Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I joined Kushiro Nippō in late January during winter's deepest cold when Fahrenheit thermometers swung between twenty and thirty below each dawn.
From station to inn—less than a hundred meters—scarves pressed tight against chins froze bone-white from breath's condensation.
Waking next morning under shutters leaking frigid dawnlight into paper doors found kerosene alone defying frost—its lamp still burning dim as last night's vigil—while my abandoned teacup lay split by yellow ice swelling convex from its core.
Curled waiting for brazier-warmth proved futile; northerners keep late hours—ninety minutes passed before maid arrived.
Rising brought silver soapbox freezing fingers raw,
floorboards groaning underfoot,
water scalding at first touch cooling river-cold before I'd dried my face.

The snow lay no deeper than six inches, but from skies stretched taut by days of unbroken fair weather—skies so clear not a mote of dust stirred—a colorless wind whistled down, sealing shut nostrils with every indrawn breath.
The cold sunlight reflected off the snow, making the windowpanes of every house glint as if trembling from the cold.
The earth had frozen solid to its very core, and with each step, the clogs made a sound like stepping on a steel plate, reverberating up to the skull.
The streets were smooth as mirrors; let one's guard down even slightly, and they would slip to the right or left—take caution and step firmly, only to slip all the more.
Men and women alike—all those walking the streets—were clad in thick, splendid winter coats so lavish they seemed beyond their station, moving with light, hurried steps.
The packhorse sled’s horse, its breath like mist, had its mane—strung with beads of ice—undulating in the cold light as it charged forward vigorously, whipped by the wind-cracked lash.

After two or three days, I moved to a boarding house in Suzaki-cho. Until last spring, it had apparently been the residence of a doctor who once held some local influence—the rooms were passable enough. There was a stout landlady nearing fifty with a complexion improbably robust for her age, plump as a Buddha statue yet unexpectedly kindhearted, along with three maids including one particularly petite girl. On the night I moved in, a maid came to my room—a grotesquely comical woman with an absurdly large frame, twenty-four or twenty-five years old, as corpulent as the landlady herself. Her cheekbones protruded so severely they nearly obscured her small eyes and nose, her forehead was alarmingly narrow, and her overall awkwardness surpassed pity to border on farce. She rambled on about trivial matters for a full hour. After being widowed, she had maintained her own household, she explained, and since Kushiro offered high rates for sewing work, she had managed to save a modest sum each month—but when the landlady pleaded for help due to staff shortages, she found it impossible to refuse the insistent request. Now she had been assisting here for about half a year, or so her story went, evidently aiming to make me understand that “I’m not your ordinary maid.” I later learned her name was O-Yoshi—a capricious soul who worked like a demon when motivated yet lazed about nonchalantly even when scolded by the landlady, which happened with some frequency.

What I particularly liked about this boarding house was its proximity to the newspaper office. The newspaper office could be reached via a mere hundred-and-sixty-meter walk along a street flanked by numerous vacant lots on both sides—a thoroughfare situated precisely back-to-back with Masago-cho’s bustling main avenue on reclaimed land.

The newspaper office stood at a crossroads along the street that cut through Masago-cho from Shichō-zaka toward the coast—a small yet newly constructed brick building that had just held its completion ceremony (this being the sole pride of the paper’s long-standing staff, who claimed nothing comparable existed in all Hokkaido). Against the crystalline winter sky, its flame-like new bricks traced a starkly defined silhouette that maintained an air of dignity uncommon in this town of wooden structures.
The editor-in-chief had shown me what appeared to be a report on the completion ceremony containing the line: “That which manifests the beauty of a single crimson plum blossom amidst a world of pure white is none other than our newly constructed office building.” I still remember how I couldn’t help but smile at this.
Entering from the front door revealed offices and a night duty room to the right and left, with the printing plant at the rear; ascending the stairs within led to two rooms on the second floor—a reception room and the editorial department.

In the editorial department stood a fireplace disproportionately large for the room's dimensions, and each day I would wield my brush or handle scissors and paste while listening to this hearth roar fiercely. When the field reporters returned with lips purple and trembling from the cold, before sitting down they would first toss five or six logs into the fireplace. As a result, two or three times daily, the fireplace would inevitably glow red-hot, and beads of sweat would form on our foreheads. Yet when I returned to the boarding house in the evening, the room—devoid of any decorations to enliven it—appeared relatively spacious. Even when I stoked the sole brazier in the eight-tatami room on the second floor until its blue-flamed tongues licked ceaselessly upward, the cold seemed to envelop me from behind, an icy hand perpetually stroking my collar. After writing five or six characters, the brush tip would already stiffen. Though I placed the ink bottle on the brazier's edge until steam rose from its mouth, the ink in my pen would freeze before half was used; even composing a single postcard became an excruciating task. In this unfamiliar town without a single friend, where the cold stifled all desire to read, I spent each night endlessly turning my hands over the flames and hugging the brazier as if embracing it. After about a week had passed, I gradually began growing somewhat accustomed to the cold.

From around February 10th, the cold somehow began easing little by little.
As the cold began to ease, drift ice—its origins unknown—filled the port, and snow fell occasionally.
The first monthly journalists' gathering since my arrival was held on a certain Saturday evening when about a foot of snow had accumulated.

II

Kushiro was a small city with a population of just under fifteen thousand, barely beginning to develop, yet somehow it had two newspapers.

The newspaper I worked for was called Kushiro Nippō, an organ of Ōkawa, a prefectural assembly member who enjoyed high esteem in the area.
Initially, they had apparently been publishing it every Sunday with a mere two sheets of hanshi paper for the pages, but as the town developed, after expanding three or four times over seven years, it had become a standard four-page newspaper just one week before my arrival, coinciding with the completion ceremony of their new building.
Of course, what they had achieved thus far was due to secret backers bound by various connections rather than the newspaper’s own strength; yet its financial affairs were managed with unexpected competence, and alongside President Ōkawa’s esteem, Kushiro Nippō’s credit had also become deeply rooted among the townspeople.
In the editorial department, from the editor-in-chief down to the proofreader, there were only five people.

The other was called the Kushiro Mainichi Shimbun, which had only been in existence for about six months. Its office was in a tenement-like place, with rumors that salary payments were often delayed into the following month. Worker disputes were not uncommon. Though it was a standard four-page newspaper, it had few advertisements and many blank spaces on the fourth page. Due to a lack of kanji typefaces, it used kana predominantly, making it an ugly sight to behold.
Even so, they still had five reporters.

The monthly gathering was an event where journalists from these two newspapers—combined with those stationed at branch offices in Sapporo, Otaru, Asahikawa, and elsewhere—totaling thirteen or fourteen people—would assemble once each month. Since this month's gathering would be my first since arriving, and having only published my introductory greeting in the newspaper without formally presenting myself anywhere else, the thought of walking into a room full of unfamiliar faces gave me something of an outsider's feeling.
As the monthly organizer had notified us that it would start at four o'clock in the afternoon, by half past three I had finished submitting my final manuscript.

“Since it’s Kashimaya today, that means we’ll get to drink with Miss Ichi serving us, eh?”

With that, the Editor-in-Chief turned his chair toward the fireplace.

“But when geishas attend the monthly gatherings, they’re remarkably well-behaved, aren’t they?”

Hachinohe replied.

“That’s to be expected—it’s only us troublemakers gathering here.”

