Pathway to Japanese Literature

I slipped away and left the city. I passed under the railway overpass and crossed the bridge. Until then, I had been feeling the weight of two male arms that kept grasping at the edge of my sleeve as if to restrain me, but from the moment I emerged from beneath the overpass and faced this watery darkness reeking of mud, that sleeve gradually grew lighter. In its place, I began to feel a strange weariness from having to support my own weight. Is this what they call becoming disenchanted with things or growing calm?

The road ran straight west through the darkness. On both sides was a grassy smell mixed with the odor of mud, as if from rice fields. Frogs were croaking incessantly. Listening to the sound of my felt sandals striking the earth, I walked on, letting my feet carry me. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, the shapes along both sides of the road became dimly discernible—utility poles standing at meticulous intervals, lotus ponds dotting the green rice fields here and there. As my eyes grew still more accustomed, I could make out the faint glimmer of water between the stalks of seedlings in the green rice fields, and indeed perceive—through the reflection of the distant capital's lights in the sky behind me—the faint outlines of both the road surface ahead and the utility poles lining it. Oh, the capital's lights—

I cannot say how many times I resisted looking back. As if loosening a pole at the railway crossing still close behind me, that magnesium-like light flickered intermittently in the foreground of darkness, tempting me alluringly. Then let me take one final lingering look at this vexing Tokyo—with sad audacity, I took out my handkerchief, arranged my felt sandals on the roadside grass, spread the cloth over them, and stretched out my white-tabied legs across the road surface. With elbows propped on my knees and palms clasped beneath my cheeks, as I turned my face northeast toward Tokyo's night sky—yes, there likely hovered an expression akin to that of Mona Lisa in her maiden years.

In the three months I spent nursing Mother, time blurred past in such a frenzy that I couldn't tell whether the month had slipped into late May or early June. But in any case, it was the darkened night sky of early summer. A lustrous navy blue was dissolved into the ink-like darkness. On its surface floated glimmers glistening with moisture. The stars were swollen large like the mottled patterns on a pufferfish's skin, each one tingeing the surrounding sky with a poisonous yellow hue.

The lower portion remained unseen, blocked by the railway embankment running straight across. Taking that as the edge before a blast furnace, beyond it burned the capital's sky with such intensity it resembled flames within a smelter. It was a white-hot glare that set one's nerves on edge. Ah—once again, gazing there sent a sensation through my body that made my sleeve's hem feel heavy. The weight of those two arms from the man I'd parted with. The faint dizziness when I'd shaken them off. Sickening—again.—And within that fan-shaped spread of fiery sky flickered neon lights. Lights of advertising towers like roundworms coiling endlessly without their tails reaching their heads. Yes—the capital still lingered in evening's grasp. How pitiable that my heart, which had resigned itself to midnight darkness in the foreground, should suddenly brighten again—what fickle emotions these were.

At our parting, Ikegami treated me to kaiseki cuisine at a teahouse in Kasumigaseki during the day. In the evening, Kuzuoka treated me to deep-fried tofu cutlets at a hole-in-the-wall shop in Shitamachi. Both suited their stations. And then, on the morning of the day before yesterday, Mother left behind the wretched play of her life in her lingering form. The truth is, Mother died the day before yesterday, yet I simply cannot believe she’s dead. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still somewhere in this world, impishly sticking out her tongue again. "My mother was a woman of such disposition."

When I think back to the house from around the time I became aware of things at six or seven years old, it was a modest rented dwelling situated along the bank of a narrow river. The interior was neatly kept, with even the long charcoal brazier polished to a shine. There lived a maid named Shima and a brown sugar-colored cat called Koro. Mother had slightly sunken eyes but was a beauty with an oval face and good flesh on her bones; when she wore her hair in the then-fashionable Hanatsukimaki style and dressed in a fine-patterned crepe kimono lined with black silk at the collar, she carried herself with such refinement and allure that all turned to look. The man called Father would occasionally come to stay with us. If I had to say, I didn’t care much for Mother. No matter how deeply one probed, her true feelings remained unknowable—yet there was this shallow foolishness in her always siding with whatever brought immediate advantage. By contrast, Father—whenever something weighed on his mind, his large black eyes fixing intently—was a man of unyielding principle who would never countenance wrongdoing yet once resolved to protect someone would shield them utterly. His hair and beard were thick and curly, his high forehead pale. At times Mother would be struck and put on tearful airs.

"The Professor’s got tuberculosis and gone mad—what a wretched combination." After saying this, Mother exchanged knowing cold smiles with Shima through their eyes. According to Shima’s accounts, Father had been a great scholar who also taught at the university. Mother had been taken up by Father when she was still an apprentice geisha in Shitamachi and kept by him ever since. Father loved Mother’s beauty but detested her deceitful nature—that was why he struck her. But no matter how often he struck her, as long as deceit remained Mother’s true nature, when would there ever come a time for her to be struck down?

Around the time I turned thirteen, Father stopped coming altogether. Father died of tuberculosis. Long before that time, from my earliest childhood, Mother would say strange things whenever she found something displeasing about me. “Hmph, putting on airs for a beggar’s child.” At this, Shima assumed a sullen expression,

“Mistress, you really must stop this—no matter what.”

“What do I care?” Mother said, though with a flicker of regret in her eyes. Yet as if recoiling from her own vulgarity, those same lips twisted again into abuse: “A beggar’s child remains a beggar after all.” The truth of this gradually emerged through Shima’s words. For this middle-aged woman possessed no steadfast nature devoted to safeguarding a child’s welfare or tenderly nurturing youthful innocence. Even if her reflexive reproach—hearing Mother spew indiscriminate hatred toward her own flesh and blood—could be attributed to fleeting loyalty or chivalrous posturing, beneath lay another desire: to feel momentarily superior, to play the matriarch toward this mother herself ceaselessly crushed beneath life’s cruelties dawn till dusk. Thus when Shima spoke these admonishments, she would adjust her sleeve cuff with her right hand, tilting her head in affected grace while a calculated half-smile played at one corner of her lips.

“Miss Ocho is the child you carried in your own womb, is she not? What could you possibly hate so much to utter such cruel things?” This woman named Shima had been employed at Father’s main residence, the Toshima household, since childhood. When Madam learned Father had taken my mother as his mistress, she declared, “A maid unaccustomed to serving a young mistress would be poor at keeping order.” She was a woman Madam had transferred from her own service to my mother’s household with the words, “Let us give you Shima.” Though initially meant as a watchdog from Madam, over time her sense of duty dulled—she would side with my mother at times, then return to Madam’s camp, and even after joining our household, she freely came and went to the Toshima family. Thus we came to know every detail about them as if we could hold it in our hands.

From those same lips that formed a calculated smile, she would cheerfully recount my father’s personal secrets as though they were stories.

In the Meiji era when the Constitution was promulgated, there was a beggar with a child who lived in the east-west tenement houses of Nippori’s slum and walked daily through the Yamanote district of the city to receive alms. Opening a fan halfway and singing something called Hatsumei-bushi, they stood at the gate.

It was only known that he had originally been the son of a Confucian scholar from Ise Domain, and rumors circulated at the time that his obsession with inventions had driven him mad. He bore sullenness in his demeanor, with strikingly handsome and well-defined features. The very flawlessness of those noble features instead conjured a countenance suggestive of tragic misfortune. The child possessed a nervous temperament—keen-eyed yet physically frail.

At that time in Akasaka's Ryūdochō district, there lived a businessman from Kōshū known as "Toshima the Renowned." To be precise, people in those days had this custom of bestowing the title "Tenka" upon slightly obstinate men of rugged disposition—starting with Tenka no Itohira—so perhaps this Toshima wasn't such an exceptional merchant after all. Yet he cultivated an image of heroic temperament by installing a large charcoal brazier at the center of his projecting entrance hall with three-sided windows, setting a folding stool before it, and from dawn onward receiving any visitor for vigorous debates while rapping his shakudō-alloy pipe against the brazier's edge.

The parent-and-child beggars of Hatsumei-bushi would come around this area about once a week and stand at the window of Toshima’s reception room. Then Toshima, while giving small coins from his tobacco pouch, would quietly inquire about such matters as how the beggar’s companions received alms, the manner in which households disposed of their scraps, and the quantity of preparations at food shops in busy entertainment districts. The Hatsumei-bushi beggar moved his heavily bearded face as though weighed down by the effort, replying in the briefest terms. However, even from such meager information, this merchant Toshima could likely grasp the subtleties of the public's economic conditions. When addressing others, Toshima would declare: “Unless you’ve spent three years as a beggar, three as a party entertainer, and three as an unlicensed attorney, you’ll never become a true master of your craft.” It is said he was a man who possessed this sort of worldly philosophy—one he would frequently proclaim.

One morning, when the parent-and-child beggars came, Toshima approached the window, and the child presented a scrap of paper. It was a chart compiling and recording the regular meals of the vagrants living in the same tenement houses. Items like zuke preserves, Kawagoe stew, and crucian carp stew—these were marked solely with the katakana and numbers that the child had barely learned from fellow lodgers, requiring considerable verbal explanation—yet it was a chart that cleverly systematized, in a manner far beyond his years, Toshima’s very approach of discerning paupers’ economic conditions through their dietary patterns, which he so persistently inquired about from the parent. Toshima asked delightedly.

“Did you think up and write this all by yourself?” “Yeah, that’s right, mister.” Toshima gave a thoughtful hum.

“This kid has potential.” “Old man, leave this kid at my house.” The invention-beggar father stared vacantly with unfocused eyes, then took out the child’s drawstring pouch from his burlap sack, placed it on the windowsill, and after bowing once with apparent reluctance, departed. The whereabouts of this parent beggar were never known thereafter. Inside the drawstring pouch were a household register extract and the child’s umbilical cord. The child Chouzo grew up clever. From gatekeeper of the Toshima household to scholarship student, top university scholar, gaining the approval of Toshima the Renowned to become his son-in-law, and finally university professor—wasn’t it all a dizzying ascent? Toshima’s magnanimity lay in taking even a beggar’s child as his son-in-law—a gesture that drew equal measures of praise and censure, though the discourse remained confined in scope. Before long, save for a small number of people, no memory lingered regarding Chouzo’s origins.

The Toshima family originally consisted of an elder sister and a younger brother, with the brother designated as heir. Thus the daughter was married off and established a household at the Meguro villa. This elder sister’s husband—that is to say, Chouzo—was my father. Was Father satisfied with this marriage? According to Shima, he had been content. After all, she was said to have been a gentle, steadfast, and benevolent Madam. Then why did Father keep someone like my mother separately? According to Shima, Father had been a heavy drinker who loved carousing since his university days; moreover, being a man easily taken by beauty, he ultimately became entangled with my beautiful mother.

Of course, that must have been part of it. However, that alone would not have been sufficient to sustain a woman like Mother for so long. If I may say—though this is an observation I made long after growing up—I think Father was searching for something peculiar in Mother. Mother was shallow, yet that very shallowness was layered over and over—had one been willing to peel through those layers, she was the sort of woman in whom one might even glimpse something at her core. Father was ensnared by that. A man of sharp intellect whose stubbornness borders on obsessive inquiry, whose very nature suffers from an excess of intelligence—such men seem fated to become ensnared by women like this pickled scallion. Especially if that surface happened to be beautiful—all the more reason, no doubt. A woman like the Toshima daughter—reputed to be a wise wife—would have her depths immediately seen through by a man like Father. Rather than that, he must have imbued those superficial layers with mystery and ended up ensnaring himself. The whorls of Father's tragedy will continue to surge through my life hereafter, though I must not let the thread become too tangled to discern. I shall state just this much by way of preface. As for how Father regarded his own lowly origins from childhood, one might even say he went so far as to openly proclaim them with pride. “My background’s that of a street beggar, you see,” At this the Wise Wife laughed breezily. “Oh-ho-ho! Should we ever fall into ruin, we’ll simply don straw cloaks together and take our place at the gate.” The couple’s unreserved banter—sounding as though recounting the husband’s inspiring tale of self-made success—proved more than sufficient to earn favorable regard among those present.

However, my mother alone detested it when Father brought up that matter to her face. Even hearing the mere mention of it made Mother turn deathly pale and tremble with rage. "Please stop this poverty-stricken talk." At that, even Father fell silent. Despite hating it when Father spoke of such things, Mother would time and again blurt out those very words herself to berate me. Through Mother’s berating words that slipped out and Shima’s explanations, I came to feel keenly sorrowful about my blood being connected to beggars. On the other hand, I also felt somehow calmed and unshackled. In both elementary school and girls’ school, my grades in science or mathematics-related subjects were excellent. However, when it came to subjects related to artistic pursuits—calligraphy, handicrafts, drawing—my performance was utterly abysmal. At that moment, one side of my feelings would glide in smoothly, deftly carving away my worries. "Ah, after all, I’m just a beggar’s child."

But before long, I inevitably encountered unbearable hardships and found myself unable to refrain from lamenting my ill-fated existence. It goes like this. On an autumn Sunday morning, a messenger came from Madam at Father’s house in Meguro summoning me to attend their autumn festival. This was the first time such a thing had happened since I was born. However, according to Shima’s account—perhaps because she herself had no children—the Madam had repeatedly proposed to Father that I be summoned to her residence, but Father had firmly opposed it, and ultimately it never came to pass, so it was said.

“Oh, how unusual. I wonder if Master’s spirits have weakened.” Having considered Father’s absence from my mother’s house for about a month and a half by then, Shima had said such things. “Stand up straight.” After making me put on ample makeup and finishing tying my obi, Mother said this and gave my back a single pat. “Really now, you understand?” “Don’t be dawdling around.” “It’ll bring shame even to your mother.”

She patted me on the back again. Each time, my neck drooped limply and I answered “uh-huh.” Seen off by Shima—who said, “I’ll come help later”—I rode toward Meguro in the automobile’s spacious seat, perched primly beside Eirakudo’s souvenir box of monaka. Though called a villa, it was built like a main residence. Ascending four or five stone steps brought one to a plaza paved with pebbles, beyond which—positioned before sago palm plantings—stood a Western-style house with a porch entrance. Greeted by the houseboy, I carefully spread my legs to navigate the treacherously slick parquet floor while glancing upward at the ceiling, where a large chandelier—resembling a crystal hairpin—hung at the center of a rounded indentation that bulged like the inner curve of a summer orange peel, its many fluttering strands cascading downward.

From the parlor where electric lights glowed over tightly fitted carpets even in daytime came the clamor of children’s voices. At that room’s entrance she met a woman accompanied by a maid.

“You must be Ocho.” “Well, well, well, aren’t you something,” she said. I immediately recognized her as the Madam and bowed deeply once. Then the Madam placed her hand on my shoulder,

“Your makeup is done beautifully, and your kimono suits you well.” Having said that, the Madam gripped the base of my sleeve’s eight openings with her fingertips and, through deft fingerwork, examined the lining of my undergarments and the fabric of my underkimono. “What a lovely kimono.” The Madam, seeming to have found no blunders, said this and indifferently released her grip on the sleeve cuff. To the souvenir package that the student—having received it from the driver—presented, she said, “There was no need for such formalities,” then gestured with her chin for him to hand the bundle to the maid.

The person I was meeting today was the main family's legal wife, and my own mother was a concubine. Even a child would naturally harbor this lingering hostility, and I found myself choking on some stifling, awkward emotion that made it impossible to warm up to the Madam. However, Madam seemed not to notice anything and, gathering me as if into an embrace, led me into the room,

“Come now, everyone—Auntie’s dear relative’s child has arrived.” “Her name is Ocho.” “Everyone, please be kind and play with her.” She had me join right in the middle of the play area. She would stay close to me as much as possible—helping teach me the parts of the games I didn’t understand, even personally taking me to the restroom and rolling up my hems—showing me such kindness.

The children, absorbed in their play, paid little attention to me, the newcomer—saying things like “It’s your turn” or “You can’t do that like that”—and promptly treated me as one of their own. Among the boys were four or five girls around my age, who appeared to be from wealthy families in the vicinity, their vivacity bordering on impertinence as they moved with practiced ease among people. The playthings were abundant: alongside novelties like Corinth games and roulette wheels—which I was encountering for the first time—there were also familiar items such as Iroha karuta cards and playing cards.

Dissolved by amusement and dissolved by kindness, I eventually forgot the stiffened hostility toward Madam that had been within me, and came to feel something like a solid yet slippery marble pillar standing steadfastly by my side. I continued to win every match. A joyous feeling surged to the very tips of my limbs until I couldn’t help but fidget. I clung to the nearby marble pillar. That was Madam’s chest. I played tag and was chased by someone. A pleasurable unease made me forget myself, and before I knew it, I was clawing at the marble pillar to hide within its shadow. That was Madam’s shoulder and neck. At such moments, what I had perceived as a slippery marble pillar would manifest some hidden intent—gripping my hand while murmuring "Oh, oh"—then a polished face like ivory craftwork would glide closer to press its cheek against mine. A sense of honor rose within me even as a disagreeable warmth tinged with calculation assailed me, until I nearly shuddered despite myself.

From within the faint fragrance of perfume, eyes that smiled like crescent moons observed my expression with a severity as cold as the world itself—a sharpness that pierced through flesh. While trembling with childhood fears, I thought revealing this discomfort through candid gestures would bring me disadvantage. I strained every fiber to return what seemed a cheerful smile. What manner of smile was it? No doubt an ugly, contrived grimace. Even now remembering it fills me with such self-loathing that I want to scream “Ah!” alone. Then Madam would release her firm grip on my wrist and the hand pressed against my back.

Yet children are such incorrigible creatures—I would immediately forget that I would have to perform this duty again, so loathsome it made me shudder, and cling to Madam once more. Again the ivory-mask face would press its cheek against mine— This happened four or five times until lunch arrived. In a separate room called the dining hall—there as well, electric lights burned at midday. With wainscoted walls and a china cabinet, it resembled a proper Western restaurant. Madam sat at the table's head while I took the corner seat beside her, other children lining up to either side. Chicken sandwiches appeared alongside rolled omelets, fish cakes, and sweet potato paste—a veritable feast fit for children. Through half the meal Madam tended me with a handkerchief pressed to my neck, until she suddenly glanced at the clock and—

“Now, Auntie has to go tend to the patient’s meal, so you just eat by yourself, Ocho.” “I’ll be right back.” Having said that, she stood and left.

Afterwards came Meguro's famous chestnut rice. I absolutely adore this kind of seasoned rice. To begin with, my eating pace tends to be slow—moreover, I possess this strange habit of invariably slipping into thought whenever I begin a meal. The more my favorite foods appear before me, the deeper I sink into reverie. Even now at this very moment—thinking of my nostalgic riverside home seen from afar, recalling Suitengu shrine festivals with shops selling crimson Tanba lantern plants, pondering that captured prince from shadow puppet plays—my chopsticks inevitably lose their rhythm. The other children wolfed down their food as if swallowing were tedious labor, then scampered off toward the parlor where they'd abandoned their half-finished games. Noticing this, I grew flustered and hurriedly shoveled mouthfuls. A spoon accompanied the melon. Just then Madam returned—finding me alone at the table encircled by two vexed-looking maids—and after an "Oh?" summoned them with a curt "Here, you." Muffled voices reached my ears.

“Still eating?” “That child—” “Yes, ma’am.” “It’s being gobbled up.” “It’s unseemly even for the other children, don’t you think?” “But…” “She’s showing her roots, after all.” Madam’s voice had taken on a definitively caustic edge. Thus, the maids too seemed to have no choice but to humor her with awkward, bitter smiles. When I heard this—though I didn’t fully grasp its meaning—something like scalding water of humiliation surged from around my chest up to my nape. To endure it, I clenched my lips tightly—but with an uncontrollable bebebe force, they tore apart vertically. At the same moment I flung down my chopsticks and bowl, I burst into wailing tears. And tearing at my chest wildly, frantically,

“I want—to go home—”

I uttered. The two maids rushed over in a fluster to pacify and coax me, but with terror so intense that my body and hands trembled violently, I desperately struggled to wrench myself from their arms and escape this mansion of thorns by any means necessary. Madam, who had been staring fixedly at this, snapped a single remark and recoiled before gliding away smoothly.

“Do as you please.”

Instead, our Shima abruptly appeared. Shima had apparently come by train after me and had been helping in the kitchen. Since Shima knew quite well how to calm me down, I found myself somehow comforted, held close, and taken out to the rice fields behind the house to lift my spirits.

A stream flowed. Along one side ran a large lidless square culvert, and clear water rushed through it like rapids. The culvert appeared rusted and decayed - from gaps between planks and holes along its length, water gushed noisily into the stream below. As if these leaks meant nothing at all, the water continued flowing abundantly along moss-lined edges of the conduit.

Bush clover, dayflowers, foxtails—weeds such as these sprawled wildly over the culvert’s water from the roadside where I stood.

“There are grasshoppers here,” came Shima’s voice. “Try catching one, Young Mistress Ocho.” When I reached out to take it, those acorn-colored eyes on the prow-like head of the boat-shaped insect suddenly loomed large, glaring at me. Timidly bringing my hand closer, I watched as the grasshoppers shifted one by one beneath the leaves. Summoning courage, I shut my eyes and grasped a leaf—the dew chilled my palm through clenched fingers—and felt the grasshopper tumble askew into the culvert’s current before being swept forcefully downstream. At that instant, a pair of grasshoppers—one clinging to another’s back—plunged into the water from the opposite culvert edge. As I watched, both insects in the culvert and stream began paddling their legs like oars. Yet before reaching the edge, the culvert-dweller vanished first, while its counterpart disappeared into the inky shadows beneath bamboo overhanging the stream. The languid creak of a waterwheel carried through the air.

I let out a sigh of relief, stood up, and turning my back to the sound of water, gazed out over the rice fields. Shima kept saying “Flowers for the Buddha, flowers for the Buddha,” as she busily gathered wildflowers. Standing on the red earth path along the stream’s edge now baked by the midday sun—its squelching mud giving me the sensation of treading upon crimson clouds—I found all my constrained feelings swept away as I gazed out at the golden rice fields before me, their stalks bent heavy with grain.

I let out another deep breath—"haah"—this time exhaling more deeply. Where exactly am I? And why have I come to such a place, I wonder. A fragrance blending shirozake—that white sake we were made to drink from lacquered cups during March's Doll Festival—with the scent of roasted barley sweets filled heaven and earth, a scent so potent it made one want children. Moreover, now and then the wind hurled thick clots of this aroma against my cheeks. Though it left me feeling lightheaded, afterward it was as if a bleak white gauze towel had been drawn across me—leaving my mind somehow hushed and clear.

At the edge of the fields came into view what appeared to be a flower bed framed by green borders. Beyond the uncut crimson and yellow blooms, a pine forest encircled the area as Kagura music began echoing through the air. Just when the sound seemed to come from the right, it reverberated from the left. I exhaled my third breath with a drawn-out "ho—". Then—where had it been lingering?—the sadness took on a bittersweet flavor that squeezed my chest like citrus segments, swelling until convulsive sobs burst forth two or three times in quick succession. A single sob caught in my throat, straining to emerge. To coax it out, I contorted my face into crying shape—"uhe—"—and waited until, as if summoned, it came shuddering through. In that moment washed over me a nostalgia so profound it felt ancestral.

At that moment, Shima returned with an armful of autumn wildflowers in her hands and said, “Come now, let’s go inside and join everyone for the shrine festival,” then deftly caught one of the grasshoppers lingering there and placed it into my hand. As I gripped it tightly, trembling slightly in fear, I no longer wanted to return to that thorn-filled mansion. I insisted on going home.

Shima had been thinking for a moment, "That may well be the case. After all, it's a relationship where Madam refuses to engage."

She said. Then she suddenly lowered her voice,

“Well then, if you’re going home, before that, I’ll secretly arrange for you to meet Father, just briefly,” she said.

Led by Shima's hand into the narrow path between the storage shed and weathered wooden paneling, there was a plank bridge extending from the main house to the entrance of a small detached cottage. Shima showed signs of cautiously checking the main house’s presence, but upon noticing my distraction, she lifted me up and swiftly ushered me into the room, then stationed herself behind me while keeping watch outside. It was a dimly lit room with a low ceiling and an oddly damp feel, yet since two ken-wide windows stood open allowing light to stream through, the figure of whoever stood before them became clearly visible—a silhouette etched in chiaroscuro shadows.

He was a thin, middle-aged man with sharp shoulders. While inside the room, he extended a long fishing rod toward a small pond, sitting with one knee raised as he cast his line. Both his hands and the rod trembled violently. When we entered, he made a frightened face and stared sharply our way. His nose’s ridge stood out prominently, the hollows beneath his cheekbones sank gauntly, and his thick mustache rose luxuriantly upon his upper lip as though planted atop a bowl. His eyes were clouded yet bulging out. Shima took a half-step forward and said, “Master, Young Mistress Ocho is here.”

Father replied “Hmm,” but only the fear had been stripped from his face, leaving behind an eerie expression that remained stretched taut without relaxing—unnaturally rigid—as he kept facing our direction. Shima called out again. After a brief pause, the rod slipped from Father’s hand with a soft clatter, his awkwardly propped knee settled properly back into place as he assumed his customary seated posture with his left hand tucked inside his robe. “These days... unbearable... not drinking at home.” “If I don’t drink—”

With that, Father shook his head two or three times.

Before Shima could say anything, Father grinned and, "You—in secret—" he said, tilting the cup in his left hand with a "This! This!" gesture.

“This is quite troublesome,” said Shima. Nevertheless, she went out somewhere and returned carrying a pedestal cup filled about eight-tenths with red wine. Father received it and, with trembling hands that threatened to spill the wine, carefully brought the cup to his mouth while supporting it with his right hand. But when the rim touched his lips, he gulped it down almost entirely in one go—nine-tenths of it—with a clattering sound against his teeth, as effortlessly as I might drink sugared water. There, he paused briefly to catch his breath, staring intently at the remaining liquid with his black eyes for a while. Then, this time, he gulped it all down in one breath. After stealing a glance toward the doorway, he mercilessly and swiftly hurled the cup into the palm bamboo grove across the pond.

During this time, Father’s gestures were entirely self-absorbed, showing no awareness of our presence before him, but once finished, he stretched his neck toward me while massaging the elbow of the arm he’d propped upright on his knee with his right hand.

“Ocho... You came.”

And then, like a farsighted person would, he narrowed his eyes and stared intently at my face. “You’ve grown.” He peered into my face as though I were a daughter he was seeing for the first time, alternately tilting his own face slightly left and right with an air of nostalgic tenderness. I was fond of Father, but whenever he came to visit, he was always like electricity prickling through my entire body—being near him brought a thrilling sensation of being ceaselessly struck by his sharp masculine force, yet it was also impossible to let my guard down, and terrifying as well. He was mostly silent toward me and often bought me toys or things, but I could hardly tell whether he was aware of my existence as his own child or not. Moreover, I too thought it better that way; had that force been directed at me properly and embraced, I felt it would have been unbearably poignant.

Yet now, Father's words before my eyes and his demeanor—utterly unexpected things—contained something gentle that seemed to melt into my very body. Yet what I perceived were only the fibers of his character: dregs from his boiled-down essence, like carded cotton devoid of volatility or explosive power.

Father had changed. Father was gone. There existed a different Father.

Perhaps having noticed my bewildered expression, Father recrossed his arms while keeping his gaze fixed on me, and began speaking with deep solemnity. According to what I would later hear repeatedly from Shima in subsequent years: "Ocho, you're still seven and likely won't properly grasp my words, but when you grow older, hear this from Shima—human beings, once past forty, return to their original roots. Even if one were to restart life entirely, they must first return to those roots. Otherwise, the heart becomes too desolate to endure. Especially someone like me who forced himself to grow this way."

And that is what Father is said to have said. At that moment, Shima—standing behind me—appeared to comprehend some portion of Father’s words through the intuition cultivated by age’s accrued wisdom, and so nodded repeatedly,

“That is indeed true,” said Shima. “What Master says is something I too have felt in my own experience.” She turned to me with a knowing look. “Now, Young Mistress Ocho—when you grow older, I will tell you the words your father just spoke.” It seemed she had answered on my behalf. Father raised one side of his signature French mustache in a smile before continuing: “But I fell ill. I’ve exhausted my very soul. I lack both the will and the strength to return to my roots. This is what impatience and alcohol have done.” His voice grew hollow. “I’m just like this now—longing for my roots while feeling repelled by them. It’s utterly pointless.”

“But still…” As Shima tried to placate him, Father shook his head and,

“No—I know.” “With that amount of wine, I’m already sobering up—my body’s so weak my head’s going foggy.” “Ugh, so pointless.” “I’m getting sleepy.”

Father’s face returned once more to its former state—the rigid, tense visage he’d had before drinking, now collapsed yet still strained. “Ugh, I’m getting sleepy.” “Well then—perhaps I’ll dream of lying on that softly damp earth that smells of moss, where I once slept beside my old man long ago.”

Father started to lie down, using his arm as a pillow. Though something pressed heavily against my chest, unsure of how to give it voice here, I simply bowed my head politely. “Father, goodbye,” I said. Then Father slightly raised himself up and looked at my face, shedding two or three drops of tears, “Yeah, goodbye.”

Having said that, he promptly lay down.

Shima covered Father’s sleeping form with the tanzen robe that was there. Through the palm bamboo grove, glittering green feathers shone, and a shrill cry could be heard. Shima said in a small voice that the peacock in the garden was crying. In the car being driven home, when I suddenly realized, I was still tightly clutching the grasshopper that Shima had let me hold earlier in the rice field. The grasshopper had died, warmed by the heat of my hand. The grasshopper’s resin-colored vomit clung to my palm.

When I returned home, Mother said to Shima,

“How did it go? What about the inspection?”

Mother said. Shima gave a brief account of the particulars and then,

“That would be quite impossible.”

Shima said.

Then Mother looked at my face and laughed, “Ocho, was it you who got rejected first, or did they reject you? But even trying to smoothly snatch away a child someone raised till seven—that shows they’re still far too softhearted.”

Mother said. Mother was in an inexplicably good mood. Having finally resigned herself to being unable to bear a child, Madam—adopting the manner of those pragmatic wives so common in society—had supposedly declared that, circumstances permitting, she might take in this mistress’s child—myself—to raise as her own in the main house. Under the pretext of inviting me to the autumn festival, they had come to observe my childish demeanor—but in the end, Shima informed me, the plan had been abandoned. Even so, while I believe I grasp in broad strokes why Father consistently opposed Madam’s schemes, to this day I still do not clearly understand. Had he foreseen the hardships awaiting me after being taken into the main house? If his insight ran so deep, one might expect him to have at least offered Mother some word of caution or hope regarding my future as I grew up remaining in my concubine mother’s household—yet Mother maintains she never heard any such thing.

And yet when we last met, those strange words of his that clung to my very life were all that remained in my heart—and though I thought even a father I loved so dearly acted too selfishly, this sense of him being a pitiable man still took hold, making it impossible not to feel burdened as I carried onward.

Mother, who normally didn’t possess an ounce of genuine maternal affection, would dote on me and turn cheerful now that the child she’d nearly lost had returned to her hands—I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Father increasingly took to his bed after that and passed away the following summer, less than a year later. I went with Mother to the main house and was shown Father’s deathly pale face lying behind a folding screen. Whereas Mother clung to him, wailing “Professor! Professor!” and collapsing in tears, I looked at his remains—now shockingly emaciated and shrunken—and thought: *This was no longer Father*. It was simply the feeling that I had seen something eerily unsettling.

After Father died, my house and the main house became completely estranged. Mother began living with a carefree expression. She grew slightly plump, her face taking on a faint reddish tinge, her movements carrying an abundance of flesh in her chest and abdomen—a beauty nearing middle age. I disliked my mother's nature, but I couldn't help but love her appearance and physique. Dressed in layers of Yonezawa-spun silk or some such for a dutiful theater outing, her fully prepared body would first settle before the long charcoal brazier, and there she’d blow smoke from her woman’s pipe with a face that said even attending the play held no particular interest—these were scenes I wanted to watch through half-closed eyes. Just when I thought that was all, she’d bring home some dirty old item from who knows where, declaring, “It’s a real find!” “It’s quite something!” she’d declare, wearing an old yukata as an overgarment with her hair tied in an older-sister-style topknot and her hem hitched up, then head out to the riverbank to scrub vigorously with a straw brush—yet even in this figure, there remained traces of the disciplined lines from her Fujima training, making Mother someone you could never tire of watching.

However, though rumors were spread several times, not a single affair ever occurred with Mother. "Why does the world make such a fuss over something as troublesome as romance?" Mother always used to say this. Mother herself seemed to have saved a modest amount of money, but the monthly household expenses were apparently managed through a stipend delivered to her—this stipend came from Father’s former position as an advisor to Ikegami, a trading company in Shitamachi. The trading company was originally an old-established landowning firm that had restructured its business; though trade was merely a sideline, the head pursued it with a blend of dilettantism and genuine enthusiasm. And perhaps Father had allocated these to partners in foreign trade affairs—the monthly stipends arrived in furoshiki-wrapped bundles of envelope-contained payments, delivered either by an old-fashioned errand boy in light blue momohiki leggings shouldering his load or by a young clerk in a suit who snapped his fan open and shut during summer. From time to time, Ikegami’s son Seitaro would come to deliver it, saying it was a pretense for a walk. As a duty-bound old establishment, even after Father’s passing, they continued providing the stipend indefinitely, always appending the explanation that abruptly stopping it would cause us inconvenience—at least for the time being. Therefore, as long as Mother stopped demanding the temporary expenses she used to extract from Father, she didn’t seem to feel any significant hardship. So when I said I wanted to graduate from elementary school and enter girls’ school, she readily permitted it, saying, "Education might prove useful somehow." I chose for myself and entered F—— Academy, a private girls’ school known for its liberal education.

Shima was informed by Mother of a salary reduction, but far from leaving—declaring it more carefree to remain in this household—she even summoned a cabinetmaker to install a Buddhist altar in her own room and arrange ancestral tablets.

I preferred being at school over being at home. When entangled in the unfathomable life of that household, I would be assailed by anxiety—a frustration akin to endlessly dealing with odd numbers that refused to divide cleanly, no matter how long I worked at them. While Mother never engaged in affairs, after Father passed away she developed a fondness for gathering people, and our house turned into something like a club. I had mentioned before that Mother had a fondness for tools and such, but nearly every day she would scour antique shops to buy what she called 'treasures' and contrive to make them appear valuable as she displayed them. Mother’s room was a six-tatami space adjoining the twelve-tatami room downstairs. On the wall, framed in a relief-carved border of peonies and Chinese lions, she had splendidly displayed a photograph of Father in full court dress standing beside herself. Beneath this stood an ebony tea shelf with mother-of-pearl inlays—ostensibly Chinese in style. On the long charcoal brazier with wheel-like eyes hung a spouted iron kettle. So far, this area remained orderly, but beyond that lay such items as gaudy gold-lacquered clothes racks, worm-eaten armrests—all made part of the room's regular furnishings—along with large papier-mâché dolls, talisman decorations, and two-stringed koto, which were taken out from the cupboard and arranged according to time and mood.

While sitting amidst this atmosphere, Mother would frequently place some tool on her lap, and while using a toothpick to remove debris caught between them or polishing them with a glossy cloth, she would lecture anyone who came by. “When you’re surrounded by good tools, you naturally gain refinement.” “And while you keep them, the tools gain value.” At first, it was likely tool enthusiasts who began frequenting the place, but friends would invite friends—shogi matches would commence, haikai poetry sessions would begin, and before long it would turn into a banquet. Mother would not permit gambling games like Hachi-Hachi, saying they were vulgar.

Mother’s attitude toward these people was magnanimous, rarely interfering. But she interfered in every single profit-driven matter. “No, no—don’t you go using so much of our things. I want you to consider how much monetary value it has. If you need such large quantities, pay for it yourselves and have Shima buy it—go ahead and use that.” At this, the group would scratch their heads with awkward “Yessir” gestures and comply with Mother’s instructions without protest.

To clarify what this meant: if it was hanshi paper, Mother would silently watch them take two or three sheets—or maybe four or five at most. But when something like ledger-making arose and the quantity of hanshi paper they wanted reached a full bundle, she absolutely would not permit it. In this manner, she would serve them nothing more than tea, and unless there happened to be an excess of gifts, she provided no other refreshments—not only making the group cover their own expenses but even occasionally imposing such burdens on them.

“It’s such a dreary day—don’t you think it feels stifling? How about it—why don’t we all go eat something delicious? I just feel like eating something, don’t you?” Having said this, she extended invitations to two or three of those with the warmest pockets. In her act of feigning innocence by playing the dotard, there was an oddly refined cloying sweetness that...

"There she goes again—auntie’s penny-pinching act has begun." With wry smiles, someone would foot the bill. And so once more they would traipse out to dine. Mother seldom brought me and Shima along, but never failed to have them bring back some trinket for us. As this pattern persisted, the visitors’ roster solidified strangely into six or seven sons from Shitamachi families deemed moneyed or propertied. Ikegami Seitaro numbered among them.

How did Mother manage this curation? To me, it all seemed perfectly natural, but according to Shima— “Why, when it comes to the Mistress’s formidable skills—even in how she delivers a simple ‘welcome’ greeting—there are exactly tiers like ‘special class’ and ‘first class,’ you see. After all, they say even the senior geishas in Shitamachi during her apprentice days were made to cry by her.” Then Shima added this.

“Young Mistress Ocho, do keep watching. The Mistress will gradually begin selecting your husband from among that group.” Because I so detested the atmosphere at home, I made every effort to remain at school—lingering in the library, playing tennis, or being invited to teachers’ residences—killing time until I could return as close to dinnertime as possible. The principal of F—— Academy was a cultured man from a provincial landowning family who, having many children himself, first conceived the notion of creating an educational system according to his ideals. This eventually grew into a school that accepted outside students. With visiting lecturers including renowned artists and practices like coeducation, it became an unconventional institution. The principal’s residence stood midway up the hillside slope, encircled continuously by the dwellings of full-time teachers. Students called the central principal’s house “Shâteau” (castle). In contrast, they referred to the surrounding teachers’ residences as “Villa.” The wisteria roses climbing every residence’s wooden siding—this indeed must have made the entire area appear so, giving me a faint impression of a Western toy village; yet even that alone sufficed to make this downtown-born girl forget all household matters and dream of novel things.

