—that lout had the gall to spout such nonsense?!”
“Well, I won’t stand for this—shall I have your father give him a piece of my mind?!”

“There’s no need to get worked up, Mother. What Tashiro-kun says isn’t worth taking seriously at all. That lout’s the shameless one here.”
She seemed to take perverse delight in saying such things even to her parent, watching their expression change.
“The other day, when I ran into him at the train station on my way home from school—‘Yoko-san, why don’t we go catch the standing show at Shinbashi Enbujō?’ he says—imagine! That lout, accosting me in such a place! I turned completely red—it got on my nerves, so I snapped, ‘You’ve got the wrong mark,’ and then he suddenly plastered on this sarcastic smile and goes, ‘My—’ or some such nonsense…”

“That man’s ‘I’—it’s truly bothersome, isn’t it? He seems so terribly proud of having graduated from university—”

“‘My love should be heading there today,’ he says—‘just take a quick look from afar! You never take me seriously, so today of all days I want to show you!’ That lout’s such a braggart—he’ll say one thing then another! It’s all because I’ve gone on too much about how only men who’ve endured women’s hardships are worth talking to. Now they’re all concocting half-baked stories, trying to gauge my reactions—it’s so absurd I can’t bear it! And that one—he hides it, but he’s a country bumpkin through and through. Gets oddly clingy once he starts talking.”

“If you were to enter a standing section together, that would spell real trouble.”

“How pitiful—Mother, you’re being frightfully rude! ...Ah, I’ve grown thoroughly disheartened—with Father engaged in such trade, only vulgar people come calling.”

“Educate someone and they grow dreadfully high-minded—well now, that’s just splendid.”

Women’s magazines had published claims of her English proficiency, yet her linguistic ability fell below that of a second-year middle schooler.
Though she carried textbooks daily—bundles containing stylish names like Tennyson, Ruskin, and Emerson—when he tested her on mere recitation, she could scarcely manage katakana readings without her voice breaking.
She didn’t even know the difference between adjectives and adverbs.

“So you’re a student at a specialized English academy?!”
He had said such things in a vehement tone.
At the desk, she was exceptionally obedient.

“Don’t they make you read at school?”

“Uh—”
“Please keep it a secret from my parents that I’m so ignorant about English!”
she begged him.

“Hmph, women are enviable creatures,” he snapped, and she trembled violently.
“Try publishing a book in a year or two—it’s enough just to read it—then try reading that.”

But she couldn’t even read that.
And she seemed to fear his intensity for no apparent reason.

“Tsk, my, what a state you’re in.”

He clicked his tongue haughtily, as if venting his usual bitterness.
Then she grew increasingly flustered, and as she read haltingly onward, she unintentionally coughed when reaching phrases like “to school—”, mispronouncing them as “Tsu-school” or articulating “knife” as “Knifu.”

“Stop that…”

With an unbearably sullen face, he threw it down.
“Whether you can do it or not doesn’t matter—as long as you’re enrolled somewhere, that’s good enough for you.”
“I won’t blab about it, so you needn’t worry on that account.”

“I absolutely mean it—this is my lifelong plea.”

She did attend Nagauta and Fujima-ryū dance lessons, but when it came to artistic pursuits, she was astonishingly clumsy by nature—so much so that she grew weary of it herself and quietly discontinued them.
But she not only paid no mind to all such ignorance and incompetence—she always carried herself with a confidence and composure as if possessing an unshakable pride as a woman. Moreover, it was undeniable that her very form and nature exuded an indescribable, innate sweetness—an unfettered charm that made those who saw her feel it.
Even though the other young men were teased by such a boisterous her, he could acknowledge the reason they felt no malice toward her.
A woman like her, who had acquired not a single talent, shred of knowledge, or speck of culture, might—depending on one’s perspective—radiate a troublingly cheerful charm for men—such imaginings had occasionally crossed his mind.

“I don’t care when or how poor my family becomes.”
“When that time comes, I’ll just become a geisha right away—that’ll be fine.”
“I find it amusing, and yet can still devote myself to my parents—I think there’s nothing more gratifying than this—”
“I may not look it, but deep down, I’m quite the filial daughter, you know!”
Her longing seemed to lie more in such things than in marriage or its ilk.

He would often feel sick and retch.
"If you want to become a geisha that desperately, there's no need to wait until you're poor.
If you could become one at all—without any reservations—you'd still undoubtedly fail the exam."

"Exams?!
What nonsense—if it's decided I'll become one, even I would begin proper training!"

