Pathway to Japanese Literature

Brightly·Darkly

I

In the corner of the ceiling, a small square of sunlight flickered like a flame.
The sunlight that had streamed through the skylight above the bathtub struck the mirror on the opposite wall and reflected there.

Junkichi had been lying on his back in the tub for some time now, leisurely expanding his chest as he gazed absently at that patch of light—What a pleasant morning, he mused.
It had been nearly a month since his return home—and what languid days had followed in its wake.

Teruko—whom he'd secretly adored—had married in triumph...and then there was his failure at the school he'd been so complacent about...

When he dwelled on these things—this man who maintained a bold facade through empty boasts while being fundamentally timid within—he felt his precious youth had been utterly ruined, and grew despondent.

With this as its catalyst, how far would that obstinate fate extend its dark path... He found himself compelled to liken his existence to a single jagged rock—tumbling ever downward into a valley bottom of unfathomable depth, falling without foothold or respite.

Junkichi stretched his limbs freely in the bathtub and gazed up at the morning sun.
The night before, plagued by base delusions, he hadn't slept a wink until daybreak.
With dawn's arrival came a sense of deliverance.
After instructing them to heat the bathwater, he lingered in languor.
Nothing but disagreeable dreams had haunted him.
When roused from sleep, summer morning light already brimmed radiantly through the garden.
In his agitated state, he'd plunged into the tub and imagined cool water cascading down his chest.

Junkichi called out loudly for the maid.

“Since I’m going to smoke, bring me a cigarette and light it.”

Junkichi remained on his back in the bath with a cigarette in his mouth and began to smoke leisurely.
It was a quiet morning.
The smoke wavered upward until it reached the ceiling.

“Hey! Hey!”
From the corridor, Miyabe boisterously called out to Junkichi.
“How long you planning to stew in that bath? Here I thought you’d finally crawled out of bed early for once!”
“Or maybe you’re taking a snooze in there?”

“Ah, shut up!” Junkichi muttered that, then frowned as if greatly troubled. “Have you come back from the beach already? Damn you!”

“It’s still too cold to go in the sea. Katou and Kimura are saying they’ll go roller skating now.”

“Don’t wanna! Don’t wanna!” Junkichi shook his head.
(Skating here refers to roller skating.)
(It was when that was all the rage.)

“You don’t really hate it. What about last night? You were having such fun then…”

Just then Katou emerged too. "Junkou made quite the impression last night, eh? Miss Yuriko was definitely batting her eyes at you—ain't that right, Miyabe?"

"Yet here you are moping around with that gloomy mug in daylight—all smiles when we hit up Tsukada's joint though."

They'd converted Tsukada's studio into a skating rink. Yuriko happened to be Tsukada's cousin.

“Really?”
Junkichi, forgetting he’d been teased, leapt dramatically from the bathtub.

“But it’s no good—from now on it’s beach season, you know? When it comes to swimming, I’m the top dog around here.” Katou jabbed, puffing out his chest. “Miss Yuriko said she can’t stand guys who can’t swim—what’ll you do now, huh? But even so, if a guy like you showed up at the beach, well well…”

“Stop it already.”

Junkichi had grown sullen.
He wrapped himself in a towel and went out to the sunlit veranda.
Katou took out skate wheels from the closet, tested their rotation, and oiled them.
Kimura had been skimming through a flimsy magazine at Junkichi's desk but upon seeing him,

“You’re such an idiot, writing this worthless crap,” Kimura laughed.
When Junkichi looked over in surprise, it was indeed the literary coterie magazine he belonged to as one of its members.
It must have arrived while he was in the bath.
Flustered, Junkichi snatched the magazine from Kimura’s hands, turned red, and dashed into the next room.
With his chest pounding, he turned the pages.
Therein was published the second short story he had written during the winter.
It was a story born from imagination.
“That fantasy ended up becoming reality,” he muttered.
Then he closed his eyes with an air of significance.
Had he tried to outwit fate, only to be completely countered?!

“What’s with this clumsiness for a humanities student…?” Kimura laughed from next door.