With a laugh, the Editor-in-Chief stood up.
“Geisha and journalists—they’re practically relatives, you know.”

“Quite so—they’re all so delightfully rakish.”

And I stood up while laughing.
Everyone was closing inkstone boxes, retying their hakama cords, and tucking tobacco into their mouths while putting on coats, when Mr. Komatsu—who handled the three gossip columns—suddenly,

“I hear the Mainichi’s taken on another new hand this time.”

“Is that so? What manner of man might he be?”

“They say his name’s Kikuchi.”
“They say he’s likely the eldest among all the reporters here in Kushiro.”

“Isn’t that fellow called Kikuchi Kenji?” the Editor-in-Chief interjected.

“Kenji? Yes yes, I thought it sounded like a samurai’s name.”

“So what’s this about—a man with a pitch-black beard who looks like some vagabond?”

“Is that so? I haven’t met him yet.”

“If that’s the man they’re hiring, then no matter how many people Mainichi takes on, we’ve nothing to fear.”
“Some days back—can’t recall how many—that Kikuchi fellow came to my place after being made to work as either reporter or errand boy.”
“I did consider taking him in out of pity,” he said as he began walking toward the entrance.
“But what he said when he first came didn’t match his later story, so I found it suspicious and refused him.”

I, however, knew that the Editor-in-Chief never spoke well of people whose interests conflicted with his own.
Thinking something like, "They have six people—so we’re outnumbered by one," I stepped out through the entrance,

“You—would it be the second page or the third page?”

When he posed his question to Mr. Komatsu while walking—at that very moment—Mr. Komatsu was already thinking about something else.

“What do you mean?”

“About Kikuchi.”

“Who could that be? According to Sakurai, they said he’d start coming into work from today.”

When we noisily crowded into the inner room of Kashimaya, about seven people had already gathered.
Except for one or two people, everyone was a stranger to me, so I spent some time hurriedly exchanging business cards. Once that was done and I lit my tobacco, I immediately noticed that the man with the jet-black beard had yet to arrive.
People often kindly spoke to me as well.
Amidst the gathering, a short, dark-skinned man with sparse stubble—dressed in Western clothes and decidedly unattractive—dispensed charm to all sides, delivering light puns while laughing with incongruously gentle titters that clashed with his features.

After about ten minutes had passed, Nishiyama Shachō of the Mainichi and Kusakabe Henshūchō—who had arrived from Tokyo approximately one month before me—entered.
Mr. Kusakabe was a burly man who stood around five feet nine inches tall; though I had heard he was an exceptional drinker, his eyes appeared somewhat lackluster, and he wore an unembellished cotton montsuki that showed neither newness nor pretense in its styling.

President Nishiyama was understood to be serving simultaneously as editor-in-chief.
The vision of him in his Shichiko-patterned haori over Sendai-hira silk hakama, with a thick round-woven white cord fastened high upon his chest, recalled some rogue attorney I had once seen in a political melodrama.
A narrow-faced man of thirty-five or thirty-six, his complexion riddled with pimples and devoid of facial hair, he peered through silver-rimmed spectacles with eyes that periodically revealed profound mistrust beyond the lenses.

“Shall we begin little by little? Since most have gathered.”

Then, Mr. Shida, the monthly organizer (the dark-skinned man who had been dispensing charm since earlier), spoke up.

Soon, the meal was served.
“It would be better to mingle,” proposed our Editor-in-Chief, prompting everyone to rise noisily for a moment—though,
“When I’m among handsome men, my face looks all the worse for it—though that can’t be helped.”
With a laugh, Mr. Shida sat down between me and President Nishiyama.
When alcohol appeared, conversations abruptly quickened; laughter burst out here and there; ten sleeves from five geishas fluttered busily with sake decanters, while the heady scent of face powder softened rigidly squared knees.
Around the freshly lit hanging lamp’s brilliance, tobacco smoke swirled in thin eddies.

The stated purposes—promoting goodwill, discussing mutual interests, fostering connections—were quite admirable, but in essence, the monthly gathering was a party for drinking, eating, and making merry; since, as the Editor-in-Chief put it, they were all “bad people,” smooth sarcasm flowed freely in every direction, each time erupting into laughter that feigned amusement.
There were geisha who, having had their secrets unexpectedly laid bare—and given that their opponents were newspaper reporters—found themselves flustered and sought help from their peers; conversely, there were others who, having been exposed by the geisha themselves, could only scratch their heads in chagrin.
Among the five geishas, the one being called out from every corner was none other than Ichiko—a name I’d occasionally heard whispered about even in the editorial office. Earlier, when carrying in the meal trays, she had held them up at eye level with practiced care, entered first, and now stood frozen at the room’s center, striking an exaggerated pose of surprise as she cried, “Oh my, whatever shall I do?”
This occurred because we had all clustered together around the brazier by the shoji screens, leaving no space to set down the meal trays.
Though she looked slightly older than her sixteen years would suggest, her face radiated boundless charm through artless gestures that effortlessly drew people’s eyes.

Mr. Shida, never setting his cup down, continued dispensing his usual charm; seizing Ichiko as she came around pouring sake, he seated her before me and offered a single cup with both hands,

“Miss Ichi, this gentleman here is Mr. Tachibana who’s newly joined the Nippō—young in years, deep in sentiment—though I can’t vouch for all that—but an impressive man nonetheless, so you’d better get acquainted. It won’t do you any harm down the line.”

“Oh, is that so? I had heard your name in the newspaper, but wondering who you might be, I never…” she murmured graciously, bowing her head.

Before she could raise her bowed head,

“This is Miss Ichi from Okameya. She’s apparently only slept with three men.” “That’s how it was, wasn’t it, Miss Ichi?”

With that, Mr. Shida cackled.

“Okameya? How could you!”
“How cruel of you, sir!”

Ichiko put on a frightened expression, but even so, she took the cup Mr. Shida had lent her, rinsed it in the cup washer, and offered it to me.

“Since this is an introduction by the master of the Indian coal mine, I do hope our relationship won’t turn sour...”

“The master of the Indian coal mine is terrible!” Since Mr. Shida’s voice rose loudly, everyone looked this way.
“No matter how dark my complexion may be, you’ve certainly gone to great lengths to describe it.”

The entire gathering burst into laughter in unison.

Since it was my first time—and perhaps because I sat next to Mr. Shida who never let conversation flag—despite my attempts to refuse them, cup after cup kept coming my way. Being naturally unaccustomed to drink, my face already flushed in blotches, my heartbeat resonating through the soles of my feet. Two or three cups might have been manageable, but for someone as weak as me, seeing four or five lined up felt like confronting a love long grown cold—I wanted no part of it anymore.

Ichiko—unusually abstemious for a geisha—must have noticed this, for she stealthily brought her rinsing bowl and began emptying cups one by one beyond Mr. Shida’s notice, until inevitably discovered and subjected to his famously nimble tongue.

Comments like “Miss Ichi’s grown quite deft,” “Youth these days rush into love despite having their whole lives ahead,” and “We can’t underestimate Mr. Tachibana either” sent the gathering into clamorous uproar, leaving Ichiko—

“I didn’t do this for my own sake—it’s just that everyone seemed to want the cups, so I emptied them for you all.”