"No matter how many years you study, it'd be pointless," he pressed, assailing her innate clumsiness. Yet she remained utterly unfazed: "Say what you will! Whether I lack artistic skills or have poor memory—you wouldn't understand—I possess splendid innate talents I was born with, so it's no concern of yours!"
Her words seemed to carry the implication that matters like training or study meant nothing—that distorting one's precious self through half-hearted lessons would prove truly irreparable.

When he suddenly recalled these things anew, he finally felt her shameless arrogance pressing down upon him as though intensifying.
And she, of all people, had most sincerely nurtured the talents she was born with—he even felt envy at this.
And the various memories in which he had once felt bitterness or provoked antipathy were, for her, nothing but temporary costumes necessitated by living in that household and leading such a life—how utterly contrary to good taste!
and such vulgar tastes!
I—who had defiantly rejected such vulgar tastes head-on as being 'contrary to good taste!' or 'crude preferences!'—was but a frivolous and base fool incapable of grasping life’s essence—such defeat pressed upon me.

Moreover, that all the attitudes and words he had adopted toward those novels were mistaken deeds; that unwittingly, oppressively, he—pitiable wretch—had forced foolish resistance upon her; that in truth, during those days in that household, it must have been he himself whose innermost depths were endlessly roiled—so he pondered with affected deliberation. And this woman Yoko—while present before one’s eyes, she might distress the heart of her companion, yet once gone, vanish without leaving a trace of lingering sentiment, like a brisk goldfish of such disposition: release one into a white washbasin and the water instantly appears dyed crimson, but scoop it out and it returns to its original clarity—he would often startle upon hearing from the present-day Yoko words he had supposedly once uttered himself, words he could never have imagined speaking.

“If we had gotten married back then, what would have happened?!”
Yoko uttered these words without the slightest hesitation.
She still firmly regarded him as one who had kept their pact and was lamenting their annulment.
And it seems he had declared something to this effect—"No matter what circumstances might part us, I shall never forget you. Even should I take a wife, she would be but an empty doll. You are my eternal lover throughout this lifetime."

She had orchestrated this theatrical display precisely to prevent such foolish words from being uttered—yet ultimately compelled him to voice them. Even if love were felt, it should have been a transient illusion akin to goldfish in a bowl—fundamentally opposed to notions of eternity—yet according to her present demeanor, she had never performed any act of pretense in the past, remaining pure throughout. What stunned him most was recognizing that through her influence, he remained—even now—ensnared in longing for her. Acting, irony, malice, playfulness—interpreting these solely through such lenses while rebelling against them, forgetting them, discarding them with contempt—it was he himself who emerged as the hypocritical pitiable dogmatist; now he found himself abruptly cornered into this humiliating realization. Thus burdened by conscience, when he finally confessed his genuine feelings from those days, she suddenly extended her arm and slapped his cheek with relentless fury.

“You deceived me, you bastard!”
“What did you just say?!”
“With that mouth!”
“With that mouth!”

"Violence isn't necessary—truthfully, I don't recall ever making such vows."

"Liar! Degenerate scholar... Ah, to think I'd been deceived by you until this very day—how infuriating!"

While shouting as if berating some cruel paramour, she lunged at him and—without letting him catch his breath—pounded the man's chest with both fists like a taiko drum.

...Let me state clearly—they had never even exchanged a kiss. In terms of romantic feelings, there should have been no quiet, joyful memories at all—whether of holding hands or brushing shoulders. And he had no memory of ever having felt such impulses—even momentarily—to stiflingly bury them in his chest.

Back then—in that manner (though little has changed even now)—he had never seen Yoko display any attitude that could be taken seriously. Even when he spoke of ordinary matters in an ordinary way, she would mock him with remarks like “Putting on airs!” or “How laughably provincial!” Not that he particularly feared such jabs, but whenever he persisted with even a modicum of seriousness to advance his logic, she would unleash personal ridicule without hesitation, attempting to humiliate him before everyone present—so vexing that he ultimately stopped engaging.

He had been one who enjoyed playing harmonica and violin alone, but whenever she spitefully came peeking at the sound, his facial expressions during performance—how his narrowed eyes seemed lost in some dream, how his lips twisted in exaggerated solemnity, how his nostrils twitched along with it—proved so irritatingly comical that she would blurt out such impertinent remarks without shame. So thoroughly exasperated was he that, to his utmost regret, he was driven to abandon even his beloved musical pursuits.

“I don’t know why—even when I go to my teacher’s place and sit properly facing them, the moment lessons are about to begin—without fail—this absurdly earnest posture of mine feels so ridiculous... so ticklish... that I just can’t settle down—”
She had at times justified her own lack of artistic skill in such a manner.
“But you see—mine isn’t like that business of girls of marriageable age giggling at every little thing—it feels somehow different...”