“Did Junkou write a novel?”
Katou’s earnest voice could also be heard.
“Is it about women?”
“Ain’t that right? Novels ain’t worth a damn unless they’re about women… Hey Okamura, let me read it too! Never knew you had it in you… You’re one hell of a guy.”

The voices from next door didn’t reach Junkichi’s ears as he stared intently.
"When set in print, it somehow doesn’t feel like my own work… No matter what, this is my second novel. Though fate has defeated me, I want to find some joy in this harvest." With such inconsequential thoughts running through his mind, Junkichi began reading his own creation.

(The following inserts Okamura Junkichi's novel *The Flickering Lamp* in its entirety.)

It was the night before the exam.
No matter how much he directed his eyes toward the textbooks, his mind refused to align with them at all—and thus, academic failure.
At this thought, he shuddered.
At the same moment, Teruko's face floated up faintly behind his eyelids.
For him, Teruko’s very existence was the sole reason he feared academic failure—and precisely because he was so acutely conscious of her existence, he feared that failure all the more.
Because Teruko, as she often said,

“I think there’s nothing as beautiful as the word ‘scholar.’ I would dedicate my entire life to that feeling alone, loving with tears welling up,” she had said. He knew Teruko was insulting and secretly mocking him for being the exact opposite of a scholar. ...Hmph! As if to voice that very sentiment, he—overcome with frustration—put on a show of haughty composure, though inwardly he felt utterly crushed by Teruko’s words and thoroughly exasperated.

At a certain time, he—amidst a joke, yet concealing a glimmer of hope in his breast—

“I want to marry a spitfire like you, Teru-chan,” he teased.

“I do too.”
“I want to marry a scatterbrained joker like Jun-chan.”
“Hohohoho.” —With that single blow of laughter, he was slain; though by all rights he should have been content with his words being taken as mere jest exactly as intended, he remained fixated on Teruko’s talk of marriage no matter how much time passed.
He had understood it all too simply as “unrequited love” without needing to ponder “Why?”—yet whenever shown the roundabout symbolism in classical love poems with lines like “Somehow...” or “Tears flow—”, he found them more laughable than offensive. But when thinking of Teruko, his own heart seemed to whisper, “Somehow... tears flow—”.

Time passed without restraint.
Not even the first page of the book entered his head.
He thought of academic failure as the clock’s hand marked each second, and then of heartbreak (?).

He let out a deep sigh—If only Teruko would just drop dead, he thought.

Outside raged a violent storm.
Fierce rain beat incessantly against his window.
Little by little, his heart dissolved into the howling tumult of wind and rain.
"So what if I fail?" he muttered.
"Shameless brazen Teruko—you idiot!" he spat at himself.

At that moment, the bright and still lamp suddenly went out.
At the same instant, something like a cold wing grazed his chest.
"Perfect timing," he thought.
"If the light's gone out, naturally I can't study."
"If memorizing books could make me into the very scholar she admires... then even failing because I couldn't study would..."
Having thought that far, he let out a foolish laugh.
And then he devoted himself entirely to drawing Teruko's phantom with grim reassurance.

He froze in the darkness, staring at himself standing at the crossroads of laughter and sorrow.
——Romantic love is an utterly comical emotion…… With this thought lingering in his mind as he probed such feelings, he remained motionless like a wooden statue, spine straight as he sat upright.

“The lamp went out, and here you’re floundering even though it’s exam time.” No sooner had the voice spoken than the room flared bright.
Teruko, who had brought the lamp, peered down at the tears welling in his eyes—a curiosity etched across her face.

“Making progress with your studies?
Why not rest a moment instead of grinding yourself to dust?”

“Shut up!”

He said this and, as if waiting for the light to brighten, immediately averted his gaze from Teruko and lowered his eyes to the book.

“Do your best now, and I’ll give you a reward.”

Teruko placed the lamp at the corner of his desk and adjusted the wick with her fingertips.

("What kind of reward?") He grinned slyly and had been about to retort like that, but upon realizing Teruko hadn't spoken with enough sincerity to warrant being questioned, he maintained his resentful attitude nonetheless.

Teruko descended the ladder stairs, mindful of her footsteps.