Due to the domestic circumstances I had mentioned earlier, men were no rare presence for me. However, those I had encountered until then were mainly from the lower city—giving off an indistinct impression that muddled together something sleazy with something refined. You might take them for youths, yet they carried the air of retirees too. In the end, they came to be perceived as something oppressive. Yet though the men I associated with here still hadn't fully shed their childish dispositions toward one another, I too—now sixteen—had come to possess the basic sensibilities of a woman. I had grown to understand quite a bit. They all carried the air of young rams, with a fragrant smell of pasture grass about them. When each person's distinct, shell-like individuality dissolved within the advancing crowd, it became like colored searchlights playing across plaster statues—turning them green at one moment, pale red at another. At first, everyone existed as genderless entities who merely assumed male or female roles as needed to fulfill their stations, their very words nearly blending into gibberish. Yet once this too flowed past, we could only feel ourselves as a herd of gentle animals permeated by pasture grass's strong scent. Was this because the academy's sons and daughters were largely city-bred children of Yamanote? Or did young men and women inevitably become thus when left to roam freely in such nature? The hill where the academy stood held white clay soil rich in sand, its trees mostly light, fast-growing shrubs.

A boy named Kira, a boy named Yoshimitsu-kun, and a small girl named Yaeko had, before I knew it, come to form my group. The boy named Kira was a youth whose boyish strength gathered around his shoulders and chest, while his torso and limbs below stuck out like sticks. When playing basketball, this boy would catch the ball. Then, clutching it tightly, he would momentarily break away from the opposing group. There, regaining his posture while spreading his stick-like legs and turning toward us with loud clomps from his large shoes—the sheer clumsiness of it all caused quite a commotion. Everyone laughed. I laughed too, but in his awkward bearing I glimpsed something like earnest devotion that stirred affection in me. Yoshimitsu-kun’s father being a diplomat, he had been assigned an English nurse during their time abroad—thus his English was flawless though his Japanese still occasionally stumbled. An anecdote clung persistently to him: once, upon seeing a female student’s kimono with thousand-crane patterns, he had proudly declared “These cranes—Senwa Ariyas!” prompting classmates to taunt him with chants of “Senwa! Senwa!” Yaeko-san was a child in the attached elementary school—a girl of about ten who already carried herself like a proper middle-class housewife. Her long face, with eyes drawn close as if pinched at the nose’s bridge, affected a precocious air. That slight resemblance in features to the Legal Wife from the Meguro villa—the very one who had tormented me—awakened a wry fascination within me.

The three and I also belonged to a group under Ataka-sensei, who lived in the residential quarters. The teachers in each residential quarter selected three or four—or five or six—students they naturally got along with and permitted them free access. I entered Ataka-sensei’s study and leaned against her swivel chair. The fact that my late father had been a scholar floated fleetingly into my mind. The other children gathered around the fireplace conducted their discussions in an adult manner, putting on airs. Before long, the teacher returned from the faculty meeting held at the principal’s Shâteau and served us all tea. How I longed for those winter days.

Ataka-sensei was a gymnastics teacher. She had spent time in Finland and would tell us stories about reindeer-drawn sleds. Her tall, well-proportioned frame wore a falcon-brown jumper. Whether from professional interest or personal inclination, she tried every sport imaginable. This unmarried woman of thirty-five or thirty-six had a texture like soft magnolia wood wrapped in flannel. Her replies came brisk and clear, lending her an androgynous air—yet when she laughed, covering her mouth while bending her long torso into a twist, there surfaced gestures of startling tenderness. For unmarried women teachers past thirty, rumors of romantic misfortune inevitably clustered; through student whispers, such tales now adhered to Ataka-sensei too. They cast her as yearning for either the principal’s younger self or one of those model husbands from women’s magazine spreads—a sports-loving political leader—narratives spun to drape her in romantic mystique. That she now loved Kuzuoka the gardener. That pride alone prevented their marriage. Such contrived gossip circulated. In truth, Ataka-sensei often ventured hunting with Kuzuoka through the woods. This likely stemmed from her seasonal hunts requiring his expertise—he who knew each year’s bird patterns—to survey grounds under his guidance.

The students concocted every rumor imaginable. The gardener Kuzuoka also liked me. Because of this, Ataka-sensei was secretly tormented inwardly—or so they said.

Admittedly, even I had reached that age where one naturally begins to yearn for companionship. With this aching, itchy emotion festering in my heart, there were indeed times when—during breaks from studies—I would wander the flower fields with a sorrowful countenance or thread through the orchard with shoulders drooping in resignation. And this demeanor of mine showed a precociousness developed a season earlier than that of the Yamanote young ladies who made up most of the school's students, while unconsciously retaining traces of a downtown girl's alluring grace. Thus within the academy too, they felt toward me something ambiguous—like dewdrops poised to spill, like the honeyed scent of temptation—and with constant mingling of resentment and curiosity, they would spread all manner of rumors. Nor were there merely one or two such tales linking me to male teachers and students. But was my longing for companionship truly something so simple? If only it were that straightforward, things would be easier.

Within my yearning for human connection lay this sense: a father who had proved inadequate as a father, a mother who remained inadequate as a mother—yet toward these figures I found myself compelled to feel an inescapable longing—as if drawn to primordial parent-like figures. When this craving grew painfully intense, it became no mere matter of an itchingly sweet loneliness but rather a constriction by something cold enough to choke one’s breath. I could not help feeling like an orphan. The innocent revelers were envied and resented; so I retreated to flower fields and orchards seeking solace in plants that seemed to share my sentiments.

If this happened repeatedly, I would sometimes encounter Kuzuoka. Kuzuoka would stake supports in flower beds or spray insecticide on fruit trees with a sprayer. Keeping his face turned sideways as if ignoring me, he would toss beetles five or six feet ahead of my toes or fling moth larvae clinging to branches. Though careful not to hit my body, his choice of projectiles always proved so startling that I couldn’t help laughing. I laughed while saying,

“Stop it! You’re startling me.” When I said this, Kuzuoka bit his lower lip with his front teeth as if suppressing laughter, then suddenly feigned busyness and maintained his pretense of ignorance. Even were such a thing witnessed by others countless times, it would scarcely become rumor-worthy. For a time, though Kuzuoka’s antics distracted me, finding no comfort even in plants, I walked wind-driven to the hill’s edge.

Before my eyes lay a section of the teachers' residential quarters on the hillside slope, and further down on a leveled plateau at the cliff's edge, the academy buildings spread out solemnly—but as poplar trees stood planted thick around the schoolyard, their slate roofs remained barely visible through gaps between branches. Beyond the poplar treetops stretched the rice fields and farmlands of the Tana River irrigation district; to the left ran the train tracks between Tokyo and Sagami, while on both banks of the bridge houses crowded together to form an incipient town. The river still retained its mountain-stream character, waters splitting and merging across the wide riverbed as they flowed in white currents.

On clear days, Mount Fuji could sometimes be seen peeking from behind the Daisen to Hakone mountain ranges. To the right, the Chichibu mountain range floated far in the distance.

On a faintly overcast late autumn day, I sat down on the dragon’s beard grass, rested my cheek in my hand, and gazed out. Yoshimitsu and Yaeko were imitating wrestling, taking turns being on top and bottom. Every time someone claimed a foul had been committed, they started quarreling, chasing and being chased as they dashed about recklessly. Yaeko was counting the tubers she had gathered in her palm but frowned and dodged away, saying, “You’re going to get hurt!” Yet as if bound by some invisible perimeter, whenever the three of them ventured a certain distance away, they circled back to my vicinity again.

Thus, without worrying about growing lonely, I listened to their commotion as fitting accompaniment to contemplation while half-consciously pondering the wind—transparent as nonexistence yet ever-present when still, but once stirred into motion, making hilltop trees and field surfaces surge alive with souls summoned to madness. Then vanishing again without trace. What a cleanly masculine existence. The hand that had been propping my cheek stretched into air like feeling for someone’s presence, testing whether wind remained. In that instant I started at grapes sliding from shoulder to lap, whirling around to see gardener Kuzuoka passing by—flower shears glinting in his right hand—and through the cluster’s weight pressing my knees first sensed something fluttering against my chest just as moaning winds set hair and grass blades alike aquiver.

The wind grew steadily stronger. The great poplar trees in the schoolyard had turned golden and begun shaking their crowns like inverted fox tails when the wind—blowing fiercely against my ears from behind—grew more insistent in its howl, raising a dreadful clamor. Soon after, the poplars bent like whips; but as they rebounded in an instant, every leaf on one side was stripped away, leaving branches that resembled the half-stripped backbone of a sardine. A whirlwind of yellow leaves, carried skyward while maintaining their dew-like form, had passed high and far into the distance—but just as they seemed to scatter and fade from view—look, look, look!—an entirely different flock came sweeping in. It was a flock of migratory birds crossing over the Chichibu mountains.

The large bunch of grapes left on my lap was promptly devoured by Yoshimitsu, Yaeko, and the others—their noses and cheeks reddened by the wind—but something unvanishing remained lodged in my chest like a stubborn stem. Kuzuoka had been employed at this school after graduating from horticultural school, assisting with students’ practical gardening work and overseeing the grounds, but he was originally the son of a small nurseryman in Yamanote and had even helped out at festival night stalls, as he himself had told. He was a large-framed young man without any particular quirks, his sturdy jaw bearing the striking blue shadow of a fresh shave. He normally lived in the storage room of the principal’s château and from there reported every morning to the gardening shed in the schoolyard.

A few days after school was dismissed, I went to see that gardening shed for some reason. It was a warm, clear day, and the shadows of cosmos flowers' spindly stalks were cast vividly against the shed's wooden siding.

Spreading a straw mat in front of the shed, Kuzuoka tested the drop lid of a long rectangular box—a weasel trap, he called it—clicking it open and shut repeatedly. Kuzuoka kept click-clacking away, pretending not to notice me, still saying nothing as he bit his lower lip with his upper teeth in that familiar way while suppressing laughter. I felt a spark of indignation as if being slighted, but thinking “What insolence,” I deliberately spoke with exaggerated courtesy: “Thank you for the grapes the other day.”

Then, finally pretending to notice, Kuzuoka looked up at me, blinking as if dazzled, “It’s Alexandria grapes grown in the greenhouse. Was it good?” he said in a tone one might use to humor a child.

“Yoshimitsu and Yaeko-chan ate them all up.” Kuzuoka replied in a bored tone, “What? That so?” Then added, “Guess I’ll just have to try again sometime,” before turning away to fiddle with the trap lid, feigning disinterest. Finding this exchange thoroughly unsatisfying, I felt an urge to needle him—though whether this impulse stemmed from being a girl of marriageable age, I couldn’t say.

“Why don’t you give them to Ataka-sensei instead of me?” And after saying it, I felt intensely remorseful for having made Ataka-sensei seem like a pretext.

When Kuzuoka heard these words, he stared at my face so intensely that it dazzled me, but— “You still don’t understand anything. Ah, never mind.”

With that, he sniffled with the back of his hand. I left aimlessly, just like that.

One day when I returned home around lamplighting time, two or three strangers had come along with the regulars. The parlor was filled with an array of tools and items spread out, and at the front of a stand placed center stood one of the regulars—the son of the Shin-Kawahori sake wholesaler—wearing a headband tied at the brow and baring one shoulder, pounding on the stand as he bellowed. “Come now! What’s your bid? One more bid! Quick now—be bold! Come now—one more bid!” At this, the seated onlookers burst into laughter, but one among them affected an exaggerated tone.

“Thirty-three sen.”

The son went "Eh?" and pretended not to hear, cupping a hand to his ear and thrusting his head forward, but then immediately feigned comprehension, “What? Thirty-three sen.” “Well now, thirty and three sen.” “That’s cheap.” “What, is this Ninsei masterpiece invisible?” “Blind fools!” “But well, what can you do?” “I’d have the bidder take it back, but consider this my plunge from Kiyomizu Temple’s stage.” Here he clapped his hands repeatedly—clap-clap-clap-clap—and, “I’ll concede.” “There we go! Take it away!” Laughter erupted again. From within, a person reached out, and the old teacup was passed from the son. Someone nearby adopted an exaggeratedly solemn tone,

“Well, congratulations,” someone said. “May it remain your family heirloom for generations.” The gathering burst into laughter again. The son lifted up something resembling rotten wood and swung it beneath the electric light. “Now this—here’s something extraordinary! The timber hails from Dantoku Mountain in India—a prized kyara log, so they say! Our blessed land, steeped in Buddhist ties, saw it wash ashore at Ago Bay in Ise Province, where nightly it emits a sacred glow. And here we have Priest Gyōki—while spreading enlightenment through the eastern provinces, he passed by this very bay—or so the tale goes!”

“Your salesmanship seems rather strained—too many ‘so the tale goes’ crammed between your fine phrases!” Someone threw in a heckling retort. Another roar of laughter erupted. When I looked to see what Mother was doing, she was sitting before her usual long charcoal brazier with a look of boredom as if minding a child. Yet each time the sake wholesaler’s son—spiritedly exclaiming, “Now, starting at seven sen! Ten and five sen leaping forth—!”—flicked an item from his hand, a keen, gleaming gaze was instinctively directed at the object. Near Mother, Ikegami’s son leaned against the room’s wall, his elbow cocked behind his head as he lazily stretched his legs forward.

I stood in the dirt-floored area for a while, growing sullen at yet another raucous, disagreeable gathering having begun, remaining there without even removing my shoes. Beyond the shoji screen lay the maids' room where Shima stayed. Shima had leaned forward near the threshold between the twelve-mat room where everyone held the auction and her own quarters; though maintaining deference, she gaped at the young masters' antics like someone spellbound. At intervals she would mutter things like "How amusing" or "They're truly making fools of people" as if in delirium, then burst into sudden laughter. Shima had always been fond of all the young masters, finding everything they did utterly captivating. In truth, the young masters who frequented here each had their peculiarities, but overall they were cheerful and well-adjusted sorts. Shima too found them generous regarding financial matters from which she occasionally benefited. The sole exception was Ikegami, whom Shima rather disliked. She tended to avoid him, saying he seemed an inscrutable sort unbefitting his youth.

Shima, noticing that I was still standing in the dirt-floored area, “Oh, Ocho-sama, do come up quickly. The auction has broken out from the flea market, you see.”

said Shima. I removed my shoes there, slipped past the auction commotion, and greeted Mother with “I’m home.” Then Mother said, “Ocho, since Mr. Ikegami’s bored, I’ll let him take you out to eat.”

said Mother. Ikegami looked at Mother with a surprised expression and said, "I never said any such thing," but upon seeing her feigning ignorance, he seemed to have caught on, "Well then." "Let's go, Ocho."

He adjusted his posture. Though not entirely unaware that Mother was orchestrating something, this being my first time being taken out alone by a young man felt novel—especially since Ikegami was among the young masters I found relatively agreeable. "Yes," I answered. Mother, without altering her expression in the slightest, "If you're going, leave the house separately—we mustn't let anyone notice."

Ikegami left the house first. I went up to my room on the second floor to change into a kimono. This space—originally Father’s room—had been reassigned to me after his death, with most furnishings cleared away. Yet on the staggered shelves of the alcove remained two or three volumes resembling legal codes and a Belgian-made whiskey decanter set, through which Father’s presence could still be sensed. Father would sprawl on the tatami here to review estimates and reports for work requested by Ikegami, sipping whiskey as he looked through them. Father had been employed by others since his youth—always as a doorman or errand boy—and never sat at a desk to study. Shima explained that was likely how he developed his study habits. When cold, he would repeatedly tug at the edge of the dark blue woolen blanket spread beneath him, wrap it around his body, and doze off curled up like a tobacco beetle in its nest. To those who saw him, his sleeping form exuded an indefinable loneliness.

The evening glow reflected on the waters of Horikawa outside the window, its reflection cast back onto the second-floor ceiling where bright wave patterns swayed ceaselessly. As I gazed blankly at them, lost in memories of my late father, I somehow changed into my outdoor kimono. I touched up my makeup and went downstairs. The young masters conducting their mock auction glanced at me with mild derision when they saw me, but remained wholly absorbed in their game without suspicion. After this, it would likely turn into another drinking party.

When we arrived at the bridge’s edge, Ikegami was waiting with his head bowed. When he composed himself like this and I met this young master outside, I felt as though he were an entirely different person. He had slightly rounded shoulders, his large frame clad in a stylish suit. This gave him a slightly clumsy air—neither resembling Yamanote's intellectual-class youths nor Shitamachi's merchant-class sons—as if his half-hearted, skeptical nature manifested physically, yet at heart he remained a kind and astute young man.

After exchanging those peculiar ceremonial bows—formal yet mutually contemptuous, though paradoxically suggesting some fondness—Ikegami thrust both hands into his trouser pockets and began walking along Horikawa's embankment, his upper body swaying slightly as if rowing through air, each step falling in steady rhythm. It didn’t seem like the gait of someone escorting a young girl. Once more I struggled to devise how best to walk alongside this stiff-legged gait, but given his long strides, I found myself having to break into a jog from time to time.

Horikawa's stone walls, dried and already showing early winter's hues, raised an unseasonably chilly evening mist over black water. Amidst the bustling shops along the riverbank nestled two quaint fishing boat inns. From four or five boats that had just returned offshore and moored at the bank, boatmen were unloading their gear and catches beneath willow roots. At the fishing inns, customers clustering around hearths seemed to be boasting about their catches, their raucous laughter carrying outside. Today's haul lay heaped on platters at the shopfronts, splendidly displayed toward the street with children swarming over them. That this catch was mullet became apparent through the fish's characteristically vigorous stench—a smell that struck one's nostrils long before approaching.

While pressing my nose with my sleeve, I peered at the mullet. I disliked this fish's stench but found its appearance appealing. Devoid of any curves and clad in leaden and silvery hues like some primordial stone rod, it struck me as a creature all bluster and obstinate simplicity. The tale that they perish swiftly despite their vigor made me pity them. When Father visited our house and overstayed his welcome, Mother would grow restless and urge him to go fishing. He too seemed fond of angling and would depart from this boat inn. Every year around this season, he would return with these mullet. Then Mother—casting aside her usual affectations—would become a cook, working with Shima to prepare sashimi or salt-grilled dishes from the catch. When hauling a plentiful bounty, she'd gut them into large dried fillets strung up to Father's second-floor window.

The smoke-like smell made me dizzy, so I stayed outside for a while before returning. Of course I absolutely never ate the flesh of this fish. However, within this fish’s belly lay what was commonly called the "mullet’s navel"—a muscular organ shaped like abacus balls. Though I didn’t know what organ it was, skewered, salted, and grilled, it had almost no fishy odor, and its pleasantly rubbery texture with a firm bite made me quite fond of it. Shima, knowing this, would always prepare it for me.

“Miss Ocho, here’s the mullet’s navel.” I ate while stifling a chuckle at the name’s absurdity. And when I noticed, Father too abstained from mullet flesh yet favored its organs—having Shima arrange them on lacquered trays as he sipped evening sake with these morsels for accompaniment. When Shima mentioned me, my habitually indifferent father fixed his gaze on my face and uttered just one phrase: “Ocho has peculiar tastes.” I remember how Father’s faint bitter smile then carried an undercurrent of helpless emotion—nostalgia for our similarities shadowed by aversion—that seemed to brush his lips.

I too felt something welling up inside me, “But Father too—” I retorted. Excepting our meeting at the Meguro villa shortly before his death, it seems Father and I had exchanged such raw, heart-touching words only this single time in his entire life. Having thought such things, my lingering before the fishing boat inn grew prolonged, and Ikegami—who had gone ahead—came back again,

“Did you find something interesting? You like fish, Ocho?”

he said.

I, unable to articulate the complex feelings welling up in me at that moment through brief words, simply said, “Yes.” Then Ikegami,

“Well now, that’s fine. I prefer fish over beasts myself. Why don’t we try going fishing together next time?”

he said, but then started hurrying ahead, “I’m getting hungry. Let’s just hurry.” Ikegami urged me on. The riverside town sank into deep dusk, its indigo-inked rows of houses and river surface swallowed by night mist that thickened to wisteria purple—so dense it chilled the throat with each breath. Firefly-yellow and crystal-clear lights seeped then gushed forth, striking against water, roadbed, and sky alike. Along the bank lingered autumn’s last willows, their leaves scattering onto shoulders like whispered farewells.

When we reached the point where Horikawa formed a crossroads and several small bridges became visible in all directions, we too crossed one of the bridges. “This bridge is called Otokobashi, you know. “And the bridge you see over there is Onnabashi—” Ikegami, who had grown quite talkative, chattered on about such things to me as we entered the district on the opposite bank known as Nakasu. This was land reclaimed from what had once been a delta at the mouth of the Ōkawa River. In Mother’s youth, they say theaters and archery ranges stood here—quite the bustling entertainment district—but now it had become an utterly ordinary residential town, with numerous warehouses likely due to its convenient docking facilities. Offices of related shipping agents and trading companies mingle among the townhouses.

Only along the Ōkawa-facing riverbank did a few refined and tasteful restaurants remain, their presence evoking memories of when this place was called Mitsumata—an elegant spot for summer cooling and autumn moon-viewing. Ikegami entered one of them called Kikunoya. “We do have a room facing the river available, though it might be a bit chilly for you?” Ikegami answered, “Splendid.” In the spacious tatami room, just the two of them, they set the dining table somewhat closer to the riverside before the tokonoma alcove, and while occasionally gazing at the river’s nightscape through the glass-paned shoji screens, they slowly moved their chopsticks. Ikegami appeared to be a drinker, pouring himself from the sake decanter and bringing the cup to his lips. The maid, perhaps thinking herself considerate, put on a show of friendliness only when bringing food plates, then otherwise kept to the shadows.

“It’s as if we’ve come to listen to plovers on a cold night,” or,

“Back in the Genroku era, there apparently was a Bashō-an in Fukagawa somewhere on the opposite bank diagonally across from here.” Or so Ikegami rambled disjointedly about matters of no interest to me, his daughter, seemingly at a loss for how to sustain the conversation.

Even as I grew older, I still exhibited that habit of mine when eating food—while lost in all manner of thoughts, I would respond absentmindedly with “Yes” or “Is that so.” Suddenly, the image of Kuzuoka, the academy’s gardener, crafting a weasel trap while basking in autumn sunlight rose in my mind. I wonder if he ever caught that weasel afterward. What could he have meant when he said with that convinced expression—“You still don’t understand anything at all”—this in response to me casually mentioning Ataka-sensei on a whim to test his feelings? After that incident, I would occasionally catch sight of Kuzuoka in the gardens, but he would always seem to avoid me—veering onto side paths or turning sharply around to retrace his steps. Ataka-sensei would again suddenly show only to me these blatantly feminine gestures—sighing deeply, pressing her cheek against my forehead, parting the hair at the back of my head with her fingers while letting hot tears trickle into my sideburns—and precisely because these actions made me feel such visceral revulsion that my body shuddered, they left me utterly bewildered. Why had such occurrences grown so frequent? In any case—even regarding Kuzuoka—were he to learn that I was now sitting face-to-face with another young man over a meal—I fully understood he would not feel at all pleased.

If only I could interact with Kuzuoka without stirring such emotions, and continue associating with Ikegami as I do now—how happy I would be. Does such a thing as friendship between men and women not exist in this world?

In my girlish heart too, there were times these days when I desired what people call love or romance so intensely it ached in my chest. However, these were but forms disguising substances of differing natures—and should one mistakenly become entangled, unless tormented by mounting frustration from relentless pursuit, they would steadily transform into uglier hues until finally withering in disappointment. Having witnessed this pattern in my father's obsession with my mother, I found myself contemplating these unfertilized eggs of love and romance that periodically arose within me—these solitary yearnings—and while privately marveling at their delicate beauty, I simultaneously conditioned my heart to fear and despise them. That was why—if only I could obtain not something like love or romance, but simply reliable male friends—how delighted I would be. In that case, even if one were to become two or three, they would not conflict with each other.

Should I try telling this intelligent and kind young man about my life's plan? The sounds of tugboat steam boilers and whistles reverberated frequently along the riverside. The lights of vehicles crossing the diagonally visible Kiyosu Bridge had grown sparse. The shadow of the elegant bridge floated upon the light of lanterns lining its railings, taking on a slightly eerie quality as it loomed darkly high into the sky. The waves left by a steamship lapped against the stone wall of the banquet room's foundation, resounded like the seashore. I picked up the vermilion-glazed sake decanter. Though I could have mimicked the practiced pouring gestures Mother had mastered through observation alone, something about performing them felt vaguely embarrassing, so I simply grabbed the sake decanter like a stick and turned its spout toward Ikegami.

“Let me pour you a drink.”

Ikegami made a puzzled face and held out his cup, but after bringing the rim of the cup I had poured to his lips, he set it down, "You really shouldn't pour drinks for men so often," he said gently.

I, having gone to the trouble of doing it for him yet being thought impertinent, responded with a touch of anger,

“I know that,” I said. Perhaps taken aback by my demeanor, Ikegami adopted a conciliatory laugh and— “If you’d only do this for me, well, that’s another matter altogether.” he said jokingly. I too, getting drawn into it, “So you’re the jealous type?” I said, also in jest. Then Ikegami remained silent and looked downward for a while. Then he tightened his face,

“To tell the truth, that’s exactly how it is,” he said. I grew disillusioned, thinking that discussing Kuzuoka now would be futile, and simply began talking casually about my daily school life—how there were orchards on sunlit hills and flower fields where we gardened between classes. We gather bulbils too. As I chattered on about such ordinary things, Ikegami’s face grew increasingly serious.

When I noticed this, I felt slightly startled and asked him why. Then Ikegami said that hearing such innocent, idyllic talk about others somehow grated on his nerves, and with evident reluctance, he explained why. In the Ikegami household—originally wealthy landowners with ample assets—the hemp wholesaler shop in Setomono-cho desired no expansion beyond maintaining its ancestral trade. Rihyoe, Seitaro’s father and family head, was a libertine yet genial old man. Restless by nature, he perpetually yearned to dabble in new ventures. He had launched several enterprises only to be deceived each time, all ending in failure. Overseas trade numbered among these. Kakuroku, their clerk, was thoroughly reliable, while Rihyoe’s wife’s uncle from the Notoya family counted as what one might call an accomplished man in shitamachi style. As cracks began forming in their assets, these three convened and commenced supervising Rihyoe. They discarded all ventures save overseas trade. This arrangement arose because my father had been engaged as a consultant on overseas trade methods. They reasoned Rihyoe would remain docile only if permitted this single hobby. Under such supervision, even the upbringing of eldest son Seitaro came under restraint. For the Ikegami household, personal indulgences—womanizing foremost among them—remained manageable however lavishly funded. Only business ventures posed true peril. Rihyoe himself stood as prime example. Thus when Seitaro displayed literary leanings during his top-ranked days at First Middle School, the supervisors seized upon this to cultivate permissible diversion. Proactively, Seitaro developed a passion for playwriting during his First High years. Thereupon the three supervisors exhausted every means to facilitate his connections with actors and theater circles.

When Seitaro moved to university, his interests shifted toward haiku and its history. The three supervisors redoubled their efforts to encourage this pursuit. Masters of the old tradition and avant-garde haiku poets were invited to the Hama-cho dormitory.

The three supervisors had yet another plan. Just as with Rihyoe’s wife, they reasoned that if they secured Seitaro a so-called "accomplished bride" in the shitamachi style, the household would remain stable forever—

“Ocho,” “You’re still a girl who’s never known hardship—you probably can’t fully comprehend this—but do you think people can just walk straight down the path they choose when everyone around them pulls their strings like this?” Ikegami Seitaro had already emptied four or five sake flasks. Prone to bad drunkenness, his face—with the faint eyebrows typical of a modern youth—turned as pale as if painted with young leaf sap, only his lips retaining vivid rawness. “When someone earnestly seeks something pure in their heart, these philistines swarm around like festival dancers—beating drums and gongs from the sidelines, waving uchiwa fans to hype them up with empty flattery.” “With all this, whether something like art can be nurtured or not—it should be obvious.”

Whether from drunken disarray or not, Ikegami fixed his eyes and began muttering to no one in particular. “When things like faint glimmers, secret yearnings, fragile whispers—or single-minded devotion, wholehearted passion, pure sincerity—are all trampled underfoot, can there truly be such a thing as art?” “Hey, you.”

Perhaps he had never possessed a robust literary ambition to begin with; repelled by such circumstances, Ikegami said he had dropped out of the university’s Japanese literature department midway. “Womanizing is another matter entirely. “It’s not like I’ve been instigated by others and gone falling head over heels or anything, is it? “Hey, Ocho. “Even someone like me—I’m the only virgin left among all these downtown young masters, you know.” He said that while this did align with his own preferences, he’d stubbornly protected himself from womanizing by blending in his rebellion against those philistines.

During this time, the maid came two or three times to ask if she should at least serve the young mistress a meal, but Ikegami sent her away. “There’s one more thing I need you to hear, Ocho.” “Is that clear?” And propping both elbows on the table, he thrust his head forward,

“Your mother is scheming to push you onto me.” “When she sees me dragging my feet, she threatens to make you a concubine or sell you off as a geisha.” “Now this is downright entertaining.” “But I plan to play along with her scheme—knowing full well what’s what.” “Because here’s the thing—I want to pull off one action that’s purely my own doing, completely untouched by those philistine puppeteers of mine.” “I’ll show them all up.” “And your mother’s clumsy little tricks? They’re the perfect boat to ferry me across.”

And Ikegami let out a laugh tinged with madness. I felt that something about my circumstances had already caught the attention of adults as a woman. That was frightening, but I also felt there was a sense of challenge. "I don’t know why, but you can’t just leave me out of something like that." I asked, feigning a bit of foolishness. Then Ikegami waved his right hand grandly,

“That won’t do. “Any action must have a motive compelling enough to justify taking it—though putting it that way might be too complicated for you to grasp—but in any case, the other party must be you.” In his earnest manner, I felt the shallow joy of a girl’s heart. I said with a slight affectation, “Oh, this is so troublesome.” It was then that Ikegami, saying “Ah, I’m drunk,” called the maid and had her serve me a meal. As I ate the ochazuke—topped with this shop’s specialty of miso-pickled chrysanthemum flowers over rice—the frequent cheeping could be heard along the riverside. The maid said that seagulls were gathering around the food scraps being discarded in the kitchen.

Staggering unsteadily, Ikegami nevertheless carried the souvenirs and escorted me all the way to the entrance of my house. Only Mother remained awake, wearing a padded winter kimono in front of the long charcoal brazier. As I said "I'm home" and headed up to the second-floor room, Mother gently answered "Welcome back," all the while fixing her eyes on me with an appraising gaze that seemed to inspect every detail of my condition.

A little over a year had passed. Kuzuoka’s manner of steadily avoiding me; Ms. Ataka’s display of femininity, a stark contrast to her dignified demeanor during athletics. Once I grew accustomed to it, it ceased to bother me much, and I continued innocently playing in the garden with Kira, Yoshimitsu, and Yaeko as my friends.

It was the end of the year. The academy’s term ended at noon on the 23rd of the month, and with the 24th as a day in between, it had been arranged that on the 25th, students who frequented her home would gather at Ataka-sensei’s house for Christmas. Thus, from then until the seventh day of the new year was designated as the New Year’s holiday. On the morning of the 24th, as I organized textbooks and notebooks no longer needed from this semester alone in my second-floor room—thinking how next year I would turn eighteen, the very bloom of maidenhood, and how come April I would finally graduate from girls’ high school level and enter graduate studies—Mother called me down and instructed me to deliver year-end gifts to acquaintances. Mother was a woman peculiarly insistent about such formal social obligations.

The first destination became Ataka-sensei's home - she who had shown me particular kindness during my time at the academy. Truth be told, since late autumn last year when Ataka-sensei had inexplicably turned sentimental, while I wouldn't say I actively avoided her, I'd gradually found her presence increasingly tiresome. What had been five visits became three; two became one. By now these visits had dwindled to mere monthly occurrences. And so today too reluctance rose within me first, but this being an annual year-end obligation, there could be no refusal. Summoning resolve, I departed carrying the furoshiki-wrapped bundle Mother had prepared.

The road and sky were thickly blanketed in mist, with the morning sun evenly reflecting off it all, making it feel like walking through tinted gelatin. The teacher’s villa-style house appeared square and solid, resembling a rose bud with one or two petals curling outward at the edges. Even when I pulled the entrance bell cord, there was no response. As I stood bewildered and dazed, from the direction of the oak grove on the upstream hill came the familiar barking of a dog, and gunshots echoed. I recalled that whenever year-end approached, Ataka-sensei would shoot ducks and wild birds to present to the principal’s household for their New Year celebrations.

The barks of dogs and gunshots coming from a moderate distance restored my sense of nostalgia for Ataka-sensei. And even in the sound of coarse gunpowder explosions—in the interval between firing a shot and the follow-up shot meant to recover from that missed mark—there was something poignantly pitiable about how it faintly evoked the image of a woman who had bungled an affair, wavering in deliberation as she sought to atone for it. In tasks considered feminine, not only did nothing womanly manifest, but when she consciously tried to display it, there emerged an indescribably unpleasant quality that repelled others—even the faint down at the corners of her lips, which one might almost mistake for the shadow of a mustache on this androgynous spinster beauty—yet when handling something as rough as a firearm, instead took on a tender delicacy that plaintively appealed to the heart. Contemplating this inherent contradiction in Ataka-sensei’s nature, I remained waiting outside the entrance a while longer. The gunshots showed no sign of drawing nearer. I grew impatient, left the furoshiki-wrapped bundle on the entrance stepping stone, and went to search for Ataka-sensei in the oak grove.

The oak grove, surrounding orchards and flower fields atop the hill, embraced the three-tiered strata—the level with school staff residences, the tier with academy buildings, and the irrigated farmland plains along the Tanagawa River below—as it continued standing all the way to the riverbank. I wandered along the faintly visible narrow path through the forest, guided by gunshots and barking dogs. When I thought the sound was right there and went to check, the barking of dogs could already be heard from another direction. I strayed so far that I myself found it absurd.

Straying this way and wandering through the forest on a warm early winter day filled me with an indescribable nostalgia—lonely, sorrowful, yet rapturous. The leaves had completely fallen and lay thick upon the ground, their frost now partially melted to add moisture, so that my boots sank softly into the earth up to my ankles with each step. Beneath the sound resembling starched hemp cloth being rubbed together lingered faint whispers of crumpled raw silk. To trample and trample it all without composure felt terribly extravagant and wasteful. Moreover, each time my foot broke through the leaf layer, the slightly fermented scent of decomposing foliage near the soil would rise from the hollows—carrying a sensation both rustic and refined, like wiping one's face with raw Japanese paper, tinged with desolation. Rather than seeking direction, I walked the narrow path in all directions as if this aimless wandering were its own purpose.

The mist within the grove thickened further, enveloping everything beyond twenty ken in all directions in its boundless haze. Walking endlessly through this endless stand of trees—with neither direction nor destination determined—I came to feel myself like a traveler single-mindedly continuing my journey in search of something that might become a treasure for the heart. Does such a thing even exist? Or am I compelled to seek it regardless? In this moment, no such doubts arose at all. I was simply a traveler who continued to seek it. And as I watched through the treetops how the mist within the grove steadily brightened into scarlet hues across each cluster of trees, it felt as though the oak grove—while keeping me walking within it—had both myself and the very ground lifted by someone's enormous hand, gradually drawing me closer to where the treasure lay. I, listening to Ataka-sensei’s gunshots and the baying of hunting dogs that had been coming at intervals as if in a trance, chose the brighter parts of the forest and pressed onward. Golden light shone into the mist, forming a thick, bright wall on one side. As if I had found my final purpose, I braced my heart and plunged into that wall of mist. It was at the edge of the oak grove; moving beyond it, there lay a radish field where sunlight glittered on green leaves.

I felt as though I had encountered the world I once inhabited again and, strangely, took in my surroundings. Before I knew it, I had exited the oak grove and found myself on the back of a hill jutting into the river on its upstream side. When I looked around, the mist had cleared considerably, and from the hill on the riverbank to where the oak grove lay ahead stretched a flatland of continuous fields. On the nourishing-looking black soil, vegetables stood in countless green dotted rows. Four or five farmhouses came into view. Across the river, three-sectioned utility poles at the base point appeared. At the Tanagawa River, which had widened low across Ishikawa Plain as if peering into its depths, the river’s streams split into numerous channels flowing downward, then gathered back into a single course to enter beneath the hill on the bank. Across the river from Ishikawa Plain, winter-bare trees grew thickly; where their brown undulations mingled with pine groves, the layers of earth gradually rose in elevation. Where these pine-covered mountains continued, the groves extended all the way to a great ridged hill that ran parallel to the river downstream. In the far distance, the Chichibu mountain range could be seen, its folds tinged with purple snow.

It was an utterly ordinary landscape without any peculiarity, yet compared to the bustling view of the Tanagawa River from the academy’s sheltered grounds, it felt like seeing two sides of the same object. But with the sun warm and the mist completely cleared, I found myself in such fine spirits that I resolved to survey this terrain—so near the academy yet seldom visited—as I followed the path between oak grove and radish fields. The thaw had turned the soil thoroughly muddy. I made my sluggish way down the hill’s slippery slope toward the riverbank, boot heels carving rounded impressions into the softening earth. Perhaps I might yet find lingering sasanquas in the riverside thicket.

As I drew nearer to the river, the farmland ended, giving way to an area where mixed trees and weeds grew thickly into a wild thicket. And beneath this grassy area, during the great flood two or three years prior, a large portion of the cliff soil had been carried away. Since then, the cliff face remained exposed as bare white earth, the water stagnated, forming what appeared to be a small pool. Ataka-sensei used to talk about how small ducks would sometimes gather in the pool. The gunshots and barking dogs had faded away, but perhaps Sensei might have gone down there after all.

Maintaining my entranced state as I passed through the grassy zone, I gave no particular thought to the shape of a rundown hut jutting out from the thicket onto the somewhat widened white dirt path where something was smoking, nor did I pay any mind to the disheveled old man eating by the smoke as I tried to pass indifferently. Moreover, from the old man—

“Young lady of the Academy—” Even when called out to, I merely stood there, thinking that since I was in uniform, he must indeed be addressing me as a young lady of the academy, and that he was likely just making some casual remark about the weather. At the academy, whenever there was an event or bazaar, they would always summon the local beggar boss and distribute money, goods, or food. Therefore—perhaps out of gratitude—whenever they encountered an academy student, they wouldn’t even cling to sleeves; indeed, they refrained from any malicious behavior altogether—

However, next came words from the old man—

“Young lady, roasted sweet potato? Won’t you eat? It’s delicious, you know.” When addressed thus, I felt a twofold terror so intense that I nearly let out a scream I barely managed to suppress. One was the fear that this old man had discerned my roots being of beggar lineage; the other, that what had dwelled deeply in my deceased father’s heart might now be nostalgically beckoning through this man’s words—these two thoughts had been abruptly drawn forth in me all at once.