“You’re a fool yet still so unserious!” he retorted bitterly—whereupon she suddenly, uncharacteristically, fell silent.

Given how things were—with so many overnight guests that she and he would often end up sleeping alone together in a room—he had never once intentionally let their hands touch.
“——Once when Tashiro-kun tried to grasp my hand with a terribly earnest face, I burst out laughing right then and there——or how there are men who do such things in crowded trains——” she would go on talking about these matters even after lying down to sleep, but he had long grown weary of it and did not listen.
“——If we wait just a bit longer, that Kisō-kō fellow will come sneaking up without knowing you’re sleeping here—so let’s stay quiet, and when he comes, both of us can jump out and give him a good scare!”

“Let’s make that corridor hawk’s head spin!”

No sooner had she said such things and burst into uproarious laughter by herself than she had fallen fast asleep without anyone noticing—and come morning, she was full of regret.

While her mouth freely spilled lewd remarks—(given her manner, was there anyone who could approach her?)—in reality, there seems to have been no particularly improper conduct on her part.
Of course, he too had never harbored any improper ambitions, but her parents seemed to have absolute trust in her conduct—allowing him, a young man no less, to sleep in the same room without a shred of suspicion.

On the rare occasions when they went to see films together and encountered kissing scenes, she would turn away with genuine bitterness in her heart:

“I like movies well enough, but I absolutely detest that! When I see them doing such things with those earnest faces, I simply can’t stand to watch—how utterly idiotic!” she added, clicking her tongue with truly unbearable boredom.

It was not that the daughter was modest or that she felt ashamed or averse to witnessing such scenes; rather, hers seemed to be an inescapable temperament that could not bear to overlook states of human apathy or ecstasy.

II

“What did you say, huh?!”
“Liar!”

...But she abruptly shouted like this—her composure shattered—and lunged at him.
He truly could not help but pale in astonishment.
If she had spoken those words with sincerity—no matter how many years had passed—he was not one to forget them.
Even if he had answered in jest, had he spoken those words, he should have been able to recall them.

“You actually deceived me! How infuriating!”
“...Hateful! You fraud!”

“…………”

“Come now—say it once more!”

For him, it was truly an unexpected dream.
She pleaded fervently, as though demanding answers from a lover.

"What a selfish woman!" he muttered inwardly.
And he, recalling her family’s circumstances after the earthquake and her seemingly unfulfilling marriage, wondered with a pitiful air—Had this woman succumbed to hysterics?
He thought.
Yet he understood all too well that she was not the sort to succumb to such maladies——She who disdained trusting mere words held instead an unshakable conviction in promises never voiced, and when betrayed, it was precisely then that she would blaze with fury… Interpreting it thus, clarity finally came to him.
Then he realized how shallow his perspective had been—he himself, who so readily attempted to demarcate her into "that time" and "this time"!
As this thought arose, I increasingly came to regret my own vulgar perspective.

Back then, I—who had viewed her in such a manner with those eyes—was in fact the self-indulgent fraud, while she remained the ever-unchanging bamboo shoot!
——He sank even deeper into such thoughts.

“What’s with that strange face you’re making!”

“…………”

“Is that your true heart?”

She took a breath and sat up straight, then—piercingly glaring at his face while calmly steeling herself—closed in with a ferocity that seemed to warn: depending on his reply, there was no telling what she might do…

As if to rebuke her—*Stop fooling around, we’re not children!*—he found himself reassessing her appearance. Yet even as he grew pathetically aware of the emptiness between them, he kept observing her furious eyes blazing with excitement, until a preposterous thought consumed him: What if this were truly his lover, bound to him in profound intimacy? He became absorbed in such a preposterous thought.

Even so, having been utterly terrified by that blow from moments before—so much so that his composure had shattered—though he muttered resentful things, his chest trembled dreadfully all the while. He seemed to have completely lost sight of his true self.

…………………

(What if she were a lover?)

He had never once experienced being resented by women.
Around this time, he had been invited several times to the red-light district by an acquaintance working at an electric light company. Though this man had a wife and children, he also kept a beautiful lover there. Whenever she came over, trivial matters would typically spark arguments between them, culminating in shameless public spectacles of fighting that he witnessed. Yet without fail, he would feel a secret envy on such occasions.
And now the woman was berating the man with the same things Yoko had shouted.
And despite having a companion such as himself present, the one quarreling with the woman appeared utterly unreliable.