He fixedly stared at the lamp’s light.
The area around the wick emitted a steady drone like that of an autumn insect.
Bothered by this, he pinched the screw and repeatedly pushed the wick in and pulled it out.
He repeated it many times.
Soon the sound ceased, but aimless, he kept his fingertips on the screw.
The room would brighten, then grow dark.

In the moments it brightened, he thought of the terror of exams and heartbreak.
In the moments it darkened, he thought of Teruko's beauty with relief.
Gradually, he increased the speed of his fingertips until there was no time for his heart to change in tandem.
He twisted it back with extreme swiftness.
His mind reversed just as swiftly and became unthinking.
He merely fiddled with the lamp's wick for amusement.

(Oh no!) he realized—the wick had fallen into the oil pot.

Only darkness remained.
Was this a predicament or not?
He forgot to make such distinctions in his heart.
And then he let out a deep sigh.
—Emptiness, relief, joy, tears—he felt all these things come flooding into his chest, still wrapped in white silk.

He failed.

Teruko married the following year.
He felt that Teruko’s marriage had not stirred the slightest reaction in his own heart.

"After all, it hadn’t been anything as grand as love.
It was just a passing whim."
He made himself mutter this in his heart, but it felt slightly awkward.
And so he bestowed upon himself the title of "Sorrowful Warrior," made himself hold shield and sword, stood atop a hill, and tried gazing out.

Once again, the night of exams came around.

In the same room as two years prior, he sat facing his desk.
Teruko was not there, yet still his mind refused to focus on the textbook.
"That's right—I hated exams themselves.
"It's got nothing to do with Teruko." — "That's why whenever exam season comes around, I invariably end up wanting to write things or fantasize about love."

He muttered such things and nodded meaningfully to himself.

He imagined his own marriage.
He depicted himself on a certain day after gaining a wife, along with this unfamiliar spouse, and gave them dialogue.
He picked up his pen and wrote the following in his notebook.

——That year, he too married.

“You had a love before marrying me, I suppose.”
His wife often said such things to trouble him.

“No! Truly never—”
Because he loved his wife from the heart, he could only answer spiritlessly.

“Liar! Liar!” his wife said, weeping.
“I’ve heard such things before.”
“I’ve heard those kinds of things too.”
And then his wife brought out old letters and such, and cried again.

The wife knew that he had run away from home with some woman and been disowned by his father after falling for an apprentice geisha.

But in reality he had never loved anyone as much as this woman before him now; thus when he desperately insisted "It's no lie," each protest only made her more agitated.
At this irritation he found himself regretting his past - how pitiful never to have loved any lover more deeply than this very spouse whose presence now vexed him!

"It's too bright for sleeping! Put out that lamp!"

When for the first time since their wedding night his voice carried anger's edge - startling her (for she couldn't fathom why he'd grown so cross) - she rose obediently and extinguished the light.

Finding her demeanor endearing, he took his wife’s hand.
His wife cried again.

At that moment, he suddenly recalled Teruko, whom he had completely forgotten until now.
“It’s not a lie,” he explained to his wife while—just as he grew despondent over the past from those truthful words—Teruko’s face suddenly came to mind.

Maybe I’m lying to my wife after all—the thought brought a faint knowing smile to his lips.
At the same time, an unbearable loneliness welled up.

"Why am I unable to possess love beyond that(?)"
When he thought such things, he began to feel dejected,

“I still can’t sleep.”
He had said, “Light the lamp again for me,” but together with his wife in the dark room—not wanting to move an inch as they were—he kept her hand firmly pressed down and didn’t let her relight it.

(End)

Junkichi instinctively shrank his neck like a turtle’s the moment he finished reading.
(Tch!)
(What a repulsive fellow.) He recalled the scene of a pimpled youth writing *The Flickering Lamp* in a room of a Tokyo boarding house.

“Let’s go skating.”

Miyabe said, looking up at Junkichi, who appeared on the veranda with a bitter expression.

“No! No!”

“Are you going to write a novel or something?”
Kimura teased maliciously.

“It’s downright rude how Kimura presumes to gauge people’s feelings with his half-baked assumptions.”