In my attempts to fathom Father's heart, I came to understand this: that past middle age, worn to exhaustion by life's trials, he had developed a longing intense enough to sear his heart—a yearning for the reeds and soil that nurtured him in childhood. Yet precisely because such deeply rooted inclinations pass easily through flesh and blood, he had gone to extremes to avoid emotional entanglement with me, his child, fearing this legacy might take hold. These truths revealed themselves layer by layer whenever events compelled me to recall him. There was no longer any room for doubt. Father had wanted to call out to me with a voice of pure instinct, casting aside everything. The outcome might have been parent and child sleeping on reed mats or tumbling to the ground—he had wanted to cry out in the unadorned voice a parent naturally desires. But Father had been hindered all his life by something and had been unable to do so.

That I am a girl of beggar lineage—even during those times when I was engrossed in exploring Father’s feelings—I had forgotten this truth about myself. Though easily stirred to loneliness by something as slight as the wind’s sound, I also seemed to others a rather showy girl who lingers in their hearts—having inherited some measure of Father’s stubbornness and Mother’s cunning. A young woman perceived thus cannot help occasionally believing it herself; indeed, whether gazing at flowers or the moon, I likely possessed a nature that found more delight in such things than most girls my age did. Moreover, Mother—now compelled to adorn me like merchandise since I’d come of age—ceased even hinting at me as a beggar’s child. Why should I go digging into the origins hidden within what I’ve become? I had believed those concerns vanished forever.

But now, as if to rouse me from my drunken dream, a wretched voice reached my ears.

“Roasted sweet potato—won’t you eat? It’s delicious, young lady.”

I froze. What was I to do? But when I calmed my mind and listened carefully, I discovered that the voice was utterly natural, bearing no trace of hidden intent. The kindness followed instinct so thoroughly that one might think the elder felt it a duty to speak thus to the younger—there was a deep, warm resonance in his voice, like that inherent to a parent bird’s true call. “It’s not dirty at all, young lady. I clamp them with chopsticks to put them in and take them out of the fire, you see, and my hands haven’t touched them at all.”

Nevertheless, I braced myself and began approaching the old man. His attire was haphazard but not particularly dirty. His hands and face were small—an old man with skin as fine-textured and fragile-looking as a mushroom. He was a figure who could contain no human vitality beyond mere scraps of honesty and goodwill. I felt somewhat relieved, “What kind of sweet potato is it?” I first inquired in return. The old man picked up a black lump from the embers with a fire skewer and speared it,

“Chinese yam, you see—the kind they skewer on bamboo and sell at the Tori Festival, those ones.”

After swinging the black lump through the air to cool it, he handed me the skewer's base. The old man blinked his small squirrel-like eyes rapidly, watching me handle it with a blend of concern and curiosity. "It should've cooled by now." "Try peeling it yourself." "The white flesh inside will come out." As I still hesitated, the old man continued in that same measured cadence— "Earlier, Ataka-sensei and Mr. Kuzuoka passed by and ate some too." "They said it was delicious."

My heart leaped in a single bound from concerns about my origins to speculations regarding Kuzuoka. For over a year now, Kuzuoka had maintained such formality toward me, yet I abruptly recalled with displeasure how he was accompanying Ataka-sensei in places unknown to me. I gathered all these thoughts and asked:

“You know Ataka-sensei and Mr. Kuzuoka?” The old man puffed up with pride. “If it’s teachers from the Academy—starting with the principal—I know them all. After all, I’ve been around these parts longer than the Academy itself has existed.” He explained that he had long been on familiar terms with Ataka-sensei and Mr. Kuzuoka through matters related to hunting guns and plant collecting. “When I find rare plants or trees, I let Mr. Kuzuoka know. “When I find places where birds gather on the land, I tell Ataka-sensei. “It’s not like I get any thanks for it, but whenever I find such things, I can’t help wanting to tell someone—that’s just my nature. “Though I may be a beggar like this—”

I had been growing increasingly reassured by this old man. While thinking that had Father—who in his later years had become like a potted tree waiting to wither, having shed both sexuality and soul—been kept alive and replanted in the earth to regain health through its vitality, he might unexpectedly have become such a lighthearted and pleasant old man as this, though perhaps it was also due to my hungry stomach that before I knew it I was picking off bits of the Chinese yam to eat.

“Oh, this is delicious!”

Then the old man said, “See there,” and brought fresh straw from somewhere to lay out for me. “The academy’s already on break, isn’t it? “Well then, rest here awhile. “The winter riverside view’s worth seeing too.” “And I’ll roast you some ginkgo nuts. “Ginkgo’s tasty stuff,” he added. As I settled on the clean new straw and kept eating the Chinese yam, its remarkable flavor made me forget nearly everything. Then from beneath that calm emerged my old habit—I sank deep into tangled thoughts. The old man, perhaps considering me some rare guest he might entertain, chuckled while roasting notched ginkgo nuts over renewed flames, boasting how closeness to earth lets one discover nature’s marvels.

“Earthworms, despite having neither eyes nor ears, are clever creatures, young lady. When they’re about to poke their heads out of the soil, you see, if they hear a thrush’s cry, they quickly pull their heads back in like this.” The old man stopped his fire-tending chopsticks and comically mimicked retracting his neck. That amused me, and his desire to keep me seated there even a little longer was fully perceptible. Yet as I grew increasingly absorbed in my thoughts and could only manage a polite smile, the old man—perhaps thinking this approach ill-suited to holding my interest—changed his tone. He made a grave expression as if considering weighty matters,

“I hear Ataka-sensei will be leaving the academy starting next year.” “Do you know about this, young lady?” he said. This came as a complete shock to me. My consciousness immediately rose to confront the matter at hand. “I don’t know! Is that really true?”

Even the suspicion arose within me that perhaps some problem had occurred between Kuzuoka and me again. "So that matter hasn't been made public yet," said the old man, and then spoke as follows. From what the old man could see, the two had truly been good friends before. However, from around this spring, odd tensions had begun to emerge between them. Ataka-sensei would grow jealous, and Kuzuoka would make excuses. Ataka-sensei would cry, and Kuzuoka would be at a loss. There were even times when they seemed to be having marital quarrels. The situation escalated until it became unmanageable, and Ataka-sensei threw a tantrum, declaring she could not stay another moment at the Academy where Kuzuoka worked—a tantrum she then ended up making into reality. Thus, arrangements were finalized for her to conclude matters at the Academy by the start of next term and transfer somewhere far away. “The other day, I was told she won’t be here next year.” “Today, both of them appeared as simply and brightly as old friends from the past, but you know, every now and then while eating sweet potatoes, they both sighed quietly.” “What a mess.”

As I listened to the old man’s story while turning over various thoughts in my mind, my heart grew astonished. Without my knowledge, I had apparently been influencing these people all along, and now that influence had suddenly manifested itself before my eyes in such grand fashion. My chest burned with impatience, my lips quivered uncontrollably, and I felt I could neither stay nor leave. I abruptly stood up and addressed the old man: “Goodbye.”

With those words, I dashed off toward the academy. The old man, appearing not to know what it was about,

"Ginkgo nuts! Ginkgo nuts!" he called. Running along the long-familiar shortcut, my breath ragged and body utterly spent, I rushed to the entrance of Ataka-sensei's villa. The year-end furoshiki-wrapped bundle still lay on the stepping stone where I'd left it, while on the villa's door—written in Ataka-sensei's bold fountain pen across Academy stationery—stood these words: Ataka-sensei will be departing for skiing somewhat earlier this year. Tomorrow's Christmas celebration is canceled. December 24th, noon Ataka Everyone:

it said. I desperately tried pulling the bell cord. There was no response at all.

In disarray, I went to search for Kuzuoka at the garden tool shed. The door was shut, and a New Year's straw rope decoration hung upon it.

I took the furoshiki-wrapped bundle and once returned home, but I had no peace of mind at all. With a sense of having wounded someone pure, the story about Ataka-sensei's resignation told by the beggar-like old man—its circumstances unclear, its truth beyond questioning—felt undeniably real to me, for a faint yet familiar memory within me rose as evidence. This too I had to resolve quickly, inadequate though I might be. I spent the entire night without sleeping a wink, my every movement going awry to the point that Mother remarked, "This child has gone mad," and early the next morning on the twenty-fifth, I placed automatic telephone calls to Kira, Yoshimitsu, and Yaeko.

“It’s terrible! Ataka-sensei is leaving the Academy!”

And I designated a cafeteria on the upper floor of a Yamanote department store that would be convenient for everyone to gather and discuss, since it was also close to the suburban train line leading to the academy. When I hurried there by bus, the three had already gathered at a table near south-facing windows, sheltered by a screen, their morning faces dazzled by slanting sunlight. Kira's eyes remained puffy from sleep as he ate pancakes instead of the breakfast he'd missed. In the spacious dining area beyond our table, only two or three other groups were visible.

I sat down in the chair and, with my left hand firmly grasping Kira and Yoshimitsu’s hands and my right hand tightly holding Yaeko’s, looked around at their faces. Tears streamed down uncontrollably. Kira was the same age as I and would be eighteen next year. He still had his masculine strength concentrated in his square shoulders, while from there down his body stood straight and gaunt like a single flower stem—yet in this very form he had grown into a youth who appeared capable of enduring hardship. His hair was parted in an adult-like manner, and he wore a greenish suit.

Yoshimitsu, a year younger than I, had not only completely overcome his halting Japanese but acquired an extensive vocabulary. His manner of speech—which matched his intelligent face—revealed glimpses of a sage who artfully circumvented issues while deftly settling matters. Over the mouse-gray collar of his underkimono, he wore Oshima kasuri. Yaeko had transferred from the affiliated elementary school to the academy that spring, but her face—now shaped into that of a middle-class lady—had become so poised and refined that it was ill-suited to her school uniform.

As I grasped everyone's hands and looked around at their faces, I marveled at how these boys and girls had managed for three or four years to completely transcend gender and individuality, becoming united as one—frolicking among flowers, threading through branches, playing like butterflies and birds across the academy grounds—and this realization struck me first, filling me with grateful humility, yet I sensed this fellowship would not endure much longer. Wouldn’t this discussion likely be the last of our beautiful fellowship? As this thought took hold, my tears flowed even more uncontrollably.

What made me think this was that Ataka-sensei—who had once been the very heart of our united fellowship—had gradually become preoccupied with her own emotions, begun neglecting our group, and I myself had somehow come to feel compelled to keep secrets from these friends.

During my lamentations, my friends—who had been urgently asking "What's wrong?" and "Just tell us something"—finally seemed to abandon their efforts, and Yaeko declared: "Our dear sister has become so sentimental, she's utterly impossible now." At these words, Kira erupted in anger: "Cry all you want then. I'm going home." He hurled his napkin onto the table in threat. This brief, incomprehensible melodrama fortunately remained hidden behind the screen, unseen by others.

I finally regained my composure and told them about hearing the rumor of Ataka-sensei's resignation—and how terribly lonely and sad we would be if it were to come to pass—without divulging the substance of the incident itself, for even if I had tried to explain it, much remained vague conjecture. I confined myself to speaking only of those aspects that affected our emotional state. “If it’s a lie, go and see for yourself. Because Ataka-sensei has canceled the Christmas event that’s never been missed all these years—there’s a notice posted on the entrance door—”

Even so, everyone groaned "Hmm" in response. But in an instant, Yoshimitsu cleared the path.

“Let’s go meet the principal and ask,” “And if it’s true, how about asking him to make her stay?” “If Ataka-sensei isn’t here now, then isn’t this the most reliable method?” Yoshimitsu thoughtfully added that even if Ataka-sensei still refused to comply despite their efforts, it would not be too late to launch a petition from all academy students for her retention early in the New Year while thoroughly verifying the reasons behind her resignation. Everyone agreed. I felt relieved,

“Then you two boys go see the principal right away. Yaeko and I will wait somewhere,” I said. “Well now—no sooner do you stop crying than you start ordering people about. Still the same spoiled girl,” Yoshimitsu retorted. He gave a wry smile but stood up nonetheless, turning to Kira with a look like a captain signaling his players before a match. “Let’s go,” he said briskly.

Kira gave a simple “Yeah” in reply and followed behind with thudding footsteps. Boys are such pleasant creatures, aren’t they? Seeing them off, Yaeko called out in a petite voice, “Fine play.” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“Since there’s no Christmas at Ataka-sensei’s place anyway, let’s just spend the whole day having fun on our own.” Since the boys had left instructions telling us to go out to Ginza and wait, I took Yaeko and went out to Ginza. The year-end night stalls had set up shop for overnight business. Uniformly adorned with red-and-white striped curtains, stalls clustered around willow roots—battledore shops, kite shops, stores selling Shinto altar implements, rice cake grills, straw rice container holders, toso sake flasks and chopstick pouches—all these New Year-oriented vendors mingled vibrantly with regular shops, while the regular shops too decorated themselves no less lavishly until it felt as if spring had come visiting. At the plant shops, items such as potted plum trees, adonis flowers, foliage peonies, and daffodils were particularly prominently displayed.

Even in the morning, the crowd was considerable. People from the lower city in sleeved haori coats leading children, those from the hill districts in Inverness capes with walking sticks, and among them Western-dressed girls with moth-drawn eyebrows drifted through like swimmers over the water-swept pavement stones. Compared to yesterday, the mist was thinner but it remained a warm, hazy day. As far as the eye could see, the showy buildings of Ginza's first and second blocks to the high-rises facing Kyobashi glistened like pearl inlay moistened with dew. Having grown up in town, entering such bustle made me feel more settled than in my own home—so at ease yet restless I could hardly bear it. Pointing at a show-window mannequin dressed as a society wife and declaring "That's you" to Yaeko, then indicating a beer-barrel-shaped drumming toy figure with "And that's your husband," I alternated between making her laugh and blush. With ample time still before meeting the boys, we thoroughly explored Ginza's eastern and western quarters. Suddenly I remembered how this past spring, for an alumni association charity fundraiser, they'd rented a plot along these hut rows to sell plants cheaply. I too had been drafted as fifth-grade representative to mind the sales stall, when Kuzuoka—handling flower deliveries—saw me stationed there and boldly approached despite having avoided me before and after.

“You shouldn’t stand here making a spectacle of yourself. “Just say you’re sick and go home.” He left abruptly after saying this—I now recalled. If he could show such kindness to people, then why couldn’t he have shown Ataka-sensei a little consideration and spared her from being driven to resignation? To stand by and let her die so calmly—even if his feelings toward me and Ataka-sensei were different in nature—didn’t this prove Kuzuoka was fundamentally a wild man harboring cruelty or insensitivity in his core? Be that as it may, the man who caused Ataka-sensei’s resignation and made me fret so much was truly detestable.

To settle this grudge, I felt I absolutely had to exact some revenge. Disregarding Yaeko’s puzzled looks at my side, I fumed with anger while leading her into the M—— shop the boys had designated—as the appointed time was nearly upon us—then went up to the second-floor dining room decorated with a Christmas fir tree and waited. Eventually, just past twelve, Kira and Yoshimitsu returned with faces drained of all their earlier vigor. Upon hearing their account, the Principal had explained that while Ataka-sensei had indeed come yesterday to broach such matters, it had been entirely out of nowhere. Moreover, Ataka-sensei had been one of the academy’s founding staff members—barring truly compelling circumstances, such ties could not be severed lightly. Furthermore, since the circumstances behind her resignation remained unclear and they viewed this as a temporary mood swing common in women approaching middle age, when they placated her thoroughly, Ataka-sensei had unexpectedly acquiesced and withdrawn her resignation. The Principal had further added that it was by no means anything for everyone to worry about as much as they were, the two boys reported. Since both Kira’s father and Yoshimitsu’s father were academy council members, it appeared the principal had spoken with relative openness and explained matters up to this point.

“What? That’s all it was?” Yaeko turned back to look at me with a somewhat reproachful expression. “Well, at least we went and asked about that much—it was worth it,” I said, letting out a small sigh of relief. “Come on, let’s eat the turkey and pudding, then go see a movie.” Kira said this cheerfully, his face looking as though he had finally unburdened himself. Yoshimitsu said, “Still though—where do you suppose Ataka-sensei went skiing? Her usual Akakura, maybe?” as he let his imagination run wild with various possibilities.

Since these children too were soon to be going on New Year's trips somewhere with their parents or siblings, the conversation revolved around such plans for a while. Three days into the New Year, it was now the morning of the fourth. For me, New Year brought no particular excitement—it simply meant the tedium of applying heavy makeup and changing into formal kimonos, so I shut myself in my room resentfully, keeping my hands busy with needlework. I looked forward to graduating from the academy's regular course in April and entering graduate studies. As I was thinking such thoughts, Mother would occasionally call up from downstairs,

“Since all the neighbors are out playing battledore, you should come out too.” So, at her urging, I reluctantly went out front with Mother, carrying battledores. Normally unacquainted merchants and residents of tenement houses came out in droves to the streets, assuming their once-a-year air of familiarity as they exchanged battledores. When they lost, they would paint their faces with white powder using a brush. They resisted; others chased. Before long, the pleasantly tipsy men joined in too, and the whole affair turned into a raucous uproar.

The sky shone like polished glass, wind rustling through bamboo leaves on towering New Year's pine decorations. Across Horikawa's small bridge, a lion dance procession came into view, its great drums echoing off riverside buildings until the whole neighborhood thrummed with festival energy. Then came the ceremonial fanfare of year's first merchant deliveries. Stepping outside after all, I found my mood not entirely disagreeable. Mother's social choreography within this milieu proved characteristically vivid. Reserve-mannered neighborhood matrons and preening young women gradually melted under her artful flattery and attentive care, until they were calling her "Ocho's mom" or "Auntie Ocho," clinging to her every whim like compliant shadows. With women thus disarmed, the men's rapid loss of vigor seemed inevitable. Only the small boys retained some immunity to Mother's charms, occasionally snapping back with feral defiance. "What's this, you stingy old crone—"

Even Mother seemed to have thrown up her hands at this, resorting to polite avoidance with a "Yes yes, I quite understand." While waiting for my turn at battledore, I stood on the gutter board and happened to glance at my house. Through the open lattice door, I saw a man in Western clothes and an overcoat who resembled Kuzuoka, the academy gardener. I thought "Oh?" and stared intently when, immediately, the man who had been guided by Shima and exited through the lattice door came toward our group of battledore players. It was unmistakably Kuzuoka. I was so startled that my body seemed to freeze.

Kuzuoka turned to me with an uncharacteristically amiable expression directed squarely at my face, then went over to Mother and bowed politely. He was relaying some message. Mother responded with even deeper courtesy than Kuzuoka had shown, but soon broke into a bright smile and motioned for me to come. "Come now—Ataka-sensei has sent for you," "There's apparently some sudden spring event." "You must accompany him at once."

And to Kuzuoka she said things like "You went out of your way all this distance," and "To think you'd even deign to call on someone like us," expressing her gratitude as she saw him off. Mother held institutions like government offices, schools, and teachers in utmost regard and had a tendency to receive them with obsequious deference. I put on the coat that Shima had brought and helped me into, then followed Kuzuoka in silence for some time. However much Ataka-sensei might have returned to the villa and suddenly summoned us, sending someone like Kuzuoka—who had never once come to my house before—was going too far. I thought this was strange. Kuzuoka exited onto the tram street, turned a corner, and once he was out of sight from the group playing battledore where Mother was, he suddenly slackened his pace,

“Miss Chouko, were you surprised?” he asked. I felt like I’d been tricked by a fox and stared holes into Kuzuoka’s face as I said, “I was surprised.” Then Kuzuoka said, “I’ll explain everything properly later, but for now—isn’t there somewhere just the two of us can be?” For some reason, Kuzuoka was irritating me, so I said, “I don’t know any such place.”

Kuzuoka’s face suddenly flushed with anger, “This is no time for such selfish posturing.” “Two people stand at life’s precipice here—” he said, the rest of his words trailing off weakly. It was here that I finally grasped the gravity of our situation, “Then I’ll think about it,” I said, and after pondering this and that while straining my meager wits, I made my way to Yoshicho and entered an eel restaurant there. Mother had always told the young masters who frequented our house that eel restaurants were ideal for rendezvous. She’d claimed custom orders took time to prepare—advice I’d once deemed distasteful wisdom—yet now found myself applying that very same distasteful stratagem while still loathing its necessity.

After the maid—her hair done up in a New Year chignon, perhaps in the Shimada style or something similar—had shown us to the room, taken our order, and withdrawn, an awkward interval passed between us. In the alcove hung a scroll painting of waves at sunrise, before which lay silk-floss molded offering rice cakes adorned with an intricately crafted shrimp. On the alcove pillar, green vines of trailing ivy hung down to the tatami mats. Kuzuoka was gazing at the silver folding screen painted with winter peonies and coralberry when— "This is my first time coming to such an impressive restaurant."

he said. Then, with a worried look,

“I’ve only got twelve or thirteen yen on me—will that be enough?” he asked. I said, “I have about five yen, so it should probably be fine.” The two of us remained silent for some time, wishing to postpone even slightly addressing the problem about to be broached. Yet gradually, as if both Kuzuoka and I had long anticipated this fate—that someday, somewhere, we would meet to discuss these urgent matters pressing upon us—it came to feel that our sitting face-to-face here now was far more natural than our encounters in the academy’s flower gardens, that this was in truth our true face-to-face encounter. Therefore, when Kuzuoka finally broached the subject, his manner of speaking eliminated all superfluity and immediately weighed the substance of the matter against the other party, taking on the nature of a private conversation.

Kuzuoka said. “Ataka-sensei has left the academy. “She isn’t coming back.”

I heaved a deep sigh and, "I see... Just as I thought—" I said.

“As long as you and I remain at the academy, Ataka-sensei will never return.” I suppressed my discomfort and asked: “Listen, Mr. Kuzuoka. “I can roughly imagine how matters developed, but for formality’s sake—could you explain it yourself properly? “Otherwise, our future discussions might develop warps.”

And these words were so mature that even I myself thought I had become an adult.

Kuzuoka, as if emboldened by this, proceeded to narrate all the facts as follows. Ataka-sensei—who grew up at the foot of Mount Akagi in Joshu Province—met the academy’s future principal before its founding while working as a gymnastics teacher at a girls’ school in Tochigi Prefecture; recognizing her character and capabilities during their encounter at a ski resort, he sponsored her studies in Finland, the nation of sports. Upon the academy’s founding, she returned to Japan, joined its staff, and her new knowledge of sports and idealistic disposition were held in high esteem not only among the academy’s faculty but also within the broader community of women’s physical educators.

Ataka-sensei had long advocated Puritanical interactions between men and women as her core principle. She believed in the existence of platonic friendship between men and women as kindred spirits. Because Ataka-sensei loved flowers, she would comb through plant nurseries whenever night markets appeared in nearby towns. It was during this time that she became acquainted with Kuzuoka—a boy who unfailingly set up his stall at those night markets. When Ōkubo had been famed for its azaleas in years past, Kuzuoka’s family had run a modest nursery there. After Ōkubo’s urbanization left them adrift, and his father—wracked by worsening rheumatism—took to his sickbed before dying soon after, Kuzuoka found himself shouldering the care of his frail grandmother and aging mother while commuting to horticulture school. He rented a small house with vacant land near Komaba, growing flowers there which he arranged into potted plants and sold at night markets to cover living expenses and tuition.

The boy, who possessed an exceptionally robust constitution, found himself eroded by overwork's fatigue, perpetually dazed and listless. When he stared at the red glow of the lantern illuminating his stall, he immediately felt as though stepping into a bath. He would fall into heavy sleep and often had his wares stolen. Ataka-sensei took pity on the boy. She gradually supplemented his insufficient tuition to ensure his graduation from horticulture school, then recommended him to become her academy's gardener. Though the academy salary remained meager, he received gratuities for tending faculty gardens, while day students from wealthy homes summoned their academy's familiar gardener to commission private work. Freed from life's struggles, Kuzuoka began growing steadily.

Though she harbored desires toward ideals she had never before seen realized, Ataka-sensei would invariably detain Kuzuoka—from his days as a boy working night markets to his present visits delivering potted plants to her villa—and pour into him with utmost intensity both her philosophies and the bitter frustrations of their unrealization. Brought to the tender heart of youth, Kuzuoka’s mind—muddled by exhaustion—readily accepted this. Kuzuoka said. "I thought there could not exist two women as pure and beautiful as Ataka-sensei in this world. "I thought in my childish heart that I would gladly dedicate my entire life to this woman."

The friendship between Goethe and Frau von Stein; that between George Sand and Flaubert—Ataka-sensei had researched and knew well many such examples of renowned cross-gender friendships in the world, and she spoke of them beautifully. As Kuzuoka grew into a young man, he came to view the substance of those friendships as something intimate, standing upon the bridge of mutual attraction that was even then being built between Ataka-sensei and himself. All carnal desires and awareness of the flesh were cast aside, and they became like transparent, pure gases—merely charged electrons of opposite sexes differing in nature—illuminating one another.

Then flowed a warmth unearthly in its mystery between them, its moisture congealing within hearts like glass beads until it pooled with soft dripping sounds, wafting an ineffable fragrance that lingered faintly in the air. Strict self-discipline, like spring thunder's rumble, pleasantly numbed desire's outermost reaches. Serene suppression, like autumn water's gleam, shot through and scattered instinct's murky depths. Men ceased being men, women women, yet the savor of their mutual regard remained distinctly undiminished. Nostalgia striding lofty heights, care like clasping hands above clouds—shall we call this tragic grandeur? Yet no tears came with it. Shall we call this grave? Yet no weight accompanied it. Borne by wind, they walked onward.

As if rhyme, rhythm, and linked arms moved in unison, the fields stretched hazily into the distance while mountains dissolved into mist. Passing through oak forests to reach the riverbank at the hill's edge, they looked down at the Tana River below and across to Chichibu's mountains beyond—in such moments, they imagined themselves as mystical beings filled with transcendent emotions in a world beyond ordinary existence. "We'll stay friends like this forever... won't we?" "Yes... forever." Their bodies brimmed with extraordinary vitality. An excess of physical energy accumulated within them. During walks, one would suddenly sprint ahead without warning. This became a desperate race of overtaking and being overtaken. They strained to overpower each other, hatred flaring when near defeat. Such emotions—even if performative—combined with streaming sweat to knead their very beings from within. When running strength finally failed and they halted, somewhere in their exhausted flesh they rediscovered a soul's clarity.

The two found fallen chestnuts on the road. One tried to take them while the other sought to prevent it. They collided bodily. When one nearly seized a chestnut, the thwarted party would hurl it forward. One chased to retrieve it; the other blocked the attempt. Again their bodies tangled in struggle. With each violent impact, they felt their pent-up worldly passions burst into sparks like scattered embers. There existed hunting rifles there too. There were dogs. The sounds of machinery rending the air and wild beasts roaring at nature—hearing these lightened their bodies and minds. Platonic love—Kuzuoka remembered such terms too.

However, Kuzuoka began noticing things that gradually struck him as suspicious. Ataka-sensei and Kuzuoka only grew close in the wild thicket upstream beyond the oak forest. It was a place neither academy teachers nor students ever frequented, with no houses nearby. Pure cross-gender friendships achieve their most favorable growth in nature—while this theory of hers sounded reasonable enough at first glance, Ataka-sensei’s attitude toward Kuzuoka within the academy grounds on this side of the oak forest remained far too formal.

There, she seemed to draw distinctions between certified teachers’ qualifications and those of hired staff, demarcating boundaries between an intellectual woman and a man who labored in the soil. Whenever Kuzuoka inadvertently let his habitual tendencies surface and addressed her with even slight familiarity, Ataka-sensei would stiffen her posture particularly, respond with curt “Hmm”s in formal diction, and deliver cold replies like “That would suffice” from an elevated stance. This too seemed to satirize Kuzuoka, implying he ought to exercise restraint in public engagements.

Kuzuoka was indignant. Wasn't this already supposed to be a pure friendship between a man and a woman? Why on earth should appearing together in public be something shameful? Ataka-sensei's words about being unashamed before heaven and earth were but a veneer of lies. Kuzuoka once confronted Ataka-sensei about this matter on the riverside hill. Then Ataka-sensei placed her hand on Kuzuoka’s shoulder and, “You must endure such things.” “There is nothing more terrifying than the misunderstandings of worldly commoners’ eyes.” And,

“Those like us who share a love of the highest order must act with utmost wisdom.” she also said. To Kuzuoka—even as his suspicion grew that Ataka-sensei might be maintaining appearances in public while toying with him like a male concubine in private—the absence of any lewd demands such as a pseudo-mature woman might impose upon a young swallow of a man meant she remained sacred after all, and her words seemed ever more truthful to him. He even scolded himself, thinking that he—the one harboring such suspicions—was in fact the shady individual tainting Ataka-sensei.

"But—" Kuzuoka paused as if reconsidering his thoughts, then spoke. "It was you, Ocho—you're the one who tore that heart in two."

And Kuzuoka rephrased his words and declared.

People's likes and dislikes seem somehow determined from birth. From when you were a girl of thirteen or fourteen—your loose-hanging hair disheveled, boot soles trampling their outer rims as you raced across the schoolyard—you had soaked into your own heart. A showy, spirited bud meant to bloom riotously—that grand flower's bud somehow fails to take in water. You are that kind of woman. The corrosion was nowhere to be seen. The stem stood sturdy; the leaves gleamed glossy. Yet still the bud failed to draw up water.

That made it all the more heartrending. Likely, there was no one else who could perceive this particular beauty. I understood. As a professional grower of flowers, I understood. From my youth, hardened by life's struggles, I who had felt something similarly parched within me recognized it in you instantly. A woman with a withered bud tugs at the heart—like sunlight through clouds, like water rippling in wind. When a man withers, he simply dries up. When a woman withers, she dissolves into acid. You had seeped into me. You made me heavy. Yet I couldn't freely feel this truth nor express it as it was. There Ataka-sensei bound me like iron chains. Years upon years of sorrow and resignation. In time, you grew into a young woman. A young woman like oak leaves' first green. My heart pulled so fiercely I couldn't keep still standing or sitting. In the end, Ataka-sensei couldn't have failed to notice. Ataka-sensei too was fundamentally a woman.

“Inconvenient truths,” Kuzuoka says. “Ataka-sensei also loves you, Ocho.”

To hear Ataka-sensei tell it—Ocho—you were said to be that sole daughter she herself could never become yet would wish to become if ever possible. Ataka-sensei declared: “When I see you, Ocho, my idealism and Puritanism come to seem like tenuous shadows—strained contrivances.” “Can will and intellect ever truly withstand a woman’s instinct?” “Looking at you makes me feel the natural beauty of duckweed flowers—blooming pliantly wherever currents carry them to shore.” “I cannot help sensing the vigor hidden within what appears fragile.”

Not only could Ataka-sensei not bring herself to hate you, but she even harbored longing—how agonizingly painful must that fear and loneliness have been for her, watching you try to take me away. Before others and students, she kept up her composed, vivacious facade, yet the true self she revealed when we were alone in the oak grove was pitifully wretched by worldly standards. Unable to vent directly at you, she turned all her frustrations upon me. What this entailed—Ocho, you being a young woman of marriageable age now—must have been at least partly discernible to you.

In Ataka-sensei’s moral judgment of love, I was a transgressor and sinner. I had been made to believe this so thoroughly by her. Thus I submissively accepted that censure. What other path existed but submissive acceptance? Even Ataka-sensei, who assailed me in half-maddened fury, was truly at her wits’ end. Ataka-sensei too deserved pity. Perceiving this, I resignedly endured it for her sake. Yet despite this, no matter how I strove, I could never sever you completely as she demanded. For even the very strength with which I tried to cut you away was being eroded by your presence. It resembled a small bird alighting upon a rifle’s barrel. It had drawn too near for the trigger to be pulled. I had always been a man who could endure, but never one who could dissemble. This being so, Ataka-sensei pressed me to declare my resolve. I remained silent. Ataka-sensei fretted; I grew confounded. At last casting aside final restraints, she commanded my decision: “Marry me, or sever all ties with Ocho.”

I knew that if Ataka-sensei married me, it would invite public censure and likely force her to resign from her teaching post. At the very least, we would have to flee this city. Having sensed the depth of resolve behind Ataka-sensei's willingness to make such sacrifices, I told myself that someone like me no longer mattered—I even considered surrendering myself entirely to her keeping. Yet when it came to that moment, you, Ocho, became the obstruction. You blocked my path like a stake thrust up from the riverbed. And like that stake's tip, you halted my attempt to hurl myself into marriage's abyss. The current neither carried me back to shore nor let me go onward, leaving my floating body suspended midstream to drink bitter waters.

“I am still young,” I pleaded with Ataka-sensei to wait until next year before making that decision. She refused, saying, “I’ll grow old.” Seeing my indecisiveness, she even began making unreasonable demands—declaring she would resign since she could no longer work effectively at the academy where Ocho and I remained. I tried to appease her. She insisted. Before long, matters dragged on until year’s end, and in that unresolved state, Ataka-sensei declared Tokyo no longer agreeable and departed for skiing before the year was out.

However, now that it was New Year, according to the letter from Ataka-sensei that arrived yesterday, she had returned to her family home at the foot of Mount Akagi. And she had informed us that until this matter was somehow settled, she would never return to the academy. Ataka-sensei had written that both Tokyo and the Academy had become nothing but sources of sorrow for her—

At the conclusion of Kuzuoka’s lengthy account, I felt a momentary relief, only to be struck with horror at how deeply tangled and torn my perceived relationships—between Kuzuoka and Ataka-sensei, and my own connection to them both—had become beyond all expectation. Caught between what I had once heard from a beggar by the upper reaches of the oak forest river—the nearly conclusive claim that Ataka-sensei would leave the academy—and the principal’s words of assurance brought back by Kira and Yoshimitsu, who reported that while Ataka-sensei had spoken of departing on a momentary whim, she had immediately reversed that decision, I had utterly failed to grasp the truth of the matter; now that this decisively pessimistic turn had come to light, I felt an extraordinary shock. I said with a sigh, “Things have gotten quite out of hand, haven’t they?” As I continued sighing and asked Kuzuoka a few words about Ataka-sensei’s hometown, the maid brought in the ordered items.

Kabayaki grilled eel raft-style，kimosui eel liver soup，and umaki tamagoyaki rolled omelet.

The two began their meal. The wind had picked up considerably, and the sound of bamboo leaves rustling on the New Year’s pine decorations and the hum of kites could be heard. Amber sunlight streamed through the shoji, and the dull thudding of a winter fly colliding with the paper screen could be heard. Kuzuoka was eating, “Downtown food is tasty, isn’t it?” he said, but since he seemed unfamiliar with how to eat eel restaurant dishes, I explained the food to Kuzuoka while making him aware of the hook—a charm for good luck—inside the liver soup bowl, teaching him to take it out and attach it to his lapel.

“Whoever gets this hook will surely catch good luck in the coming year,” I said with a wry smile. As Kuzuoka pinned the hook to his suit lapel just as I had instructed, he muttered, “If I don’t get some bit of luck soon, having to worry about a runaway from New Year’s onward isn’t the least bit welcome.”

he muttered. But the strange thing was my heart. While I told myself I was still at ease when Ataka-sensei's whereabouts remained unclear, there had been a heavy unease deep within my heart; yet now that matters had come to light, my feelings instead became clarified, leaving me merely busily thinking—as if driven by surface-level obligation—that I must do something. The reason for this was that, even if framed as beautiful friendship, the fact that Ataka-sensei had manipulated and led along this simple young man for so long—and done so in secrecy—filled me with nothing but jealous loathing. Having convinced myself that it was Kuzuoka who had driven Ataka-sensei to such anguish last year’s end, I had even sought revenge on him to resolve her resentment; yet now that notion had reversed entirely, and I came to think that whatever might befall Ataka-sensei for Kuzuoka’s sake was no less than her rightful retribution. I even felt like telling Ataka-sensei, as vulgar gossip would say, "Once you fall in love, that’s the end of you." And then Kuzuoka,

“What should we do?” “How about we both send letters—from me and from you—asking Ataka-sensei to come back?” he said. I retorted, “But Ataka-sensei still thinks I don’t know anything, doesn’t she? Besides, sending such a letter would be absurd.” As I continued refusing, Kuzuoka pressed further: “No—you were startled when Kuzuoka confided a certain matter to you. But you have no feelings toward me, and as for Ataka-sensei, you remain her cherished student who holds dear sentiments. You harbor nothing beyond that—so if you’d tell her to return to Tokyo, Ocho, her heart will surely settle. You’re her favorite girl in all this world. And I’ll include a separate apology letter from me too.”

he said. "What reason could there possibly be now for Kuzuoka to apologize," I thought, "and for even me—who did nothing—to bow my head and plead with Ataka-sensei?" I had no particular desire anymore for Ataka-sensei to return. "So if you want to do that, do it yourself. Trying to drag me into this isn’t manly in the least," I said. My feelings had changed so drastically from moments before that it felt like some kind of shock.

Kuzuoka and I exchanged verbal thrusts two or three times, but when he realized the futility, he finally— "Women—even slips of girls—turn formidable once they dig their heels in." "Fine then. Let's have it your way."

“he said.”

The two left the eel restaurant. As we parted, I asked Kuzuoka one last time—just to be certain—

“In your apology letter—are you going to write that you’re cutting me off?”

When I asked, Kuzuoka, “Who would do such a thing? Gratitude is gratitude, and love is love,” he declared defiantly. “And so I—” “If you’ve heard that much—” With those words trailing off into vagueness, I felt something resolve itself deeply within my heart. Even the koto has substitute players. Why should a girl’s heart always follow a single tune? Ever since I realized that Ataka-sensei harbored unreasonable demands, impure aspects, and tendencies to bend people to her will, not only had the goodwill I held toward her completely withdrawn—I even developed a desire to confront her in battle. Yet while remaining this same self, where within me did such elements exist? Had I inherited the vein of that competitive, passionate enthusiast who was my father? Or been imbued with the tenacity steeped in my mother’s cunning? In any case, despite being a young girl, I became determined to shoulder Kuzuoka alone and fight against the entire world. Once resolved, I transformed into a girl so resolute that even I stood astonished. If being sincerely loved could so drastically change a woman, then here I stood—living proof of that transformation. Yet this state of mind had become too deeply immersed in my own being—I could no longer discern the extent of its influence or the nature of its metamorphosis. Thus this chivalrous urge to separate a simple young man from an old maid’s unreasonable demands—did it mean we women were ultimately sweet yet self-serving creatures after all?