She tried to protest, but finally turned crimson and fled to the next room.
I laughed along with everyone else.
After a brief interval, Ichiko emerged with a light cough and an air of composure, only to abruptly sit down before me again.
The crowd found this reversal all the more entertaining and stopped clamoring “Ichiko! Ichiko!” altogether.

“A Mr. Kikuchi,” said the maid as she slid open the fusuma and placed her hand on the threshold.
The conversation came to an abrupt halt, and all gazes involuntarily gathered there.
Abruptly, the bearded man entered.

I inserted the half-smoked tobacco into the ashes; people set their cups down.

President Nishiyama quickly adjusted his posture and introduced this newcomer, then,
“I thought you weren’t coming because you were ridiculously late,”
he said pretentiously.

“Oh—I’m terribly late.”

With that, Mr. Kikuchi stammered his reply, forced an unnatural smile, and looked around the gathering before settling cross-legged with deliberate ease into the farthest seat from me—a place of least honor.

Everyone was subtly observing what this man was doing, but Mr. Kikuchi, gripping his knees with both hands and glaring down at the meal tray before him, left no one an opportunity to strike up a conversation.
When I picked up the empty cup and said, “To the one who just arrived,” and handed it to Ichiko, Mr. Shida almost simultaneously said the same thing and passed his cup to her.
Ichiko stood up holding both cups aloft and began to leave.

“This comes by way of the gentleman over there.”

“Who?”

Mr. Kikuchi muttered as he lifted his face.

“That one,” she said, redirecting the cup that had been before me toward the side, “is from Mr. Shida.”

Mr. Kikuchi, still holding the cups in both hands, looked at Mr. Shida and gave a slight bow.

“And another one… from next to him… Mr. Tachibana.” She averted her eyes.

Mr. Kikuchi bowed deeply to me as well and received his cup filled to the brim, but this behavior somehow piqued my interest.

The editor-in-chief said he looked like a vagrant.
Indeed, in journalist circles, he cut an utterly singular figure—with his closely cropped head and jet-black, tightly curled beard that reached down to his chest. To a cynic’s eye, one might say his face appeared upside down.
The Western-style suit appeared decades old, faded to an indeterminate color. Two buttons had come off the jacket, while both knees of the narrow trousers bore clumsy circular patches of black woolen cloth.
Moreover, he wore neither Western socks nor tabi, and the thickness of his fingers gripping his knees—so well matched to his attire—made him look like someone who would never be welcomed by others, be it a vagrant or a laborer foreman.
However, his face—upon closer observation—was not as intimidating as the beard suggested: a well-proportioned nose, eyes brimming with authority yet softened by gentle creases at their corners, and a mouth whose set slightly loosened the face’s tension. As I considered how this man might appear in proper Western attire—it suddenly came to me where I had seen that face before: in a photograph of Kōno Hironaka.

Fourth from Mr. Kikuchi and exactly facing me, Mr. Kusakabe—who had exchanged cups two or three times through geisha intermediaries—had been glancing this way occasionally, but finally stood up gripping his cup.
With his sturdy frame seated beside Ichiko, he looked around him uncouthly,
“Though I can’t say this in a loud voice,” he said in a tone that wasn’t particularly low either, “as I’m also a newcomer myself, I feel I can only side with those who’ve just arrived.”
“My face may be quite aged, but since I had it redyed tonight, it must look brand new now.” With Mr. Shida thrusting forward his drink-flushed face, now bronzed from the neck up, and laughing.

Ichiko was tilting her head back to look up at Mr. Kusakabe’s face from the side, but—

“I’d like to meet you properly sometime, you know?”

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh! Even though you came to my house before too,... How heartless you are—and here I am.”

With that, she directed her dreamlike eyes at me, a faint smile playing on her lips.

From some remark like “Mr. Tachibana doesn’t drink much, does he?” arose an alcohol debate between Mr. Kusakabe and Mr. Shida—that the true pleasure of nightcaps lies not in the drinking itself, but after one has finished, though Mr. Shida’s theory claiming this sentiment could only be understood by single people had everyone clutching their sides with his rather pointed language.
Mr. Kusakabe was such a heavy drinker that he couldn’t work without downing four go each morning and evening—and indeed, though he’d tipped back quite a lot since earlier, there wasn’t the slightest hint of drunkenness about him,

“When it comes to women, I’m not particularly driven—but with sake, that’s another matter.”
“Whenever I go out for a quick drink somewhere, if I grip the sake bottle and find it thicker than usual, I’m satisfied—but if it’s thin or light, I get annoyed right away.”
“It’s especially true when I’m short on cash.”

“Hahaha!”

When a sudden burst of laughter erupted, everyone raised their heads.
It was Mr. Kikuchi.

“In that case, I must say I find myself in complete agreement.”

His voice emerged hoarse and thick.
His hands still gripped both knees in their cross-legged pose when he suddenly arched backward.

Mr. Kikuchi abruptly stood up and brought two cups over, but when President Nishiyama’s voice called out, “Now come over here, Mr. Kikuchi,” he returned the cups to me and Mr. Shida just as they were and went over there.
Nishiyama had at some point gone to the far corner and was discussing something with my editor-in-chief and the Sapporo Times branch manager—the three of them together.

When the center of the room was being cleared and I wondered what was happening, three senior geishas holding shamisens lined up near the entrance.
Ichiko stood up, and the dance began.

Titled something like "Bewitched by Fragrance," it was admittedly a minor piece, yet the song's sensuous lyrics subtly stirred drunken hearts.
The lamplight glinted on the silver ground of her fan, while her long sleeves before my eyes suggested a soft breeze with their fragrance; turning toward her, the obi blazed like a burning crimson cloud in its dazzling "tateya" character formation, the hem's sweep striking rippling waves of scarlet against the blue tatami—and with each light tap of her footfalls, the tabi socks glimpsed beneath shone all the whiter.
The eyes of a woman who does not weep in love are young.

When the dance ended, Mr. Kikuchi was the first to shout “Skilled!” in a booming voice, once again drawing everyone’s attention.
“Truly splendid! Encore! Encore!” exclaimed Mr. Komatsu with boyish excitement, his words echoed by three or four others, prompting Ichiko to rise once more.
This one was a rather farcical piece titled something like “Gonbei Sows Seeds While Crows Peck Them Out,” and though Mr. Shida muttered “Fine hipwork there,” through my drunken haze I found myself vaguely thinking that if there were a geisha performance competition, I might write a favorable review of this dancer.

When the dance ended, the meal was served.
There were those who ate and those who didn’t, but once the meal was over, the conversation failed to regain its momentum.
As I was leaving, someone seemed to have draped a coat over me from behind, and once I was noisily seen off and stepped outside, Mr. Kikuchi came up beside me.

“Your left sleeve—your left sleeve.”

he said.
Wondering what he meant, I slipped my hand into my sleeve and felt something soft brush against my fingers.
Having already moved five or six ken away from the gas lamp at the entrance, I couldn’t see it clearly, but it was a pale pink handkerchief with some kind of intricate pattern.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Mr. Kikuchi laughed loudly and strode vigorously ahead—yet somehow he didn’t appear drunk at all.

When we descended Kyūsaka and emerged onto Masago-chō’s main street, our group had dwindled to just three—the Editor-in-Chief, myself, and Mr. Hachinohe.
“You throw quite extravagant gatherings, don’t you?” I said.