Junkichi had indignantly said such things—but had he actually voiced them to the other party?
He couldn’t tell whether he was sneering at himself.

Junkichi was struck by the foolishness of his own feelings, which seemed devoid of strength anywhere.
Then, for no reason at all, he began fretting and fidgeting,

“Why don’t you all hurry up and get in the bath already?” he said in an irritated tone.

“Let’s all get in together! Who cares if it’s cramped?”
With those words, Miyabe dashed ahead to the bathhouse, whereupon Kimura and Katou stripped off their kimonos right there and followed after him in comically exaggerated strides.

Junkichi felt his hard-won bright morning mood suddenly snatched away—recalling Teruko, dwelling on his academic failure—and began sinking into profound dejection.

"(Maybe I should just go to sleep!)" He gazed listlessly at the light spilling over the fresh foliage in the garden while thinking such thoughts.

“Old man, old man! It’s too damn hot—turn on the cold water! C’mon, give us some cold water here—”

In the bathhouse, such clamorous voices resounded.
Before long, the clank, clank of someone listlessly striking the tank echoed as though melting into the serene hues of morning.

II

At home, everyone praised Yuriko unreservedly, but here they all stiffened. The men occasionally met each other's eyes, exchanging brief smiles as each formed their own circles to maintain the merry-go-round. The skate wheels' sound formed a gentle rhythm that filled the entire room like a great wave. Some rotated with composed demeanor, taking handkerchiefs from pockets to wipe sweat, while others energetically removed jackets and tossed them onto nearby chairs. Yuriko had joined the Go-Round group, her thin skirt fluttering repeatedly. Junkichi leaned against a corner chair, gazing enviously at the dazzling scene... What kind of man would someone as beautiful as Yuriko fall in love with! He contemplated this and felt his body stiffen. While the group carried on in such carefree frenzy—leaping about with vivacity—he found himself mired in these wretched habitual fantasies, struck by an unpleasant sensation like being sucked into a wind-scoured hole.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Okamura?”
As she spoke, Yuriko glided out of the circular formation and appeared before Junkichi.

“......”
Junkichi’s throat tightened.

“I can skate backward now—shall I demonstrate?”

“You mustn’t fall.”
Though that hadn’t been his intention, he ended up phrasing it in a dull manner.
And he turned away.

“Can you do it?”

“I can do it,” he muttered reflexively, devoid of any deliberation.
He couldn’t even perform ordinary skating competently.

“Then teach me.”

This wench is mocking me—Junkichi thought.
Junkichi’s skating method was peculiarly distinctive.
The standard technique of rhythmically alternating legs proved utterly beyond his capability.
When he attempted it, his left leg would stiffen like a pole while his right twisted outward in an exaggerated arc, producing only a clattering semblance of limping motion.
Just as a catcher who gapes his hands frog-mouthed and trembles while awaiting throws has no hope of improvement, so too was it said that skaters of this ilk wasted their efforts regardless of practice.
Whenever Junkichi entered the hall, they all yearned to observe him with that benignly scornful gaze.
—He should have refused! Yet whenever Kimura’s group invited him, he would listlessly trail after them.

“I could teach you, but…”
He felt a pang of sorrow that felt like tears welling up in his chest.
(No matter what they say—starting tomorrow, I won’t come back! Damn them, mocking me like this!)
I’m different from barbaric breeds like you lot.
I’m a meditative poet.
(I’m no cheap man to lose himself in such idiotic games!) He bit his lip and muttered this within his heart.

“Don’t make such sore-loser remarks—you should practice more diligently. Look—even someone as clumsy as Mr. Katou has gotten that good, hasn’t he?”

When Junkichi looked where Yuriko pointed, Katou was spinning lightly with both arms outstretched like wings.
Kimura the athlete skated backward, whistling with his left hand resting casually near his waist.
Miyabe passed before Junkichi, crisscrossing his legs as he went, and shouted “See? Not bad, eh? Come join us!”

“Mr. Kimura!” Yuriko shouted.
“Please take my hand.”

Yuriko chased after Kimura.