“Hey, stop this fight already.”
When he could no longer bear to watch and intervened to mediate, that man—

“My bad! I’m sorry—hey hey, like this,” he apologized to the woman whose eyes brimmed with tears.

“You’re hateful—remember that!”
The woman also spoke such words and forgave him.
And the two grew intimate, exchanging cups and such.
And the man sang a song.
After listening to that song with great pleasure, he returned dejectedly to his home.
Then the wife scorned him as though he were some filthy creature.
The wife acted on baseless jealousy.
He found himself lost in his own position, unworthy of jealousy.

He had abruptly thought such thoughts—and there before his wide-open eyes was Yoko—

“Can’t you even answer me?” she shouted.
Her eyes had pooled with tears.

“My bad, I’m sorry—” he blurted involuntarily.
Then the words smoothly slipped out.
“My bad—just teasing you a bit there, Y-san.”
“But come on—isn’t that right? Today of all days you keep spouting these belated-sounding things, and I’ve had this creepy crawly feeling down my back since earlier—what’s gotten into you? This isn’t like Y-san at all—quit laying it on so thick with these contrived lines, will ya?”

“What? So that’s all it was?” She slumped dejectedly, her forehead blushing with an innocent flush.
“But I—unlike me—have convinced myself that you’re someone who always says exactly what’s on your mind without hesitation. So when you act all clueless like that, I can’t help but snap!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Well now, seems you’ve gone and stolen my whole act, haven’t you…”

Her state of mind—and the fact that he too had once made such a promise (though her attitude being what it was, he had long since forgotten it as a jest)—must now—no—in fact must have always been for him—to put it succinctly in words:

(Let us live as lovers who, in spirit alone, could never part our whole lives through.)

(As for me, even were I to take a husband, this heart would never change.
This holds no particular shame toward my husband—)

(I too—)

(Even if others suspect us, there’s nothing to be done—as long as there’s nothing unsavory between us, that’s all that matters.)
(Only then can we maintain a refreshingly clear relationship and live harmoniously, as they say.)

(Platonic Love!)

(There’s nothing more precious than people who understand each other perfectly through shared feelings without words—that’s what we are. Whether this is love or something else, I can’t tell—but it’s something far more important.)
(No matter when or where recalled, it remains refreshing and vigorous.)

She insisted it was that sort of self-concocted promise, but to him, it amounted to nothing but a burdensome imposition.
When he considered that a woman like Yoko had clung to such ideals, the dissonance felt so extreme that he realized if he were to carelessly nod in solemn agreement, he might well invite some form of derision.

However, as he reflected on various matters, he gradually came to nod deeply in acknowledgment that she indeed harbored such loneliness.

“But have we ever even discussed such things!”

“I won’t get angry anymore—it’s fine.”
“How about that? Teasing you like that isn’t amusing in the least!”
“Somehow my chest feels hollowed out, doesn’t it? Just you wait—I’ll absolutely repay this slight.”
In an excessively cheerful mood, she began cavorting about alone.
Far from finding it entertaining, he felt peculiarly unsettled.

A flighty woman, a talentless unserious woman, a nonsensical chatterbox—he had thought of her only in such terms and despised her accordingly. But now, observing closely for the first time, she seemed at rare moments to embody a wholesome ardor—like an untroubled flower containing faint shadows within its core—brightly, aimlessly, boundlessly, as if choking back tears. Though prone to voicing rigid impressions, he now noticed himself beginning to feel a new attraction toward her.

And knowing that this was likely an oppressive infatuation antithetical to anything Platonic, he secretly tormented his heart.

He spared no beautiful illusions for her as effortlessly as turning one’s palm, yet all he could perceive was how this seemed but a heartless whistle hummed by a wayward curiosity brewed from transient lust.

Gradually moving away from her maidenly appearance reminiscent of chiyogami paper crafts, all her cultivated tastes—a refined elegance suited to her station—seemed at last to permeate her very character with harmonious maturity. Whenever he gazed upon her silent form, he would suddenly feel struck by a cool clarity, as though he had become a master attended by an agreeable courtesan, purchasing an indescribably refreshing intoxication.
It never occurred to him that she might be a completely unskilled courtesan.
When he intently strained his ears, a fragrant and melodious breeze seemed to waft in from nowhere, and before he knew it, he felt himself swaying, drawn into a trance-like state until he nearly lost all awareness of his surroundings.