I left the eel restaurant in Yoshicho and began making my way home. The sun was still high; it had not yet reached two o'clock. It wasn't that I couldn't return home by making up some excuse, but suddenly a certain idea took shape within me. "This incident won't be resolved easily." With only Kuzuoka—one of the parties involved—and a single young woman like myself handling this alone, our efforts might soon prove inadequate. "I must secure someone who can lend their strength when the time comes."

Now that the incident had taken on this nature, I knew it was no longer a matter for Kira or Yoshimitsu-chan. I concluded that Ikegami was indeed the only one I could consult, and remembering that when I had met him at year’s end he had said he would be alone at his Hamachō dormitory over New Year’s and urged me to visit, I made my way there. The place called Hamachō now had its former appearance completely obscured by rows of closely packed houses, but in the past, it had been a rustic area associated with cultured individuals—a land said to have rivaled the Hatchōbori Kayabachō area in Shitamachi. Long ago, the haiku poet Hattori Ransetsu had lived here, and the waka poet Kamo no Mabuchi had also resided here. Mabuchi, they said, had named his residence "Kakei" after the rustic charm of its surroundings—a fact Ikegami had once mentioned. Ikegami's dormitory seemed to retain some vestige of its former days, though it stood entirely inconspicuous among these rows of houses. Upon passing through the gate, one found at its center a pond preserving traces of what had once been a water gate entrance from the Sumida River—where small ducks would come bobbing in among the gulls—with an island of stones at its center connected by a slightly sloped brushwood bridge. The surroundings were artfully terraced with undulations, and though small in scale, every detail had been carefully considered. The artificial hill alone—perhaps out of deference to its surroundings—had been constructed merely for form’s sake.

The elderly wife of the dormitory manager—perhaps having been instructed by Ikegami about me—upon hearing my name, immediately said, “A short while ago, an acquaintance came by and took him out for a meal. But since he is scheduled to return shortly, please go upstairs and wait,” she said, ushering me inside.

It was a single-story structure attached to a tea room, its glass-paneled sliding doors tightly closed. Inside it, I was waiting. The elderly dormitory manager’s wife would come by periodically even during that time, adjusting the charcoal in the hibachi and preparing tea while, “What could have happened to Young Master? He left saying he’d return right away, but it’s grown quite late now,” she fretted on my behalf. “Oh no,” I said, “since I’m free anyway, I’m taking my time enjoying the garden. He will surely return before long.”

After dismissing the dormitory manager's wife with an air of taking charge myself, I touched up my makeup, gazed at the winter sun warming the lawn, and looked around the room—all while pondering all sorts of methods regarding Kuzuoka's incident, thinking "Should I do this? Should I do that?" Since first meeting Ikegami at Kikunoya in Nakasu at the end of last autumn, he had taken me out for meals two or three more times. Each time, Mother secretly inferred the deepening extent of Ikegami’s infatuation with me and smirked to herself.

Ikegami, fully aware he was indulging Mother’s self-satisfied smirk, had been cultivating greater familiarity with me. Mother must have grown sufficiently assured, for Ikegami remarked with a bitter smile that she had lately ceased making those transparent threats about apprenticing me as a geisha or selling me into concubinage.

And what of my own heart? I was already eighteen, so I had given thought to how I should live my life. However, I harbored doubts about marriage itself. Following conventional wisdom—given this lonely disposition of mine that had never known true physical affection since childhood, that perpetually yearned for some vague notion of eternal parents—even I couldn't help thinking I ought to find a husband who might replace those absent figures; one who would care for me, comfort me, gently scold and guide me to heal this parched heart. But did such a man truly exist in this world? Wise men were too occupied with worldly affairs, while foolish men busied themselves with amusements and diversions. Even if temporarily enduring, a husband who remained unchanged and fully protected his wife throughout their shared lifetime—though I'd heard such tales—I couldn't believe them without seeing proof that his inner self matched those words. At least within my experience—from my own father down to every young master visiting our house—each proved thoroughly unqualified.

Another concern is my own character. There seems to be something within me that cannot defer to men. Men possess both strength and wisdom—I do think them admirable—but this admiration doesn't inherently contain qualities that make women defer. Rather, the greatness in a man that would make a woman defer seems to lie not in such admirable traits, but instead—though this may certainly be a woman's self-serving notion—in having an unconditional capacity to embrace women and devote himself so thoroughly that he'd be called indulgent by male standards.

Thus, a woman like me has ended up only being able to associate with men who—even if not particularly remarkable—allow me to get by without having to defer to them, men who possess certain indulgent tendencies typical of males. However, though men of this nature may suit me temperamentally, they ultimately become burdens I must shoulder—not protectors to rely on, but ones I must protect myself—a truth made evident through my recent interactions with Kuzuoka, who has revealed his true colors. Is it even possible to achieve the marriage I hope for under such circumstances?

Ikegami's hidden motives likely intended to use me as a pawn to outwit the vulgar people oppressing him from all sides—in other words, to position me as an advocate for free marriage against arranged unions and take preemptive action. Moreover, since Ikegami had declared that to do so required an ally charming enough to carry it out, there could be absolutely no doubt that he did love me. However, if you loved me, wasn’t loving me alone sufficient? Must you go so far as to drag me into your twisted fate and try to make use of even my meager feminine power? I had no desire to assist in such matters. If it meant keeping company with twisted fates, Father and Kuzuoka alone were already more than enough. In the end, I too could only think that there was no path for me other than remaining single and becoming a career woman. All I asked was that those who loved me become my friends and help me through this lonely life.

Across the brushwood bridge over the pond appeared the figure of Ikegami in an Inverness coat. Following behind him came a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl dressed in modest outing attire befitting a respectable household. I thought, “Oh?” Was that the guest the dormitory manager’s wife had mentioned? Being a woman herself, she must have deliberately avoided stating the guest was female out of consideration for me. Perhaps there was a rotted hole in the middle of the bridge—Ikegami crossed it easily, but the girl hesitated. Then he extended his hand, let her take hold of it, and considerately helped her across. Even I felt a boiling surge bite into my chest for an instant before it vanished, leaving a harsh wind to blow cruelly against that slight burn scar.

“Men—they’re all like this. What does that even mean?” Just as an old man who had left his tobacco pouch and glasses case scattered about might have begun tidying them piece by piece before even engaging in conversation—so too did I begin gathering up the thoughts I had let scatter within my heart one by one, resolving that after greeting Ikegami I would promptly take my leave. The elderly dormitory manager’s wife ran out and appeared to be informing Ikegami of my visit. Then Ikegami’s face broke into a crumbling smile as he entered the house.

“My apologies, Miss Chouko. Did you wait long?”

Then, this was Okimi, the youngest daughter of Karoku, the shop manager. Through her parents' wish for her to be employed in a maid-like capacity, it had been arranged that after the third day of New Year's, she would commute to this dormitory. "Today being her first day, I treated her to Chinese food at Hamanoya as a celebratory gesture," he said. The girl dutifully greeted me, then immediately set about folding Ikegami’s Inverness coat and serving me fresh tea—the very picture of a devoted maid at work. Even as I tried to decline, she proceeded to meticulously fold even my coat,

“Oh dear, there seems to be some mud here.” “It must have been splashed up by a first delivery cart.” “I’ll just go and brush it off—” With that, she stepped out onto the veranda beyond the glass door. She was indeed a young girl, younger than I. Her looks were nothing remarkable beyond fair skin, but her dutifulness and innocence resembled a narcissus bud, and I somehow felt stirred from below. I had suddenly matured—I couldn’t help but feel like that sort of woman. A petty spitefulness and coquettish mood welled up within me,

“Forcing the shop manager’s daughter to become the young master’s bride—it’s just like the start of some samurai succession crisis.” When I said this, Ikegami stared fixedly at my face— “You’re talking nonsense. You wouldn’t grasp such things, Ocho, but my household remains rigid about class hierarchies—shop managers would never harbor ambitions for marriage outside their own station.” He explained that the girl would spend three or four years like that learning proper manners at the master’s household before being settled into a generally predetermined marriage.

Though hearing this explanation left me no room for doubt, I had already reached a point of no return. "But one must consider contingencies." Even as Okimi entered through the glass-paned door, I remained composed—or rather, made a deliberate show of composure— "Do exercise caution now." The moment I spoke these words, propelled by reckless momentum, I found myself seizing Ikegami's left wrist—the one not holding a cigarette as we both warmed our hands over the same brazier—with such force it might as well have cried "Stop!", astonishing even myself.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk. You’re being cruel, Ocho.” Ikegami—perhaps already slightly intoxicated—showed no suspicion toward my outrageous behavior. Instead, he displayed a look of mild exasperation tinged with dazedness as he compared the marks from my grip to my face. “It’s barely the New Year. Could you be a bit gentler?” he said with a cheerful laugh. Okimi suddenly bowed her head deeply, but from his nape to his earlobe turned as red as the sunrise.

I felt a vaguely cruel sense of victory and matched Ikegami's laughter as alluringly as possible. It was but a single technique—one that a man could wield on one side. On the other hand, it could unsettle the rival woman. For a woman who had tasted this flavor, would it be akin to drinking something like blowfish wine? That drink beckoned numbness, and numbness beckoned yet more drink. I, having cleverly achieved my aim, deployed one after another the feminine charms and techniques that women possessed—

“You’ve been eating something delicious, haven’t you? I want some too.” “Take me somewhere for dinner too, okay?” and such—putting on an innocent face while acting coquettishly toward Ikegami,

“So you call her Miss Okimi. How beautiful she is—enough to make women swoon!” As I said this—teasing Okimi while casually making remarks too cutting for a girl not yet of age—I wondered if this too proved I was my mother’s daughter. At this point, even Ikegami—ordinarily indecisive and presumably burdened with serious matters—began showing an expression of honest liberation, as if experiencing freedom for the first time in his life. “Ocho, you’ve really got quite the flashy streak in you.”

Chuckling, he had Okimi bring a whiskey set and gave me a drink diluted with hot water and sugar cubes, "Why don't we do something properly springlike?" He ordered Okimi to play records and devoted himself entirely to feeding the flames of excitement with fresh fuel.

Among plum trees, the red plum blooms the earliest. The reason for this may be that this tree stands just outside the glass door of the dormitory’s sitting room, and the glass door—along with the tea room’s paneling that turns at that corner—gathers and holds the southern sunlight within its embrace, thereby acting as a sort of single-box frame for this tree.

Devoid of grace or charm, from the middle of its trunk—standing darkly in sullen silence—emerges a somewhat purposeful middle branch as if compelled by necessity, which ascends only to excessively sprout overly delicate twigs toward the treetop, their hurried attempts to bend their sharp tips resulting in a tangle as intricate as twisted wire.

While still cold, against such eccentric branches and trunk, innocent bald-like flower buds clung here and there to unexpected positions without any prior arrangement—where they came from, when they arrived, even the flowers themselves lacking the capacity to consider—blooming scatteringly with a beauty of such naivety it bordered on dementia. Their mouths, which had begun to form faint smiles, relaxed slightly as they began to bloom with a beauty reminiscent of a young girl whose lips glistened faintly with moisture.

As the flowers matured, those elongated, contorted pistils began asserting their dominance. They stretched upward with a deranged elegance—ostentatious yet aloof—like junior court ladies flaunting their mistress' authority, or kyogen actors executing ceremonial bows to an invisible audience. Overpowered by these pistils, the crimson petals became mere gaudy cushions—each one an eightfold layer of scarlet extravagance. Yet when another hour passed, both pistils and petals alike senesced under sun and moon alike, putrefying beneath the glare until they scattered chaotically across Third Month skies—oblivious to peach blossoms' splendor, adrift in mist-shrouded reveries.

Following this red plum came the Bungo plum by the hand-washing stone at the tea room's southern edge. Its trunk had become mere scaly bark, barely conducting moisture to branches that bore double-petaled flowers - their white faintly tinged with bluish-purple. Neither fully plum nor apricot, this elaborately crafted blossom exuded loneliness disproportionate to its ornate form. Blooming slightly later stood a young wild plum beside the Bungo. This was an ordinary white plum - simple yet fragrant. The staggered blooming of these plums here seemed due not to species but sunlight exposure alone.

The Bungo plum and wild plum may appear to stand side by side at first glance, but in reality they exist in a relationship of primary and secondary. The primary Bungo plum had aged into decay with diminished blossoms, and as the view of the early spring sky through its branches from the tea room grew sparse, they had apparently brought a young, vigorous wild plum to plant beside it as secondary. They say the method of planting involved bringing the wild plum into a hollow of the Bungo plum's trunk and positioning it so that, when viewed from the distant guest rooms, it would appear as blossoms on a single tree.

While I was gazing at this,

“This seems quite a makeshift way of planting.”

When I said this, Ikegami, master of the dormitory, "I didn't have them plant it. It was arranged by the shop manager called Karoku," he said. The maid Okimi—who had been sifting ashes from the morning brazier with a tasuki sash across her back and wearing an elder-sister-style headscarf—reddened slightly when her father was mentioned. During New Year's, I had visited Ikegami at this Hamacho dormitory and returned home that same day. But bearing secret designs, I began visiting the dormitory myself within three days thereafter. Soon I maneuvered him into inviting me, until finally I became a guest at this dormitory.

“If you stay in your mother’s house—like some flophouse where people sleep packed together—your character will be ruined.” “Even temporarily—come stay here, and commute to school or wherever from this place.” This was Ikegami’s proposal. I couldn’t possibly tell Mother the full truth of his words, so when I simply relayed his suggestion, she nodded with an officious expression—then jerked her chin up sharply.

“Oh ho, so that man has seriously gone and said such a thing?” “Very well, come along.” “Come properly like an obedient girl.” “But—” she said, but after darting eyes around to check for listeners, she placed her hand on my shoulder and pulled my ear close to her mouth,

"You're already eighteen, aren't you? You do understand that until you become a proper bride, you mustn't let yourself be deceived by anyone, right?" Something comical welled up inside me. "Oh my, I haven't the faintest notion about such things."

As I tilted my head to look up at the ceiling and deliberately answered with feigned innocence, Mother scrutinized my expression with suspicion. She seemed about to offer a gentle smile but instead stiffened both corners of her lips tightly before speaking. “Good. If you’ve become this skilled at feigning innocence, then living with a man shouldn’t be a problem.” “Mom can feel at ease sending you off now.” “But you know, Ocho dear, you mustn’t let your guard down.”

With these words spoken in exaggerated gentility, she removed her hand from my shoulder.

To me, she was an unlikable mother from the start. And my present conduct came from having concluded that evading her was less troublesome and more convenient in every way than angrily countering my mother’s shallow, sarcastic admonitions—it was not some display of feminine artifice in response to a mental test that she had arbitrarily interpreted as such. Though I harbored no major resentment toward Mother—who had resigned herself from the start to being a mother fated never to connect heart-to-heart with me—for concocting that interpretation from her own nature and accepting it as truth, I could not help feeling pity nonetheless. The reason was that, though she was a mother I disliked, until now I had never once shown Mother actions or words contrary to my true feelings for the sake of keeping secrets. If displeased, I would either sink into sullen silence or storm off in a huff. In that honesty—inherited from Father—Mother both believed in me and even feared me somewhat. In that sense, it could be said that until recently, there had still been something in me that connected with Mother.

However, ever since meeting Kuzuoka at the eel restaurant, I underwent an abrupt transformation. A secret castle had formed within me; standing solitary within its walls, my inner self now restrained and manipulated my outer self from within that fortress. Even if it meant enduring deeds unbearable to my very being—if it served to protect this secret castle, if it fulfilled plans hatched within its confines—I found myself cultivating a ruthless determination to wield my outer self with cunning precision, twisting and exploiting it until bones might bend and snap, sinews tear asunder. And one of these attempts had inadvertently manifested in my behavioral response to Mother, but when I saw how she thus misinterpreted its true nature—this misinterpretation leaving me rather feeling as though I had stepped into a vessel of mirth—I could not escape the sensation that I had personally proclaimed the severing of one last remaining pathway through which our hearts might still have connected.

Though my mother was cunning, there was a simple aspect to that very cunning. For a certain purpose, I shouldered this dual self and inversely utilized Mother's simple cunning, and would likely continue camouflaging myself hereafter. And when witnessing unexpected effectiveness, I might even allow myself a secret smirk. Here between mother and daughter no longer existed any bond—what remained between them was nothing but "hands".

Mother, Mother—your daughter had come into her own. I learned what it meant to keep secrets. I learned to isolate myself in loneliness within that secret castle. For the sake of a man—due to strange circumstances—. My going to Ikegami’s dormitory was not for settling into the position of the me you desired. It was simply about using him. I did not want to settle myself as you wished. It had become my conviction that even if I wanted solidity now, there remained no way to achieve it. I would simply keep flowing onward. Entrusting myself to passions surging like torrents in each moment—

Mother, please forgive me. Your daughter has carried too much of weakness and strength in mismatched measure to live an ordinary life. I cannot stand and walk in the ordinary way. Sideways and upright, buoyed by the water, I barely manage to flow onward. That is why your daughter will suffer a little from now on—

If Mother were an ordinary mother and I were still my former self, I would of course have made such a confession—even if not understood—and with my own words given a formal declaration of severance to Mother, who after Father’s death became parent and child alone in this world. But with this mother of mine— When I realized anew that within my mother’s increasingly corpulent chest—she who had begun aging while maintaining her coarse beauty, projecting an air of shrewd cleverness that claimed mastery over worldly divisions—there existed no thoughts beyond desire, gain, and manipulation, a sensation like colliding with a cliff face surged up within me. This sudden desolate loneliness nearly brought tears of that particular meaning to my eyes, but as I resolved not to let Mother notice them, here again my body suddenly sprang into motion as if to disguise another self. I lightly bowed and said, "Then, I'll be going," then stood before Mother and declared, "Take a look at this." Then, stepping back slightly, I spread my right palm before Mother’s eyes and extended it toward her while simultaneously hooking my left elbow around a man’s elbow in an embrace.

I sang “How delightful we are” while grandly flipping my outstretched palm upward through space with a twist of shoulders and hips, bringing it near the right side of my hairline as I finished “Aren’t we?” Then stamped the tatami once with a well-executed Nishikawa-ryu footwork—infused with Kansai flair that Mother had taught me—and held my right hand perfectly still aloft in midair. “How about that?” This was a greeting from my shell—now just beginning to don its own—to the shell-like nature that Mother had worn since birth. I felt a surge of sadness welling up in my chest.

“Oh my, I wondered what this child was up to, but it’s just her frolicking with a dance.” “Seems like a merry pair, doesn’t it? Ho, ho. From your view, Ocho, he doesn’t seem an entirely unsuitable match either.” Mother’s words took on theatrical cadence as she chuckled in high spirits. When I used these gestures as pretext to move into Ikegami’s dormitory, he eagerly offered to vacate the guest quarters he frequented. But I, being a woman after all, demurred—whereupon he assigned me to a small tea-ceremony-style room where the veranda bent at a right angle. In that characteristic downtown-style tea room with its simplified aesthetics, the four-and-a-half-mat space could serve as living quarters simply by covering the hearth. A cupboard adorned the wall, with a privy installed along the veranda. Beyond the sliding door lay a modest changing area where I had my bedding and vanity fetched to establish this worldly dwelling—whether temporary refuge or permanent reality remaining unclear—as though I’d fled my home for life.

I could no longer bring myself to attend the academy. Ikegami also did not approve of my going out from the dormitory. Even for me, Kuzuoka—who loved me to death—was being coerced into marriage by an older teacher due to some long-standing entanglement. If I were to separate him from this and take the man into my care, I would ultimately have to look after his livelihood. A girl like me naturally lacked such power, nor was I the type to bow my head and beg anyone for help—the only path before me was Ikegami’s obsession with me, jutting out like a pole’s tip. This pole tip—which would ultimately see me forced into marriage with him if drawn fully into his grasp—was precisely what I had to prevent from being reeled in. Through my own cunning, I would divert even a fraction of his love for me into goodwill toward Kuzuoka, make Ikegami tend to Kuzuoka’s needs, and if possible, have us three become elegant friends without messy romantic entanglements, supporting one another through this desolate world. Such an ideal had welled up within my heart. However, could a mere girl who was not a god like me truly accomplish this difficult rearrangement of bonds? Even if I could not, I intended to do it. Bearing these already complicated human affairs close to my heart and applying what little feminine cunning I possessed, I was no longer a sailor-uniformed schoolgirl. I was no longer a schoolgirl who argued over how much jam was on the bread in my lunchbox.

I settled myself in this cramped dwelling with something like reckless resolve, waiting solely for news of Ataka-sensei from Kuzuoka while harboring in my breast—though the phrase "lying in wait" might seem unseemly for a woman—a sentiment akin to it. From this tea room, I watched Ikegami making the right-angled guest quarters his living space, biding my time to pounce upon this young master without letting him detect my intentions.

As for Ikegami, initially, “Ocho, it’s fine to be lazy, but if you don’t graduate from girls’ school, there will be some trouble,” he said. It was probably because I lacked the qualifications to be a bride candidate for the main house. Even as I said this, whenever I showed any sign of actually heading to the academy, he concocted some reason or another to stop me. I would respond with “Ah, I’ll go soon,” continuing to dawdle as usual, whereupon Ikegami would ultimately take pleasure in this and practically take up residence in my tea room morning and evening. Holding what was likely a haiku collection—a Japanese-bound, worm-eaten book—he inserted his slightly sturdy fingers between the pages and, using that arm as bodily support, flopped down sideways onto the veranda facing the garden.

“Ocho, in Buson’s haiku—” “Loving the differing paces of two plum trees’ blooming.” “There’s one that goes... Do you understand?” He tilted his head back and said while gazing, seemingly dazzled by the early spring sunlight that streamed over his brow onto my face within the threshold. “That much, even I understand.”

When I said this, he nodded happily but,

“It’s an interesting haiku, but there’s still a point it hasn’t quite reached yet,” he said. “Whether those old poets’ haiku reach perfection or not, what does it matter to us people of today?” I deflected. “No—that’s not it.” “This isn’t merely a question of haiku—it relates to whether one’s ability to appreciate things in general penetrates to the core or not,” he said. I thought it bothersome that this young master was continuing to state his opinions, but as it was a minor matter before something major,

"I'll listen." "So why don't you dwell on that issue to your heart's content?" I prompted him to continue in this manner. And then, regarding the opinion Ikegami subsequently presented— Attempting to express the intriguing interplay of pacing through two separate plum trees results in the love born of appreciation becoming diffuse and overly cerebral. This must be expressed through a single plum tree. "If I were Buson, I'd compose it like this:"

“Loving the differing paces in a single plum tree.”

“This will do.”

As I listened, I found myself bursting into laughter for some reason, "That's just your self-satisfied haiku, isn't it?"

When I said this, Ikegami— “Don’t you get this? “Is that so... “Then shall I try explaining it with this analogy?” he said, planting his elbows firmly and sitting up straight.

Ikegami said. "For instance—my appreciation of you, Ocho." "In you—this single woman—I recognize not merely two relative aspects like pacing, but girlishness, maiden-like qualities, maternal elements, and various others." "When you grow weary from walking and stand with your chest thrust forward—through that posture where your hips arch faintly backward without intent—I have already savored the beauty of your figure as an elderly woman withered with age." "Of course, I too will certainly have entered old age by then—" "Only through this, Ocho, does my appreciative love for you become perfectly concentrated—is that not so?"

“If we were to position this like Buson’s appreciative love—placing you, Ocho, as one object of comparison, and on the other side, say for instance, Okimi—measuring who is younger or more beautiful or evaluating their pacing, then Ocho, how would you feel? Even from my perspective—not just regarding you, but women as a whole—I cannot claim to have a sincere attitude of loving and understanding them. Even when loving just that single relative aspect of pacing in such an object, the plum tree must absolutely be one—” he said.

I felt Ikegami's obsession with me to be something astonishing, yet at the very moment I heard him—whether through some casual whim born of solemn vows or despite his meticulous caveat of "hypothetically"—utter Okimi's name, even while fully comprehending the intent behind what he had said about me, I experienced a sensation as though a cold, rigid metal plate were piercing up beneath my skin from my chest to my face. Okimi’s absence from that place at that time was fortunate. If Okimi had been there and, exactly as Ikegami had described, had actually been sitting side by side with me in that position, I would have either instinctively spoken like a kabuki high-ranking courtesan addressing an underling—"Your seat is too elevated—step back"—or else risen briskly from my seat myself, never returning to this dormitory again, and consequently my carefully laid plans would have come to an end right then and there.

Is this what they call a woman's jealousy? Or perhaps a woman's dignity? To push down that jagged metal plate surging painfully beneath my skin, I thrust my deliberately smiling face toward Ikegami. "Oh my, if you line me up beside that young Miss Okimi for comparison, I wouldn't stand a chance at all." The words held my honest feelings twisted three times over into agonizing contortions—but Ikegami, who couldn't possibly discern this—

“That sort of commonplace self-deprecation from women is what I hate most in this world,” he said. “For mercy’s sake, Ocho—promise me you’ll never stoop to that.” Afterwards, whenever I glimpsed Ikegami’s face approaching my room along the veranda, I adopted the practice of greeting him not with pleasantries but by quipping: “Loving the differing paces in a single plum tree, was it?” For reasons unclear, Ikegami’s cheeks would invariably redden as he replied: “Exactly so.”

he said, yet remained in good spirits. We spent our days in the dormitory absorbed in such trifling matters, living from morning till night—and since my room lay directly facing them, I failed to witness the red plum blossoms' life story unfold, saw through the artifice of a wild plum's core grafted beneath a Bungo plum's bark to feign a single tree, and encountered how a vibrant sprout-green now peered into the garden's austere wooded spring that had lingered here, while even within the capital's wintry sky—so brittle it might ring with a metallic clang—there came to cling a faint soft dampness.

Around the quince branches, young buds clustered plumply like a child’s woolen shirt, warm and full, and within those knitted patterns, numerous delicate buds—beautiful as a child’s bead-like styes—nestled themselves. Ah, this tormenting spring—

I, influenced by this dormitory dwelling isolated from the world, found myself muttering such words spontaneously in my mouth—one hand lightly clenched to suppress a yawn, the other bent at the elbow into a ㄑ-shape and spread backward beside my chest to relax it—as I welcomed the arrival of that tormenting spring before the garden into my mood, both nostalgic yet heartrending.

HAIKU über dem japanischen Gedichte von der

kürzesten Gedicht-form in der Welt. Lying sprawled on the veranda, Ikegami was flipping through a thin booklet with striped covers that purported to introduce Westerners’ studies of Japanese haiku, his face still downturned. “Fascinating. The Westerners’ observations on haiku—here it says: ‘This poetic form is brief, just as birds’ calls are brief.’” "Because their songs are brief, birds can nod in mutual understanding." “In the same way, the Japanese people—who inherently possess a poetic instinct—require no lengthy form in a poetic structure that allows mutual understanding—so it says.” “The way this foreign gentleman brings in the metaphor of birdsong to explain the relationship between brevity and instinct is his great achievement here.”

I had no interest in what Ikegami was saying and was merely doing so to engage him as a verbal adversary, "But even among birdsong—take canaries, their calls are quite long, aren't they? They sing all day long while the sun's out," I said.

Ikegami said, as if countering, “Huh? What did you say?” he asked, looking up—and as his eyes caught the slightly torn eight-stitched seam at the base of my left elbow, raised during my second yawn, where more skin than usual showed through, he fixed his gaze and stared intently. I became flustered, “Oh my, how rude to stare at my imperfections.” I said in a tone sharp enough to knock him over as I pressed down to conceal it,

“You idiot! You shouldn’t show your own skin to others.” No sooner had he said this than he glanced toward the brushwood bridge abutment in the garden. There was a young gardener removing straw frost coverings. After that, Ikegami—as if forcibly suppressing something wanting to cry out—suddenly hung his head with a face contorted like when holding back tears, then stood unsteadily, kicked the veranda, and went off to the room across the way.

I was not particularly surprised by Ikegami’s behavior. Ikegami was prone to jealousy. And this was something he himself had confessed during that dinner last autumn when he first took me to a restaurant in Nakasu. However, until I came to this dormitory, there had been neither sufficient opportunity nor incident for him to manifest it so overtly, and perhaps because Ikegami himself exercised restraint out of fear that chastising me would drive me away, everything passed without incident to the extent that I nearly forgot about the matter entirely. But once I entered this dormitory, Ikegami immediately began to show jealousy—as though the moment a mouse entered a trap, its owner had closed it and started tormenting the creature.

Ikegami absolutely would not let me leave the dormitory. If I said I had shopping to do, he would send Okimi to do it instead; if I said I wanted to meet friends, he would suggest having them come here; and if I mentioned needing to go home for a private talk with Mother, he would propose summoning her instead. And then my mother—who had been summoned—would immediately rush over with a face as if she’d stumbled into good fortune, and sit facing me with a self-satisfied look, as though Ikegami had at last broached the topic of marriage—a sight that filled me with profound disgust.

“It’s really nothing at all.” When I said this sullenly, Mother handled me as though touching a swollen wound, and—perhaps believing that placating my mood would in turn placate Ikegami’s—she praised me so effusively after coming to the dormitory, declaring my feminine charm had improved remarkably or that my social standing had risen, that it made me almost angry. Moreover, when meeting Ikegami herself, she touted my worth like reciting an auction item’s specifications. Naturally, she never neglected to flatter and praise Ikegami himself in the process.

After Mother had left, Ikegami said, “Ocho-chan’s mother has aged, hasn’t she? That composed demeanor she once had—confident in her social skills to manipulate anyone who crossed her path—has vanished now.” He explained that this year marked the tenth anniversary of the death of Ocho’s father’s teacher, and there had been discussions at his store about terminating the monthly survivor stipend they had been sending—which someone must have informed her about, causing her to grow somewhat panicked.

Ikegami, despite being a young man who possessed sharp observations and common sense toward not only my mother but anything in the world, acted like a madman when it came to me since I came to the dormitory. In my continued efforts to find an excuse to go out, I once again proposed that I wanted to go see a movie. Then, declaring this would suffice, he would bring a Pathe Baby projector and somehow manage to screen the latest film himself.

If I said I wanted to see a play, he would summon voice actors to recreate famous stage performances through vocal impressions alone. I mustered my last shred of ingenuity, “For this one thing, I absolutely must go out myself to buy it—it would disgrace me as a woman otherwise. I can’t entrust this to anyone.” Ikegami crossed his arms with a troubled expression, eventually going to consult Okimi in hushed tones. About thirty minutes later, the sliding door between my room and the adjoining parlor opened just enough for a young woman’s slender hand to emerge, then withdraw through the narrow gap. There on the tatami lay several wrapped sashes of the newest clove-motif designs.

“Oh!” At that moment, the woman’s slender wrist that had emerged and withdrawn—whether influenced by my own imagination—seemed to have flushed red in its skin, as though blushing in the face. “It’s just like a haunted house or a magician’s puzzle box, isn’t it?” As soon as I said that, I grabbed the wrapped clove-patterned sash and threw it onto the veranda with all my might. A light rustle—as if someone’s sleeve had brushed against the corner of the L-shaped veranda—but afterward, only a lukewarm breeze rustled through the serene silence of the pond-spring-style garden bathed in faint sunlight. I felt a chillingly hollow fear in this dormitory without knowing why.

I wonder what became of Kuzuoka after that. I wonder how the negotiations with Ataka-sensei turned out. Within my breast, I had waited and waited for word of their situation until I was utterly consumed by impatience. When I moved into this dormitory, I had informed Kuzuoka by letter of my plan to enter this dormitory, instructing that any coordinating letters from his side should be written concisely and sent under a female pseudonym until I granted permission—going so far as to say this out of consideration for Ikegami’s possible reactions.

And yet, all that reached my hands during those first twenty-odd days were merely two letters: one reporting that no response had come from Ataka-sensei, who had returned to the foot of Mount Akagi; and another informing me that while the academy had commenced its term with physical education classes being handled solely by assistant teachers, murmurs of suspicion were circulating regarding Ataka-sensei's unprecedented absence—she who had never missed a day before. Moreover, around that same period, a letter arrived at my home—jointly written by Kira, Yoshimitsu-chan, and Yaeko—containing get-well wishes concerning my school absence while also noting Ataka-sensei's continued failure to return. It mentioned they were secretly in consultation with the principal and wanted to know my opinion; this letter too was later delivered from there to the dormitory.

However, after that, I too continued diligently sending letters solely to Kuzuoka—but since these too had no choice but to be entrusted to Okimi for posting, ending up like pebbles thrown at pear trees along the way for all I knew—it ultimately proved futile. A lock had been installed in the telephone room at some point, and when I would instruct Okimi—who kept custody of the key—to open it, she would say, “Ah, I will make the connection for you. What number and name shall I request?” never once permitting me to place a call directly.

Ikegami was pathologically jealous. Okimi served as his accomplice. And perhaps through a jealous man’s hypersensitivity, Ikegami had already detected Kuzuoka’s existence too. Having quickly reached this understanding, I’d repeatedly considered abandoning my schemes mid-stride to flee the dormitory—or conversely, resolved to gamble everything by confronting Ikegami outright. Yet whenever I found myself properly looking at him during such moments, he stirred within me a strange reluctance to pursue either course. This man who appeared an intellectual autocrat and egotist harbored such a fragile shadow that whenever I confronted him with firm resolve—whether to discard or advance my plans—that shadow would quiver like autumn water under sunlight, trembling faintly as if pleading: “Keep all aspects of Ocho-chan’s life unrelated to me blurred. Leave them undefined. I lack the fortitude to endure clarity.” That’s how it seemed to me. Thus even my fiercest determination would grow idle, withering until—most inconveniently—tender compassion and pity welled up from my heart’s depths, making me loathe myself. Then even the armored resolve I’d forged for Kuzuoka’s sake, even my carefully honed feminine wiles—all became saturated with sentimental weakness until I, disgusted by my own frailty, slumped into resignation: “Whatever happens.”

I had long felt a similar kind of compassionate pity toward Kuzuoka as well. Yet perhaps because I harbored a same-sex rival in Ataka-sensei regarding Kuzuoka, this compassionate pity had transformed into something fiercely passionate. In exchange for that, the compassionate pity I now stirred up toward Ikegami had, like sinking deeper into a bottomless swamp, rendered me powerless with no way to gain footing. Whatever.

While bound tight by the shackles of Ikegami's jealousy, I ultimately refrained from any decisive counterattack, letting February pass then March pass in trivial fashion, until at last I found myself approaching April's vexing spring - this, in essence, was how things stood. I heedlessly cast these inexplicable feelings of ennui upon the breakfast tray, "I've grown thoroughly sick of Sanshu miso soup every single morning." When I said this, Ikegami responded, "Then I'll have our regular Western restaurant deliver English-style breakfasts for the time being." "That should improve your mood," he said.

The garden of this dormitory was said to be modeled after that of Reito-in, one of the sub-temples of Kyoto's Kennin-ji Temple. Of course, it was on a much smaller scale, and over generations partial alterations had been made here and there, leaving scarcely any trace of the original garden's appearance—but regardless of that, I was fond of its expansive, flamboyant atmosphere. Ikegami explained that this was because successive generations of gardeners from the Kobori Enshū school had preserved an atmosphere predating the mid-Edo period through their attentive care during repeated restorations.

At the upper part of the pond spanned a brushwood bridge with a decayed hole at its center. What I had previously mistaken for a stone-covered central island at the far end revealed itself upon approach to be a peninsula where the artificial hill's base met the pond's edge. From this rocky outcrop, crossing a stream narrow enough to step over in one stride even for a woman, the path followed garden stones along the opposite shore, passed a stone lantern, and reached a small ridge thick with vegetation on the artificial hill. Here the path diverged into two: the main route circling the pond's lower edge and a branching path climbing between the hill's upper slopes. I had grown fond of ascending this gently sloping side path from beneath the hill's ridge during my walks. Though extending merely fifteen or sixteen paces, this incline flanked by sparse trees and shrubs exerted a peculiar influence - one that dissolved all sense of geographical bearings as if erasing awareness of where in the world one trod. Upon reaching the slope's crest, one found the hill's rear severed into an abrupt cliff during urban reforms after the Great Earthquake, winter bamboo roots and shrub tendrils now protruding from eroded reddish soil intermingled with broken tiles and stones. A weathered black wall stood flush against this artificial precipice, beyond which lay a bustling city crossroads where deliverymen cycled past with stacked meal boxes. Women bearing cloth-wrapped handicrafts hurried toward wholesalers along this thoroughfare. Yet when ascending those fifteen-odd paces up the gentle slope that stopped short of this wall, flanked by scattered pines and bamboo, my heart entered a realm both desolate and infinitely permeated by some unnameable poignancy drifting through the air. The sky visible beyond the slope's edge seemed continuous with the incline itself, where white and leaden clouds - as though weeping celestial sweat from heaven's skin - shimmered faintly before dissolving back into blue depths. Could it be that this garden's soul - no, its creator's very spirit - dwelled not in its showy center but rather in this sloping path? I came to prefer this secluded stretch over the garden's ostentatious heart.

Therefore, when I asked Ikegami where in the garden to set the breakfast table, “Over there—” I said, pointing to that part of the garden.

and pointed to that part of the garden. “Let’s not use that edge of the garden.” Ikegami said this and then persistently persuaded me until he made me agree to set the location at Nakajima in the lower pond from which the entire garden could be viewed. This formal Nakajima had a pond shore embedded with moss-covered stepping stones that wound their way from in front of the dormitory building, and from the tip of that promontory—jutting out like an octopus’s beak—a single stone plank bridge spanned across to this island. There were three-tiered pines on Nakajima as well. Moreover, this Nakajima and the beach on the opposite shore were barely separated by water, and as the shadows of the three-tiered pines covered the island, when viewed from the dormitory veranda, I initially did not realize this was an island at all, instead thinking that the pond was likely divided by an underground walkway into two separate pools of differing sizes.