“Well, even that comes to about one yen and fifty sen per person.”
“Geisha will contribute their services free of charge at any restaurant,” replied the Editor-in-Chief.

I felt vaguely uncomfortable for some reason.

After walking a block or two,

“He’s quite a peculiar one, wouldn’t you say?”

said the Editor-in-Chief.
I was briefly flustered, thinking this might be about Ichiko, but—

“Who are you talking about?”

I said nonchalantly,

“That Kikuchi fellow.”

“Ha-ha-ha!”

I laughed loudly.

Three

The next day was Sunday—country newspapers being laid-back affairs that took holidays like government offices and schools.
I woke around nine as I did on weekdays.
A terrible thirst made me raise my head and look about, but the iron kettle had evidently been taken downstairs.
There being no reason to rise, yet finding the cold unbearable, I thought it absurd to clap my hands under the covers to summon the maid, and so lay back again.
Just then the homely Miss Yoshi entered with the newspaper; though I knew full well, I asked, "What time is it now?"

“It’s still early—go on and sleep. Today is Sunday, after all.”

Having said that, she left.

“Hey—I’m so thirsty I can’t stand it.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s not ‘Is that so?’”
“I’m truly thirsty—drank a bit last night, you see.”

“Just a bit?”

Having said that, she suddenly grinned and came back to kneel by my pillow.
Just as I thought she was about to start fooling around again, she tapped the quilt’s collar with her clumsy red hand,

“I’ve got a lifelong request—will you hear me out?”

“What is it?”

“Well now...”

“If you bring me hot water, I might just hear you out.”

“I’ll bring it up.” She laughed, “You’ve got something you fancy, don’t you?”

“What’s that?”

“Playing innocent won’t work with me. It’s written all over your face—you half-baked know-it-all.”

“Were you thirsty or something?”

“Stop with the jokes already.” She reached out to take something from the desk. “What’s this then?”
It was last night’s pale red handkerchief.
The posture of Ichiko when she danced the Seed-Sowing Dance fleetingly floated into my mind.

“Here, take a whiff,” she said, though she was already sniffing it herself, her small nose wrinkling as her eyes narrowed dreamily.
Thinking she didn’t recognize such a fine fragrance, I felt something like pity—when I suddenly remembered Mr. Kikuchi saying, “Left sleeve, left sleeve.”

“Gimme this.”
“This.” Her words didn’t seem entirely meant in mockery.

“I’ll give it to you.”

“For real?” she said, eyes gleaming as she pretended to tuck it into her bosom, but—

“You’re gonna cry,” she said, fluttering the handkerchief over my face before clattering out of the room.

When I closed my eyes, my soul seemed enveloped in fragrant petals, my own breath caressing my face like a warm mist.
When I dazedly opened my eyes, an infinite world stretched before me—nothing but a pale crimson realm bathed in faint light. As I stared transfixed, a mere speck of black appeared in the distant void. What seemed at first like a solitary eagle soaring across thousand-mile skies gradually drew nearer, growing larger until wings vast enough to engulf the world loomed before me—then vanished in an instant.
This time an oval shadow emerged from the side, moved like smoke, and veered off sideways to where it came from.
With a click, the pale crimson sliding door slid open, and there stood Mr. Kikuchi with his jet-black bearded face...

Hearing footsteps, he hurriedly reached out and hid the handkerchief from his face into the quilt.
The one who entered was the smaller maid; she arranged the iron kettle and tea set within my reach, then paused briefly upon leaving to glance around the bedside.
I realized that O-Yoshi had blabbed.
What’s wrong with me? I don’t even feel like brewing tea to drink.

I vividly recalled the events of last night. The image floated before my eyes—the maid sliding open the fusuma, Mr. Kikuchi’s bearded face emerging for the first time. There was Mr. Kusakabe sitting rock-like beside Ichiko who resembled a peony; Mr. Shida’s face jutting forward as he declared, “I had it redyed tonight, so it’s fresh now”; a sallow-skinned plain geisha tugging another’s sleeve while chin-pointing at Ichiko seated before me and whispering something that made them both laugh; Mr. Kikuchi rising with a cup only to be summoned by Nishiyama—though he seemed to want to join us; Mr. Komatsu’s profile as he swayed sparrow-like to request another dance… Then came the urge to clearly picture Ichiko’s face, but strain as I might, it refused to materialize. This time, seized by some notion that she had placed that handkerchief in my sleeve—no—it struck me suddenly—not Ichiko but that…what’s-her-name…that sallow plain girl must’ve done it. But even I found this immediately absurd and once again recalled, “Left sleeve, left sleeve”...

With a booming “Ha ha ha!”, he laughed loudly and strode down the faintly snow-glimmered alley in great strides.—When his retreating figure floated before my eyes (my mind had grown quite fanciful that morning), all manner of thoughts arose.

With great strides—yes, Mr. Kikuchi didn’t walk with an ordinary gait; he was decidedly someone who strode broadly.
He was a man who walked with great strides, effortlessly.
Because he walked with such strides, he sometimes squelched into muddy patches, tripped over stones, and on pitch-dark nights even tumbled into ditches.
If by chance the ditch were deeper than his height, being the man he was, he might have strode through that very ditch.

"The man walking in the ditch," I murmured to myself, and involuntarily smiled. No doubt about it—the discoloration of that suit came from the stench of stagnant, rotten sewage water in ditches. His hand! That gnarled, terrifying hand too was proof that he had walked through ditches. The pain of intense labor was carved into every joint of his fingers. "The pain of... li-i-fe's ditches," I murmured again to myself, but this phrase conjured associations like a sharp drill twisting through my chest—flustered, I corrected it to "a man treading life's back alleys."

In any case, I arbitrarily concluded that Mr. Kikuchi was someone who had accumulated failures, and this time, I thought those fingers were indeed two sizes thicker than mine.
So, like a child, I secretly pulled my fingers out from under the quilt to look at them, but I thought Mr. Kikuchi must be quite strong.
Click—I immediately made President Nishiyama the opponent in that quarrel.
There was no particular reason for it, but Nishiyama’s disagreeable demeanor and the suspicious glint in his eyes through those glasses somehow seemed incompatible with Mr. Kikuchi.
—While all the Mainichi reporters badmouthed Nishiyama putting on ridiculous airs as president behind his back, they’d bow their heads obsequiously when facing him.
Kikuchi, indignant at this, suddenly slapped the president’s cheek on his third day at the company.
The President staggered forward while collapsing into his chair, “What do you think you're doing?!”
Thudding blows rained down on his head—the President crawled under the desk to escape, emerging on the other side gripping clipping scissors backward, his face deathly pale as he shrieked in a trembling voice: “Have you gone mad?”
Mr. Kikuchi thrust both hands into his coat pockets, stammered “What a fool,” and leisurely departed the “Mainichi.”
And then, coming straight to me on those very feet, he asked, “Won’t you let me into the Nippō?”—I couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

But from this fantasy emerged the Mr. Kikuchi depicted in my mind—somehow, through that beard of his, appearing with a resolute spirit that deflected the pressures of authority like spring breezes, steadfast in justice, bearing the heroic demeanor of Chinese legend.
I tried matching Mr. Kikuchi to this or that figure from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms I’d read as a child, when suddenly it struck me—wouldn’t such a man make a bandit leader?