“How much money do you have on you today?”
“Come on, show me your wallet.” Even when she displayed her usual sibling-like familiarity without reserve, he found himself swept into a dream of becoming some careless dandy… “My, just this paltry amount? I can’t believe you had the nerve to come all the way out to Tokyo with this!”
“With this, we can’t go anywhere! The two of us doing anything…”

When told such things, he—though he hadn’t even considered it until that very moment—feared it would be disastrous if she were to become displeased… and so mustered a sudden flash of wit,

“Well, you see, I have an appointment to visit my uncle in Ushigome tomorrow.”
“There’s money to receive from Uncle,” he skillfully flattered her.
Such talk had never even crossed his dreams, but if he didn’t say at least that much, his masculine worth would instantly vanish, reducing him to a worthless worm likely to be despised—he trembled at this terrifying twist of fate where he now bodily experienced the protagonist from his old works, a character he had once imagined, reread with shame, felt burning humiliation over, and recognized as degenerate—yet for the sake of the woman he loved, he would not hesitate to shamelessly transform into a Pierrot or a rascal!
He had such thoughts.

“No matter who I am, I wouldn’t come all the way to Tokyo with this paltry sum—don’t be ridiculous.”

“How much will you get?”

“You can’t know until you go… I suppose?” he said, looking up with feigned seriousness, but upon suddenly coming to his senses, realized he had carelessly blurted out something utterly outrageous!
Upon realizing this, he involuntarily stiffened and hung his head.

“You don’t need to think so hard about it—any amount will do. Well then, considering tomorrow’s plans—let’s skip the theater and not buy a kimono. I’ll pick one out for you.”

“No kimonos,” he blurted out in a startling voice.
No matter the circumstances, he had never felt such revulsion, but the mere thought of Yoko’s preferred kimonos made his very flesh creep.

“But you don’t have a single decent kimono!”
“How old do you think you are?!”
“When it comes to kimonos, it’s all kasuri-patterned rags and hakama—I can’t bear being seen with you like that!”
“And if it’s Western clothes instead? Those absurdly bulging trousers make me sick to my stomach—”

Not only did she detest it, but he himself loathed all Japanese clothing; even at home with his wife, they remained in this state, and come summer, their existence was practically equivalent to living outdoors.

"But I don't even know how to tie an obi."
He wanted to divert from that conversation.

“Alright, I’ll tie it for you…”

“Must be uncomfortable...” he muttered, but when imagining her performing such kindness, he instantly became a reckless sensualist.

"I truly can't stand going anywhere with you dressed like that."

"What should I do?"
Ah! This is unbearable!
"This is unbearable!"

Even as they exchanged such words, his mind raced ever forward, driven by outlandish delusions—agitated then flustered, sober one moment only to become drunkenly besotted the next, dizzily rising and falling—while the actual words spoken held no significance whatsoever. And he, tossed about by this hopelessly unattainable obsession, felt foolishly sorrowful; the figure of the woman standing before his eyes transformed into a mere doll, and he perceived himself with lamentation as some perverse devotee offering desperate love to this idol.
And yet, as he recalled *Tales of Hoffmann* and *Pygmalion’s Love*, he realized that such earnest desires might surprisingly form the wellspring of humanity’s eternal longing!
…or that something like wholesome Platonic love might begin to spread its vast oceanic expanse—he imagined this and barely managed to dispel the gloomy sense of perversion.

When he came to Tokyo, it had lately become customary for him to stay at Yoko's house, which had moved from Shitamachi to Yotsuya.
Though there was absolutely no substance to their relationship, whenever he visited her house, his heart would race as if rushing to the red-light district where a lover awaited—so intensely that he found himself needlessly unable to keep Yoko secret from his wife.

When her father died and they went bankrupt together, her elderly mother had been reduced to doing sewing work for other households, but Yoko remained as heedless as ever of practical matters, simply spreading her wings freely in a manner somewhat altered from before.
This state—unlike the gaudy atmosphere she had inhabited during his earlier observations—now emitted a meticulous radiance (which he perceived), erasing all past resentment, unease, and loneliness he had harbored, evoking a tranquility as though reaching an elegantly lucid riverbed.

The mother, when she was away, apparently became so lonely she couldn’t bear to stay still for even a moment.

“So you see, I can’t just go through with selling myself off, can I? Isn’t that right, Mother?”

“She’s saying such things!” her elderly mother smiled as she sewed.
“If it’s within Tokyo, I can accompany you anywhere—yet here you are claiming you’ll become anything, but—”

“Ah, that might be fine if it’s within Tokyo—but whether it’s marriage or whatever my parents say, I’ve had my fill of being banished to the provinces! It’d waste me to a shadow, I tell you.”

“Even in Tokyo, with things as they are, you’d waste away just the same.”