“It’s still a bit chilly.” “Ah, ah—still a bit chilly.” I brushed down the front of my two-piece Western dress while Ikegami vigorously rubbed the torso of his morning jacket. At the base of the three-tiered pine stood a rattan table laid with Irish linen cloth, upon which rested a decorative plate bearing a folded napkin that matched the table fabric. Ikegami drew up matching rattan chairs, seated me, and lifted the menu.

“This morning the cook has prepared smoked herring and boiled cod.” “You’ll have the cod, then?” he said. “That’s right, cod.” “I’ll have the herring.” Okimi in a white uniform, who had taken out soft-boiled eggs and toast from the warming box and placed them in their designated positions on the table, respectfully accepted our orders and departed. While we began our meal, we gazed enraptured at the delicate hues where the morning sun, emerging from the treetops of the artificial hill, cast its light upon the surface of the small pond that still held a faint spring morning mist—swallowed momentarily by the haze yet still reflecting residual rays off the water to rise into the air.

“Somehow, it feels like the entire surroundings are submerged in a morning bath scented with perfume.” “Your eyes are terribly puffy, you know. I really think you shouldn’t drink so much every night.” Having said that, out of feminine instinct, I made a slight movement to shift the chair I had pulled out at the facing table a bit closer to Ikegami. When Ikegami heard my words, he raised his fork-holding hand and said, “Be quiet—” to stop me. To begin with, Ikegami was a man who detested having his actions criticized by others, yet at the same time, when such criticism hit home, he had a tendency to suddenly adopt an intense air of self-restraint and grow sentimental. Ikegami lowered his swollen eyes and cast his gaze to either side of his high-bridged nose. His modern-style eyebrows—thin as an island’s shadow and slightly upturned—were faintly furrowed, while his passionate glistening red lips were being bitterly bitten by his front teeth.

“Is it the ephemeral nature of life, or the ceaseless flow of time?”

Having said this, Ikegami remained frozen in that posture like a fixed doll, his hands ceasing all movement toward his meal. Perhaps because the morning sun had broken through the mist to cast direct light upon the garden, the scent of budding trees now hung thickly about us. On this Central Island besides the stately three-tiered pines stood Genpei-style camellias with their red-and-white blooms, ever-blooming roses, yellow daffodils, bluish cymbidium orchids, aucuba shrubs bearing crimson berries, and twilight-hued daphnes like purple clouds—all arranged with rocks and lawn to surround our breakfast table in motley splendor, each intensifying its innate colors where placed. Yet how breathtakingly—how envy-inducingly—beautiful must have been those sprouting hues throughout the entire garden! From the patterned grasses along the pond's edge to the irregular branches of the artificial hill, this lush allurement of burgeoning growth captivated one completely, as if disregarding all nearby colors.

Upon closer inspection, each plant and tree there might indeed have had its proper name, but in this place they simply appeared as dozens of alluring sashes—or perhaps cascades of affection—as Nature, which had been pinned down through winter's frost as withered mountains and barren trees, now suddenly permitted by sun and season, yearned to embrace humanity yet understood (or perhaps didn’t) that overtness repels affection; thus did Nature, with a coquettish glance and feigned nonchalance, spread its passionate web crisscrossing toward people like spider’s threads—was this not what these belts and waterfalls of sprouting vegetation represented? Was this not the garden brimming with burgeoning hues?

On the opposite shore north of Nakajima, the Higanzakura cherry trees already glistened white with moisture. In the shadow of those flowers, there was something that appeared to be a human figure. I peered and suddenly smiled. A folk song befitting a town girl escaped from my lips. “Don’t play coy now—the budding willow sways in the wind, fluttering soft and gentle… Ah yes, that’s how it goes.” Whenever Ikegami started speaking, it was usually some logic or sentimentality that would catch halfway up my chest and become bothersome, only to spin pointlessly there. On the contrary, when Ikegami said nothing and remained empty-minded, there existed a poignant, direct transaction between him and me in the depths of my heart. Having accumulated such experiences numerous times, I dismissed what Ikegami had just said as yet another instance of his usual sentimentality, and thinking this was a battle I couldn’t win, I hurriedly let my mind wander to the colors of spring’s budding trees that caught my fancy—so much so that I even ended up singing a little folk song to divert his attention. But Ikegami, completely unrelated to this, remained in his posture like a fixed doll,

“Is it the ephemeral nature of life, or the ceaseless flow of time?” He repeated the same words. After releasing a deep, heavy sigh, he slowly raised his face and stared into my eyes with his own darkly focused pupils. “How fortunate you are, Ocho, not having to think—” I bristled at these words, “You may seem that way yourself, but really—what a shallow person you are!” As I began to retort, Ikegami cut me off as if suppressing my voice,

“No—you do think about that. But no matter what, your thoughts remain within the realm of human consideration,” he said, his swollen eyes fixed on the table’s edge. “But mine—if I’m not careful—threaten to transcend human thought altogether.” His voice dropped to a murmur heavy with self-pity. “And the suffering in those moments… it’s beyond anything someone like you could grasp.” The boiled Akita cod, nearing season’s end, had grown fatty enough that even between the flesh flakes separating under my fork, a glutinous stickiness clung stubbornly. When I squeezed lemon over it, the fat dissolved instantly, transforming into fragile fragments of flavor that melted on my tongue like scented snow. Should the salty-sour tang overstimulate my palate, I slipped toast crusts between my lips—unpainted lips I kept bare each morning to honor the day’s first unadorned meal, even in male company. Yet still I caught myself shielding those naked lips when eating, spreading their corners in practiced elegance—a habit as inexplicable as it was ingrained. More detestable still were those women who nibbled furtively while stealing glances at men through lowered lashes—performances of demure consumption I refused to mimic. Lately I’d noticed my childhood habit of mealtime daydreams fading, replaced by pragmatic assessments of my surroundings. Had maturity brought this clarity? Or was life’s accumulating grit slowly silting up the spring from which a woman’s dreams once flowed?

The toast avoided butter, instead thickly spread with marmalade made from those ripe orange-golden oranges whose mere plucking from branches beneath southern sun could already intoxicate a person. Into its scent and flavor were kneaded air and light so bright—like syrup—that there remained not even a shaded nook where human worries might alight. When I put that into my mouth along with the toast's fragrant wheat aroma, the overly stimulating salty-sour taste on my tongue was instantly tamed and dissolved, and a delicious sensation so intense it made me want to close my eyes caused me to lose myself.

I was letting every nerve in my body relax in the faint warmth of Lipton’s tea. "What are you about to come out with now?"

I retorted in a tone like one chiding a child, keeping my eyes locked with Ikegami's stare. Then Ikegami removed his napkin and rested his chin on both hands, “No—I’ve just now realized something.” “It’s something my deceased friend used to say often.” “At the time I thought nothing of it, but lately, having personally experienced it, I’ve come to understand how truly profound those words were.” Ikegami explained that this friend had been his close companion from high school days when they shared a dormitory. Though both aspired to study humanities, his friend had intended to specialize in the history of Indian Buddhist art through an aesthetic lens.

“That friend said,” “You all likely view humans simply as human.” “But that’s a shallow observation.” “Among humans dwell some who are no longer human.” “Such beings already stand half-expelled from humanity.” “They’re hatching from their human shells.” “Drifting free of humanity’s grasp—that’s what they are.” “In Indian classical thought, we name these beings the Realm of Desire:—”

And then, Ikegami began recounting to me his deceased old friend’s words with renewed intensity. “The Realm of Desire has six categories,” he said. “While living beings inherently follow concrete paths to fulfill their desires, those in the Realm of Desire approach an almost abstract nature. Take those in the fourth category—Tusita Heaven—who attain fulfillment merely by clasping hands. Those in the fifth category, Nirmanarati Heaven, find fulfillment through exchanging smiles. As for the sixth category, Paranirmitavaśavartin Heaven, mere mutual gazing constitutes fulfillment. Even this most primal desire among creatures exists in such a state. The other types of desire can well be imagined.”

“Ocho, you mustn’t think of this as some fictional tale.” “Since it actually exists among humans living upon this soil.” This time, it was Ikegami’s own theory.

The sensuality that continued pursuing beauty even after being sated by real life panted powerfully. After a wealthy retiree had passed from this world, he became engrossed in tea, caressed tea utensils, and sank into euphoric laughter. Who could claim this tactile sensation bore no relation to sexuality?

In Western parks, under spring sunlight, dozens of couples sit hand in hand, spending half a day thus. Can this be explained without viewing it as a gathering of the Realm of Desire? If one were to view it broadly across eras, the elegant men and women of poetry and music from the late Fujiwara period, the officials of late Song dynasty China, the Symbolist poets of late nineteenth-century France—their sensuality all belongs to the Realm of Desire. Red plum blossoms—unseen love crafted by a jeweled screen.

Women conveyed their affections to men through how they let the hems of their layered court robes protrude beneath bamboo blinds. Men inferred a woman's temperament and poetic sensibilities from those hem patterns and hues. Nothing embodied the Realm of Desire more perfectly than Heian-era courtship rituals. "In modern times," Ikegami continued, "whether we speak of European avant-garde movements like Surrealism or Abstractionism—regardless of their theoretical posturing—to my mind they've already transcended humanity and sublimated into the Realm of Desire."

Whether it was work wrought by the era or compelled by life—there was no need to debate this now. When an era rises, humans possess beast-like vigor; as it draws to a close, they drift through the Realm of Desire. And this phenomenon existed not only in the various subdivided eras within a greater age but also in the households that dwelled within those segmented periods. "This might be tedious, but I need you to hear just a bit more, Ocho." "For this here is the very core of the problem that continues to torment me to the point of trembling fear—"

The Ikegami family's hemp wholesaler in Setomono-chō was an old establishment that had maintained its shop curtain since the Bakumatsu period, but for the son Seitarō, his great-great-grandfather Master Taihei—who stood as his ancestor—was remarkable. At that time, coinciding with the Bakumatsu Restoration, Taihei used his own ships for hemp transport to provide for both the Imperial forces and the shogunate forces, thereby securing enormous profits. When this came to light and Taihei was dragged before the Imperial forces' general for interrogation, he nonchalantly— “Aren’t they both Japanese? To get so worked up over that—how tight-assed!” “So tight-assed!”

Taihei answered. The general commended this boldness and thereafter bestowed deep favor upon him. Taihei not only revived the Ikegami household from impending ruin through these means but also established the foundations of its present-day standing. He kept many mistresses, to whom he would distribute hemp scraps from the shop and have them craft flower-patterned sashes with dangling toys for festival children—allowing them to save their earnings as retirement funds—such was the measure of his character. The next grandfather proved mediocre, while Seitaro's father Rihee who followed exhibited an uneven temperament.

“It’s strange about my father. When starting a new venture, his insights are novel and his energy remarkable. You might call it atavism—it’s not that he lacks Grandfather Taihei’s blood—but whenever a business branches into new endeavors, he’s captivated by their novelty. Then when fresh opportunities bud, he clings to those too. In the end, nothing ever coalesces properly.”

And the strange thing was this: while the initial business ventures were fundamentally practical in nature, as they branched out into peripheral endeavors, they gradually took on increasingly abstract commercial characteristics. For example, "Even that trade venture where we later brought your father on as an advisor to oversee things—at first they properly loaded cargo onto ships and dispatched them, but eventually ended up chartering the shop's own vessels. Then conversely, after ordering various goods from abroad and finally having the bills of lading arrive as proof of shipping out cargo, they'd immediately use those documents to resell everything elsewhere. "There are other small brokers of that type too, but while engaging in activities similar to their parent companies, they never lay eyes on actual goods and end up mired in speculative trading conducted solely on paper." "Your father was asked by people around us and went to great lengths managing the sublimation of that business of my father's."

These were manifestations of the floating detachment from reality inherent to members of the Ikegami family, already apparent in Seitaro's father.

“As for me, I had already been completely severed from all connection to reality.” “To me, nothing is more insipid and desolate than facts.” “They’re like stones lying on the roadside before your eyes—nothing beyond their mere existence.” “Even were that stone replaced with gold or silver, so long as it remains on this roadside of facts, it holds no more value to me than any ordinary rock.” “But suppose moonlight were to fall upon that stone—the hazy glow of a spring night’s moon.” “Then its value transforms entirely for me.”

Ikegami said. "Whether on the moonlit surface or in its shadows, a world reveals itself there. Is it that this leads to eternity, or guides one to the mysterious and profound? Countless myriads of phantoms rise like heat haze across light and shadow—now surging, now vanishing—and the thoughts drawn forth from them within me become themselves countless myriads of poetry." At such moments I forget I am human. In an instant, the moonlight fades. When I realize what had conjured phantoms and poetry before my eyes was merely a roadside stone, my desolation toward facts intensifies. This desolation grows stronger precisely for having glimpsed that undulating world. Unable to endure this, I seek ever more of the bewitching moonlight. "And what is this moonlight—"

“There are times when it is sake; there are times when it is women. There are also times when it becomes the poetry of ancient people.”

I felt slightly doubtful, "But you said that while womanizing is something people get pressured into by others, you've been stubbornly clinging to your virginity in defiance, didn't you?" I asked.

Then, Ikegami, “Women for womanizing and women as moonlight are entirely different matters.” he said. Having come this far, I felt I had generally grasped where Ikegami’s story was heading, so— “So, as one of those so-called moonlight women, I’ve now been offered up as your human sacrifice, is that it?”

But Ikegami shook his head.

“No. The opposite.” “The opposite.”

Ikegami still appeared to be in the midst of his monologue. After giving only this brief response to my question, he continued talking about his own affairs without another thought. "As I drank that sake, became intimate with women, and engaged with ancient poetry, I gradually came to realize the danger of entering the realm of desire." "Let me try explaining through the matter of sake." "You call me a heavy drinker, Ocho, but even after consuming such quantities, I scarcely feel intoxicated." "That fragrant aroma permeating the senses... that flavor seeping into one's being... that rapturous intoxication." "Though I crave these in sake, I'm rarely granted such blessings anymore." "Lately, even the act of drinking has grown wearisome." "Sake." "Is there no sake in this world that removes both the liquid's bulk—merely inflating stomachs through endless cupfuls—and the nuisance of consumption itself? A sake that delivers only the esprit and nuance we seek?"

“It’s the same with women.” “It’s the same with poetry.” “I feel both dread and exertion in the processes and external forms required to bring those things to the essence of their flavor.” “All the more reason I’ve come to desire women and poetry from which only esprit and nuance have been extracted.” “But, “A dead friend once said: ‘That human is already halfway driven out from humanity.’ ‘That human is halfway through hatching out of humanity.’ ‘That human is halfway through gently slipping out of humanity.’ “Again,” said that friend, ‘This human stands at the pinnacle of cultured society yet perishes in reality.’”

“And that friend himself, for no reason at all, ended up committing love suicide with an older beautiful woman and a promising young scholar, as if being swept away on his way to university.” Having finished saying these things, Ikegami suddenly took my hand and, while transmitting a tremor from his elbow to my wrist, said: “Hey, Ocho, I don’t want to perish. “Lately, precisely because I have come to keenly feel myself becoming one with the Realm of Desire, my terror of it grows all the more. “I absolutely do not want to perish. “I absolutely want to cling fiercely to humanity and remain in the human world on earth. “Please understand this point, forgive my unreasonableness and violent excesses, and save me.”

Ikegami was on the verge of tears. I felt sickened. The weight of existence that my late father had ultimately made me shoulder during his lifetime despite his vacillations, and the burden of Kuzuoka's circumstances. And here again—though my intention had been to use this situation, to have Ikegami eventually share the load—I sensed something already beginning to slip away from him.

"I’m sick of this. Are you saying that by getting jealous, you’ll somehow be saved through me?"

Then, with one hand, Ikegami slid his grip from my wrist up to my arm while, “In the end, it manifests as jealousy.” “But the inner workings of the mind are far more serious.” “I’m blocking every window through which your life scatters itself, breathing deep the accumulated essence of your womanhood within.” “However you take that meaning—for me now, it’s like a dying man gulping oxygen.” “That’s been our shared endeavor these three months living together.”

When told this, I too had no choice but to retort in this manner. "I am not that kind of woman. The gardener at the academy called me a blighted bud of a woman—said I was like fresh Judas tree leaves." But Ikegami completely ignored it, "You're joking. Why would Ocho be such an unhealthy woman? Ocho may appear supple on the surface, but she’s as robust as a primitive human—lying directly on the earth, voraciously drinking in its vital energy into her very being. I can sense that clearly. Ocho’s modern girl persona is nothing more than a mask."

I was taken aback. As Ikegami kept shaking my hand as if trying to forcibly instill confidence in me—saying that among city dwellers there are those scattered like chaff from a winnowing basket and others who, through persistent contortions, stubbornly take root down to their last remaining fiber, insisting I absolutely belonged to the latter type—I absently endured Ikegami's words that pierced my soul.

Lying prostrate on the earth— Absorbing the earth’s vital energy fully—

Ugh—I was made to recall, for the first time in ages, the lineage of a beggar’s child—something for which I feel not the slightest gratitude.

When I realized this, I stripped away every last remaining support of that recent weariness within me that had been muttering “Whatever.” Whether it lasted several minutes or over ten, I couldn’t tell—a thoughtless void simply swept over me. Then, peering into my utterly collapsed and hollow interior, I found “Nothingness” assiduously stacking granules toward “Nothingness” itself—like ant children rebuilding their anthill grain by grain after a summer downpour.

In the lightless dark hollow, "nothingness" turned toward "nothingness"—

When I felt this, though I didn't know what those grains were, tears kept welling up in my eyes. Even having reached this desperate strait, was there still some force within me trying to rebuild itself? That pitifully earnest force. Heartened by something indefinable, I pressed forward without bothering to arrange my thoughts. “By the way,” I asked, “what became of the marriage discussion?” The moment I spoke, I realized these words held no true place in my heart. But it didn’t matter. I took another step anyway.

“I have something to discuss.” “You’re rich, aren’t you?” “Won’t you take responsibility for a man’s circumstances?”

This was something within me. For reasons unknown even to myself, when Ikegami saw me suddenly well up with tears, he looked startled—but then, as I immediately fired off two sharp phrases in rapid succession like stones from a sling, he blinked in astonishment. Whether he parsed each phrase’s meaning separately or sought connections between them, he then prepared a questioning expression. Yet my delivery had been too much like a released bowstring; flustered, he faltered in his response, rubbing his hands together hesitantly before finally—

“Hmm?” With that, he opened his cigarette case and placed one between his lips. Seeing this, Okimi, who had been waiting at a distant chair, flew over and lit it for him. After a considerable time spent in lengthy conversation, the sun steadily ascended into the sky, and the early spring garden—now tightened by settled rays—began taking its first steps into daytime scenery while retaining a slightly stiffened feel. With the dormitory rendered like an empty box, the sounds of the city from all around—beginning with streetcars’ rumble—came crashing and echoing in.

"Oh, Father..." Okimi, as usual, flushed slightly red and let out a small voice. When I looked where her eyes were directed, there stood a broad-shouldered man nearing middle age wearing a Western suit of fine fabric, garden clogs kicked off at his heels, positioned at the edge of the tea room I used as a living space, gazing up at branches where Bungo and wild plum hybrids were beginning to fruit. Ikegami abruptly diverted his attention from this and, "Boss, since they're trees you arranged yourself, you only ever check those plum trees each year." "What a mercenary creature."

With that, he laughed heartily. Ikegami ushered Karoku, the shop manager, into the sitting room, and the moment he took his seat, "This man claims he actually prefers living as a widower—isn’t that peculiar?" he said to me, whom he had brought into the sitting room with himself. Ikegami, sensing that the matter the other party was about to broach was likely of no interest to him, appeared determined henceforth to preemptively prevent them from opening their mouth about any serious business—though idle chatter might be another matter.

Karoku paid no heed to Ikegami's demeanor, and while frequently wiping his narrow forehead—which seemed small for his face—with a handkerchief, said with a bitter smile, "It's not that I particularly like it either," but "To be honest, it’s much simpler not having a strange wife than keeping one around." With that, he roared with laughter. There was a robust quality to both his voice and laughter, reminiscent of a jōruri reciter. His short stature bore a broad-shouldered frame upon which sat a large reddish face that seemed almost crafted into place, somewhat reminiscent of a Nara ittobori. Despite appearing aged, he didn’t seem to have lived many years, with thick eyebrows and hair that was disconcertingly jet-black. No matter how much he laughed, his small eyes—narrow slits that couldn’t dispel their inherent sorrow—darted glances at me as he spoke, all the while wiping his forehead and the wrists protruding from his cuffs with a handkerchief. The fact that oily sweat was seeping out even though it was only early April—if he wasn’t an exceptionally energetic man, could there be something wrong with his internal organs?

The daughter Okimi, who had promptly been ordered by Ikegami to bring the whiskey set, first poured for Ikegami, then turned toward her father and began pouring into his cup when he said "Wait," covered the mouth of the cup with his palm, and then faced Ikegami while rubbing his hands together deferentially, “If I’m to have one, I might as well make it one of the Japanese ones.” he said, then laughed in that business-like manner just as he would during a business negotiation. Okimi, uncharacteristically scowling, muttered "In broad daylight—" and refused to engage,

"I’m not going to get drunk or cause any trouble—just bring it quickly." He spoke as though ordering his own daughter to prepare drinks at home, but she turned away with a curt “No,” her refusal as sharp as drawn steel. I found myself contemplating how this girl—who blushed at even the slightest emotional matter—could adopt such a stern attitude toward her own father in the master’s presence. Was the shop-first mentality among Tokyo’s downtown shops so deeply ingrained that it overrode familial bonds even in the child? Or did this father consistently require such brusque treatment to be managed at all? As I turned these thoughts over, Ikegami settled the lingering parent-child exchange with a single authoritative word.

“Okimi, just bring it here.” Thereupon, Okimi bowed to her master and departed to fetch the sake. To her retreating figure, Karoku continued— “I don’t need any snacks with the drinks.” “If there’s any good osunko pickles around, just those alone will do.” he called out. I had noticed a faint accent in the shop manager’s speech earlier, and through this osunko, I discerned it to be the Akita dialect. There was a kappo chef from Akita who was a cooking teacher at the academy and belonged to a culinary household. During lectures on pickling, one never knew how many times we’d been made to hear this dialect word osunko from that teacher’s mouth, so even the students had ended up saying osunko themselves. Recalling that made me somehow find it amusing that I had deduced this man’s Akita origins, and as I looked down to suppress my laughter, Karoku misinterpreted this,

“Miss Ocho, that’s quite true. At other households, they lay out dish after dish of appetizers that no one ends up eating lavishly—truly more trouble than it’s worth. Rather than that, if there’s pickled greens, tofu, or osunko pickles—any one of these would be more than sufficient for me. The fewer varieties of sake accompaniments you have, the deeper the sake’s flavor becomes,” he said. “With that approach,” interjected Ikegami, “since this man has even gone so far as to eliminate his own household, his principle is thoroughly applied.”

Ikegami interjected without missing a beat. Already, the master and servant's tatami drinking party had begun. Karoku held a cup in one hand, pressed his forehead with the other, and chuckled. "Even if we simplify things, you've simplified a bit too much. After all, I've gone and reduced the number of wives to zero."

he said. Ikegami said, “I just finished breakfast moments ago,” while nevertheless declining numerous cups that Karoku kept offering him. Karoku relayed the town’s early spring economic situation with gusto. Eventually Ikegami declared, “These appetizers may suffice for you, but they’re inadequate for me,” and commanded Okimi to have grilled skipjack tuna brought from a nearby Kansai restaurant, while arranging for mitsumame sweet bean dessert from a shiruko shop to be delivered for us women.

After eating that, I grew bored and started to rise to go out to the garden when Karoku glanced at his wristwatch and said, “Well now—I’ve got somewhere pressing myself.” “Can’t linger being a nuisance like this.” “But before taking my leave—there’s something I must discuss with Miss Choko,” he added while restraining me. “Do stay put awhile longer.” Yet no sooner had he spoken than Karoku resumed his idle chatter as if entirely forgetting his declaration，urgently exchanging cups with Ikegami.

Ikegami, returning again to the topic of wives, “Really now, you’re not struggling with this widower’s life?” he inquired, “Well, I’m not inconvenienced at all. Since I’ve never particularly liked women to begin with,” he said, and proceeded to explain the reason as follows. From the tender age of twelve, when he still yearned for his parents, he had been taken from his family home in Akita to live in a temple-like Tokyo shop where his peers were male, and the clerks and managers who trained him were also male. The malicious senior apprentices, abacus in hand, would say, “The character for ‘endurance’ is written as ‘heart beneath a blade’—let’s test that,” then rub his close-cropped head with the back of the abacus; strands of hair caught in the grain of the zelkova board were excruciatingly painful and humiliating enough to make his eyes bulge, yet if he showed even a flicker of anger, they would jeer that he lacked endurance—so even as tears streamed down, he maintained a gentle expression. In his harsh and desolate life, the sole comfort had been those occasional moments of care he received from the previous master’s wife whenever assigned to serve in the inner quarters. “Oh, Sadayoshi (Karoku’s childhood name), the seam at the base of your sleeve is fraying.” “Come here, I’ll sew it for you,” she said, and while she mended it, he would absorb through his skin into his chest—as if storing up a month’s worth—the faint breath of the still-young mistress that brushed from her earlobe to cheek, imagining it as that of a mother or sister. Longing to have her do this for him, on days when his turn came to serve in the inner quarters, he would deliberately loosen the threads at his sleeves before going.

As he grew aware of worldly matters, guided by meddlesome clerks, he began sneaking out night after night after closing the shop's heavy doors—timidly drinking at stew shops and stand-up bars while glancing about warily. With this came longing for women: he would fancy the girl at the bathhouse counter or the daughter of the tatami artisan who frequented the shop. Yet these feelings never reached their objects, leaving only a pitiful ache swelling uselessly within him. Unable to vent this tenderness, he grew impatient and angry, fueling nightly drinking that became habitual—his tolerance growing ever stronger.

When he became a clerk, then a haori-clerk permitted to wear the formal jacket, using funds allocated for business expenses and socializing to drink at teahouses and frequent pleasure quarters, he no longer lacked for women—yet to him, they always felt incomplete. The matter of money always lingered in his mind, so he couldn’t allow himself to become fully engrossed. However, he could not deny that true love—such a thing—existed in the world. When he had become a skilled shop manager, there was just one time when he found himself mutually infatuated with a geisha from the outskirts—he strained his finances to buy her freedom and keep her, but the sum spent on her redemption always lingered in his mind. Whenever they faced each other and began drifting into somewhat earnest conversation, he would think: "She’s just a woman bought for however much money," and his interest would wither away as if waking from a dream. When he considered taking an amateur girl as his wife, the vulgarity of those girls scavenging for fabric remnants at the department store would catch his eye, and he could never quite bring himself to marry one.

In the end, drinking sake and reciting jōruri were what most deeply moved him and made his heart feel unmoored. He began learning jōruri. "After all, the women in jōruri generally aren't greedy for money. Even if you become engrossed in conversing with one through the melodic phrases, there's not a shred of worry that she might peek into your coin purse." "This is truly a pleasant state of mind."

Though he had an aversion to late marriage, through the mediation of the previous master and his wife, he ended up marrying the daughter of a fellow shop manager in the same trade. Due to the master’s arrangement, there was no room for refusal. The woman he married was young and, surprisingly, resembled a woman from joruri. She persistently sought intimacy and affection from her husband. At first, he was overjoyed, thinking he had hit the jackpot. However, "Such women may be fine within joruri, but when brought alive into a household, they turn out to be quite troublesome indeed." “Besides, I have my work duties to attend to, and I can’t be spending all year round dealing with such a nagging wife.” “My wife kept grumbling hysterically about it all, and after bearing three girls, she caused that incident you well know about, Young Master—made a proper fool of herself—so since it was too much trouble for me, I divorced her outright.”

At that time, the eldest daughter had turned fifteen. "Once daughters in the downtown area turn fifteen, they become fairly useful." If that eldest daughter, acting as housewife, had a single apprentice sent from the shop to assist with heavy labor and errands, she could manage the household quite well and look after her younger sisters. "As for me, I’ve made sake my wife and joruri my lover as I please." "Without feeling any thirst in my heart—no, it’s a carefree life." "Particularly when it comes to sake, I prefer drinking alone—those solitary cups. A habit likely formed from my youth in that monastic male household where I was raised, conditioned to drink in secret." “With such drinking, the family doesn’t have to trouble themselves.” "As for daughters—when the eldest sister goes into service and gets married off, the next one immediately becomes housewife, playing eldest sister and keeping the accounts." "When she went into service and married, the youngest took over." "Since January, when all my daughters had left home, I’ve rented a single apartment room just for sleeping and commuted from there to the shop." "This time, it’s a true bachelor’s residence through and through."

“So even someone like Okimi here puts on refined airs since coming up in the world, but she’s really quite the shrewd little thing.” “Having managed a small household herself, that tongue of hers when rejecting suppliers’ underweight goods—now that’s truly scathing.” Perhaps emboldened by the alcohol, Karoku proceeded to recount two or three more instances of Okimi’s cutting remarks from her time at home. It’s common enough in this world—those long accustomed to servitude currying favor with their betters by airing household affairs as if they were accomplishments. Was Karoku doing that now? Or did this daughter harbor some vulnerability her father could exploit, driving him to vent accumulated frustrations through such unwitting speech?

In response，the daughter Okimi simply remained silent with her head bowed. When she looked closely to see if anger lay beneath，Okimi was licking her upper lip with the tip of her tongue and smiling faintly. It was a smile that seemed to take some pleasure in being tormented by her father. No matter how forms and sentiments might be shattered by surrounding circumstances，it became recognized that there indeed existed a tacit mutual consent—particularly among blood relations—where those bound in service unknowingly maintained their connection through shared toil；yet witnessing such an unexpected manifestation of this truth left one astonished.

I was feeling resentful and envious when Karoku, noticing his daughter’s expression, pointed at Okimi and said, “Look at this. Young Master, even after being spoken to like this, this girl just keeps smiling. What a brazen-natured woman she is, don’t you think?” As Karoku spoke with resentment, Okimi—contrarily—adjusted her posture as if leaning toward her father and, for the first time, looked at him fondly before smiling faintly.

“But that’s too…” Okimi’s words carried an uncharacteristically bright tone tinged with coquettishness. As Ikegami’s complexion paled characteristically while he accelerated his cup movements, Karoku merely deepened the ruddy hue of his already florid face, deftly letting his cup slip through successive rounds of toasts. “I’ve had my fill,” he declared upon overturning his final cup. Though Ikegami pressed him relentlessly afterward, Karoku stubbornly refused, occupying himself solely with dabbing his forehead and wrists using a handkerchief.

Ikegami said admiringly,

“You can really stop at just that much?” “I told Ocho earlier in the garden too—the more I drink, the less drunk I get.”

Then Karoku made an uncomprehending face,

“That seems rather odd.” “By any chance, are you unwell?” “Firstly, sake is the essence of rice—if you drink too much of it, its potency may lead to poisoning.”

Ikegami seemed displeased by his drinking partner’s words—too temperate for a supposed sake lover—and grew sullen, “Then what do you drink for?”

he demanded sharply.

Karoku chuckled drily with a look that seemed to say it was an odd question, then— "You already know the answer, don't you?" "It's certainly to get drunk, but sometimes it acts as a restorative, other times as nourishment—so I don't choose when or where to drink. Once properly intoxicated, if I think more would be wasteful, I stop promptly." "It may not be my place to say this, but I'll omit further details here." "That comes from decades of practice."

And he laughed cheerfully again. “You’re part of a race that won’t die out among drinkers,” Ikegami said admiringly, yet with a note of resentment. Without comprehending any meaning behind this, Karoku simply replied, “That may well be the case,” and did not press to ask about its meaning.

Before they knew it, time had slipped by, and the clock now showed a little past two. The capricious spring weather showed no sign of settling as the sky abruptly clouded over, filling the silver-gray expanse with milky-white turbulent clouds swirling as if lightly stirred by the tip of a tea whisk. As one gazed, it seemed a rain dragon might emerge with its head raised, and were one to plop a single quail’s boiled egg into this sky, it would likely remind one of swallow’s nest soup in Chinese cuisine. And yet across the garden's surface, oppressive yellow light rays lay heavily pressed, while the pond, its central island, and the artificial hill all glowed with an unearthly pine-resin hue—as if peering through a beer bottle held up to sunlight.

Karoku peered up at the sky and said, “Well now, spring rain?” before flicking ash from his fine Western suit jacket and the cigarette resting on his knee as he began preparing to leave. Yet he hadn’t forgotten his business with me. He took a letter from his inner pocket, glanced at the sender’s name, then returned it. “Miss Ocho,” he asked, “are you acquainted with a man called Kuzuoka—the gardener at F Academy?” Ikegami finally showed displeasure, evidently thinking the shop manager was about to raise serious matters. Having already—earlier in the garden, from that abyss of resignation where I’d thought *to hell with it all*—been propelled upward by some dark, unknowable force that made me fire off both my marriage situation and Kuzuoka’s plight to Ikegami like twin bullets from a gun, I’d braced myself for severe consequences. Yet precisely because of this resignation, I’d let my mind drift freely afterward—never imagining those consequences would strike so swiftly, like a bamboo spear hurled from an unexpected quarter. As I stared vacantly between Karoku’s face and the pocket holding that letter, he—perhaps irritated by his daughter’s futile hesitance to press further—launched into an explanation.

“Well, you see—” “This man Kuzuoka has been repeatedly visiting the shop in Setomachi Town, and though they tell him Miss Ocho should be at Hamachō Dormitory, whenever he calls or goes there for a meeting, they turn him away—yet he insists he must see her no matter what.” “The matter is apparently one of great importance.” “Since he heard this is apparently the main residence, he earnestly wishes for arrangements to be made from here so that he can meet with Miss Ocho.” “So it seems that man Kuzuoka is the one making the request.”

The shop owner couple, also growing concerned, left their response to the man deliberately vague while commissioning their regular private detective agency to investigate his background. It was found that the man was indeed employed at F Academy and seemed upright in character—though the nature of his "urgent matter" remained unclear, there appeared no signs of blackmail-like demands. As they were consulting about how to proceed, according to the text of a letter he subsequently sent over, there was apparently a gymnastics teacher at F Academy who was on the verge of resigning. For this reinstatement campaign, he also wanted cooperation from Miss Ocho, a pupil the female teacher had been fond of. It stated that the meeting was solely for that purpose, with the circumstances described as being apparently quite simple. Why didn't he just say that from the start? However, if the matter were simply this situation alone, it would cause no particular trouble to Miss Ocho or the Young Master. Moreover, given that rumors had recently begun circulating here and there in this neighborhood—that Miss Ocho was being kept in this dormitory as the mistress of Ikegami’s son—they had not only kindly arranged her meeting with that man but also, since discussions of the Young Master’s marriage to you had already reached the stage of being acknowledged among the key members of the Ikegami household, though such a thing was highly unlikely, they wished to have Miss Ocho temporarily returned to her parents before the marriage to prevent any mishaps, and to proceed with concrete steps as swiftly as possible. Karoku reported that the opinions of the prominent people at the shop had generally come to this. There, Karoku assumed a serious expression and—

“What say you, Young Master? And you, Miss Ocho?” he said. Ikegami said “Hmm” and made a slightly sour face. Though Kuzuoka’s situation was one thing, I was stunned to find that the marriage discussions—which until now had shown not a single hint of such intent from the main house in Setomachi Town—had progressed this far among prominent figures. “Well, the main house—they don’t know me at all, yet they’ve already gone so far as to decide such things?”

When I said this, Karoku, as if circumventing the point, cast his mournful eyes upon me, "No, your parents and Mr. Tanbaya have already visited this dormitory several times discreetly and are fully apprised of your situation." "Somehow dependable and demure—everyone is rather taken with you as a young lady." Upon hearing this, it was not I alone who gasped "Good heavens!" in true astonishment. Ikegami, who had been halfway reclining, raised his torso up.

“I don’t know anything about that!” he said. Then Okimi, so as not to be noticed, silently stood up and left her seat.

Ikegami glared at her retreating figure, “That one colluded with the main house crowd behind my back.” As he said this, Karoku waved it away with his plump, short hand making a cat-summoning gesture, “What are you saying? Young Master, you’re a merchant’s son yourself, aren’t you? With goods this readily at hand, surely you can’t now publicly display them for some tactless physical inspection, can you? Even if they pile up, you can’t very well do that.”

Then, placing his hands on his knees in an authoritative manner, “However, you know, Young Master.” “The character for ‘parent’ is written by seeing a standing tree.” “Even if your parents may appear that way, they are vigilantly watching you from their high perch like a standing tree.” “To speak truthfully regarding Miss Ocho’s circumstances—while her father is an unimpeachably splendid gentleman, her mother, though difficult to say before you, is as you know a person of shadowed standing. It is for this point that the parents have deliberated considerably.” “Well, since there will be various matters arising from now on, please do not cause your parents too much worry.”

No sooner had he said this than he glanced at his wristwatch, “This won’t do. Well then, for now.” After bowing respectfully, he gazed up at the gloom-laden sky and said, “Okimi, lend me an umbrella,” then left toward the entrance. Taking advantage of Okimi’s absence from the seat, I knit my brows and, “That person has changed quite a bit, hasn’t he?”

I said to Ikegami. Then Ikegami, along with the fatigue from drinking, seemed to drop his head forward and sink into deep thought, but at my words—“Huh?”—he straightened his posture, “That? “Ah—that’s just how it is.” he answered. I pressed further, “How dreadfully old-fashioned.”

When I said this, Ikegami shook his head and— “No, you can’t exactly say that.” He said that no matter how old the seed might be, the way its simple honesty immediately took root might not be old after all. Karoku had taken the Chinese character teachings he learned during his apprentice days as his lifelong golden rule, establishing all policies based on these. For example, until about twenty years prior at Ikegami’s store, they had avoided anything taboo to the shop’s guardian deity by prohibiting all beast meat in meals for the shop manager. At that time Karoku—then head clerk—had strenuously advised them, noting that even the character for “nourishment” (養) devised by sages combined “sheep” (羊) with “to eat” (食). He insisted that mixing beast meat into employees’ meals not only violated no taboos but would improve their health and efficiency. They implemented this, with results matching his claims. Karoku also periodically reassigned staff and recruited school graduates. This derived from another character lesson—that “benefit” (便) meant “renewing people” (人を更にする). Thanks to such measures, Ikegami explained, his family’s venerable shop maintained its standing by adapting to modern times.

Ikegami said with deep feeling that in these times when simple and clear-cut ideas—the kind that could immediately be turned into action—were increasingly desired, Karoku’s mind, whether it was old or new, was undeniably suited to navigating the present.