The thought of bandits… Manchuria… immediately conjured a sense of "distance."
Click—when the maid suddenly slid open the fusuma and that bearded face first appeared, it occurred to me that Mr. Kikuchi might have come from somewhere far away.
My thoughts immediately shifted.

The scene from last night's banquet room floated vividly before my eyes.
Exactly—there existed a vast chasm between the world Mr. Kikuchi dwelled in and the one we inhabited.
When he'd boom "Ha ha!" or declare "I find myself in complete agreement there," or rise to bring over a cup, it seemed that man was deliberately journeying forth from his own realm to beg temporary entry into ours—yet succeeded only in turning heads, achieving nothing of substance.
Mr. Kikuchi remained after all a man anchored solely in his own world—sitting cross-legged, hands clamped about his knees, staring unblinkingly...........

Click—this time, I felt as though I’d seen Mr. Kikuchi’s face somewhere before.
"I definitely saw him," someone whispered in my ear.
Morioka—I was born near there—the main street of Uchimaru suddenly flashed before my eyes.
Diagonally across from the middle school gate had stood a barbershop, and before it I thought I'd seen Mr. Kikuchi for several days... No—I realized that was actually the beard of my classmate's father who worked in the military affairs section at the city office.
At that time, my sister’s house had run a boardinghouse where a bearded man stayed… No—no—that beard belonged to a carpenter from Kesengun who, after idling about for two months, must have skipped town and come to Hokkaido.
Click—the splendid beard of the foreman at the Otaru newspaper where I once worked, who was said to have been born in Morioka, surfaced in my mind.
I wondered if perhaps Mr. Kikuchi had once sat cross-legged on the veranda of that Shirasawaya boarding house in my home village—but this too felt terribly inaccurate. Well then, where could it have been? My mind grew slightly irritated and made an unreasonable leap: might it have been Tokyo instead?
When Tokyo came to mind, I immediately visualized Sudacho—that Sudacho where trams and people converged from all directions in a crumbling mass—and there in that chaos, Mr. Kikuchi alighted from a tram... no, boarded one—I caught the merest glimpse of his retreating figure from far away... Impossible—utterly impossible to associate trams with Mr. Kikuchi...

“You should get up now; it’s struck eleven.
“Lying in bed like that—what’re you thinking about now; it’s...”

In a voice shrill as snatched-and-hurled words, O-Yoshi entered. Startled into something like blood draining downward from my skull—a sensation of waking from dreams—I kept silent without replying, maintaining a serious face. Unexpectedly solemn herself, O-Yoshi transferred embers from the scuttle to the brazier. Thick fingers cracked and red-black, an awkward hand moved hurriedly with slender brass fire tongs. Though she wanted that handkerchief... When this thought came, I realized I was gripping it tightly against my chest beneath the quilt. Click—suddenly reluctant to give it to her now, I tried turning over to deny her any opening to mention it—but in that instant thought her eyes resembled Kikuchi's uncannily. Finding this strange, I began turning my head halfway before pulling back slightly to look at O-Yoshi's eyes again—no resemblance remained. Of course they wouldn't match—I told myself inwardly—and resolutely turned over.

“Who’d want to look at a face like mine?”
“Hey, Mr. Tachibana.”

“What’re you on about?”

I said this offhandedly, but ah—when I noticed this woman wearing an unexpectedly earnest expression, it struck me: “Well now! So even she can put on airs like this,” and I nearly burst out laughing.

“Hmph,” said O-Yoshi.

As I lay facedown stifling my laughter, O-Yoshi appeared to have finished transferring the fire—added charcoal—and was wiping the brazier’s rim with a rag—but soon came the sound of someone lifting the iron kettle’s lid.
The sound of tea utensils being handled.

“So parched you’re dying of thirst, yet here you lie not drinking a drop—what’re you pondering?”
She muttered as if to herself and left.

IV

President Ōkawa and Director Sudō alike dismissed newspapers like the *Mainichi* as beneath their notice in ordinary times—indeed, even when I first arrived, they took me to Kiken, the town’s finest restaurant, and with an air of declaring they wouldn’t deign to acknowledge the *Mainichi* even if it directed its spears at us over some trifle, earnestly impressed upon me that a paper like the *Nippō*, having already established a firm foundation, needn’t trouble itself with day-to-day survival; all I had to do was shape the newspaper as I saw fit.

Editor-in-Chief Takagi differed slightly from this—as might be expected of someone who had shared *Kushiro Nippō*’s fate since its founding seven years prior (having initially handled everything alone from promotions and editing to proofreading, even distribution at times)—his arguments carried full justification, being one who had dealt daily with the living events of this land.

The Editor-in-Chief harbored intense interest in Hokkaido’s urban development—particularly Kushiro’s rapid growth—and though its population still fell short of fifteen thousand, he believed that since the full opening of the Hokkaido Railway connecting this town to Hakodate about half a year prior, monthly increases in cargo volume and population growth rates had been steadily rising. Moreover, with the large-scale port construction project—already stirring even central political circles—likely to commence within a year or two, and upon the completion of the Abashiri Line railway branching from Ikeda Station, Kushiro would become the pivotal harbor for the Kushiro, Tokachi, and Kitami regions. He was convinced the day when Kushiro would emerge not merely through geographical advantage but as an economic force rivaling “the Otaru of the eastern coast” across all Hokkaido was by no means distant.

Thus, he believed it impossible for *Kushiro Nippō* to monopolize this town indefinitely, and that keeping a weak newspaper like the *Kushiro Mainichi Shimbun* on life support—neither allowing it to thrive nor perish—remained the surest means of preventing the rise of a formidable rival that could threaten the *Nippō*.

Nevertheless, these three individuals—for reasons unclear—invariably displayed an overly sensitive attitude toward the *Mainichi*’s maneuvers whenever tensions arose. On one occasion, when *Mainichi* folks casually hinted at rumors of internal strife within a fisheries group Director Sudō was closely involved with, President Ōkawa and Sudō arrived at the office uncharacteristically early. After conferring privately with the Editor-in-Chief in the reception room for half an hour, President Ōkawa himself took up his pen to write an exposé article on a private bank alleged to have ties with the *Mainichi*.

However, as I gradually came to understand the local circumstances, I also began to discern the reason for their hypersensitivity. To put it plainly, Mr. Ōkawa was a man who carried the townspeople's trust on his shoulders—indeed, having been elected (or having engineered his own election) as a Hokkaido Assembly member—yet as the town developed and expanded, ushering in diverse new elements, a desire for fresh leadership arose unbidden in the civic consciousness. President Nishiyama of the *Mainichi* stood precisely as the sort of man to desperately ride this new tide toward distant shores—though few townspeople trusted him due to the dark shadows trailing his past—and certain influential figures who had long been forced to sacrifice much for Mr. Ōkawa and the *Nippō*, now craving new leadership without clear cause—people not without their own latent ambitions—had begun quietly aligning themselves with Nishiyama behind the scenes. According to an influence analysis I'd painstakingly compiled from gathered materials as a precaution, Mr. Ōkawa's political dominance—which had accounted for eighty percent in the previous Diet election—had now inevitably dwindled to sixty percent ahead of the upcoming reelection in two or three months' time, or sixty-five percent if counting uncertain variables in his favor. (Mr. Ōkawa had previously transferred all his electoral clout to a political ally just before deadlines, but now intended to run himself.) That said, even these remaining opponents lacked unified leadership—meaning everything ultimately hinged on money.