Junkichi smiled faintly for no reason and looked up at the star-filled sky beyond the window.

(At a time like this, let me immerse myself in piercing loneliness—and craft an impactful poem.)

Junkichi closed his eyes quietly after thinking such things—but no "poetic inspiration" arose. Nothing but nerves as dull as a donkey’s ears persistently chased after Yuriko’s figure with jealous tenacity, while the lightless future’s emptiness became anxiety-ridden clouds that enveloped his entire body.

The skate sounds now resounded like distant thunder, now swirled like a majestic orchestra near Junkichi’s eyes. He merely remained in a shadowless, dreamlike daze, gazing blankly with eyes wide open.

“Don’t make such a terribly difficult face.”

Miyabe, with what appeared to be an intention of rousing Junkichi's spirits—if only superficially—blurted this out as he brushed past him.

“Go on, go on!”
Next came Katou’s voice as well.

“I’d feel embarrassed if I were the only one teaching Miss Yuriko.” Kimura whispered softly into Junkichi’s ear and glided away.

“If I put a bit more momentum into it, I could probably go around once using just one leg.”

Yuriko ran with her leg raised exaggeratedly, like an opera actress.

"There’s nothing I can’t do either." When their gazes shifted elsewhere, Junkichi muttered this and quietly rose to his feet. But when he felt the heavy skates on his feet, he thought: This is hopeless. Adopting a stance like when learning to ride a bicycle might work—but having no handlebars is hopeless. Calmly now. Don’t focus solely on your legs. Look straight ahead—no glancing sideways. Be lightly aware of your heavy legs. Even so—to think those bastards can dance around so skillfully with such heavy things attached! They deserve respect! What the— Damn it! I'm a man too.—Who cares if I die? Should I just charge out recklessly!—That's how you'll fail—calm down!—Damn it, these wheels spin too smoothly.—I'll master this even if I have to bite into stones. It’s just skating!—Tsk! Focus—no distractions! Foot positioning, force distribution, meticulous breathing...

Junkichi, steeling himself with these words, carefully pressed against the wall as he quietly lifted and set down each shoe step by step. When he sensed danger, he immediately clamped his teeth onto the window frame.—Outside the window, moonlight shone as brightly as if it were dawn.

III

Junkichi woke around noon.
The rain fell with an oppressively stiff rhythm, like something belonging to another person—each drop needled his skin.

——After all, I'm better off alone.
No matter what they say—starting today, I won't go out!
That agony... it's straight from hell's playbook!

He lacked even the energy to eat and blankly perched on the windowsill.
——Still—how infuriating! Being unable to manage something so simple yet feeling this crushed and ashamed—
Alright—maybe I'll secretly practice alone for a week without them knowing.
And once I've made dazzling progress, how satisfying it'll be to reappear and knock those bastards flat!

He had thought as much, but when he imagined that unsightly figure of himself shuffling along in such a manner, he shuddered uncontrollably—a cold sweat broke out that he couldn’t suppress.

(Enough! Enough!
I have my own talent.
Even if I'm just another pebble tumbling on the shore, I've got my own jagged edges—how could I let myself be rolled about so carelessly?)—In his vexation, he entertained such thoughts, yet not an ounce of conviction took root.

(......Most lazy students possess a delightful audacity proportionate to their indolence, maintaining cheerful self-assurance; to put it with slight exaggeration, they each harbor in their hearts a harmonious blend of vivacious dreams, delicate tears, floridly artful sentimentality, and refined boldness.
If even one among them had been born lacking any single of these traits—how wretched his existence would be! How unsightly! What an unfortunate youth he'd become!)

"Damn it!"

Junkichi inadvertently heaved a thick sigh and, trying to shake off such foolish thoughts, wildly shook his head.

The pomegranate buds at the window were mostly about to bloom.
The deep green slender leaves and crimson spherical buds spread across the window as if to cover it, and through their gaps, the clear sea and sky's blue flat expanse appeared etched into view.
To Junkichi’s dull eyes, now heavy with drowsiness, it all appeared in such a manner.