About half a month later, Karoku came again and, representing the opinions of the prominent members of the Ikegami family, began a discussion anew with Ikegami and me. And setting a date one week later, it was settled through discussion that I would first return to my mother’s house and, as a publicly recognized bride candidate by the Ikegami family, finally move on to concrete negotiations for marriage with Seitaro.

However, Ikegami’s manner of engaging in these discussions—both the previous occasion and today—was strangely, increasingly lacking in enthusiasm. Noticing this, after the discussion was settled and Karoku had left, I inquired of Ikegami about the matter with these words.

“Initially, you plotted to make me your partner in a free marriage to rebel against the conventional life imposed by those around you, aiming to defy common customs and traditions.” “Though of course, as your partner in this, I had to be a woman capable of inspiring enough passionate love to carry out that scheme—as you yourself added when speaking to me.” “But this time, the opposing side has allied together and come to agree to a marriage exactly as you wished, so you’re displeased with their approach too, aren’t you?” “On the contrary, that must be taken as something that offends them instead, mustn’t it?” “So that’s why you’re sulking, aren’t you?” “Given that you’re such a contrarian, I’m certain that must be the case.”

Then Ikegami agreed,

"That's part of it." "There certainly is." "However, there exists a greater reason for this vanished fervor." "This is something utterly beyond remedy." And Ikegami, with a thoroughly confounded expression, began speaking. "Ocho, only after dwelling beneath the same roof with you day and night did I come to realize this—that indomitable strength of yours which seems to bore through the soil where your roots lie and drive them down to the earth's very foundation. "This force, as an energy of the human spirit, appears capable of resonating deepest within people's breasts and rattling their very marrow—yet mysteriously, in your case, it remains absent from your outward character." "Your combative spirit, your flair for splendor, your sharp wit—none emerge when those traits are engaged." "And conversely, your artlessness, your demureness, your gentleness—even when those qualities are in play, it remains hidden." "It surfaces through inadvertent phrases you let slip unaware—through fragmented murmurs. For one of my disposition, this instead stings through flesh and bone like electric current—I've grown to comprehend this clearly now."

“You were bedridden with a cold for about a week not long ago.” “At that time, catkin willow flowers still wrapped in their calyxes had been placed in a vase in the corner of the room.” “Having no appetite due to fever, you skipped meals two or three times.” “Since this would harm your health, Okimi made rice porridge, added a spoon, and brought it to you.” “Awakened by Okimi while still drowsy, you received the bowl of porridge and spoon she offered.” “At that moment—whether forcing absent appetite or responding to Okimi’s kindness—you hummed in sing-song each time you lifted a spoonful to your mouth, still dazed.”

“With one spoonful eaten—for Father With two spoonfuls eaten—for Mother And she laughed faintly.” Ikegami had, without realizing it, adopted a serious expression as he continued—“At that time, despite there being no wind, the catkin willow flower calyxes fell one after another onto the tatami. You, with unfocused bleary eyes, watched those calyxes fall as you again scooped porridge with a spoon and sang in a murmur, slowly, slowly. With one spoonful eaten—for Father”

With two spoonfuls eaten—for mother And she laughed faintly again.

The catkin willow flower calyxes had all fallen away, leaving the silver hairs exposed. The porridge in the small bowl had been mostly scooped and eaten, revealing the pearlescent finish of its bottom. Then you said “This will do,” returned the porridge utensils to Okimi, then said “Thank you for the meal,” and just like a puppy discarded by the roadside, flopped down onto the floor. Immediately, she began breathing softly in sleep. “Those gestures and that song from that brief period—you probably don’t remember them now, nor can you recall them. But I was somewhat worried about your meals during your illness, so I peeked through a narrow gap in the shoji screen and felt it. That murmuring song-like voice—seemingly emanating from nowhere—was hoarse like an old woman’s yet also sounded as insubstantial as an infant’s wail. But for me who heard that, there was a pain as if someone had seized the very root of life and wrenched it out in violent twists. For life’s sake this was deemed useless, for life’s sake that was deemed pretense—everything was wrung out until even the stubborn endurance that had sustained me until now, let alone everything I’d ever taken pride in, felt like a loathsome burden that made my flesh crawl.” All those things were cast aside like a winter coat in early spring, filling me with the desire to prostrate myself before what seemed that primal voice, uttering “Forgive me.” The way I wanted to prostrate myself was with such piety that—if on tatami mats I would pierce through them, if on earth through the earth—I didn’t know how deep I should press my forehead into whatever lay beyond.

How could Ocho's clumsy singing voice render a grown man so utterly powerless? Is it because through the seams of my relaxed mental armor seeps that incurable, endless mournful sound of life—something no remedy can heal in us humans? That voice possesses too terrifying a corrosive quality to be neatly categorized under concepts like mushin or muga. It was a resonance whose nature could not be discerned—whether it was the voice of a devil or that of a benevolent deity. However, when I heard that voice, I was made to lament—Ah, in this world, apart from the dead, there is not a single person with whom I can live in harmony.

Yet when I heard that voice again—after the roots of ordinary life had been pitifully wrenched away—I felt a different life sprouting from those roots, something seething forth with both resentment and tender compassion. But to whom should I direct this? To whom should I appeal? With one spoonful eaten—for father With two spoonfuls eaten—for mother That voice like a dull wind trembling through torn shoji paper. And yet it was a young girl’s voice. What is the source of that voice—ah, what could it be? With a prostrate heart I pray, yet none will tell me, none dare to.

In the end, my guts churned by that grief, I could only lose myself and yearn to thrash about.

If I were to think this stems solely from my melancholic sentimentality—that would be a mistake. I should ask Okimi. Even Okimi—that girl as numb as an icefish, devoid of any sensation—had bowed her head and let tears fall drop by drop while waiting for the porridge utensils to be cleaned, listening to that singing voice.

Ocho, you—you yourself don't know yet. However, such weak fruit instead becomes strong fruit. Ocho, you yourself remain unaware—there is a mysterious power lurking within you. And since hearing that voice, I've come to feel estranged from the usual Ocho-chan before me—she who possesses color and scent. This Ocho-chan is but a girl tenfold more alluring than any ordinary woman. Yet that Ocho-chan without color or scent who sang the murmuring song—that one might be perceived as having character both grounded and unfathomably vast. It's that Ocho-chan I find myself helplessly drawn to now.

If it were this Ocho-chan before my eyes, were we ever to part ways after some awkward experience between us, there would eventually come a time when we forget each other. But if it were that Ocho-chan who sang the murmuring song—no matter how violently we might loathe each other—a single thread would surely tie our hearts together. Even were that thread as fragile and invisible as a lotus filament, pulling it would restore everything as it was. And if it were that Ocho-chan—the owner of that voice—even should we inhabit separate realms of light and darkness, whenever we desired to meet we would always find each other. Lonely though it might be, I feel our souls—just the two of us in all creation—could remain thus intertwined for all eternity. When I think about it, no circumstance of reality, no complex obstacle possesses power enough to sever that rhythmic bond.

Since realizing this, I came to see all such labors—stubbornness, rebellion, asserting my ego, indulging my preferences—as futile struggles in this brief human existence. Therefore, even the passion for our marriage that had been developing since then diminished. What I ceaselessly yearned for was the unceasing rhythmic connection hidden deep within that man and woman. Ocho-chan, you undoubtedly possessed that, even if you weren't conscious of it. But I—having thought this far—came to feel an inexpressible terror. If I were to die suddenly from alcoholism or some such cause, and if this lotus thread didn't exist, I could still see myself now—eternally losing sight of Ocho-chan whom I loved so dearly, then stumbling about in death's dark void, desperately searching for her. Therefore, I became desperate to live long no matter what—to stay with Ocho-chan, have her draw out that lotus thread, and have her firmly bind me to it—I wished for this with all my being.

In the end, according to the customs of this world, it inevitably took the form of marriage. If there existed a relationship more intimate than that, naturally I would have preferred it. “But since it doesn’t exist, even if the passion has been lost, there is no choice but to be drawn into that bondage,” said Ikegami.

After listening to Ikegami’s words—though I couldn’t make sense of any of it—something intensely pressing weighed upon me. Upon reflection, it was true that until four or five days prior,I had lain bedridden with influenza for about a week. During that time—just as Ikegami described—my appetite vanished,and Okimi repeatedly forced bowlfuls of porridge into me as if performing some obligation. Yet I retained no memory whatsoever of what Ikegami had just recounted. The catkin willow I’d vaguely recalled gazing at still stood in the parlor’s corner vase—every calyx shed from its flower clusters,the silver hairs now blooming so profusely they verged on yellowing. If such evidence existed,the events must have occurred. But even then,turning it over in my mind,I found no trace of remembrance. How strange—that voice! That song! Those actions!—even to myself,could such things truly have been?

I tilted my head slightly and quietly recited it under my breath. With one spoonful eaten—for father With two spoonfuls eaten—for mother As for where and when I learned the lines of that song—I myself did not know. The words "father" and "mother"—toward whom were they directed? Even to myself, my intent remained unfathomable. When I began to repeat it aloud this time, Ikegami let out a startled cry—

“Stop it—that song.” “That song.” “Hearing that now in your sane voice—I don’t know why—is utterly terrifying.” “Please—I beg you—stop it.”

Ikegami covered his ears and shrieked.

In a strangely deflated state—like someone who had nearly landed a fish after glimpsing its silvery flash, only to lose it at water’s edge—yet still burning with intensifying regret, Ikegami spent the week before my return to Mother’s house for concrete marriage negotiations restlessly hovering around me in the dormitory to an almost comical degree. When I tried to probe Ikegami’s feelings regarding Kuzuoka,

“That’s no longer an issue.” “As long as Ocho doesn’t let that man shatter your feelings toward me, I’ll arrange things however you please.” Ikegami said irritably. I did not take advantage of this opening to press further, “Then, if by some chance I were to have to take responsibility for that man’s circumstances—”

When I pressed him with this question, Ikegami was indeed startled and stared at my face, but weakly—

“Of course, a girl like Ocho must have one or two satellites.” “Then there’s no helping it.” “To keep hold of the moon, I suppose I must accept its satellites as well.” he answered. I thought it was a success for now.

It appeared Karoku had notified Mother as well, “Oh my, goodness gracious—what a truly splendid development this has become—” Brandishing those words first, Mother came barging into the dormitory. When we faced each other in my room, she immediately began lavishing praise, declaring this outcome to be entirely due to my feminine wiles, then proceeded to expound in meticulous detail about how—now that I was to become mistress of a great household—I must carry myself with dignity and manage large numbers of people efficiently. True to her nature as a mother, she did not neglect to add the following:

“But listen, Ocho. “No matter how thoroughly you devote yourself to becoming one of the master’s household, you mustn’t forget that I am your birth mother—that in this vast world, we are the only parent and child to each other.” Then she lowered her voice and, “Truly, truly—for someone of my lowly station, undeserving as a parent, to have raised you into such a proper mistress of a great household—why, I could die content now.” “You really were quite the model of filial devotion.” “Your old ma thanks you.”

Having said that—whether feigned or genuine—she pressed the sleeve of her undergarment to eyes where tears had begun to well. Hearing this, even as I remained wary of whether it was feigned or genuine, tears still welled up properly in my eyes—but if Mother were to notice them and forever fixate on them as some intimate trophy wrung from her child—entertaining herself by recalling it whenever she pleased—I felt I could never endure it. Thus, I hurriedly cleared my throat two or three times with feigned coughs—“Ahem, ahem”—to blow away the mood that had begun to settle. To what extent were we a mother and child so ill-suited in our very guts?

Mother was tucking the sleeve of her undergarment into her sleeve with one hand, having let out a relieved sigh, but upon noticing something, she immediately glared around with ferocious eyes, hunched her back, and lowered her voice further,

"But listen, Ocho, it’s actually after things have come to this that they become crucial." "Even if you think matters will proceed smoothly from here on out, that’s dangerous." "In this world, there’s jealousy from others and downright malice." "If you let your guard down, you’ll blunder." "As precaution against such eventualities—now that things have progressed this far—don’t get outmaneuvered; even if you fall, you won’t rise empty-handed, for I trust you’ve already properly seized the other party by the lapel." "When push comes to shove, it’d be pathetic to just get tossed aside with a ‘see ya’ and salt thrown in your face." "Yes—given how things stand—I trust you’ve already secured something solid from the other party to avoid some cowering, disgraceful retreat," she said.

I thought Mother’s routine had begun. And so, with my usual hint of mockery, “And what exactly is this ‘lapel’ you’re talking about—that thing you grab so you don’t get up empty-handed if you fall?” When I feigned ignorance and asked this, Mother grabbed both sleeve openings with her fingertips, pulling them left and right as if scratching an itch on her back, then violently shook her upper body as though consumed by frustration— “I’m not joking around. “This is serious.” “Hmph, no matter how much you play dumb, I’m your mother—I can see right through you.” “Just look—I met the Young Master over there earlier, and really now! That Young Master’s demeanor—it was nothing but fidgety and unsettled.” “With that, can you really say he’s a man who hasn’t been caught by you in something?”

After declaring this, she picked up her half-smoked cigarette with a self-satisfied air and quietly blew smoke rings. Whenever I was subjected to such misunderstandings—not just from Mother but from others—lately I found myself feeling not so much sad as rather wicked, even deriving a peculiar pleasure from it. Is it because a shell has truly thickened around me? Or is it because I’ve resolved to stand alone in this world when the time comes?

So, when I heard Mother’s misconception, I found it so amusing that I inadvertently— “Blow, river wind! Lift the bamboo blind! Let’s see the face of the guest inside—” and I simply couldn’t stop myself from mixing in a hummed tune. Even Mother seemed indignant at this, “You’ve become so worked up there’s no handling you anymore.” “Well then, your old ma will be going home today.”

And so, bundling up my manageable personal belongings into a furoshiki cloth, she left. Whether Karoku had again informed Mother of Ikegami’s liberation order regarding me, Mother—upon leaving—had safely left behind the letters and postcards addressed to me that had arrived at her home. The two letters were old ones from Kuzuoka, serving as evidence of how he had been perplexed and running about in confusion over the difficulty of meeting with me. A picture postcard featured Kira, Yoshimitsu-chan, and Yaeko lined up for a photograph against the backdrop of cherry blossoms at Tanagawa Amusement Park during F Academy’s social event. Perhaps it was my imagination, but in the nearly four months since I last met them, the three of them seemed to have suddenly grown and taken on a more mature appearance. There were messages from the three of them.

I safely graduated from the regular course and entered the graduate program. If you were here, we could be together. Kira Ataka-sensei never returned, you didn’t come either, and now everyone’s acting recklessly in resignation. It’s not interesting. Yoshimitsu The rumor that Elder Sister is getting married is all anyone talks about. Well~ congratulations then. Yaeko I gazed at the photo on this picture postcard, squinting and widening my eyes like an old person. Yet for all that, these nostalgic images refused to align with the focal point of my own yearning—slipping away at every turn, growing dull and unfocused. Tears streamed steadily from my eyes, yet their emotional resonance remained utterly blurred. Had these nearly four months so thoroughly dragged me from a girl’s world into womanhood? The more I stared, the more a veil of naive inexperience seemed to shroud the photograph’s surface, making me balk at reentering that world now. Growing impatient, I called out sharply to the postcard image: “Kira!”

Then, in the depths of my ears, I heard a response in that congested, nasal voice: "Huh?" Next I called out, "Yoshimitsu-chan!" "Yeees," came sharp-witted Yoshimitsu-chan's usual reply, affectating a London City accent. As for Yaeko, I could hear her respond in a tone already slipping into coquetry: "Elder Sister, what is it?"

I closed my eyes for a while. Then, quietly, I was brought back to myself on that windy day, seated atop dragon’s beard grass, watching the poplars in the schoolyard sway like whips. Kira and Yoshimitsu-chan were wrestling beside me, taking turns pinning each other down. Yaeko was counting the bulbils she had gathered. Then, as Kira and Yoshimitsu-chan argued about foul play and stood up to chase each other, Yaeko ran around crying “It’s dangerous!”, while the three of them—though moving away from me several times—would reach the perimeter of an expanding circle only to have their running distance narrow again as if bound by an invisible rope, returning once more to my side.

Even after reopening my eyes, I felt those intangible threads of memory—now vividly twisted together—spun forth from my heart until they interlaced and patterned themselves into my bodily senses. As if alcohol had been rubbed into my muscles by those three children’s palms of varying sizes, my body burned fiercely until I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself, "Ah... I miss everyone," I found myself saying aloud.

After uttering those words, the happiness of my childhood—which I myself had coldly cast away into the past—now pressed heavily upon my heart with regret. And as I confronted this strange sequence of present entanglements that grew increasingly inescapable, doubts arose: Was this truly what they called fate? Or merely a trap I’d whimsically set for myself? Once such suspicions took hold, my heart cowered while even my body stiffened, and there was no other support to steady myself against it.

As I turned the matter over in my mind, I suddenly recalled one charming phrase—a bit of Japanese barely mastered by a Chinese performer who had lately gained fame at vaudeville theaters for his acrobatics. He would chant it to the stagehands whenever he was about to begin his act, much to the audience’s delight. That was simply him saying, "Well then, let’s dooo it." I resolutely tore up the postcard, then slowly stood up and imitated an unsteady tone of voice, "Well then, let’s dooo it," I said.

Once I began thinking, there was no end to it. To cut it short, I simply had to face what lay before me and say this—there was no other way, don't you agree? Resolutely baring my shoulders, I settled my languid body back before the vanity mirror. Even though Ikegami had promulgated this liberation decree over me, he still would not permit lengthy outings or distant excursions. It wasn't that he adopted the form of prohibition, but by blatantly demonstrating how such acts would wound him grievously, he ultimately succeeded in restraining me.

Well, it wasn't as if I had to endure this for just a few more days—I resigned myself to staying as meekly as possible in the dormitory, performing nothing more than the role of a caretaker who simply indulged the inscrutable anxieties he had begun directing at me regarding his unknowable wishes. For one thing, no matter how much I might be released, I simply couldn't bring myself to consider returning to that incomprehensible club-like house of Mother's. In that, perhaps, lay what created this oppressive leisure—allowing me to settle meekly into the dormitory without struggling so fiercely. Moreover, beyond that lies the fact of a marriage I don't truly desire in my heart. Could this, at last, have been what anchored me in this oppressive state of leisure?

On the evening of the day when I was finally to leave the dormitory for Mother’s house in just one more day, Kuzuoka came to visit the dormitory. They had likely even notified Menkyoku from the Setomono-cho main branch about lifting the visitation ban. When Okimi relayed that to me, Ikegami—who was present there—made a face that said there was no helping it, then feigned an appearance of being as reluctant to leave as possible,

"Having you converse with that young guest here in this house must feel constraining for you, Ocho. “Well, the Nihonbashi Club would be good—it’s nearby.” “Please have your conversation over tea or something in that cafeteria.”

And he even specified the location and manner of hospitality. To surmise, the smoldering remnants of Ikegami's jealousy found it grating to have me converse with a young man beneath the same roof where he himself resided, while conversely, the prospect of being taken to some unknown distant place for a rendezvous would only heighten his anxieties. Thus, it appeared his scheme was to make Kuzuoka and me meet within the bounds of his imagined reach, through a meeting format of his own design.

I stood up with my makeup already done, driven solely by that "Well then, let's dooo it" resolve I'd mentioned earlier, and went out through the entrance where Kuzuoka had been kept waiting. What a shrunken figure Kuzuoka had become! He was so emaciated that when I first saw him at the entranceway, I actually exclaimed "Oh!" and burst out laughing. As we walked shoulder to shoulder, I kept staring intently at his appearance. And,

"What happened to you? That’s ridiculous. You’ve completely deteriorated," I said. Kuzuoka shot me a glance filled with profound resentment—

“What do you mean by ‘ridiculous’?” “You’re making a fool of me!” he managed to say. And though he must have been angry, seeming to lack the energy to fully express his rage, he merely twitched the muscles of his face and swallowed his fury along with his spit, as if to fuel his stomach.

“But it’s not something I did.” To our left stood teahouses, small restaurants, and quaint cafés, while our right traced Hamacho Park’s border—down this narrow path we walked. These mercantile buildings, crammed with rooms and leaving scarcely any open space, had densely planted flowers and shrubs along their fences from the entrance onward—both to lend their gateways an air of refinement and to substitute greenery for proper gardens. Amidst late spring’s vivid new buds and the glossy revival of old leaves, Chinese flowering crabapple blossoms peeked through with artless yet voluptuous allure, coaxing pleasant languor from passersby while scattering breaths of respite through the air. Through the park’s wire mesh fence, baseballs—lingering remnants of spring—could be seen darting white across the field. On the park office door already hung notices announcing upcoming summer night openings.

As we walked along the backstage area of the Nihonbashi Club, gazing at the Okawa River flowing plentifully beneath Fukagawa Ward’s clear sky fading into dusk, what appeared to be performance preparations became visible, and the sound of an offstage shamisen could be heard. Since we soon reached Hamacho Riverbank, I stood at the water’s edge there and gazed out at the scenery for a moment. Ahead lay the warehouses of Atakamachi Riverbank, while to the right spanned the majestically constructed Shin-Ohashi Bridge, and to the left beyond Ryogoku Bridge could be seen the curve of Kuramae Bridge’s structure. The large domed roof of the Kokugikan towering above the mouth of the Onagigawa River. The one-sen steamer at midriver overtook the tugboat steamer, sending trailing waves against the stone embankment as it went. The familiar scenery had not changed in the slightest. Nothing had changed.

“I’m glad,” I inadvertently said aloud. Kuzuoka retorted “Huh?” thinking I had addressed him, but when he realized that wasn’t the case, “Quit your carefree antics and hurry to where we can talk,” he said. When I pointed with my left hand at the brightly lit Western-style building and said, “Here it is,” he looked up at the glowing windows and muttered, “What—here?” But then he staggered slightly. “No good… My eyes—they’re spinning. Let me rest quickly,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder.

At this point, I too began to genuinely worry and hurriedly took Kuzuoka into the club. In the office area were myself in office uniform and a daughter of my elementary school friend, while before the cafeteria entrance counter stood a member of the Hamachō Ondo dancer troupe that performed in the park during summer. Bringing Kuzuoka—now thoroughly emaciated and disheveled—into their midst was rather mortifying, but driven by concern for him, we pushed through unhesitatingly and settled at a riverside table in the cafeteria.

No sooner had I sat down at the table than "I couldn't help but say, 'Why have you let your body weaken so much?'" After sipping black tea and regaining some vigor, Kuzuoka groaned “Aah, mmph…” as though brushing off a spider’s thread clinging to his cheek, then stretched his beard-covered face several times. “No matter what I did—no matter how I tried—I’ve completely exhausted all my energy. And as of last month, I’ve been dismissed from the academy,” he said, then went on to report subsequent developments regarding the incident involving Ataka-sensei.

Last year, Ataka-sensei had insisted that Kuzuoka marry her, but when he could not accept this, she returned to her family home at the foot of Mount Akagi in December and had remained there ever since—even after the New Year began and the semester started. “Even when I repeatedly implored Ataka-sensei—saying anything would do if only she’d return to the academy once—she sent back just one letter stating she absolutely wouldn’t come back unless I accepted her demand.” “But this particular demand—I swear I can’t comply with it.” The month had reached late February. “Choko-san, during that time—who knows how many times I tried contacting you—but the dormitory wouldn’t allow any communication.” “We couldn’t possibly involve the police.”

The academy staff, perceiving Ataka-sensei’s unusual absence—she who was usually robust and never missed work—suddenly launched an investigation. “If the secret circumstances between us were discovered by the academy, they’d deal with it through ordinary common sense—not only would Ataka-sensei be forced to resign from the academy, but she’d likely never work in education again.” “I’ll undoubtedly get caught up in it too and be dismissed.” “Choko-san, you’ll probably be skillfully persuaded to withdraw voluntarily—but for you, that wouldn’t be much hardship.” “Because you’re not someone drawing a salary from the academy, but rather someone paying tuition to it.”

Ahh, this business of living—how it makes people fret beyond necessity and turns them timid. Despite appearances, even Ataka-sensei allocated part of her salary to send monthly to her younger siblings back home—who pursued sericulture as a side business during this time of depressed cocoon prices—to support their education. I had my mother and grandmother to support at home. Ever since I lost my father—the sole breadwinner for our family—when I was a boy, my mother and grandmother had no one to lean on but me, their only son, as both cane and pillar. Even during the time I ran a night stall as a gardener, and when I attended horticulture school while working as a gardener, Mother and Grandmother would face me each time I came and went from the house, saying, "We're truly sorry... “But you’ve done so well for us,” they thanked me, clasping their hands as if in prayer. Ever since I began living as a gardener at F Academy through Ataka-sensei’s introduction, the two family members rejoiced as though their son had secured some prestigious official post. At the end of each month, they would say, “So this is what a pay envelope with a month’s earnings looks like, eh? “Somehow, if we drop this on the way, we’d lose everything at once—it’s such a frightening little bag,” they said, enshrining it before the household altar and their father’s memorial tablet.

These six or seven years of continued work as a gardener were not particularly remarkable, but my mother and grandmother had lived without much hardship. While their son continued living almost entirely in the head gardener’s storage shed and rarely returned home, the two women passed the time during his absences doing nothing but discuss finding him a bride. They tried marking potential brides from girls they had in mind and asking people they knew for help. Though sensing that both parties would surely be disillusioned if a bride were actually found to enter our humble household and assume the central position among its female members, I merely laughed—unwilling to shatter the one pleasant dream these old women had cherished until now—and left their fantasy intact as they indulged in it. "Unstitch the old summer kimono into swaddling clothes." Grandmother, carried away in her indulgence, had even begun sketching her grandson’s dreams into thin air.

That became dismissal. And that pay envelope which had filled the elderly women with such mystique would never be obtained again. What will come of all this? Choko-san, why don’t you try imagining it? Indeed, from Choko-san’s perspective, our family’s life up until now must have seemed utterly ordinary. But when imagining our family’s future life—one where even that ordinariness has become impossible—this will present itself as an all too extraordinary phenomenon. Despair, curses, abandonment—if one seeks materials for tragedy, they may gather them at will from our family.

So you're saying I should just find another gardening job somewhere? There was no other position as cushy and well-paying as that gardener role at F Academy.

So you're saying if I go back to being a night stall gardener again, I could at least make a living, Choko-san? That's what someone who's never experienced it would say. This body that's grown dull through six or seven years of wearing Western clothes, picking warm sunny spots to tend flowers for young masters and misses—how could it return now to that wind-scoured world of frozen earth, gnawed by hardship? To do that again—my heart's grown too heavy, the bones in my neck stiffened solid. Street vendors take annoyances in stride as routine—brushing off irritations, deftly playing to customers' whims. To do that requires a body fundamentally built for confrontation—

The view of Ōkawa River visible from the window had deepened into full night, with the characters for Kirin Beer written sideways and Polytamin vertically near Onagi River's mouth standing out sharply atop the black warehouses of Ataka Quay in their advertisement lights. When the lights blazed, they pressed the surrounding night darkness into midnight blackness; when extinguished, even within uniform darkness, they faintly revealed three distinct layers—river, quay, sky—returning to evening’s embrace. The relationship between light and dark appeared strangely intent on pursuing opposing effects while tricking each other. Against this riverside view, to the left and slightly askew, the lights of Kokugikan’s domed roof—cool like a row of fluorescent lights—hinted at the approaching summer nightscape.

When observing the people who noisily entered as a crowd after arranging long tables in a row against the wall and then sitting properly on chairs flanking both sides—some imposing in stature yet pallid in complexion, others slouching in new-style Western clothes with hunched backs, still others sporting mustaches beneath their noses while wearing aprons—these people could immediately be recognized as middle-class merchants from downtown Tokyo who had come in a group to patronize a theatrical performance and were now holding a dinner gathering en route. While eating set meals together, they passed Masamune bottles gripped in their simian arms high across the empty tables from both sides, exclaiming “Oh my!” here and there. They urged each other with "Oh my!"

The room’s interior blended plain modern Western style with Japonisme influences, and from the atmosphere created by this space and its occupants, one perceived how downtown Tokyo maintained both refinement and local character. Looking around further, there was a table where mothers with their daughters—some in kimono, others in Western dress—had entered after promising “We’ll definitely have ice cream later,” then begun their main courses. There was also a table where a haori-clad geisha with a bluish cast to her eyes bowed at every conversational turn while being treated by a respectable madam.

I noticed Kuzuoka's fidgeting fingers as he spoke and became aware that I too had unconsciously been toying with the knives and forks laid out on the table. Thinking it inconsiderate toward the waiter to prolong our conversation over nothing but tea, I ordered a meal.

Kuzuoka, having finally found an outlet to vent the pent-up frustrations he couldn’t share with anyone, seemed to regain his vigor and continued talking while heartily eating the first dish that arrived.

“Choko-san, do you know the story about extracting toad oil? To do that, they say you put a toad into a box lined with mirrors on all four sides. The toad becomes terrified and enraged by countless reflections of itself in those mirrors. It struggles desperately until it expends every ounce of bodily fat and dies—that’s how the story goes.” Kuzuoka said that now, at this juncture, he had truly thought himself finished. When I came to my senses, I realized I had become like a toad stuffed into a box with three mirrors. One mirror was Ataka-sensei. The self reflected there was myself entangled in her affectionate care. I desperately challenged that image of myself for liberation. Another mirror was Choko-san—the self drawn to your allure. I gladly consented while impulsively resisting through some crisis instinct. The third mirror showed myself savagely clamped down upon by two old women’s lives. Against that too, I now thrashed about trying to break free.

The three reflections of myself in the three mirrors were not simply divided into three separate entities. In Ataka-sensei’s mirror where I was entangled in her affection, in Ocho’s mirror where I was ensnared by allure, in the mirror of two old women where I was savagely clamped by livelihood—these existing reflections and those cast from elsewhere spat contempt at one another, mocked one another, threatened one another. Each mirrored surface that had been reflected back would retaliate in kind, projecting figures of anguish leaning on canes—accompanied by dozens upon hundreds of multiplied images—toward both the mirror that had cast them and those reflected alongside them. Reflections within reflections: from contempt arose sighs, from mockery sprang bitter fury, from threats welled endless sobs of sorrow. And though each of these countless doppelgängers was my enemy, they were also myself. When I couldn’t bear their gaze and looked away, they too averted their eyes—only for new doppelgängers in fresh agonies to materialize at new focal points, staring back at me with even sharper intensity. Unbearable. Truly unbearable. Yet inescapable. The most plausible solution seemed to shatter one mirror and escape—yet destroying any single one would erase the very self shaped within them. What a cursed fate. Ataka-sensei, Ocho, two old women—or rather, affection, love, survival—through these three mirrors alone did the youth called Kuzuoka barely exist in reality, conjured by external forces. Only through the anguish these mirrors reflected had I recently strengthened my self-awareness—this conviction that I was indeed alive. Looking back now, my former self had been glutted with ordinary happiness—a hollow shell of contentment devoid of true substance. People pity that toad pressed by mirrors until it exudes every ounce of fat and dies—thinking it wretched and tormented. But I disagree. Few creatures taste life as vividly as that toad—consumed by extreme fear, rage, and sorrow—plunging into chaos through supreme tension unknown even in ordinary frogs’ dreams. Even if every drop of my fat were squeezed out to become ointment for others.

I had now come to wholeheartedly embrace being that oil-extraction toad. So I simply remained still. I wouldn't ask anything more of Ataka-sensei either. I wouldn't campaign for reinstatement at F―― Academy either. And I let my heart stay drawn to Ocho as well. But I wouldn't move beyond this. To move would mean destroying the environmental mirrors that permitted my very existence—for someone sustained solely by such circumstances, it would signify self-annihilation. I merely endured everything, wrung by that anguish, watching with desperate intensity as vitality drained moment by moment from heart and body. Ocho despised my emaciation. "But I've never felt more viscerally alive than in these recent days―" Kuzuoka declared haughtily, tilting his head back to gaze at the ceiling.

I too was eating from my plate with fork and knife while keeping company with Kuzuoka. When I suddenly noticed, I was astonished to see that Kuzuoka—who had begun eating so voraciously—no matter how engrossed in conversation he became, after sipping his hors d'oeuvres and potage soup had abruptly checked his tempo, hardly touching the meat dishes on his plate while languidly picking at only the side garnishes. As a result, compared to my own not particularly swift way of eating, he tended to fall behind, leaving the waiter perplexed. However I looked at it, I couldn't help but think Kuzuoka had deteriorated.

Another thing that struck me as odd was how Kuzuoka's way of thinking and speaking had developed such a markedly modern, intellectual-like quality in just four months since we'd last met that he seemed an entirely different person. As for the former Kuzuoka, whenever he expressed emotion there had been a rustic simplicity about him like wild trees unfussily reaching their full growth, his words incapable of conveying such complex substance as would require theories or abstractions to fully explain. He had been a man who communicated his feelings solely through brief facts or symbols that spoke directly to one's intuition.

“You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you.”

I inadvertently said that, then, exercising a woman’s suspicious nature, “You said earlier you only negotiated with Ataka-sensei through letter exchanges. Is that really true?” “You didn’t even try visiting Ataka-sensei yourself, did you?” Then Kuzuoka, with eyes that kept darting about timidly, made an expression that practically shouted *This is a lie* before— “I didn’t go visit or anything.” “Just letters,” he said haltingly.

From this attitude and manner of speech, rather than feeling the indignation of betrayed jealousy, I actually sensed a certain innate boyishness that men inherently possess—to the point where I nearly blurted out “Oh, oh, very well” and wanted to forgive him outright. But realizing this would lead nowhere, I gently pressed my inquiry. “You can tell me the truth.” “Please do tell me, won’t you?” “After all, I might be doing something that would startle you without your knowledge.”

And in this situation, my marriage negotiations with Ikegami and the livelihood of Kuzuoka’s family that would be supported through this marriage—these two matters, like a pair of dark horses that would startle Kuzuoka, were being ceaselessly fed fodder in the stable within my breast.

At those words, Kuzuoka, as if put at ease, smiled faintly and—

“Well, I’ll tell you.” “At the beginning of last month, when I heard F Academy was finally sending someone to investigate Ataka-sensei’s condition and state of mind, I thought it’d be disastrous to lag behind. So even knowing that, I resolved to go have my final reckoning with her.” “Ataka-sensei was studying in the old zashiki room of her family’s farmhouse near Yagihara Station on the Joetsu Line.” “Indeed, Mount Akagi was clearly visible.”

“How was Sensei doing?”

“I was shocked. “Sensei is leaving absolutely everything regarding this incident to take its natural course.” “And it was a reply completely different from the previous letters.” “And you may do as you please.” “However, I had absolutely no intention of returning to the academy—it had come to this conclusion.” “There’s nothing to be shocked about, is there?” “Even Sensei had no choice but to do that in the end, don’t you think?” “No, there are still things that shock me.” “After Sensei said that, when I asked, ‘Well, even if I do that—what will you do now?’ she replied, ‘Leave my affairs to me.’” “‘Since coming here, I have restarted my research “On Death” that I began in my youth but abandoned midway.’” “‘Lately, I’ve come to think that perhaps this is the very mission I was born into this world to fulfill,’ she said.”

“Oh, stop trying to scare me.” “Isn’t Sensei preparing to commit suicide?” “Well, when I heard that, I was startled too and asked her point-blank right then.” “Then Sensei laughed from the heart—like she found it genuinely amusing—and said researching death didn’t mean studying it as an end goal.” “It’s research on death to deepen life.” “Just as darkening an object’s shadows makes its form stand out clearer, you can’t grasp life’s highest joys without plumbing death’s depths.” “That’s what she told me.”

“So I was relieved. Sensei will be alright, won’t she?” “But I’ve never seen Sensei laugh from the very depths of her heart like she did then. Somehow, it sounded like a voice laughing from a higher plane than this muddled world where we struggle. So I thought Sensei was truly extraordinary, and honestly laid bare all my troubles to ask her advice. Then Sensei gently took me by the hand, so to speak, and taught me about the nature of those matters.”

I had come this far and realized that Kuzuoka’s transformation wasn’t his own original creation, but something he had gleaned as a hint from some notion of that pitiable Sensei. However, even if the hint came from Sensei, upon realizing that Kuzuoka had managed to solidify his thoughts so earnestly through his own painful experiences forced by surrounding circumstances, “Sensei might be that way, but you’ve grown splendidly yourself,” I comforted Kuzuoka.

When I looked around, the diners had long since returned to the entertainment hall, leaving only the flowers in vases standing conspicuously under the blaringly illuminated chandelier against white tablecloths. During our conversation, Okimi from the dormitory had already come to peer into the cafeteria entrance twice—likely ordered by Ikegami—each time having a waiter pass along messages laden with surveillance and curfew reminders: "The bath is ready, so once the young mistress finishes talking, please return immediately," before retreating.

I was growing increasingly uneasy about remaining in this room any longer, and if I wasn’t careful, Okimi might come again, so I hurriedly settled the bill and stood up,

“Let’s go out and take a little walk around here, and then let’s talk again,” I urged Kuzuoka as we exited the club into the street. It was a dewy late spring night with stars glistening through moisture. Drawn toward the town’s evening lights, I turned from Ōkawa toward the tram line opposite, guiding Kuzuoka along the lively streetside toward Hisamatsubashi. What I wrestled with internally was whether to disclose my marriage negotiations with Ikegami and their connection to securing Kuzuoka’s livelihood now, or keep silent and await whatever approach he might take—I remained torn between these choices.

While the marriage between Ikegami and myself might take the form of matrimony，its essence remained strangely inhuman—in truth，our relationship would likely resemble that of a mystical yearning patient and his attending nurse．Therefore，even if I were to inform Kuzuoka of this，as long as I properly explained its substance，I had enough confidence to somehow make him accept it．Moreover，since through that even the livelihood of Kuzuoka’s family—which he had been so inwardly troubled about—could be guaranteed，broaching the matter became all the easier．The only problem was Kuzuoka’s love for me．This needed to be somewhat transformed and its nature altered．

In the end, all three of us would become comrades among friends, thereby conforming to my long-cherished ideal of creating a small fellowship where lonely souls might console one another in this desolate world. If love remained within those bounds and meaning—whether directed toward Kuzuoka or Ikegami—why should I have any cause to object?