Thus, the Kushiro Mainichi Shimbun itself lacked creditworthiness, and consequently even individual employees—for instance, when seeking to defer restaurant payments until month’s end—had to negotiate quite skillfully to avoid refusal. Its circulation barely reached eight hundred copies, but even so, it managed to persist.
Rumors reached our ears not once or twice—whether it was that the Kushiro Mainichi Shimbun, having failed to pay its paper supplier last month, would now purchase one bundle each day starting today, or that workers who hadn’t received their wages even after a full day’s labor had overturned the type cases and gone home—yet despite all this, they never missed a single day’s publication.
With only eight hundred readers, even a rural newspaper couldn’t sustain itself—yet strangely enough, their number of workers wasn’t particularly fewer than the Nippō’s, and to their existing five reporters, they had added Kikuchi.
Our side printed twelve hundred copies and exclusively handled printing jobs for government offices and banking firms, so there were even months when we could set aside small reserves—or so stated the sunken-eyed, scrupulous manager.…

I promptly changed the newspaper's layout upon grasping these circumstances.
The *Kushiro Mainichi Shimbun*’s approach—holding contests for folk song lyrics, soliciting geisha popularity rankings, desperately chasing mass appeal—had initially made me propose matching their tactics. But when even the Editor-in-Chief and President objected, insisting we maintain a clean, mature demeanor, I’d kept our articles restrained. Yet now we’d abruptly shifted course: deploying *Hōchi*-style bold large-type headlines for trivialities, serializing a three-day exposé about a retired liquor merchant impregnating his maid—written with highbrow-lowbrow flair—and ensuring daily demimonde stories never lapsed.
In essence, while the *Mainichi* strained itself yet lacked capable writers or operational funds to keep pace, I—blessed with an income exceeding a bachelor’s needs—leapfrogged their path and surged ahead.
Though initially appointed third-page editor, I’d assumed daily chief editorship both because the Editor-in-Chief was engrossed in local ventures and because he’d grown weary after seven years confined to identical duties.

The area being small meant repercussions came swiftly; every move was immediately noticed.
Soon after I revised the editorial policy, the reputation of the Nippō soared.

It became comical; though I was already the youngest in the editorial department yet treated with exceptional regard, the president and directors’ attitudes toward my colleagues shifted to an embarrassing degree.
That wasn’t all—when Mr. Sudou went to Sapporo on some two-day errand, he bought me a silver-rimmed watch.
Three days later on Sunday, I was startled awake by news of Mrs. Ōkawa’s visit. When I rose, she said, “I had this Sendai-hira hakama tailored for my husband to wear, but it turned out slightly short,” and specially brought me the new formal trousers.

It wasn’t that I had grown conceited about the hakama trousers and watch, but the human heart being such a strange thing that I had begun—gradually, bit by bit—to despise my present circumstances. In the morning, I woke up and read the newspaper in bed tentatively. The publication that when I first arrived had front pages without ruby characters—where sensational stories sometimes continued from page two’s bottom to page three’s top—now used rubies throughout its entire layout, a presentation I alone considered presentable anywhere. Particularly on page three...for rural readers consumed only that section.—And so its pages brimmed with articles crammed recklessly with large-type headlines and extreme exaggerations. A scoffing “Hmph” rose in my throat. If I noticed misaligned columns, I’d mutter “That Nagayama’s hopeless—never checks the layout sheet during final proofs,” yet upon picking up the *Mainichi*, I’d forget my own paper’s flaws and emit another derisive snort. The *Mainichi* always carried two or three fewer stories than mine daily. Not one scoop I’d unearthed myself ever appeared there. Worse still, they applied rubies only to page three—resorting to excessive kana wherever kanji type ran short—even misspelling “Kushiro” as “kushiro” for lacking the proper character. When finished reading, I’d thrust both arms from the covers and stretch with luxurious abandon before murmuring “Off to the office again...time to plaster more large-type headlines everywhere”—this time scoffing at myself with fresh self-awareness.“They think slapping bold print everywhere makes a paper thrive,” I’d think.“Hmph—as if success hinges on headline size alone.”

Once this feeling took hold, it didn’t take long—within two or three days, I found myself wanting to brush everything off with a scoffing "Hmph," whether seeing or hearing anything at all.
By that time, I had grown quite accustomed to the area, and given the nature of my work, I interacted with all sorts of people. Consequently, through seeing and hearing things ordinary people would never know, this persistent urge to scoff became entrenched—a feeling that essentially boiled down to: "Kushiro is a place devoid of people free from desire and sincere individuals."

Another thing that fostered it was the maid O-Yoshi, who—whether she liked it or not—had to see his face every day.
On the night I first moved into this boarding house, this woman came and spoke at length about how she had been supporting herself since separating from her husband; yet now, through some chance occurrence, I came to understand that it was entirely baseless.
She was neither a former wife nor someone the landlady had forcibly hired—merely an ordinary maid with a narrow forehead; small eyes and nose nearly hidden by protruding cheekbones; a rear like a millstone; and in sum, an obese woman of such rare ugliness it bordered on the remarkable.
The reason she often told people she’d had a husband was that she assumed they viewed her continued singlehood at twenty-five as stemming from her unattractiveness—and being such a woman, wherever she went, she would adopt that flippant manner of hers, behaving with inappropriate familiarity and striking peculiar poses without a care for her surroundings.
The lodgers, being by nature dull-witted simpletons, found amusement in this and vigorously mocked her.
Then—she would invariably come to my quarters and chatter away about all manner of things: how guest number so-and-so had said such-and-such last night, or done this-or-that; how someone had grabbed her breast; how another had promised to buy her a summer kimono if she’d stay over every night—on and on it went.
I often thought her a pitiful woman, yet whenever I saw that comical face of hers, it felt as if the worms in my belly crawled up to my throat and tickled—and though I knew it was wrong, I’d say all manner of things to mock her.
And yet—for reasons unclear—even razor-edged sarcasm of a kind I’d never uttered since birth now tumbled rapid-fire from my throat with effortless ease.
Then O-Yoshi would put on an angry face—yet this was precisely when this woman felt happiest inside, and when her countenance appeared most comical.
But I would immediately grow weary of mocking her, and each time—

“Enough! Go away, go away. How long are you going to keep bothering me, you idiot?” he barked.
Click—Yoshi-chan twisted her small eyes oddly,

“Yes, I’ll be going.”
“There’s no one else who treats me as casually as you do.”

With that, she obediently left.
For several days, I had thought that this woman, with those large feet of hers, was one who trampled away the very shadow of *seriousness* as she walked.

When I went to the office, day after day I would pass through the administrative office and climb to the second floor—but even the sunken-eyed manager, who rarely spoke, upon seeing my face,

“Has there been any mail for Mr. Tachibana today?” in a tone that suggested he was inquiring of the receptionist. Even upon entering the editorial office, conversations arose that stirred my urge to scoff—"Hmph."

The only one who refrained from such talk was the Editor-in-Chief. A man in his forties with an imposing physique and stern mustache—one whose dignified bearing would never suffer defeat in any company—he possessed a magnificently balding forehead that spoke of a disposition turning saccharine when women became the topic. Yet ordinarily taciturn, he carried himself with magnanimity; though he mercilessly rebuked his subordinates' flaws, he remained a man who seldom resorted to provocation.