Junkichi remained seated on the window frame, gazing intently at pomegranate blossoms and blankly staring at motionless ships visible on the distant horizon.
——Yet his mind still clung to those foolish contemplations from mere moments before.

Ah, what an unfortunate lazy student I am—
When it came to laziness, I was second to none—yet I myself lacked all those virtues they prided themselves on, save for indolence.
If I were pure, perhaps there’d still be salvation—yet in the depths of my chest fester all things opposite to theirs: cowardice masquerading as boldness, not a shred of genuine confidence, nothing but hollow bravado stoked to frenzy—base delusions, foolish sentimentality, cheap egoism, gloomy dreams, and on top of that, brazenly foolish schemes.
……Ahh!)

While occupied with such trivial thoughts, he suddenly felt his spirits drain—or so he thought—then grinned and snickered for no apparent reason. If there had been someone there at that moment, that person would undoubtedly have indignantly exclaimed, "Don’t make fun of me!" Lately when alone, Junkichi had developed a habit—one he himself hadn’t noticed—of letting that unsettling smile surface.

(...She and her mother are apparently running a small fruit store in the suburbs of Boston. E—, that mixed-race little girl—are mixed-race children despised? What nonsense that would be! But this absurdity goes beyond all reason—that E—, that E— could be my sister! How repulsive! How repulsive!)

Suddenly, Junkichi recalled such things.
(It seems that matter still weighs on my mind after all—but I mustn't dwell on such uncanny things—mustn't think of them.)

Ever since learning about E— through some chance opportunity, Junkichi had become restless within his own household. Even seeing the father’s face had become distasteful. Exchanging words with the mother had also become a chore. Fortunately, as this house near the seaside was vacant, he had moved here alone not long after returning home once the term exams ended. Even when encountering the father’s figure or seeing the mother’s face, he was unbearably assailed by alternating waves of melancholy and contempt.

From near the stone steps of the gate came the vigorous sound of Kimura and the others returning, mingled with their boisterous laughter.

“Ah, I’m starving!”

“Kimura’s moves are downright professional-grade, aren’t they?”

“At this rate, we’ll be swimming by tomorrow.”

“What’s the point of freezing our asses off swimming if there’s no audience? Utter nonsense!”

“Miss Yuriko…”

“Katou’s a damn delinquent, hahaha…”

Junkichi—strangely flustered—left the window ledge, pulled a razor from the desk drawer, and deftly aligned it with the leather strop hanging from the pillar.
Light streaming through the engawa caught the razor’s edge, glittering as it reversed direction.

Kimura and the others went around the garden and sat down on the engawa.
Katou threw his gloves and mitt into a corner, brushed off the sand, and sprawled out in the middle of the tatami room.
Ah, if only night would come quickly.

"Okamura, did you just wake up?"

"Starting today, I'm going to begin studying."

Junkichi set up a mirror on the desk and worked up a lather of shaving soap.

"This guy doesn't even have a beard yet keeps shaving his face obsessively," Kimura teased from the engawa.

“Something’s fishy here…”
Katou shouted exaggeratedly and peered into Junkichi’s mirror.
“I’ll shave too. To go to Tsukada’s, I’ll make myself as clean as possible…”

“I’m done with roller skating.”
Junkichi said this while making the pleasant sound of his razor.

“When he wants to go, putting on such an air of ignorance is Okamura’s habit,” said Miyabe.

“Since Okamura failed out of school, he’s been acting a bit strange lately—no staying power at all.”

“Failing out of a place like Waseda isn’t exactly normal. Plus, Junkou’s in humanities—maybe some love scandal dragged him down?”

“What’re you on about? You flunked too!” Kimura needled Katou from the side.

“I’m from a state school.”

Katou had made his point. Apart from Junkichi, they were all law or engineering students at state institutions.

Everyone had returned for vacation, but since Jungo was living alone in this house, before they knew it they too had come to stay here.