Over these four months, my feelings had undergone several changes along the way—until just moments ago, I had been moving about like a springless doll—yet the moment I saw Kuzuoka’s face, my old ideals surged back, and I found myself utterly powerless against it. And so, in outward societal appearances, Ikegami and I would present ourselves as husband and wife, while in truth, with Kuzuoka joining us, we would engage in a pristine friendly companionship among the three of us. It seemed to me that such a matter was by no means an impossible arrangement if the three of us behaved with a little shrewdness and care.

Then I should tell Kuzuoka about it right away, I thought as I walked. Yet somehow now, I felt a lid clamping over my mouth, leaving me unable to broach the subject. When we reached Hisamatsu Bridge's approach, my feet automatically turned left along the riverbank out of habit—for my house stood there. We arrived before the house. Kuzuoka spoke: "This is Ms. Chōko's house. I came here lookin' for you twice too, but that old maid servant gave me the polite brush-off."

he said.

Ever since we turned at the bridge approach, I had heard the sound of someone playing the sawari of a jōruri piece, but upon arriving, found it coming from my mother’s room. The shamisen heard through the latticework window seemed to be one used for Nagauta—the thick, realistic melodies characteristic of Jōruri were gently subdued, transformed into something that struck the ears as a purely beautiful lyric poem. There was the voice of a middle-aged man adjusting his tone to match it thinly. Between phrases came Karoku’s voice: “How about it? Should I project more?” Mother must have responded with a gesture, for her voice went unheard.

Given that Karoku—the matchmaker for my marriage and the key to securing the continuation of her own widow’s pension from the shop—had been frequenting our house repeatedly due to my recent incident, how could Mother possibly refrain from exerting herself to manipulate him? I passed by the house without finding this joruri rehearsal strange in the least, crossed the small bridge spanning Horikawa, and emerged onto the bright Ningyocho Street.

It was not Ginza, not Shinjuku, not Kanda's Jimbocho-dori, nor Ueno's Hirokoji, Ushigome's Kagurazaka, or Azabu's Jūban—the bustle of this downtown Tokyo amusement district bore a distinct flavor. Indeed, there were no particularly wide storefronts nor overwhelmingly large shops; uniformly bright and prosperous, each establishment brimmed with a considerable abundance of goods, particularly in their merchandise. They had to be inexpensive, modern, and refined. While clearly trimmed in some portion of materials to meet this class of downtown customers' demands, their displayed appearance possessed a slightly subdued luster with a watery sheen that instinctively made one want to reach out and draw it near.

During my stay at the dormitory, Ikegami sent over fabric remnants of imported goods—leftover stock from the main house’s warehouse—to alleviate my boredom and provided them to me. Among them were two types of trial-imported Viennese fabrics from Austria, obtained through a German trading company. “What a subdued color and pattern this has.” I picked it up and narrowed my eyes. Ikegami said, “The taste there blends German and French. “It’s because the traditional culture of Europe’s ancient capitals smolders and laments in its very foundation,” he said. “According to those who’ve been there, the cuisine is quite chic, with a more understated taste than even Paris.”

The reason I suddenly recalled those Viennese fabrics and Ikegami’s words while looking at the goods here in Ningyocho must be because there was something in them reminiscent of those Viennese items. While their affordable uniformity undoubtedly reflected modern Japan’s influence—even in the colors of the goods lining the storefronts, red was not merely red—its stimulating core had been extracted, replaced by a seeping bleach of passion stealthily blended in. Not gray—while their upper portions feigned austerity, their foundational grounds prepared a pinnacle of cunning flattery that watched for lapses in vigilance, seeking to infiltrate human affection through backhanded means. In the show window beneath paper lanterns and hanging winter cherries, mannequins dressed in casual lined garments—the sort a popular film actor might wear while strolling about—were boldly illuminated by sharp candlelight, arranged with artificial May irises. And this outfit arrangement, complete from obi to tabi socks, bore a marked price not even reaching thirty yen. In the neighboring show window, parasols dyed for young women—executed in a toned-down manner that playfully tweaked Japanese aesthetics—were spread out, their layers overlapping at the edges like dappled clouds at sunset. The narrowed ones had lengths as short as scroll spindles, and the sight of them arranged in a mountain shape was as majestic and resplendent as colored candles aligned on a candlestick. From behind those, the seagull patterns on swimsuits were already peeking through.

As I observed these shops, moving through pedestrians whose bustling gait resembled both festival crowds and ordinary nighttime strollers—shoulders brushing and paths weaving—I gradually came to find my companion Kuzuoka unbearably clumsy and oppressive. As a child of the city, I am also a child of sensuality. Through sensations from my surroundings that are received through sensuality, my mood shifts so drastically that I wonder if I’ve become an entirely different person myself. Given that I cannot recognize any ideology that has taken deep root within me, this mood may itself be my ideology. If so, I may be a chameleon living in the flow of life, my ideologies constantly shifting under surrounding influences.

Moreover, after being confined for nearly four months behind jealousy’s thick door in the dormitory—my sensual buds having starved and parched—the familiar townscapes and Ōkawa’s appearance since leaving earlier, the interactions with townspeople at Nihonbashi Club’s dining hall—all these began acting like water poured into the spout of a suction pump whose connecting supply had long dried up, gradually reviving my vacant mood. Then, that aimless stroll through the dewy late-spring night—stars glistening after so long—increasingly made me certain of water’s solid connection. And then, this deluge of sensations in the amusement district. I drank in the nightscape’s ambiance until my body swelled to bursting with its pleasure. The stagnant mood began flowing again, sending up spray.

This mood of mine—which might well be called my ideology—when it flows, allows me to keep living while imparting a sense of reality, governing my entire being. When I mentioned this to Ikegami once, he remarked, “It’s like the electrons within your atomic structure. Without their movement, you couldn’t maintain cohesion.” Yet Ikegami added: “But those electrons orbit a nucleus. Something must exist that contends with equal force, compelling your moods to revolve around it. That nucleus—that is your true essence.”

I regarded this talk as yet another of Ikegami's habits—born from his meddlesome nature—of attaching undue significance to me, and thus did not engage with it; yet I could not help but acknowledge that unless my mood moved like electrons to sustain the atom that was myself, I would not merely sit vacant and decay, but indeed become a listless spring-loaded doll of resignation—just as I had been in the dormitory—uttering "Whatever" to everything.

I now found myself being ushered along by a buoyant anxiety—light in body and spirit as my mood flowed freely—like clouds vanishing into the sky or a ship cresting waves. Even when contemplating the past, it dissolved into ethereal infinity, while the future grew ever more indistinct in impenetrable gloom. Painful memories lingered behind me, and thorny trials seemed to await ahead. Yet these were fundamentally insubstantial—clouds mere gatherings of mist, congealed water but fleeting foam; why should such phantoms torment the heart or burden the flesh? However rigidly they might take form, were they pressed within spacetime’s endless stretcher—vast as cerulean skies and boundless seas—they would flatten like banana senbei crackers roasted at festival stalls: brittle yet airily puffed, carrying a faint sweetness that would surely delight even a child’s palate if cracked open.

The town before my eyes, the lights, the people—all now shone resplendently, abuzz like a flower field before a storm. As I advanced further—as if illuminated by the searchlight I carried—the town, lights, and people within roughly a block’s radius transformed into storm-front meadows. And this sphere’s periphery brimmed with the same beautiful haze as when I contemplated past or future in my mind—letting my carried searchlight illuminate and dissolve whatever it touched as I progressed, then sealing back into pristine haze once illumination ceased. Without revealing a single stitch mark of alteration, it remained unchanged: a distant vista of late spring’s dark night-town. How this flowing mood made me perceive the surroundings as something so utterly ecstatic!

On the day before Christmas last December, I brought a year-end gift to Ataka-sensei's villa, found her absent, and heard the distant report of a hunting rifle being fired at her within the mixed grove. Then I entered the grove searching for Ataka-sensei, buoyed by mist drifting through pale sunlight filtering between branches, intoxicated by the scent of crushed decaying leaves beneath my feet—and there, unexpectedly, I found myself enveloped in a scene of ecstasy much like this present moment. But now that I think of it, that was still a monotonous and childish ecstasy.

In the flow of tonight's mood, even as I dismissed past regrets and future troubles as insubstantial phantoms—perhaps because I too had matured enough to accumulate sins in my heart's deepest recesses, unable to escape the guilt of compounding transgressions, or perhaps because circumstances assaulted me with premonitions of impending crisis—here within this supreme intoxication I found myself unable to dispel a sense of urgent, encroaching anxiety. Yet for my present self—body and soul as they were—this anxiety was but a single drop of vinegar hidden in clear soup broth, a single brushstroke of ink accentuating shadowed eyes. It was merely a secret counteragent that deeply permeated and strongly enhanced ecstasy. Precisely because of this, even in the town, lights, and people perceived as a flower field, apprehension before a storm could be seen, and the buoyant joy cowered as if facing a drawn sword. That apprehension, that terror—how they made the movements of my mood grow ever more lively!

“What’s with all the dawdling?”

I pulled at the elbow of Kuzuoka’s jacket. Kuzuoka—perhaps having vented all his pent-up frustrations at the club’s dining hall—had grown utterly dazed; he remained nearly silent the entire way here, and upon entering this bustling night district teeming with pedestrians, began gawking about: marveling at trivial puzzle rings in night stalls, staring transfixed at cosmetic hawkers touting their wares—every bit the country bumpkin.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been anywhere like this—everything feels new.” Kuzuoka made this excuse in a grating tone. With my mood growing ever more restless, I pulled Kuzuoka along, turned the corner at Ningyocho, and headed down Yoshicho Street toward the Nihonbashi River. If only a torrential downpour would come, trampling these unnatural flower fields into disarray beneath violent raindrops, while I rode in a full-speed hired car charging through it all. In the flood-swollen waters coursing over the road surface; in the spray kicked back like gushing from a hose nozzle; in the glittering reflection of flower-field fragments trampled into disarray—only when heaven and earth became such scenes and actions, a pandemonium of chaos where celestial blossoms rained through tenebrous skies, did it properly match my present mood. And if this moment marked the extreme limit of glorified anxiety reached—even should the automobile overturn, body and soul vanish—then my mood, blissfully fulfilled in this lifetime, would become a white-winged bird whose beloved, lingering cries never ceased in eternal skies.

If that were the case, I thought there would remain not a single regret—yet with Kuzuoka sitting sullenly beside me, emptied out like threshed grain despite having vented his core, I could do nothing but burn with impatience. I forcefully pulled and prodded Kuzuoka as we crossed Oyaji Bridge, then after proceeding a short distance, cut sharply into the street on our right. Just four or five months ago, Kuzuoka had still been suffused with the scent of wild grasses and a supple vitality akin to the moist resilience found immediately after stripping fresh bark from a tree—how had he become this kind of person? My woman’s heart, even amidst this emotional exhilaration, appeared to have unwittingly begun opening eyes of compassion. Might it not be that what once moved and flowed within this young man had come to a halt because someone drove a single drill into the vital point of his heart? And like an eel on a cutting board—unable to stretch or shrink—while rolling the white eyes of resignation again and again, his entire body seeping out a slimy final torment, he must have come to hold that stubbornly defiant thought: that only through this could he savor the taste of life. What had come to be felt was not jealousy or envy, but precisely this matter. As I walked, my realization deepened: however much Kuzuoka might adopt a liberated, lofty attitude, Ataka-sensei still existed as the force that had made him thus. Even if she had resigned herself to withdrawing those active attempts to keep hold of him, her passive gestures yet moved—there were aspects that seemed to have invited this outcome. That splendidly served as a single drill’s effect upon Kuzuoka. Ataka-sensei herself likely hadn't acted with any conscious intention behind it. But given that things had turned out this way, one could consider that Sensei herself—unbeknownst to her—must have had lingering threads of desperate hope still clinging to her, which were attempting to entangle themselves around Kuzuoka.

"There must be limits to how much wisdom one imparts to this ignorant young man." "Isn't this exactly like mummifying a living person through imparting knowledge?" While I did feel some combative resentment toward the unpleasantness of watching someone who loved me being gradually reclaimed by another woman, when viewed objectively, it was predominantly a woman's instinct—this pity for a man being eroded—that had been stirred up by my heightened mood and gained strength.

Generally, the side streets in this area were lined with old wholesalers of various sizes that had renovated their facades in a modern office style; after business hours, they lowered their fire shutters, leaving the townscape shrouded in darkness. Yet among them were also wholesalers with shopfronts not yet fully modernized—some with naked light bulbs hung under their eaves, where clerks busily carried arrived cargo into storage sheds across the way during night work, and others where workers spread some sort of powder across straw mats, misting them with sprayers to add moisture. Inside the glass doors, beneath a brilliantly lit chandelier, there was a shop containing only a coldly gleaming varnished desk and a framed photograph of the manufacturing factory affiliated with this establishment hanging on the wall, with not a soul in sight. When I peered into the frame, I found it strangely incongruous—a factory large enough to have five or six chimneys compared to its modest shopfront. Even peering at the bulk of goods revealed hardly any clues about what kind of wholesaler each shop might be.

The interesting thing was how dye shops offering flawless stain removal services mixed among these soot-stained wholesalers; their display windows showcased trendy children’s sleeveless kimonos alongside formal samurai attire for gidayū performances. A humble shop hosted workers practicing firemen’s chants, striking wooden platforms with rhythm fans to mark time. A narrow hemp noren hung over an okonomiyaki stall where young couples’ laughter drifted from upstairs, while what seemed a stylish buckwheat noodle shop turned out to be a tea room upon reading its sign—its facade incongruously sporting Western-style windows and a porch. The gaunt shadow cast by an elementary school supplies store’s light framed a lingering springtime scene: a lovelorn cat shaking its paws fastidiously as it crossed a puddle of leftover sprinkled water.

We came out before the main house of the Ikegami family in Setomono-cho, having wound through these side streets where each time we turned a corner we gazed toward the bright neon-lit main thoroughfare that inevitably glimmered at the town's distant edge, all while asking directions here and there. We shouldn't have been able to find it without repeated inquiries. Though everyone still customarily calls it the main house in Setomono-cho, that district had long since been merged into Honcho, which is now the official town name. Despite having kept company with Ikegami so extensively until now, I hadn't known either the location of this main residence or his business affiliations.

A wooden construction fence enclosed an area about half a block in size, where a signboard reading "Ikegami Trading Company New Construction Site" had been erected. Where the fence had been removed, the façade stood office-style and utterly unremarkable, but beyond this structure rose steep tiled roofs of clustered storehouse-style buildings, their slopes split and cascading down in multiple directions on all sides, making the whole look like a grand old family residence. The faint smell of raw hemp from merchandise hung in the air. Why had I come to see this now? I felt no curiosity or desire. I had merely wanted to show Kuzuoka this place, thrust it before him, and through a single phrase I longed to utter, provoke some violent tempest within him. If that happened, the heart of this young man—now fixed like a nailed-down object—might lurch into motion. It might begin to flow.

I said in a provocative tone. "It seems I'll be coming here as a bride soon." Kuzuoka had been silently looking at the house I indicated, but replied in a slightly trembling voice, "I'd probably thought something like that might happen." "And you're fine with that?" "It can't be helped." "You fool! Spineless coward!" I shouted these unladylike words while simultaneously grabbing Kuzuoka's shoulders and shaking him violently, as if rousing someone from sleep.

“Don’t you feel bitter? Having your beloved woman taken by someone—” Whether from pity at being forced to utter such brazen words or simply because raw passion had seeped into form, tears spilled from my eyes.

Diagonally across from Ikegami's store stood a small pharmacy, its shop light spilled onto the road. After saying this, I kept one hand resting on Kuzuoka’s shoulder while blinking my eyelids incessantly against the droplets on my eyelashes, staring fixedly so as not to miss a single shift in the color of Kuzuoka’s face illuminated by the shop’s light.

—— Kuzuoka’s face—emaciated and slightly grimy, resembling Rouault’s Christ in its excessive solemnity that paradoxically borders on the impish—began to contort. Something sustained this tension as ripples of muscular tremors surged outward from the suddenly carved furrows between his brows and the deepened nasolabial folds that spread like fault lines radiating from an epicenter. When even the subtlest of these movements revealed a wild fox-like intelligence seeking to resign itself—treating the pain of this unnatural discord between emotion and will as pleasure—it made the very disharmony feel lascivious.

The flaring and shrinking of his excited nostrils were panting like the gills of a fish out of water but gradually stilled. There again remained Kuzuoka’s face, pale and unapproachable.

Kuzuoka exhaled a long breath, as if revived, “Let’s make that bitterness our daily sustenance from now on,” he said. I found myself overcome by the feeling of having lost a once-reliable young man, and without thinking, clenched my hand into a fist and struck Kuzuoka’s shoulder repeatedly, “Is that all it takes? Aren’t you a man?” “Aren’t you a man? Aren’t you?” I cried, choking through tears, my voice growing hoarse. “——” From the small pharmacy, a man who appeared to be a clerk placed his hands on the lintel, leaned out, and began observing us. A delivery boy stopped his bicycle mid-mount and, with his legs dangling limply on both sides of the vehicle, began to watch.

I let out sighs of “Ah, ah,” my chest churning with the bitter aftertaste of emotion, and hurriedly began walking in my disheveled state, paying no heed to my appearance. Seeing this, Kuzuoka immediately clung to follow behind, yet with a desolate loneliness that kept him from placing even a single hand upon my body. We arrived at the street of the Old Fish Market. Through the gaps between the riverside houses, the railings of Nihonbashi Bridge were visible. There, lamps of moonflower hue glowed upon bridge pillars adorned with lion and qilin statues. These things that I usually consider commonplace appeared, even to a city girl like myself, to impart some courage in such circumstances. There was something that made me resolve, “Now, this is how it must be.”

“I’m going to meet Ataka-sensei and demand answers.” “Why did they make you into this kind of person?” “So you’re coming with me—right now.”

As for what came after—I thought it didn’t matter in the slightest what happened now. Then Kuzuoka looked back at my face, “All the way to the foot of Akagi?” he asked back, but immediately— “Fine then. You should meet with Sensei once too, Miss Choko. Since we don’t know what farewells may await us from here.” I opened the handbag. Fortunately, in the inner pocket, Ikegami had generously provided plenty of paper bills. We hurried the car toward Ueno Station.

When we came to Ueno Station and checked, we found that from then on, the only train on the Joetsu Line stopping at Yagihara Station would be the one departing around midnight at 11:30. But I stubbornly waited for it, boarded the train car with Kuzuoka, and arrived at Yagihara Station past midnight at 2:30 a.m. It was a post town shrouded in darkness. The occasional eaveside lights blurred in the night mist, and no matter how many times I blinked, I felt as though I were sleepwalking. Sounds indistinguishable from flowing water or rustling leaves drifted from nowhere, and if I carelessly stopped moving, the stillness would seep deep into my flesh until my body grew sodden and heavy, tilting earthward as if about to collapse. Yet if I hurried my steps, it seemed a mud paddy or manure pit would gape open before my eyes, and once I tumbled in, I would sink drowning to the abyss’s depths.

Having never ventured into the countryside except on school excursions, and being all the more unaccustomed to rural nights, even the enthusiasm I had mustered in Tokyo to persuade Ataka-sensei—that had felt so buoyant then—now seemed to have been subjected to those sumo techniques I’d heard about, like shoulder-dislodging throws and forceful takedowns, leaving me utterly deflated and drained of strength. If there had been a Tokyo-bound train departing then, I felt I might as well have run away and returned home.

A night bird's cry—like someone choking to spit out phlegm lodged in their throat—cut through the darkness. Likely attempting to distract and comfort me through some associative imagery, Kuzuoka peered through the gloom at the faint black mountain silhouette visible beyond and said: "The tengu appearing on Mount Akagi are called Uchiwa Tengu. They say they fear hunters' iron bullets but don't mind lead ones at all. That's what locals told me when I came here before."

I feigned bravado, “No matter how many stories like that you tell, they’re not the least bit scary. Stop it.” While scolding him, I couldn’t help but walk pressed close behind Kuzuoka, who was growing increasingly disagreeable to me.

We arrived at Yoakeshi Ryokan, the inn we had been told about at the station. The night watchman guided us to a secluded room on the second floor. The room had windows narrowed to mimic a Western-style one, and even the way the tatami mats were laid out felt suspiciously incongruous. Did the male staff think they were being considerate toward young guests lodging unexpectedly? Eventually, Kuzuoka wrote in the guest register that the male staff had brought with practiced brushstrokes. “I put us down as a married couple.” “In places like this, it’s actually better that way—it avoids complications.”

“Who taught you that?”

Kuzuoka was hesitating for a moment but,

“I learned it from frequent experiences going bird hunting and skiing with Ataka-sensei,” he said, deliberately making his voice solemn. After the young maid—her eyes heavy with sleep—had brought in the hibachi fire and tea utensils, laid out two futons side by side, and left, Kuzuoka forcefully pushed his own futon to one side, creating an empty tatami space between his futon and mine. And in the very center of that empty space, he undid the belt he had been wearing and placed it in a straight vertical line. The white belt, arranged with meticulous precision, somehow conveyed a childlike earnestness. Before I could utter a word while gazing at this arrangement, Kuzuoka sat upright on his futon,

“This is the practice when sharing a bedroom with a Lady, so don’t take it the wrong way,” he said with an embarrassed air. “That too was from my experience traveling with Ataka-sensei.” When I persistently asked, “No—it wasn’t experience. This was a protocol instructed by Sensei from the very beginning,” he said as if pushing back. I sat at the head of my futon and continued gazing for some time at this laid-out white belt and Kuzuoka’s face, but as it seemed nothing more than a laughable act, I thought this too must be one of the childish techniques through which Sensei bound Kuzuoka’s heart, so—

“What on earth is this all about? Explain the reason properly,” I asked calmly. Then Kuzuoka grew somewhat smug, “Sensei is a scholar who studies Puritanism around the world. She’s deeply knowledgeable about ascetics’ lifestyles. This practice of separating men and women was also conceived by Sensei, inspired by rituals established long ago during the Kamakura period by an ascetic sect called the Yugyō-shū, who slept together in mixed-gender rooms.” he said. Kuzuoka, seeing I still appeared eager for details, grew more animated and began explaining as follows.

“In the Kamakura period there was a holy monk called Ippen Shōnin who spread a unique form of nenbutsu,” “They maintained no temples but wandered through provinces leading their sect’s men and women, begging while spreading teachings—that was their way.” “The people of this sect were called Yugyō-shū.” “Many peasant men and women battered by their era’s storms sought refuge in this sect.” “Misanthropy and asceticism also became the sect’s appeal.” “In the early days when the sect wasn’t widespread, conduct between men and women stayed orderly even without formal rules.” “But once the sect grew popular—perhaps because rules slackened—incidents began occurring now and then.”

“Therefore, what Ippen Shōnin, the leader, devised was the barrier of the Two Rivers White Path.”

“In the doctrinal framework of Jōdo Buddhism, human passions are troped as a river of fire and a river of water. To save sentient beings scorched, blistered, and drowning in delusion, it is said that within this, the path of other-power runs as a single narrow thread. It is said the technical term ‘Two Rivers White Path’ derives from this.” “When the sect stayed overnight at inns, the lodgings were cramped. When men and women had to sleep in the same room, the holy man divided their beds to the left and right. In between, he had them place twelve baskets modeled after the Twelve Links of Dependent Origination. White cloths were attached to the lids of the twelve baskets, and when linked together in a row, they appeared to form a single white path running through them. Even if the men and women on the left and right beds began to feel desire, upon seeing the Two Rivers White Path analogy at their bedside, their hearts would be chilled awake, allowing them to attain a tranquil sleep detached from this world.”

“Ataka-sensei hated religion.” Yet she found this practice rather intriguing. Moreover, when traveling together with him, she would fasten a white band around herself and have him fasten one as well. When lying together in a single inn room, they would connect their two belts to form a barrier between their bedding. Ataka-sensei had said: “Compared to contrivances like the thick walls of Western monasteries or peepholes barely larger than an eye, this method’s separating power digs deeper psychologically—tenaciously stronger.” “Oriental symbolism is certainly not to be trifled with.”

And then: “When men and women travel together and must sleep in the same room, isn’t this the simplest form of etiquette toward a Lady—” When Kuzuoka channeled Ataka-sensei’s words, his mannerisms became infused with her pedantic, genderless tone—so completely that even the faint down of his mustache took on an unsightly cast in my eyes. But more than that, as I kept staring at the white belt lying limp on the Nara-zuke-brown old tatami between our beds, though Ataka-sensei might claim it was a simple, solemn ritual, I instead sensed something indecent radiating from that cord, leaving me profoundly unsettled.

If left to flow normally, it would be nothing more than an unremarkable river of instinct. But they try to dam it up—no, worse yet, they conspicuously insert these ostentatious forms of suppression in between. This practice, born from a method that seems to harbor secret pleasures between separated men and women—even if ultimately effective in suppression—might it not instead torment them by brewing the opposite result in that fleeting moment? Given that Ataka-sensei, who was said to be deeply versed in psychoanalysis, could not possibly be ignorant of such psychological complexities, seeing her so nonchalantly impose this upon Kuzuoka made me think she must have some ulterior motive. As I dwelled on this notion, everything Ataka-sensei did seemed tinged with theatricality—and within that performance, I began detecting traces suggesting she secretly relished these acts even as she enacted them. "Could it be," I wondered, "that Ataka-sensei is actually an extraordinarily extravagant hedonist of life?"

If left to flow normally, it would have been but an ordinary river of instinct. Ataka-sensei erected a dam of suppression to amplify its torrential force. Feeling that intense resistance throughout her entire body, she might have savored it with sensual relish. Moreover, having ultimately suppressed it, she might have greedily sipped—like one who relishes vinegar—the forcibly created bitterness of futility and the gall of unmet desires, now transformed into a sorrowful essence surpassing ordinary emotion. No sooner had she done this than she now twisted and crushed Kuzuoka’s heart—which had been directed toward me—compelling him through contrived means to marry her instead. This could be seen as an attempt to taste-test the manipulation of a man through patronal authority. Though Ataka-sensei had her marriage proposal rejected by Kuzuoka, knowing he could never sever the threads of her affection, she might have savored—during those four months after returning to her family home—the indulgent process akin to a fisherman deliberately using a frail rod to play a large fish: reeling it in, wearing it down, until finally bringing it to hand—a sequence tinged with cruel extravagance. Yet when Ataka-sensei realized she could not ultimately land her catch, she resorted to feigning nonchalance while setting sorrow’s snare. If this were true, then not only Kuzuoka—reduced to a tool for her life’s indulgences—but even I, who believed myself stirred to righteous fury on his behalf, were likely playing nothing but foolish roles in her theater.

“Don’t be so stingy—I can see right through your little game.”

I took the white belt and hurled it into the corner of the tatami room. Kuzuoka picked it up, brought it back, and fastened it as before,

“It’s just something I’ve gotten into the habit of doing when traveling.” “What…”

After that, he continued muttering incoherently under his breath.

I wondered if even Ataka-sensei's so-called research "Concerning Death"—purportedly reviving her maiden-era studies to deepen life consciousness—might not be another of her signature ironic extravagances, a form of life's hedonism. If so, then this Joshu countryside that bred such a decadent human might not be entirely devoid of sophistication after all. Having come to think this way, I looked around the room with a desire to quickly see the state outside. I had grown less frightened by the scuttling sounds of mice in the ceiling, and my body had even begun to relax somewhat. What I thought was: “Hmph, hmph, hmph—Ataka-sensei is quite the wicked one. She’s quite the sly one,”

“You must be tired,” Kuzuoka said. “Just lie down for even a little while.” As he began to speak, I cut in with “I know,” undid only my obi, and slipped into the futon facing the wall. Under the dim electric light came the sound of Kuzuoka sipping tea alone. When the noises ceased, I pretended to turn over and peered out—he was licking his pencil while writing in a pocket notebook, glancing my way. “Writing more about your toad oil philosophy?” I jeered.

"Look, it's a sketch of you sleeping," he showed timidly, "I thought about this even on the train—this time, I truly believe Ataka-sensei, you, and I are fated to be scattered apart." "And so, as a memento of my life, I want to keep you—sketched by my own hand—close at hand." he said with a lonely air. I found myself somewhat drawn into that mood, but now, thinking, "What is this foolish man doing?" I felt—

“That’s a rather clumsy sketch.” “It doesn’t look anything like me.” As I lay there disparaging it, Kuzuoka also looked back at it himself, “It is clumsy indeed.” “I can sketch plant specimens because I learned how at horticulture school, but this is my first time drawing a living person, so it’s difficult,” he said. Then Kuzuoka, seemingly intending to lull me into peaceful sleep, slowly and deliberately spoke of methods he had practiced during his time at horticulture school—using dyes to alter the colors of irises, carnations, and morning glories, or digging holes at the base of withering pine trees to pour alcohol into them for treatment—all innocently and amusingly embellished like a fairy tale.

With the wind rattling the windowpanes as accompaniment, the man’s chest voice spoke in tones deliberately softened and lowered. The accumulated fatigue from daytime must have finally taken its toll, for I began drifting toward sleep’s threshold. Suddenly remembering how both Ikegami’s dormitory and Mother’s household would be staying up through the night in turmoil over my disappearance, my eyes snapped open. Immediately his voice swelled with renewed vigor, as if to smooth down my startled alertness. That thick warmth resonating in his tone—like a mother hen clucking to her chicks—brought back memories of the beggar elder I’d met last Christmas Eve along Tana River’s banks near the academy hill. Through this associative thread surfaced words spoken by my father—he of beggar lineage—who had so craved earth and straw mats before dying: “Humans return to their primal roots once past forty. Even those restarting life’s journey must first circle back to their origins. Without this homecoming, the heart withers in unendurable solitude.”

I opened my eyes again, snapping them wide. Then, the man's natural voice nearby immediately rose with force to soothe me back down.

How many times had I repeated this between dream and reality? Gradually, it was strange how I had come to imagine myself as a beggar too—content and lying on the earth with an impatient heart. Beside me was a young male beggar I could be at ease with, protecting me. Now there was nothing else I desired beyond that. I simply needed to let the cold, damp earth absorb this fatigue fever accumulated through what felt like months of April, and then sink into deep sleep.

The varnished wainscoting of the mock-Western room where she lay facing the wall seemed to become an endless expanse of earth seen through her eyelashes. Endless in its breadth and flatness—she wondered at this as she tried to pry open her eyelids to see the distant horizon, but her strength fell short. As her insufficient strength pushed back the sensation of slackening into her body, an ecstatic sweetness permeated even into the joints of her bones. I remained dimly aware of myself as a happy female beggar—female beggar—female beggar—until at last I sank into deep sleep.

For a man said to have completely resigned himself—even if it had ended in futility—did he still possess such power to soothe a woman? "If I pause even slightly in speaking, you jolt awake—it's quite troublesome." And so it was said that Kuzuoka did not sleep a wink all night, keeping up some sort of vocalization from his throat. "If you wake up, you'll just come charging in again and make a fuss." I, feeling genuinely grateful, said, "I really must apologize," then got up and energetically headed to the washroom.

It was a clear morning. The windowpanes had young zelkova leaves clinging thickly with morning dew, pressed against the glass like the flank of a wave. Through those gaps, the quiet rows of houses in the country town could be glimpsed. Homemade bread, ham and eggs, and coffee were served. Just when I thought breakfast was done with this, a proper Japanese meal was brought in next. This was what they called the proper breakfast. After finishing breakfast at the country inn—where it was unclear whether the service was too good or deliberately elaborate—we departed in the car we had arranged to have called for us. When I asked Kuzuoka, he said Ataka-sensei’s family home village was slightly less than half a ri from this station town.

The low green stretches were wheat fields; the slightly higher green stretches were mulberry fields. And between these, mixed vegetable fields and rice paddies still left as winter-harvested fields crisscrossed in endless stripes. Along the striped patterns, rape blossom fields and Chinese milk vetch fields past their peak bloomed with their colors softened. On a mound not quite worthy of being called a hill, children were picking herbs. To the right, the smoke of Maebashi and Isesaki could also be seen.

A mixed tree grove sprouted buds as if stardust had been scattered from the sky. A flower-filled village. A flowerless village. Though the dry Kara wind was renowned across the land, and the soil itself bore a fearsome cracked and parched hide, even so—as befitted the threshold of late spring and early summer—the Joshu plain too was dotted here and there with bustling scenes. The car traveled through this. While bearing countless such scenes upon its surface, the plain also inherited the slope from the mountain’s foothills, tilting gently and broadly from north to south. Therefore, constrained by the curves of the country road as our car wound its twisting path, we on board found both the directions meeting our eyes and the undulations felt through our bodies shifting at every turn—until it seemed as though we were being rocked upon the vast palm of this plain, shown our surroundings while carried along with the vehicle itself.

A flock of larks burst forth from the grass—their calls continuing as they rose and fell through the sky. Kuzuoka, who had visited before, remembered the mountain names. He indicated that the row of haze-tinged peaks behind the car—lined up like fangs biting at the sky—were the Haruna, Myōgi, and Asama ranges. Even as we began ascending its foothills' slope now, I had understood since leaving the inn that morning—without needing to be told—that the mountain still looming before my eyes like an immovable boulder was Mount Akagi.

However, even as we drew near, what appeared comprehensible yet remained elusive was the boundary of this mountain. This was because the mountain lay too flat and spread so broadly across the earth. When I experimentally traced with my eyes the lines where the foothills sloped gently left and right, the edges of these foothills eventually stretched so far from the mountain’s base—whether they were still foothills or had become the horizon—that I could no longer distinguish them. I asked Kuzuoka.

“Is all of this still part of Mount Akagi?” Kuzuoka looked exasperated. “That’s a difficult question—when you approach this closely, any mountain’s boundary between foothills and flatland becomes indistinguishable.” As he began pulling out his pocket notebook from his inner pocket, “But regardless, this mountain is renowned for its grand slopes.” My gaze climbed the gently sloping mountainside ahead—bathed in a yellow-tinged rose hue by the morning sun—where through the veil of mountain mist I could make out groves of trees, cultivated fields, and villages reaching considerable heights. Only at the very summit did bare peaks and fissured rocky mountains appear like split tips of overripe figs.

Kuzuoka, having flipped to a page in his notebook, compared it with those features. “In the middle, both of the opposing peaks are called Jizōdake.” “Then, on the far right are Arayama and Nabewariyama.” “That one on the far left, shaped like a hill, is called Suzugatake.” he explained. When I leaned in to peek at the notebook, Kuzuoka started to pull it back slightly, but seeming to think it would be pointless to resist, “Well, you see—last time I came, Ataka-sensei wrote the names into the sketch I made from her room.”

and showed it to me. Even as I made various remarks, I grew irritated at the thought that Ataka-sensei and Kuzuoka had shared such friendly exchanges— "So this too is meant as a lifelong memento?" When I uttered this sarcastically, Kuzuoka hastily put away the notebook,

“It might become a memento, I suppose,” he said sadly.

The car entered the village, passed straight through, and stopped before a narrow stream at the outskirts where a plank bridge spanned the water.

“Well, we’re here,” said Kuzuoka, his face tense.

Somehow, I felt as though I had come to visit someone far more formidable than the Ataka-sensei I was accustomed to meeting at the academy, and was suddenly struck by a sense of reluctance. But deep within my heart, a disposition that would not permit it began grinding its teeth. Peering down from the plank bridge, the mountain stream flowed clear and swift, creating rapids that made the shapes of countless small stones at the bottom appear to sway and dance. In the water, two or three rice bales were soaking. I looked at Kuzuoka’s face, and he answered, “They’re seed bales of unhulled rice for seedlings.”

The opposite bank of the stream had been fashioned into a living fence across its entire stretch, arranged with dwarf bamboo and horizontal poles. The plank bridge spanning toward its exact center appeared dedicated solely as the teacher's private entranceway. Upon entering, we found a broad front garden containing a field where onion scapes and radish flowers lay tumbled in wild bloom. On the opposite side, three or four gnarled persimmon trees—their branches straining upward in twisted arcs—had all simultaneously put forth tender buds. What might have been an outdoor workspace stretched before us; walking across its hard-packed earth that shone like polished soapstone, we came upon a thatched house bearing skylights for silkworm cultivation in its roof. Kuzuoka, knowing his way, removed his hat and entered through what seemed to be the kitchen's earthen-floored entryway. My heart pounded as I waited for Ataka-sensei's face—that familiar yet unfathomable countenance—to emerge from somewhere within wearing some peculiar expression. Yet even Kuzuoka failed to reappear.

As I gazed at the house's appearance without conscious intent, something struck even my eyes—unaccustomed to country dwellings—as peculiar. From my vantage point, the structure presented two tatami rooms: one with a maple tree positioned near its veranda edge, and next to it what seemed a hearth room—both with tightly closed shoji screens hiding their interiors. Yet this configuration alone resisted being accepted as a main house's proper form. This was because both the vertical pillars and foundation stones used timbers of such splendid thickness that they seemed disproportionately grand for the building's scale—their weathered state suggesting they belonged to a far more venerable household. Though additional rooms might lie deeper within, judging by this frontal presentation, it hardly qualified as an especially large residence. Yet these mismatched materials led one to infer that a grand mansion had once stood here—now mostly demolished, with only a single structural corner preserved and repurposed as this new main house. Another observation reinforced this conclusion. The property's layout—filled with leveled soil within a stone enclosure that rose at its far end to accommodate the land's gentle slope—still retained beyond this main house's edge a vacant area stretching wide and deep, resembling the grounds of a former estate.

When I shifted my standing position slightly to peer into the vacant lot, beyond fences that likely once held livestock and a horizontal bar apparatus for gymnastics, there stood a crumbling storehouse and a warehouse row as elongated as Kyoto’s Sanjūsangendō Hall—structures whose imposing formality, even in their aged state, bore no resemblance whatsoever to the main house at the front. The house was burned by lightning; gourd flowers.

During the peach season this year when the first thunder roared at the Nihonbashi dormitory, I—who detest thunderstorms—ran around frantically in the tatami room. At that time, Ikegami lit incense in the brazier to console me while muttering several old haiku related to thunder, jumbling their seasonal references. From among them, I apparently remembered one—what I recalled now was this. The state of the estate remnants imparted even to someone like me—a haiku amateur—a melancholy akin to this poem's essence along with a quaint, unexpected presence. "So Ataka-sensei was born in a house like this..." I thought, struck by profound emotion.

Kuzuoka approached with a deflated look. “Since no one was there, I searched all the way to the back. Ataka-sensei’s younger brother was there.”

he said.