Though maintaining an aloof demeanor toward me as well—precisely through his unnecessary silences—I knew full well this man's mind had long since desiccated, capable only of composing juvenile articles in stilted classical phrasing. Thus I quietly scoffed to myself.

Truly, within this editorial department existed a kind of order—a bureaucratic order—unlike any found in other newspapers.
Of course, in any newspaper company, proofreaders would never address the Editor-in-Chief with something like “Hey, you,” yet even so, compared to ordinary society, there existed an unspoken freedom here.
However, in this editorial department—where the Editor-in-Chief stood as the company’s immovable cornerstone wielding unshakable authority, and his magnanimous bureaucratic demeanor (whether they naturally fostered such conditions or not remained unclear)—even I was addressed not with casual familiarity but with formal deference.
Not only in language but in all matters, everything proceeded in such a manner that not a single dispute arose over days on end—peaceful, uneventful, with no days of conflict—yet while there was oppression of subordinates, not a breath of freedom stirred.

I was certainly not oppressed by anyone—rather, being valued by my superiors and showered with their affections, I had behaved quite willfully—yet it was not long before I began feeling that scoffing “Hmph” and viewing my circumstances with contempt. Even while harboring such sentiments, I remained earnest in my duties: arriving around eleven each day and typically churning out some three hundred lines by past four o’clock, leaving scarcely a moment to rest my hand. Still, there were times when I’d lightly bite the nib of my pen between my front teeth and sit making a face like I’d bitten into something rancid, for no particular reason at all.
At such times, it was as though a cloud passing through the sky had abruptly cast a dark shadow across my bright mind, making the faces of people before me and the manuscript paper alike appear somehow sooty and clouded.
Suddenly noticing, I wondered why I felt this way.
These feelings grew more frequent with each passing day, their duration stretching longer and longer.

One day, Mr. Sudō had come to the editorial department,

“Mr. Tachibana, aren’t you hungover today?”

he said.
Just as I had become dazed with that familiar feeling and was gazing at the Hokkaido map plastered on the opposite wall, I started—

“No.”

No sooner had he spoken than he forced a smile to mask his embarrassment,

“Oh right—you’re making such a disagreeable face! I thought perhaps you were recalling some grievance Ichiko had lodged against you again,”

he said and laughed,

“It’s commendable that you work so diligently, but I must ask you not to bring on neurasthenia for my sake—after all, you don’t seem to have the sturdiest constitution.”

I immediately felt like scoffing inwardly but put on a considerable show of my usual cheerfulness,

“I’m perfectly fine. I detest taking medicine, so I rarely even consider falling ill.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” he paused, “though mind you, should you fall ill, I intend to call on Ichiko instead of a nurse. Ha ha ha!”

“Well now, that’s splendid—if you’d like, I could even arrange to come down with a trifling illness.”

That day, all day long, I resolved not to let others see my sullen face and forced out jests that rang hollow—yet the more I did so, the darker my mind grew, my pen dragging sluggishly across the page as I wantonly littered it with large-type headlines.
The typesetting apprentice was shouting in the factory, "The paper's looking lively again tomorrow!"

Why was I assailed by these dark shadows?
Though suspicious, I made no effort to deeply consider the reason.
But in truth, while my body was kept so busy I scarcely had an hour to spare—everything I did fitting neatly into its expected mold like sailing a mirror-calm sea for ten or twenty days—my spirit had soon grown weary of this tedium.
The west wind roared, flattening miles of summer grass; with neither trees to resist it nor mountains to block its path—click—the wind reached the plain's edge and died by its own accord.
The heart of this self-dying wind is read too by the young—when alone beneath five-foot eaves on a spring noon, gazing up at endless cherry-blossom-hazed skies—through clouds of loneliness welling in their eyes.
Those with love dwell on love; those with friends long for friends; bearing spring's melancholy—what they call the "oppression of tedium"—they seek some escape route.
The spring gloom of peaceful times is a city rogue who deliberately touches the sword at some swaggering samurai's waist.
As the world progressed daily—devising ways to shrink Earth's girth with trains, steamships, trams, automobiles—someone inevitably declared they'd circle the globe on foot.—In short, my spirit too had come to crave a walking journey; it wanted combatants to fight.

When late January arrived,
To grow this restless within barely a month might seem hasty—unnatural even—but that’s only because one doesn’t know my disposition……Since coming to Hokkaido, in just nine months I’ve worked at four newspapers across Hakodate, Otaru, and Sapporo. None offered the exceptional treatment I receive now, but in exchange, never once did I feel this tedium of spirit.
Devise something—if not, join in others’ schemes.
Since these schemes never proceeded as smoothly as they do now—never without obstacles—my young spirit remained constantly emboldened, feeling from dawn till dusk as though I were on a battlefield.
A mind accustomed to battle, coming to an editorial office devoid of any turbulence, had gradually begun to feel the "oppression of tedium" to the point of drowsiness.

Unaware of any such reason, I would write with self-abandoned exaggeration whenever dark shadows assailed me; whenever my pen faltered even slightly, I’d lift my sullen face to glance about. The surroundings remained perpetually peaceful; nothing ever stirred. Then I would bite the nib and gaze off somewhere else.

The Editor-in-Chief maintained a magnanimous and unflappable composure.
Mr. Hachinohe made his daily rounds of government offices, diligently compiling fifty or sixty lines of miscellaneous reports.
A fair-complexioned man with a gentle beard and features women doted on—rumored to have been a middle school teacher somewhere—he proved an exceedingly kind gentleman; though his pen faltered despite his prowess in algebra, geometry, and physics, when it came to brothel stories, his writing transformed into something sparkling with lighthearted epigrams. Yet whenever shadows crept over my mind, it was invariably editorial assistant Nagayama who showered me with scathing rebukes.
Nagayama—past thirty—perpetually plastered his hair flat with pomade, eyes set wide at his face's edges, cheekbones protruding from a broad countenance, possessing no talents beyond drunken dance imitations.
There exist men born with peculiar traits indeed—the more earnest this one grew, the more his behavior appeared irresistibly comical, yet when he attempted humor himself, it fell utterly flat.
Mornings found him visiting shops for business materials; at one o'clock sharp he reported to the police station.
Returning to find no proofsheets yet distributed, he'd sometimes attempt translating Tokyo telegrams—though his mind remained stubbornly inert.
He'd spend thirty full minutes on five or six telegrams only to produce error-riddled translations.

The one with a slightly different stripe was Mr. Komatsu.
A man of twenty-seven or eight who, lacking a beard, looked considerably younger than his years, he was the sort who never raised his voice yet talked incessantly—as if perpetually assailed by some vague unease—twitching the muscles of his face all the while.

This Mr. Komatsu loved to walk around town whenever he had a spare moment, gathering nearly every minor incident from the streets. As for the various rumors I heard about Mr. Kikuchi of the "Mainichi," most came from this Mr. Komatsu.

According to these tales—Mr. Kikuchi was staying extravagantly at a ryokan called Maruyama in front of the pier and went around daily in straw sandals for his rounds. And wherever he went,

“I am Kikuchi Kenji, a reporter for the Mainichi Shimbun.”

Apparently having introduced himself in this manner, when he first went to the police station, he barged straight into the office without any guidance—so Chief Inspector Fukano took one look and decided he must be some ruffian or troublemaker there to cause problems,

“Who gave you permission to enter?!”