Junkichi had originally chosen a private university’s humanities department with the aim of taking it easy.
When term exams arrived, even then this timid man never truly experienced much ease of mind; each night before he would grow quite agitated, pore over textbooks with reasonable diligence, and take all required subjects—for what concern could there be regarding a mere private university’s humanities department?—so on results day he marched confidently to campus.
Among the posted notices, Okamura Junkichi’s name had disappeared.
Of course there had been no such thing as a love affair or the like.
In his timid throat from that very moment an unnaturally heavy lump had lodged itself—a lump that even now remained undigested.

The discovery of E— had occurred not long after that.
These two dull black masses overlapped, clogging his chest.

Even regarding his academic failure, Junkichi was greatly flustered; while briefly finding the world dreary, he rushed first to his grandmother’s side.
And then, he begged her to keep it a secret from his parents, pleading through tears that in exchange he would...
(A year’s worth of things could probably be fudged before his parents for two or three years—just a single year.
I shouldn’t have told Grandmother either—what a needless panic that had been……)

Katou and Junkichi occasionally exchanged such conversations.

"What's academic failure anyway?"
Junkichi would always puff out his chest and declare: "If you merely consider pursuing scholarship, even the dullest fool could take first place."
(He had never truly believed such things.) "A man trembling before exams should just die! I only took them twice before quitting for good—that atmosphere was unbearable. Those pasty student faces make me sick with pity."

“Exactly! Who’d let themselves get shackled by exams and waste their youth frittering days away? I’ll stretch out my student years another two or three—then when I finally enter society...”

Katou’s words were not an exaggeration.
He was filled with solid confidence.
He, unlike Junkichi, had been a top student since middle school.

“Okamura, hurry up and finish shaving already. Let me borrow the razor for a bit.”
From behind Junkichi, following Katou’s lead, Miyabe also called out.

“And Kimura, how about you shave me instead? My hands won’t stop shaking from playing ball or something,” Katou grumbled discontentedly.

“Actually, Katou looks better with that bearded mug of his, don’t you think, Miyabe?”
Kimura stared intently at Katou’s face, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Katou’s an old-fashioned guy putting on airs like Arao Jōsuke—roller skating’s way too presumptuous for him.”
While saying such things, Miyabe had already hung a towel across his chest and was sitting cross-legged behind Junkichi.

“I ardently hope to improve to Kimura’s level soon and hold Miss Yuriko’s hand.”
Katou looked up at the ceiling and muttered such things.

"I'll shave my face too," Kimura said.

"I'll finally work up the nerve today and slip right beside Miss Yuriko—bump into her, say 'Pardon me,' and make a proper apology, just like this."

Katou stood up and struck a comical pose.

"Whoa there! Then I'd catch her like this—just like this—with Miss Yuriko in my arms. How about that? Even Kimura couldn't manage this."

"Hmm," Kimura nodded solemnly.
And he flushed faintly.

“Ah! If only I could touch that hair even for a moment—brrr!” Miyabe gave an exaggerated shiver.

“What if I were to fall while catching her?”
Katou shouted, getting carried away.
“After all, she’s got wheels on her feet… Dangerous—I’ll grab on tight!”

“How about we practice that technique right here? Katou boasts endlessly at home, but when it counts, he’ll be tongue-tied. If Katou won’t do it, I will!”
Miyabe too grew slightly excited.

"What an amusing diversion this has turned into!"

Katou muttered with peculiar levity as he plopped down cross-legged and turned his gaze toward the garden.—Though Junkichi feigned silent indifference, his heart throbbed with abnormal brightness.

“Tsukada’s been neglecting his painting lately too, huh? Don’t you think that guy’s acting suspicious around Yuriko?”

“They’re cousins though, aren’t they?”

“That’s exactly why you can’t let your guard down with cousins, I’m telling you.”

“Is that so?”

“Exactly! If that guy’s acting suspicious, it’s trouble. He’s a formidable rival—after all, they’re sharing the same roof.”

“Stop this! Giving rein to such wretched fantasies only needlessly wounds yourself.”

Kimura and Katou continued exchanging these remarks that hovered between jest and sincerity.

Everyone meticulously shaved their faces.
Miyabe poured an extravagant amount of talcum powder into his palm and vigorously worked it in.
Katou stood before the mirror, twisting and stretching his face into various contortions, taking delight in himself alone.
Kimura invited Junkichi to play cards, but he said he didn’t want to.