“That’s exactly why I say you’re being foolish, Mother—how absurd! As long as it’s Tokyo, I’m perfectly fine—with the shop gone and all, it’s refreshingly unburdened. And you—a full-blooded Tokyo native yourself—how showily whiny you’ve become!”

And when he heard her continue, she was still saying, “I’ll pass on any strange indulgences, even if asked.”
“Let’s go for a walk—just like him! No care for appearances, no checking our pockets!”
“I love moving pictures!”
“Café!”
“Racing round-trip taxis from end to end! All such things were anti-aesthetic—she apparently found it more ‘amusing’ to hole up at home even if she went three days without eating.”
She had always found even train rides to be a major ordeal, and his hometown was a seaside town about two hours away—though he had only visited it once during his student days.
Moreover, she made such a splendid entrance—accompanied by attendants and carrying ostentatious gifts—that his neighbors stood at their gates to watch.
Despite being such a formidable chatterbox at home, even then she couldn’t settle into the provincial atmosphere for half a day, growing oddly reserved and fidgety before hastily retreating.
He had not wanted such a stylist, but he could also see that her criticism was justified.
And he could not bring himself to feel contempt even for a moment—as long as the other party was Yoko.

“What good’s your precious fresh air anyway?”
“Wear some ridiculous hat for seaside promenades?!”
“Pah! Were I coughing up lungs from consumption, I’d still refuse your provincial cure-alls!”

Yoko blurted out such things—at night she would recklessly dance with anyone indiscriminately, and when summer came, spend all day immersed in the sea wearing nothing but a swimsuit alongside his wife and friends who had turned sunburned black. Yet when faced with Yoko like this, he felt their own side likely seemed utterly dreary by comparison.

Yoko, utterly unaware of such ambitions lurking within him, carried on with their old familiarity—undressing down to her undergarments to apply makeup right before his eyes, handing him a peony brush to tap her neck, sharing a mosquito net while expounding on how “detestable” her ex-husband had been, and now, living alone with her mother without even a maid, calling from the bathhouse for him to fetch water—each time she thus troubled his hands...

Whenever she troubled his hands like this, he would be drawn into sensations utterly unfamiliar to him—delicate oppression and tormenting dreams—whether dancing with his wife’s most beautiful friends or cradling their flanks as they swam.

“Just the other day, there was a proposal through an intermediary—perhaps I should take the plunge and become Mr. XX’s dependent after all!”

“Somehow, marriage strikes me as awkwardly hollow and overly earnest—utterly foolish, yet mortifyingly embarrassing beyond endurance.”

Whenever Yoko uttered such things, he would be seized by intense anxiety.

“What do you think—I don’t consider this way of thinking degenerate at all… But regardless of circumstances, truly, since I was a girl, I’ve always been this sort of—”

“Stop it,” he groaned.
The more he knew this was Yoko’s true heart, the more inexorably he flew into a rage.
And with his lips, he spat out stiffly righteous-sounding words.
“I hate this! Such talk!”
“You’re being foolish—to have such an epiphany just because one marriage failed—”

“No—no, that’s not it at all!” she hurriedly tried to explain, which he could fully comprehend, yet his jealousy swelled increasingly—not through reason, but through fleeting jealousy—
“Absolutely not—that’s a grave misunderstanding!” he interrupted.
Her words and attitude gave no indication, yet unbeknownst to him, she harbored an undisciplined sense of filial duty beneath the surface; for all her joking tone about such matters, one could never tell when she might actually carry out such an outrageous plan.
Since her girlhood, she had wanted to become a geisha!
Given that she was the fool who had been spouting such things, once stirred up, she might well leap into any death-defying well.
Even that marriage—(her mother had felt such crushing disillusionment it could kill her)—wasn’t she practically swept away by hollow intentions?!
In such a manner, she—lacking any desires of her own—was utterly dominated by courtesan-like promiscuity, provided there existed a public arrangement.

“Is that so?!”
“So after all, that idea’s no good?”
Perhaps because his words were so resolute, she became uncharacteristically solemn in her reflection.

“You’re completely mistaken! Volunteering to become a second wife—that’s deplorable.”

“Well then, shall I try getting married again? If it’s about that matter, I do have two or so prospects in mind, but...”

“…………”

Had things progressed as before, he naturally should have been overjoyed—yet against all expectation, he let out an involuntary groan—Ugh! His throat constricted. If she were to remarry—what loneliness might descend—such lingering attachments already surged through his chest. How gratifying it would have been had he declared here too, in his usual manner: "Absolutely not!"…… Yet he persisted in wallowing through endless cycles of self-serving complaints.