It was said that he suddenly bellowed.
Mr. Kikuchi would sometimes drink with laborers, and according to the manager of Maruyama, there were nights when he did not return at all.
During such times, he apparently went to Yonemachi (the red-light district), as traces were found showing he had indeed gone there on one particular night accompanied by only two laborers.
And again, Mr. Komatsu—though the Regiment District Headquarters only had material every three days or so—would laugh and say that Mr. Kikuchi went all the way up to that mountain every day.

When four or four-thirty came around, I would take the abacus and calculate the number of lines marked on the layout sheet.

“The manuscripts are done.”

I call out.
With a clatter, Mr. Hachinohe and Mr. Komatsu leave their desks, drag their respective chairs across the floor, and gather around the fireplace.
At this moment, even I seemed to have set down the burden on my shoulders; I let out a sharp breath and lit a cigarette, but as slight hunger and formless dissatisfaction welled up within me, I would usually begin preparing to leave before finishing even one smoke.

When I returned to the boarding house, I had no choice but to see O-Yoshi's comical face. Clatter—and that base, brazen look of desperate hunger etched perpetually on her features would immediately compel me to utter:

"Hey there, house beauty—who've you been batting those eyes at today?"

This would make her say such things.

“Oh, you’re so mean!”
“You’re always saying things like that whenever you see my face.”

With that, O-Yoshi suddenly struck a coquettish pose.

"Bring my meal! The meal!"

"You're going out again tonight?"

"Much obliged for your concern."

"But the landlady's worried about you."
"You're such a fine man—what do you think you're doing, drinking now?"

"So that's why no one'll marry you?"

"Oh, you!"

"Well then, if someone'd just marry a girl like Yoshi here—one with a small behind—tell the landlady I'll swear off drink for life."

“I don’t know,” she said, standing up to leave.

Dinner was finished.
Clatter—since I had never let go of my pen all day and it had become like an enemy, I felt no desire to write even a single letter, nor any inclination to look at writings.
Staring fixedly at the oil lamp’s flame, fragmented matters would jumble chaotically and sweep through my mind.
Before I knew it, a dark shadow began spreading through my thoughts.
I would fling on my coat and rush outside like this, with no definite destination in mind.

Once I began feeling this way, I started associating closely with Mr. Kusakabe of the Mainichi for no particular reason.
At first I had gone out drinking with the intention of casually extracting information, but nowadays I found myself visiting those lively entertainment districts nearly every night—no longer with any such pretense, simply because I couldn’t feel settled unless I went.
At times I went accompanied by Mr. Komatsu; at other times, arm in arm with Mr. Kusakabe.

Returning along the starlit snowy path, body and soul adrift, would usually be past midnight—yet each time I passed the alley entrance to the Mainichi office, I recalled Mr. Kusakabe's words: "Our editorial department's a proper den of outlaws." The Mr. Kikuchi I met at the monthly gathering would inexplicably rise before my eyes. And somehow, I felt an urge to visit that editorial office at least once.

V

March 1st happened to be a Sunday.
When I awoke refreshed, the sky was beautifully clear, sunlight streaming through the east-facing window to gently tint the dust-clouded glass with faint warmth.

The sunlight retreated from above and gradually sank lower. The room suddenly darkened as the sun fled from my window—the windows of Imai Hospital across the way abruptly began to glint. The 1 PM clock chimed somewhere, and Mr. Komatsu came to visit.

“How was last night?”
“Was it fun, huh?”

“It was quite the attendance.
About five hundred people came through, I’d say.”

“Five hundred at Kushiro-za? Those box seats must’ve been precarious.”

“Yes, we shut the gates around seven, but there was quite an uproar outside.”

“Was that so?
Though mind you, this was Kushiro’s first biwa gathering.”

“And then you had to go writing it up with such absurd enthusiasm.”

“There’s nothing to it really… but it does seem suspect.
Truth is, I detest this whole ‘charity biwa meeting’ business—ought to call them ‘hypocrite biwa meetings’ if you ask me. But when you’re marooned in some provincial hole like Kushiro, you get so damned bored—”
“In the end, you just crave stirring up some mischief.”

“I quite agree.”

“They say it’s to raise funds for an orphanage, but that biwa player Kanemura’s clearly a freeloader if you ask me.”

“Is that so?”

“Otherwise, you… Ah, right—you didn’t know yet, but yesterday that guy sent over a case of beer to the editorial department.”
“It got on my nerves, so I sent it back with a note saying, ‘Much obliged for the kindness, but please put this payment toward the orphanage fund.’”

“Was that how it was? Somehow…”

“Using charity as bait to hook profit.”
“They’re working it like pros.”
“You can tell just by looking at how extravagant that inn is.”

“Was it because of that incident? Last night he kept fretting over why you hadn’t shown up—that Kanemura fellow was quite worried about you.”

“He probably thinks we’ve caught on.”

“Ah, right—there was someone else who’d been worried too.”

“Who’s that?”

“Miss Ichi went there.”

“Who with?”
“Aren’t you being rather concerned over such a trifle?”

“Ridiculous… Ha ha ha!”

“It was three of us—Kodaka, Hanasuke, and myself—but they were genuinely concerned wondering why you hadn’t come.”

“The wind’s changed direction for the worse, hasn’t it?”

“Ha ha.”
“But will you be attending tonight?”

“Very well, I suppose I could go.”

“But it seems Miss Ichi won’t be able to come tonight.”

“Then perhaps we should call it off?”

With that, the two burst into laughter in unison.

“I stood there listening.”

O-Yoshi entered bearing a snack tray.

“To what?”

“I heard everything.”
“It’s about someone you know—Mr. Komatsu was just saying some material came up.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Do you know Mr. Takami?” said Mr. Komatsu.
“I know him—he was someone who lived in my house.”
“So this Takami… they say he was previously at the company?”
“Heh, that’s right.”
“Did Mr. Takami get up to something?”

“Did he or didn’t he? You’re the one who ought to know best, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about, huh?”
“But Mr. Takami really was in this house, wasn’t he?”

“He was here.”

“And?”

“And so I didn’t do anything with Mr. Takami.”

“Then who did you do something with?”

“Disgusting! Me.”

With that, O-Yoshi stormed out, her footsteps heavy.

“What an idiot.”

“That face of hers is a world-class masterpiece, isn’t it?”

“Ha ha ha.”
“Because she’s happy being teased by everyone, pitiable as it is.”
“What you’d call a woman starving for attention, huh?”

“I see.”
“But with that face of hers, no matter what—well, the best sympathy we can offer is to just tease her.”

“And she’s quite the whimsical type.”
“When she starts working, she hums a tune and earns like crazy, but once she slacks off, she doesn’t mind getting yelled at by the housewife all day long.”
“Then again, there are times she goes to the bathhouse past nine at night and ends up diligently applying makeup in that little room under the staircase.”
“She seems honest enough in her way, but...”

“Well, of course that’s how it is.”
“With that face of hers being dishonest, there’s simply no helping it.”

Having said that, Mr. Komatsu fell silent for a moment,

“Right—that Kikuchi from the Mainichi.”

“Hmm.”

“That man has a fearsome face but keeps himself honest.”

“Why?”

“He came to the Biwa-kai last night as well.”

[Unpublished during the author's lifetime • May 1908 manuscript]