“Okamura, are you really not going?”

At dinner, Miyabe inquired in that manner.

"I have to study," Junkichi said, deliberately laughing.

IV

Tsukada’s studio window—since it stood alone by the sea—could be seen from afar through the pine grove whenever its light was lit.
The mountain’s sunset had completely faded, and a single path along the pine-hemmed beach lay whitish.
They marched spiritedly along the pale path, each carrying their roller skate bundles tucked under their arms.

“I’ll give skating my all today—don’t you dare laugh.”

It was Junkichi who said that.
In his chest surged vivid whirlpools of emotion without reason—(I’ve made up my mind. I absolutely won’t hesitate anymore. Not me!)

“Who’d laugh?”
Perhaps because they were hurrying, Miyabe—who normally couldn’t resist teasing—answered brusquely.
To Junkichi, that reply rang both absurdly delightful and deeply comforting.

“Katou’s being awfully quiet, huh?”
Junkichi got a little carried away and said that.

“I’m still thinking about the way Miss Yuriko’s legs move when she skates.”
“Just thinking that somehow makes my chest feel cool—I’m imagining Miss Yuriko’s skating figure—those two legs gliding briskly left and right, now high, now…”

“Stop that already—I’m feeling strangely sad for some reason.”
It was Kimura who interjected from the side like that.

“We’re a bit later than usual today.”

“Hurry up! Hurry up!”

While exchanging such words and quickening their pace, Tsukada’s red window soon drew near within sight.
They fell strangely silent at that, only their footsteps crunching with unpleasant urgency as they trampled the sandy ground in unison.

“Hey!”

Katou, who was leading the group, suddenly hushed his voice and whispered with intensity.
“Hear that?! Because we’re moving so slow, Miss Yuriko’s alone—all alone!”
"She started alone."
“Ah, what a splendid sound!”

Simultaneously with Katou’s words, they all came to a halt.
And they pricked up their ears.
Faintly, the scattered sounds of wheels rolling across the floorboards transformed into a delicate melody that reached Junkichi’s ears as well.

“Let’s listen intently—who knows when we’ll get another chance like this.”
Kimura also said that and crossed his arms intently.

“Whoa, dangerous!”
“Now one leg faltered slightly—steady now!”

“Miyabe, get serious,” Katou muttered listlessly.
Indeed, Junkichi too had heard what sounded like a recent misstep and felt an inexplicable shudder.—After that, an uninterrupted succession of smoothly gliding, vivid sounds continued.

“A mermaid crawling across sand—that’s what it sounds like,” Miyabe interjected with a teasing remark.

“That gliding technique... remarkable,”
Katou let slip this admiring interjection.
“Like countless pearls spilling onto a silver plate.”

“I’ve somehow started feeling like I’m riding a balloon,” Kimura muttered in a despondent voice.

“Wouldn’t it be fine if we all just slept right here? A moonlit seaside after all.”

“That sounds nice,” Junkichi murmured in a low voice for the first time then.
Junkichi too, of course, felt a refreshing coolness as though a stream of clear water flowed through his chest.
“Enough already! Let’s storm the palace—aren’t we about to lay eyes on the source of that sound? Pure bliss!” Katou urged.

“Let’s sneak up quietly… so we don’t drown out the insects’ sounds…”

They spoke in unison as if reciting stage lines, spouting trivial phrases while moving with undiminished fervor—holding their breath like bandits, bending their bodies, muffling their footsteps as they drew near the window.

The ceaseless clatter of wheels grew more distinct by the moment, now interspersed with a woman’s clear laughter.
“Rolling—Rolling—Rolling”—spinning round and round, rumbling round and round…

In Junkichi’s chest, resonating with the sound of wheels, this too rang on endlessly without coherence. And his heart sank into a dim gloom.—(Rolling... rolling... tumbling.) He plunged into impossibly dark fantasies.

Even so—must I go back into that bright, lively house now? And must I put on a skating performance too?!

Suddenly, Junkichi became aware of this—he wanted to burrow into the sand like a crab and stay there.