“What are you making such a strange face for?”
“You’re such a creepy person! That’s exactly what I can’t stand—how you immediately put on that stiff face, looking up with feigned concern as if pondering some grand kindness… What nonsense!”
“That’s not like you at all…… You don’t need to worry about such things.”
“I can get married anytime.”
“As long as it’s marriage, that’s fine, right? For someone like me, any man would be the same—hohohoho!”
“Well then, I’ll gratefully accept your kindness and hold a grand wedding ceremony soon—no joke, so start saving up for the congratulatory gifts right now.”

There had been times when he was tormented by such talk, but he had somehow managed to forget—as long as they didn’t speak of it, it remained entirely a matter of the distant shore—and when he thought about it alone, he found himself thinking: wouldn’t it be better if Yoko just hurried up and got married already?
That was all he could think.

At that time with Uncle Ushigome—well, I had made a terrible blunder—but when I actually went to visit him the next day, he happened to be out—a development that merely elicited an unpleasant bitter smile—and the whole affair ended in a muddle.

But one evening, he was again tormented by talk of marriage—the matter had progressed all the way to an arranged meeting without his knowledge.

“A grand wedding ceremony?”

“No, that was a joke.”
“Or perhaps, if you were to shoulder a greater portion of the expenses, that would be another matter.”
“But since you understand my circumstances well, even if it’s settled, just the formalities would suffice.”

He had been asked by the mother and daughter to attempt a massive fundraising effort in the near future, one that would be considerable even by his standards.
But this very busyness—a wretched obsession one might call pathological—gave him a strangely pleasurable sense of being depended upon.

“You’ve had experience with arranged meetings!”

“Absolutely not. I haven’t.”

“Well then, at the time of marriage…”

“I’d somehow known their face beforehand—”

“Well, that worked out nicely,” she said without inserting a shred of doubt.
In other words, it was as if she believed he too shared her disinterest in marriage beyond mere formalities.
When he considered it this way—despite feeling an inexplicable detachment toward his wife—he couldn’t simply disregard the other party’s spouse like Yoko did.

“But Mother and I simply can’t go out just the two of us.”
“Lately our household has ceased all contact with relatives, you see...”

So she was asking him to become her companion.
"If you think it's appropriate, then I'll go ahead and decide."

“That would be troublesome.”

“No, I just need you to look and honestly tell me your impressions—that’s all—”

“The theater—so that’s the plan? Once we’re there together—are we meant to have tea or something?”

“That’s for the go-between to arrange as they see fit in the moment—watching both parties’ reactions—so *I* can’t possibly put on any airs! That’s why I need you to signal me with your eyes about such matters.”

“With my eyes!”

“Well, this worked out splendidly. We even set the date by waiting for you to come. I did think of notifying you by letter, but Mother fretted you might bolt if we did… Then you conveniently materialized right when needed—no escaping now.” She unilaterally concluded the discussion with a decisive “Enough of this talk!”

He was steeped in nervous exhaustion and could not sleep no matter what.
Even though he wasn’t drunk (he hardly ever took up a wine cup at Yoko’s house,
Yoko did not know he had become a drinker.) Agonizing over a sense of emptiness akin to having stayed up all night from a bad hangover, he groaned until the brightness leaking through the storm shutters’ gaps began to shine in a dazzling gold—but soon,

“It’s already ten o’clock—get up!” When shaken awake by Yoko, he found everything thrown wide open—a crisp breeze shimmered through the summer sky freed from rainy season’s grip.

He was unbearably sleepy.
His eyes closed unintentionally, and at once he sank into thick slumber.

"Last night you slept just as soundly—barely responding no matter what I said—and still you're drowsy?
I've already been to the hairdresser and returned!
The bath is drawn—go get in first.
...Ugh, infuriating! You're snoring already!"

Yoko drove her foot down against the wooden floor with all her might, producing a thunderous bang.

………

He was struck by sparks and awoke.
Yoko’s figure—sitting stern-faced on the veranda’s rattan chair with apparent ill humor—bathed in the glorious morning sun that dappled through fresh leaves after prolonged rains, appeared precisely like an oil painting composed with meticulous care.

“This is impossible! You can’t keep sleeping indefinitely!”
“Today isn’t like usual—”

“Just let me sleep a while longer—that’s all I need.”

“No! No!”
“Up you get!”

He desperately leapt up—though he certainly hadn’t slept even an hour! Compounding this was the massive sleep deprivation that had been steadily mounting since he’d thrown himself into intense all-nighters for his writing until just two or three days prior—now that he’d stood up, his body felt like limp konjac jelly, utterly devoid of any place to channel strength.

After getting out of the bath, even while waiting for Yoko to finish preparing, he pretended to read a newspaper—crossing his arms, sitting cross-legged—and dozed off.

As the time for their departure drew near, Yoko grew increasingly irritable, lashing out.

"You’re not eating?!
"Then suit yourself!"
"Even if your stomach growls with hunger later, I won’t care!"

"My chest feels somehow full—I couldn’t possibly eat."

"What are you saying?!
"Go wash your face with cold water again!"
"With such a blank face, you’re not presentable at all!"

“Once we’re outside, it’ll be fine—come on, I should get ready too—” he declared with feigned vigor, rising like someone reluctantly embarking on a journey who finally resigns themselves as time grows short. And as he made to lunge for the Western clothes hanging on the wall,

“I can’t have you going out wearing such things! Under our previous arrangement, there’s a proper kimono ready—Mother sewed it herself.”

“Look there!” As soon as she said this, he looked at the disordered basket in the corner—something that would likely not suit him at all, which through his eyes appeared ‘utterly stylish’—a full set of what seemed to be high-quality summer garments had been prepared and awaited him, now bright red from sheer embarrassment.

“Couldn’t you let me skip the white tabi socks? This one thing—let me keep it for my entire life—”

“What’s all this dawdling? Just put them on already.”

“Do you even use a folding fan like this?”
He had never once carried such a fan before, no matter how sweltering the weather. Moreover, even merely imagining fluttering it before his face was unbearable.

“You needn’t fan yourself—just hold something to keep up appearances! It’s insufferable how you keep puffing away at that tobacco.”

“Oh!”
“Is this my hat?”

His soft hat—usually grabbed haphazardly into uneven clumps—had today been completely reshaped, neatly creased down the middle like a shop display’s model.
He always wore it so deeply it nearly touched his ears, slightly like an Amida statue’s halo—a habit he couldn’t break.
He had often been disliked by those around him for being slovenly, but when he tried wearing it shallowly tilted forward in a gentlemanly manner, he found himself overcome by a peculiar, frivolous sensation—as if he’d donned a court noble’s cap in this modern age—that he simply couldn’t endure.
His close-cropped head and small stature were also what kept him from adopting such a manner of wearing it.

“Just wear it like that today—properly—”

……
He had no strength to answer.
He was simply burning up with heat, yet felt no anger at all.
As a child, when his father living abroad would send over garments and hats from distant lands during seasonal changes, he hated wearing them because no playmates would keep him company when he went out dressed so—and being forced into them by his mother had even made him pessimistic despite his youth—and now a similar melancholy welled up within him.

“Ah, how vexing! — Come now, I’ll help you, so hurry up and change.”

“You can’t go wearing a shirt or such—” Yoko roughly pulled him closer.

“It’s so vexing tying someone else’s obi!”
She redid it two or three times with unpracticed hands.

“Hey! You can’t be swaying around like that—it’s not like you’re some drunkard!”

When the exasperated tier gave a strong tug on the obi’s end to readjust it, he spun round and round grandly until his head swam.
Whether from the momentum or not, her arm held unexpected strength; when he was abruptly pulled closer, he nearly collapsed against her chest like a scarecrow.
She declared that doing otherwise would make the obi hatefully loose, then embraced him from behind, wrapping her arms around him and tying it so tightly it bordered on unbearable.

“Don’t lower it! There—now your body’s properly tightened, see?”

His slender waist had become cinched as if being torn apart.

“With this, I can’t even walk—it’s so tight—”

“What a poorly behaved person you are! If you tie it any lower than that, it’ll look vulgar and be unpresentable. You’ll just have to endure it…”

He grew dizzy and finally made his way to the waist-high window before collapsing face down. Yoko sat before the dressing table, devoting herself to her final preparations.

“You’re not dozing off, are you? I’m truly feeling so uneasy!”

He found this pitiful! Upon realizing it, he rallied his spirits with a clap of his hands and—

“I’m fine. My eyes have finally cleared now. You know full well how terrible I am at waking up, don’t you? But once I’m up, I perk right up! Because I hardly slept last night, I was terribly disheveled and in bad shape, but I’m perfectly fine now. I’ll definitely fulfill today’s responsibilities properly, so you can rest assured,” he declared confidently.

“Ahh—so hot! I’ll fetch us some water.”

He pulled out the sensu fan that Yoko had tucked into his obi and, flapping it with an air of novelty, walked back toward the kitchen.
In Yoko’s mirror, its surface gleaming toward the wide-open window, the vivid peaks of billowing cumulonimbus clouds in a midsummer azure sky were sharply reflected.
(July 1928)