“More importantly—where’s Ataka-sensei?”

"With silkworm-rearing season beginning, they say she went up Mount Akagi to study—the house had gotten too noisy." I couldn't claim to feel no measure of relief, yet

"I had a feeling things might turn out like this." "You're not exactly lucky yourself, and I'm no different. So what do you intend to do?" Kuzuoka told me her younger brother was waiting inside, urging us to come up and rest. But since he himself seemed reluctant, it became his turn to ask, "So what should we do?"

I still wanted to observe more of Ataka-sensei’s family home and her siblings’ circumstances, so I decided to stay and rest awhile. The room was mostly polished wooden flooring of the kitchen area; avoiding that space stood an eight-mat tatami room where an iron kettle hung from an adjustable hook over the hearth. Ataka-sensei’s younger brother, who had invited us to sit by the hearth, pointed to bundles of mulberry shoots in the earthen-floored area, "You see, since we’ve entered the silkworm-rearing season, all proper rooms have been allocated for that purpose. We must make do here, if you’ll pardon our impropriety."

he said. The younger brother was a young man who took Ataka-sensei’s androgynously beautiful face and gave it a lazy, nervously tormented twist, creating a somewhat strange air. Repeatedly covering the hem of his indigo kasuri-patterned kimono—secured with a soft heko sash—over one leg stretched out sideways, "It’s because I’ve had rheumatism," he excused. Moreover, this man—while being attentive—would occasionally stiffen his shoulders self-importantly or tug at the front of his sash. Was this a mannerism of someone disabled trying to hide insecurity, or perhaps born of stubbornness? The younger brother offered us tea, then dragged his impaired lower body diagonally across to the fly-proof cupboard, retrieved a Seto ware bowl, and set it before us.

“These are Mount Akagi’s mountain udo pickles.” “Please help yourselves.” “When freshly taken from the barrel, their fragrance is quite potent, but alas—with no one left in the kitchen to tend to them—”

Then, with a meaningful sneer playing on his lips, "When my sister's away—well, you know how it goes—the mice will play." This time, he glared directly at us. The room would have been considered a family parlor in an urban home, but beyond the fly net and kitchen cabinets, as my eyes adjusted to the interior dimness, I began making out various stations: one with a long brazier set beside an accounting lattice where ledgers stood upright; another at a cheap desk covered in blue serge holding an ounce scale and electric massager; yet another where the mouth of a darkened tatami paper roll gaped open, scattering fabric remnants about; and finally—a child-sized study desk—that gradually came into view. Though these items were in disarray, the whole gave the impression of seats hastily gathered from throughout the house into this single room for some makeshift assembly. Admittedly, this might have been due to silkworm-rearing season demands, but it also looked chaotically jumbled—as though objects had fled here seeking refuge from some overwhelming force. Considering both the brother's manner of speech and this room's state, I surmised that perhaps the entire household had grown weary of Ataka-sensei's domineering presence as the authoritative eldest daughter since her return home, yet found themselves unable to openly rebel against her. Testing this hypothesis, I turned toward Kuzuoka and

“Where was Ataka-sensei’s room that you were permitted to visit last time?” I inquired.

Then Kuzuoka, in a casual manner, pointed obliquely at the sliding door, "In the inner guest room back there—well, Mount Akagi can be seen straight ahead." he answered.

To me, it felt as though my imagining that Ataka-sensei indeed occupied the central position in this household and behaved like a dictator had been right on target. The younger brother, as if wanting to join our whispered exchange between Kuzuoka and myself, "How long does she mean to keep drifting about like this? What exactly does she intend to do?"

he declared. Kuzuoka, being naturally reticent around strangers, kept silent. As I alone strove to converse with this brother, mutually sounding each other out while gradually building layers of dialogue, it became evident that he had come to fully grasp the circumstances surrounding Ataka-sensei's relationship with both Kuzuoka and myself.

And so this brother thought that whether it was Kuzuoka or myself, we were disruptive elements who had unsettled Ataka-sensei, thereby making us nuisances even to the family members who relied on her—yet given how deeply matters had progressed, simply hating us away would be unwise. I came to understand that this brother even harbored resentment toward Ataka-sensei herself, who rarely entertained straightforward family discussions, while regarding us troublesome interlopers with a cautious yet oddly familiar attitude—as if wanting our private counsel regarding managing the incident’s resolution and implications.

“The family members do nothing but worry in secret, leaving things in a completely unmanageable state.” “I trust you can imagine.” Now that things had reached this point, I found it much easier to speak. For Kuzuoka’s liberation—which might even require altering Ataka-sensei’s fundamental ideas—and to gain the preliminary knowledge needed for that purpose, I thought it would be useful in every way to learn as much as possible about the circumstances of this household, the environment that had shaped Ataka-sensei into who she was. So amiably,

“How dreadful for you. But even I truly don’t know what’s best to do, you see.”

Then, to fully convey the meaning of what had been said, I turned to Kuzuoka and urged his agreement with, “Hey, you’re the same, aren’t you?” Kuzuoka looked somewhat sheepish but nodded with a “Hmm.” I continued using this brother as an easy mark—striking cooperative rhythms here, applying pressure there, even occasionally stroking against the grain—all to coax out more about Ataka-sensei’s household. The younger brother—who after graduating from Takasaki Middle School had been taking entrance exams for medical colleges across the country when rheumatism struck, spending crucial years of his adolescence recuperating at home until he became a chimera of a youth neither proper middle-school graduate nor country gentleman—was now preparing for acupuncture licensing exams as his last resort for livelihood.

"I have no desire to become an acupuncturist or anything of the sort at this point—" The younger brother, lured by my tactics, first voiced his own regrets, then blended tones of resentment and lamentation regarding a family member subjected to such circumstances—Ataka-sensei—and the contradictions inherent to this household itself, before beginning to speak of his family home as follows.

Mount Akagi—this massive earthen mass looming as such an anomaly across the plains—could not have failed to exert some psychological influence upon the people dwelling there. Legends were one such influence, and the tradition among villages at this mountain’s foothills that girls who have reached sixteen years of age cannot climb the mountain also stemmed from the legends surrounding the crater lakes at Mount Akagi’s summit.

At the summit of Mount Akagi existed two crater lakes—Lake Ōnuma and Lake Konuma. Though unclear when exactly, there lived in a foothill village a wealthy man with a beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter. One day she earnestly entreated to climb Mount Akagi. The wealthy man accordingly had his daughter ride in a palanquin and dispatched her up the mountain with numerous attendants. As they ascended, the daughter seemed delighted by the mountain's novel vistas stretching in all directions. Their route from Hatchō Pass first brought them to view Lake Konuma. Upon reaching Lake Konuma, the daughter requested to alight from the palanquin and drink water. The attendants obligingly helped her descend. Standing at the water's edge, she gazed intently at the marsh's surface until—as if a path had opened across its ripples—she walked into the lake. Though the attendants clamored in panic, helpless to intervene, the daughter's form vanished beneath the waters.

Grieving and deceived, the wealthy man and his wife spared neither expense nor manpower, undertaking to drain the marsh in hopes of retrieving at least their daughter's remains. The heavy rain continued falling, and though they drained it again and again, the marsh water would not recede. It was the fourth day. Near what seemed the lake's heart, black clouds swirled and billowed, and in the daughter's voice came the declaration: "I have become this marsh's ruler. The drainage efforts hold no benefit for me. While your grief is understandable, this endeavor has already proven futile. Tell my parents to resign themselves." No sooner had these words been heard than the black clouds settled back into place, and once more rain poured down torrentially.

From then on, in the daughter’s village, they established the day of her drowning as her death anniversary; they would steam red rice, carry it up the mountain, and throw it into Lake Konuma. A custom arose across the villages at the mountain’s foothills that forbade daughters who reached sixteen years of age from climbing the mountain. Having narrated this far, even while recounting superstitious matters, the younger brother continued speaking—demonstrating through his habitual posturing of squaring his shoulders and tugging at his sash—that this was merely a storytelling device and that he himself remained an uninvolved intellectual.

“Such legends and customs—if it’s a village near a mountain with lakes, they must have similar variations everywhere, I suppose.” “So while we don’t particularly mind such things, once they start directly affecting our lives, we can’t help but become invested.” The wealthy household from that legend was called Dōgen of Akabori Village in some tellings and Kosuge Matahachirō in others, differing by place and person—but these age-old rumors, being inherently mobile, had long been redirected wherever suited the prevailing moods and atmospheres of the local households. In the village, households that seemed like old-established families and incurred the hatred of their neighbors were often rumored to be relatives of the dragon princess of Lake Konuma. Even in households subjected to such rumors, while the adults remained unaffected, there were incidents—persisted even into the Taishō era—where daughters or timid women among them would eventually succumb to self-hypnosis from these tales, their bodies writhing like serpents as they screamed, “I must return to Lake Konuma!” before being carried up the mountain by villagers to view the lake waters.

"My family was also subjected to those rumors." "Though it must be said that my family did indeed do things to the village that made such rumors inevitable—"

The father, who belonged to one of the village’s venerable old families and had served as its head, applied new knowledge to his duties. At that time, he read translations circulating among urban intellectuals—like Nakamura Keiu’s Saikoku Risshi Hen, a Japanese version of Samuel Smiles’ Self-Help—in the countryside, and would often repeat the book’s famous adage: “Heaven helps those who help themselves.” He was quick to promote agricultural improvements, encourage side businesses, and organize cooperative labor among the villagers of that era. He showed particular zeal in reforming the moral conduct of the village’s men and women. The father made it his mission to eradicate the entrenched vices of gambling and illicit relationships that had taken root among the local youth over generations. Yet this same father was also a heavy drinker. He ordered various Western liquors from Yokohama, kept them stocked in the main hall, and from morning onward would receive villagers on business matters while sipping slowly from a glass. Given the village’s poverty, many came seeking loans. The father would subject each borrower to persistent lectures drawn from his own doctrines before granting them money. Eager to secure loans, some villagers pretended to be deeply moved by his words and listened with feigned attentiveness. “Mr. Village Head’s scoldings are his drinking companion.” “It’s money we’ll repay with interest anyway—must he make us grovel so?” Such backbiting circulated among the villagers.

Among them were those who would proactively expose others’ faults to curry favor with the father. that the son of such-and-such house was gambling, that the daughter of such-and-such house was engaging in illicit relationships. Upon hearing this, the father would make a terrifying face, and if there was any loan to that household, he would immediately summon its head and order the immediate repayment of the debt on grounds of poor supervision over the household’s young people. He allowed no objections to his commands. If they couldn’t comply, he would seize their household goods and take them away.

When summer nights came, the father would don his yukata, carry a thick Indian rattan walking stick, and prod out young men and women hiding between bean trellises and in the shade of green pampas grass like fish in a river hunt. To the man crouching under the eaves of the farmhouse girl’s bedroom—he set his fierce dog upon him.

Up to this point, things had still been tolerable. The father’s sanctions, coupled with his drunken rages, grew ever more severe over time. To men who persisted in disobedience despite repeated warnings, he ordered his strong-armed hired hands to administer private punishments. For village girls he deemed delinquent, he maliciously obstructed their marriages by wielding the combined authority of his venerable family lineage and position as village head. “That household belongs to the Konuma dragon princess’s bloodline.” “That’s precisely why they act contrary to human decency!”—such rumors became firmly attached to Ataka-sensei’s household. “Now I can discuss this matter so plainly, but in truth, those of us from the rumored household didn’t feel particularly at ease.” “Wherever we went, villagers treated us with rude manners and fixed upon us these strangely inquisitive stares.”

The younger brother, recalling his feelings from that time, clenched his back teeth tightly and made a gloomy face. “On top of that, we were still children. When we went to elementary school, if we ever got into arguments with our classmates, the other children would immediately bring up something about the Konuma dragon princess’s bloodline—” It was a case of many against few. At times, they even wondered if they themselves might truly be descendants of such aberrant beings. Back then, the younger brother and his eldest sister Ataka-sensei—who still shared an understanding—would clasp hands and weep over their misfortunes on deserted paths while walking home from school.

The family of this household harbored tuberculosis, and the children were scrofulous and high-strung. At that time, starting with the eldest sister Ataka-sensei, the second sister, this younger brother, and even the next boy were all frail. The second sister, who was often bedridden, weakened and died, her nerves exacerbated by the rumors. Enraged by the baseless rumors spreading around him, the father tightened the reins of discipline all the more. An extraordinary tension brewed between the family and the youths of the entire village. What caused this to erupt was the occasion of Akagi's shadow festival.

"The festival of Akagi Shrine atop Mount Akagi has May 8th as its main observance and April 8th as the shadow festival." "Such things likely don't happen now, but in those days, a gambling den would open in the mountain uplands on shadow festival days." "Drawn by that, young men from the foothill villages would sometimes climb en masse before dawn, lanterns in hand."

The father prohibited the village youths from climbing the mountain on the day of the festival. The youths protested that there was nothing wrong with making their annual shrine pilgrimage. The father suppressed them, insisting that he was stopping them because he knew they were gambling. Despite this, there were a considerable number of youths who climbed regardless, and the father doggedly investigated them. To the households that had produced those youths—not merely collecting on existing loans—he ordered tenant families to vacate their homes immediately, and commanded sharecropping families to return their fields. The entire village began holding secret meetings here and there. In the eerie air, a murmur of "Something’s happening, something’s happening" could also be heard.

As two or three days passed, even in this plain where thunderstorms were frequent, there came a night of particularly violent tempest. In the early hours of that night, Ataka-sensei’s residence caught fire and was nearly reduced to ashes. What remained was only a part of the residence that now serves as the main house. "The fire was caused by a lightning strike—though of course, with everyone against us, they could say whatever they liked—some sarcastic villagers even sneered, taking up Father's favorite saying: 'Heaven helps those who help themselves.'"

The younger brother came here and laughed with his mouth wide open. What I found strange was that this laughter contained no hidden meaning or intent—it seemed merely a simple amusement that mechanically forced his mouth open, letting his vocal cords produce only a faintly lonely sound. After laughing, the younger brother said: "By then, all of us in the family—except Father—stood blankly upon the burned ruins, feeling only that what was destined to come had finally arrived." "As a child ignorant of household finances, I instead keenly sensed something akin to that coolness and novelty one feels after a decayed back tooth is extracted." "So thoroughly had the pent-up resentment festering between this old manor and the villagers burdened us with oppressive, enduring distress."

The younger brother now laughed a laugh that savored those memories within the reality of the present. It was a strangely pleasant laugh, like a yellow flower blooming in melancholy.

Even I, who rarely have accurate premonitions, upon hearing this story and seeing the manor ruins earlier, suddenly recalled the haiku: "a house struck by lightning, and melon flowers." Though the circumstances of this household differed in meaning from those lines—here the form was first attributed to lightning setting the house ablaze, and then even the family’s feelings after being burned out had become suddenly so carefree, just like the haiku’s spirit—when I noticed this, I found myself admiring my own intuition for this unusually correct premonition, and before I knew it, I too was joining in the younger brother’s laughter with that strangely pleasant laugh, like a yellow flower blooming in melancholy. Indeed, laughter stripped of such harshness seems to possess a permeating quality that makes one want to claim anyone's share of it as one's own.

The bottom of the long hibachi clattered repeatedly.

"Oh, that's right!"

The younger brother, having said this, dragged his unsteady leg as he shuffled closer to the long hibachi, then carefully opened the drawer just a crack and peered inside. “The chicks from the eggs have hatched.” Having informed us of this, he cheerfully bustled about, muttering “Excuse me for a moment,” then spread out a cloth and prepared a basket to transfer the chicks from the drawer. Kuzuoka, finding it all rather amusing, lent a hand, and together they settled the chicks into the basket in the kitchen’s earthen-floored area. When chopped vegetables and water were provided, the small lemon-colored forms visible through the basket’s weave began moving vigorously, and the morning silence of the country house suddenly erupted into a refined yet lively commotion—as if stung by a silver flea.

Having just stood up, the younger brother made fresh tea, then personally served mountain udo pickles newly taken from the tub in a bowl, all while showing tenacious persistence to keep us from escaping the continuation of his story. The aroma of the pickled mountain udo pierced from nose to brain marrow, its refreshing sharpness so intense it could make one’s eyes fly open. Deep in the mountains, the snow at the base of the cliffs was quietly melting, and the cold purity one might feel from those droplets falling to form mountain streams seemed to seep into one’s very being. Kuzuoka, now sitting cross-legged in the academy’s workshop, twisted a pickle as if scrutinizing a handcrafted crop and murmured admiringly, “Natural things really are different from farmed ones,” but evidently worn out from yesterday through last night’s exhaustion, he soon began dozing off.

The younger brother continued speaking.

“It was the late Meiji era, and rural villages were beginning to feel impoverishment one after another.” “It was a time when those with foresight were turning their eyes toward overseas emigration.” “The notion of immigrant rice farming in Texas was being touted in every corner of society.” The father, having failed at rural reforms whose true nature—whether inherent or aberrant—remained unclear, had by this time nearly exhausted the family’s inherited assets, leaving them facing the inevitable predicament of liquidating their estate here regardless of abandonment. Faced with these circumstances, the father—though not exactly considering it fortunate—saw an opportunity to seize. Declaring “the locals here are hopeless” and that they would henceforth chart a path for Japanese farmers’ development overseas, he pooled their final funds. He gathered four or five troublemakers from neighboring villages and set out to break ground for that Texas immigration scheme.

The family left behind consisted of the grandmother, the mother, and three sibling children. As the male head, the mother’s younger brother moved from his family home in Numata to live with them. Being forty and still a widower, he was a rather mediocre man, somewhat lacking in presence. By converting the remaining portion of the burned mansion into the main house and organizing it, then placing tenant farmers on the leftover fields, they managed to sustain their livelihood during his absence. Only the children’s education expenses remained somewhat insufficient. At home, they began attempting sericulture, a practice they were unaccustomed to.

If they endured three years, Father was supposed to send funds gradually from Texas. "My sister may appear that way now," he said, "but from childhood until just before womanhood, she was a timid and neurotic girl." "Whenever she mentioned her beloved younger sister who had passed away, she would burst into sobs with hiccups." "She did well in school." Grandmother had especially doted on this elder sister Ataka-sensei, attending to her needs and raising her with devoted care. Since Ataka-sensei—though not bedridden—was generally frail, Grandmother had taken her from early childhood to recuperate at self-catering lodges: to Isobe Hot Springs during bitter winters and to Mount Akagi’s summit lakeside during sweltering summers. Partly because of this regimen, Ataka-sensei grew somewhat sturdier. When attending girls’ school, she would bicycle sixteen kilometers each way to Maebashi wearing a maroon hakama. This bicycle had been sent from Los Angeles by Father when he first landed in America during his Texas venture. During the voyage over, Father had already quarreled with the subordinates he’d brought along, and by their arrival in America, they had completely scattered. Afterward, Father wandered through West Coast cities with large Japanese populations, squandering his funds as he pleased—getting ensnared in hollow schemes by Americanized swindlers and falling victim to honey traps set by fallen mixed-race women—so he never managed to venture inland. Yet after moving overseas, this same Father seemed drawn to show particular affection toward his clever eldest daughter Ataka-sensei, sending her various novel American trinkets for girls. He occasionally sent letters filled with grandiose boasts written in translated phrases that the young girl couldn’t comprehend. In these letters, Father’s reformist passion—still smoldering against provincial customs and petty schemes back home—appeared to both appeal to and lament before Ataka-sensei through pretexts of unrelated matters, all tinged with affection. Ataka-sensei, without grasping their meaning, found only Father’s fervent emotions swelling within her through the cadence of his prose. From the novel American items that arrived, she came to dream of some fresh and extraordinary world existing beyond her own.

In the third year of the promised period, there came no remittance - only the father himself returned as whitened bones. Though stripped of all funds through deception and swindling until reduced to utter destitution, his innate unyielding temperament proved useful; he had begun establishing himself as a minor fixer among Japanese immigrants along the West Coast. There he fell to a gastric ulcer. Alongside the casket holding his bleached remains arrived a modest condolence offering from the expatriate community, remitted via dollar exchange. At that time, even in cities it remained uncommon for schoolgirls to ride bicycles. In these rural parts especially, it stood out as something preposterously eccentric. The young Ataka-sensei often found stones hurled at her by children during her commute. Young men scattered nails across her path. Still she obstinately kept riding. Her crimson step-through bicycle bore a broad ribbon tied in butterfly fashion about its handlebars. It billowed wildly in the Akagi-oroshi winds.

Why did this timid, neurotic girl have this one thread of courage? Ataka-sensei explained this to the skeptical group with these words. “If you think you’re dead, there’s nothing you can’t do!” This was a phrase anyone might say when steeling their resolve a little, so everyone understood it. However, that was the truth—not a single person in her family recognized it as a sign that Ataka-sensei’s nature was beginning to change.

Around the time Ataka-sensei was graduating from girls' school, a young man who had taken a liking to her bicycle-riding figure came to propose marriage. "I knew of him too—he seemed like a guileless, innocent young man." "Their family was an old established household in Murata along the upper reaches of the Karasugawa River. The young man had been placed with a pharmaceutical wholesaler in Takasaki that handled mountain medicinal herbs supplied by his family." "Their treasured only son had begun preparing for high school entrance exams under a private tutor immediately after graduating middle school."

The young man was eighteen, and Ataka-sensei was seventeen. It was a proposal from the Murata family to keep them engaged until around the time he would enter university, with plans to marry at the institution's location once enrolled. Ataka-sensei appeared thoroughly taken with the young man, and particularly since her grandmother—herself originally from Murata—knew his family circumstances well and declared there could be no mistake with that household, the arrangements progressed with remarkable swiftness.

“However，here again，groundless rumors about my sister began circulating.” “‘That one’s the Scales Girl，’ they said about her.” “‘A woman who can’t handle being around men.’”

This rumor reached even the family home of the young man who had proposed marriage. As one ventured deeper into the mountains, superstitions deepened along with the snow. Even the middle-aged members of the Murata family home—who wouldn’t normally be swayed by such things—now that such rumors existed, began to suspect the daughter might have some other biological flaw. In any case, it was decided it would be better to refrain, and this engagement was annulled.

The docile young man appeared to have resigned himself to his family's demands, using entrance exams as a pretext to depart for Tokyo—never to return. Ataka-sensei sank into silent despondency. The grandmother—who seemed to harbor deeper regrets than even Ataka-sensei herself—now senile and increasingly unhinged, accosted everyone she met with accusations of "You're the one who spread those rumors!" The rumors had emerged without clear origin; the jealousy and resentment harbored by countless local girls toward a daughter whose happiness seemed glaringly mismatched with rural life coalesced through mob mentality, reviving a nearly forgotten legend from these plains as their weapon. They propagated it widely, producing an unexpectedly devastating impact.

“During Obon season, our house would hang large white-papered kiriko lanterns beneath the eaves outside the tatami rooms.” “It was always Grandmother’s task every year.”

Grandmother had been meticulously replacing the lanterns, saying this year marked the seventh memorial service since her son Father had passed away. "It was Obon morning. In the dark early dawn, when someone from the household rose and slid open the tatami room door, a white object hung dangling there. 'Oh, has Grandmother already hung the kiriko lanterns?' they thought—but looking closer, it wasn't a lantern at all. Grandmother herself had hanged there by the neck. The pristine white yukata resembled the hanging paper streamers of a kiriko lantern."

After graduating from girls’ school, Ataka-sensei began frequently secluding herself alone at the summit of Mount Akagi to study. When she came down from the mountain and stayed in the village, she would say to village girls and others, “I’m going to see the color of the shimmering scales at the bottom of Lake Konuma. That’s beautiful,” threatening them. In these words of hers, there seemed to lie feelings of retaliation toward the girls who had once spread rumors that made her unhappy. Moreover, it also appeared to have served as a defensive barrier to keep mediocrity’s aura at bay. But for Ataka-sensei—who inhaled the mountain summit’s air and lost herself in solitude’s depths—one could interpret that through these words, she had expressed discovering a separate mental realm in her life’s course: a sanctuary she intended to retreat into when needed, forged in collaboration with her girlhood passions. At any rate, Ataka-sensei’s mystic-idealist nature began insistently revealing its raw core.

“After that, my sister seemed to have resolved something—she had grown utterly weary of everything she’d received from her parents and all she herself possessed. ‘From now on,’ she declared, ‘I’ll rebuild both my character and body in the exact opposite direction.’ With that, she left for Tokyo.”

That Ataka-sensei became a female physical education instructor was undoubtedly partly due to the scholarship system that made tuition fees more affordable for her studies, but it also stemmed from these internal demands of hers. Three or four years later, when Ataka-sensei returned home, she stood before her family as a woman so robust they barely recognized her. The family stared in astonishment. But now, this eldest daughter had become like a foreigner whose heart connected with no one in her family. Ataka-sensei seemed to feel a chill as if wrapped in a cast-off shell whenever she saw her flesh-and-blood family, and she absolutely refused to open up to them. The family grew bitter.

“After my sister started working at the academy, she did send us siblings money for our tuition, but when it came to household matters or our plans, everything was a command—she never consulted with us.” “And those commands were completely unrealistic—nothing but things that weren’t worth three pennies to us who had to keep living day to day.” “At first, thinking my educated sister must know best, we started following her orders—only to be made utter fools of in the end.” “The family only pretends to obey on the surface; in truth, they’re studying to quickly land themselves substantial professions.”

From the earthen-floored entrance at the back, past a corner of the storehouse row, two or three poplar trees stood skirting the edge. Beyond that lay mulberry fields, and from here, Mount Akagi could be glimpsed about sixty degrees to the left above them. As ever, it rose flatly broad, with rocks bearing peaks and fissures gathered only at its summit. Because the sun blazed so brightly it was dazzling, the broad slope of the mountainside shed its yellowish rose-colored veil and pressed close in a fresh green. The nearing noon sky grew increasingly clear and blue, making the mountain's shape stand out sharply. But despite such clear mountains and sky, when gazing from here, there was no cheerfulness that truly uplifted the heart; even if one opened their eyes to look, they had to soon lower their brows in a melancholic mood. It evoked a lonely, gnawing feeling akin to looking at a raw flayed hide with sparse hair exposed to the sun. Was it because we had heard the story of Ataka-sensei’s family, or was it because the landscape itself—with the mountain winds from the three peaks whipping through, lashing the soil and vegetation—had been so thoroughly ravaged?

The light from outside the window pushed the hearth room where we sat into blackness, and the lacquer-dark shadows clung stubbornly—clammy and sticky as if they would adhere to one’s fingers upon touch. Only the iron pot in the earthen-floored hearth reflected sunlight, bearing one or two glinting pupils of light. The scent of mountain udo pickles and the chirps of chicks in the wicker basket, once grown familiar, became mere repetitions of a conductor’s baton sustaining silence—a primordial monotony and weariness that lulled critical thought into indolence. We ourselves came to feel like people half-extinguished yet acclimated to dwelling amidst local customs and legends that still coiled with dying breaths, seeking to engulf others. Ataka-sensei had transformed into an unnaturally robust figure poised to erupt forth at any moment. Poor Ataka-sensei—

The younger brother altered his tone, “So now, as far as my sister is concerned, all we can expect from her is the money she sends—the family can’t maintain any other hopes.” “Having things left in limbo like this makes us feel truly insecure.” “If at all possible—through your kind assistance—I was wondering if you might persuade her to refocus on employment...”

The younger brother brought his story to a close as if he had thought it would probably end this way. Then the younger brother bowed deeply to us in earnest entreaty, so much so that even Kuzuoka grew tense and bowed in return; but immediately afterward, the brother once again made a face that seemed both resentful and begrudgingly defiant, "Well, even if sericulture could bring in a bit more money, we wouldn’t need to rely on Sister or anything... but this sericulture business itself—" The price of cocoons is low, and even if their value were to suddenly rise, given that mulberry leaves for raising silkworms can’t be obtained in quantities beyond what the limited mulberry fields in this area produce, you can’t just abruptly increase the number of batches you reel out. He then began to explain earnestly the harsh reality of rural life where no significant increase in income could be expected. I thought this was about the right time to wrap things up,

“In due course, we’ll consider it thoroughly—”

Exchanged perfunctory farewells and rose from our seats with Kuzuoka. When we exited through the front entrance of the earthen-floored area, a young country-style landlady with a child—who had apparently been hiding behind the wooden panels out of shyness toward first-time guests and observing the situation since before our arrival—quietly entered the earthen-floored space through the back door. And seeing that the child called out "Daddy" to the younger brother who had seen us off, one wondered—had this brother, despite already having a wife and children, been relying on his sister to support him in preparing for his acupuncture licensing exam?

When we were heading toward the plank bridge at the exit, I asked, “What did you think of that story?” and Kuzuoka said, “Sensei too is someone who had a wound carved into her when she was small.” At any rate, through this visit to the house, my feelings toward Ataka-sensei had shifted drastically once more—though irritated by what a woman she was, so deftly evading people’s thoughts in every direction, a powerful sympathy of “how pitiable a woman Sensei is” grew within me. And as the desire to immediately meet Ataka-sensei and speak with her as fellow women surged up from the depths of my heart, when I said, “I’m going to Mount Akagi now,” Kuzuoka too—

“I also think that would frankly be better for you,” he responded.

We hurried to Mount Akagi’s trailhead via the automobile we had waiting at the mouth of the plank bridge. "What an inhuman landscape," I thought.

When I had nearly climbed Mount Akagi's trail and stood at a place called Shinzaka-daira—where one could already look down upon the mountaintop crater basin spread like a flat platter heaped with snow—I found myself unable to stop this cry from escaping my chest. As I gazed longer, even the uniformly white snow of that flat platter showed circular patches tinged pale green toward its far edge. This hazy yet lucid color might also be seen as proof that some primordial beast lay buried within this mountain, its blue eyes still gazing skyward through summit ice. They say Lake Ōnuma—a crater lake spanning four kilometers—lies hidden beneath this frozen veil.

Surrounding the crater plain stood mountains named Kurobe, Komagatake, Yakushidake, and others—some with snow half-melted here, worn into bat-wing shapes there—each form and countenance shifting as though kneecaps and molars of some primeval beast had been artfully arrayed. A vision of eternal extinction. It could also be perceived that way. But when I stared fixedly, why did this very vision of eternal extinction itself—unchanged in form—now feel as though it were faintly reviving breath, as if beginning to open dull eyes? It was unsettling.

Moreover, as my eyes grew fully accustomed to gazing, the silver light from the crater plain's snow began emitting a hazy white mist midway through its ascent toward the sky, tinting the peaks of folding screen-shaped encircling mountains pale purple. The residual light further extended from the narrow basin's edge into the azure heavens, and even the stern mountaintop sky could feel itself accepting—if only its initial layer—this tender softness with rapt acceptance. What an ethereal yet noble hue. And yet, I couldn't help but find it strange how relentlessly it pressed in on me. That hue seemed to be of a nature that permeated not flesh but bone marrow itself. Had the warmth of late spring flowers burning in the foothills spread upward, making even this summit exude an early spring-like warmth? Yet even as grand nature's serene elegance—

Kuzuoka and the old man from the teahouse—whom we had asked to guide us—brushed the snow off a birch tree stump by the roadside, sat down, shared a rolled cigarette, and were sending up tranquil smoke. On the right side of the pale jade-colored surface of Lake Ōnuma was a shape as if someone had neatly placed a single chocolate confection. The old guide explained that this was called Kotorigajima. “The birds first arrive at that Kotorigajima and the trees at Akagi Shrine’s main hall, you know—then the mountains know spring has come.”

Since our destination was now visible below us, we rewarded the elderly guide and sent him back from here to Minowa Station, where we had begun our journey on foot. “The snow boots I lent you all—when you take them off, just leave them at the inn as they are, please.” “After all, we too will be heading up to Ōhora for Lord Akagi’s festival on May 8th.”

We meandered down to the snow-covered crater plain and arrived near the lake's surface. We went around the two large inns flanking the lakeshore to east and west, and checked the public lodge too while searching for Ataka-sensei, but she wasn't at any of them. At last we found her at the Ibuseki Inn on the lakeshore—the sort of place that lodged the ice-cutters' laborers. Part of it might have been our exhaustion, but there was none of the dramatic confrontation I'd anticipated—Ataka-sensei and I ended up meeting with startling ease. When we stood in the earthen-floored entrance of the inn, there was Ataka-sensei sitting alone by the central hearth in that spacious room with its panoramic view, writing some manuscript; upon seeing me, she gave a brief smile,

"Oh, you came." Having said that, she stood up and approached. "Yes, I've come," I replied, tilting my face downward at an angle to affect schoolgirl-like bashfulness before immediately beginning to remove my snow boots. Ataka-sensei cast only a brief glance toward Kuzuoka before placing her hand on my shoulder, "Do come in and warm yourself by the fire. It must have been cold," she said. Then as I stepped onto the threshold, she practically gathered me into her arms and led me to the hearthside. While settling me by the fire, she began issuing orders to the flustered landlady who had hurried out—instructing her to bring the cleanest available robe and to prepare cocoa using provisions from her own stores.

“Take off your obi and make yourself comfortable—put on this robe—you must be hungry—you needn’t lie down to rest if you don’t wish to.” As long as I merely nodded or shook my head like a child in response, her considerate manner remained impeccable. I found this natural once more, and couldn’t help thinking that upon meeting her, Sensei was just an ordinary person after all. The entangled course of events between Kuzuoka, myself, and Sensei over the past year now appeared as worthless as fragments of outmoded film.

Sensei, wearing a Nordic-style men's gown muted in color but with coarse stripes, sat beside me at the hearthside, her majestic legs raised with knees hugged as she gazed intently at the flames of burning birch logs in the fireplace. When I suddenly noticed, Sensei—though a woman—had clenched a small sailor-style pipe between her teeth. This somehow suited her all the more. For a while, Sensei too appeared deep in thought. Could she also be pointlessly reflecting on past events in her heart, just like me, as if they were fragments of obsolete film?

With this hearth at its center, the room was one laid with about twenty tatami mats of old straw flooring. From the earthen-floored entrance to the hearthside ran a straight strip where the tatami had been removed, exposing floorboards. At a right angle to this ran another strip where tatami had been stripped away, bisecting the rectangular tatami-matted room vertically through its center to form a T-shaped groove intersecting at the hearth. Was this convenience meant for travelers approaching the hearthside without removing their shoes, or group guests entering as they were to take midday meals? The floorboards were mottled with muddy footprints.

The room resembled a rough-hewn hut, its unfinished walls and exposed ceiling beams immediately noticeable to the eye, yet perhaps to withstand wind and snow they had used sturdy pillars and planks—now polished to a glossy black by decades of hearth smoke. On both walls flanking the entrance, small light-gathering windows were opened, reflecting the white snow along the lakeshore in a saffron hue. The back wall facing the entrance was entirely covered with heavy sliding-door cupboards, from whose gaps protruded an old-fashioned striped futon. Though called an inn, there appeared to be only this single guest room. In the corner where sliding doors partitioned the space stood an old folding screen, upon which hung Sensei's familiar fur-lined coat and scarf that I recognized. Seeing this suggested her living quarters had been established here. In the opposite corner, with a pilgrim's pack cover placed at the bedside, a single person lay covered by a futon.

“What a crude inn this is, don’t you think?” “Shocking, isn’t it?”

Sensei, perhaps noticing my suspicious glances around the room, tapped her pipe ashes against the hearth edge and said: "Even this was considered the finest inn at the mountaintop during my girlhood." "I've been coming to this lodge for twenty years." As for Kuzuoka, seeing how Ataka-sensei remained wholly preoccupied with me since our arrival, he began changing into a robe with casual independence, nibbling on cheap biscuits and mountain udo pickles brought by the landlady, drinking cocoa—pampering himself alone. Each time Sensei glanced his way, he'd straighten his posture as if electrified and adopt a tense expression—undeniable proof of her profound influence over him. Even this stirred a faint sense of displeasure and irritation within my present mood.

Sensei, seeing that we had settled down considerably, feigned a casual air,

“So coming to find me here—was it your idea or Ms. Choko’s that came first?” She asked Kuzuoka across the hearth. Kuzuoka drew in his cross-legged knees uncomfortably and looked at my face. He’d apparently wanted me to answer instead, but since I kept pretending not to notice, the silence forced him to reluctantly become the one questioned. “Ms. Choko was first—” “How did you know I was in the mountains?” “You went to my house and asked.”

“Yes, when I went to your house, I was told you were at Akagi, so—” Sensei picked up the iron fire tongs from the hearth and poked at the flames with their tip two or three times before— “Who did you meet at my house—everyone?” “No one else was home. I met someone called your brother.” Hearing this, Sensei instinctively— “Brother⁉” —retorted, then suddenly lowered her eyes and showed us a fidgety, feminine gesture we’d never seen from her before. Eventually lifting a face that seemed to have endured her own shame into relief, she now looked my way.

“So you’ve already heard about me and my family then, Ms. Choko? After all, that brother is such a chatterbox.”

Unable to escape, I honestly answered, “Yes.” Sensei threw down the fire tongs, placed her forehead on her knees, and remained like that for some time. I grew so worried—seeing her collapsed posture suggesting she might be sinking into tears rather than lost in thought—that I tried looking at her simply tied-up hair. Finding no trembling there and beginning to feel reassured, I couldn’t help but startle when Sensei slowly lifted her face before my eyes. Her countenance now bore traces of unearthly beauty with ethereal grace that seemed beyond the human realm. Though nothing comparable came immediately to mind, if pressed I might have invoked something like the goddess of Mount Myōkō that our Chinese classics teacher had described during my school days. Yet this vision vanished instantly; Sensei retrieved the fire tongs again and, while poking at the flames with their tip, adopted a voice brimming with human-like complaints.

"I wanted to show you only my polished self, Ms. Choko—" Then her words turned completely into soliloquy, "It can't be helped.—Perhaps it's better you know everything—my shameful things and moments of resolve—"

That voice, in a valley of utter resignation, carried a pure, nostalgic sweetness akin to the sound of droplets heard from nowhere. I even felt an impulse to sip up that voice with my mouth rather than hear it with my ears. “Anyway, I’m glad you came, Ms. Choko—this is for the best.” “Yes—this is fine.” I was struck by a strange, tormenting feeling and couldn’t help asking, “Sensei, is that really true?” Then Sensei said in a clear voice,

“Oh yes, it’s true,” she said clearly. After a brief silence following these words—just as she uttered “Everything about me is true”—her laughter welled up softly from deep within her throat. “Ho… ho… ho… ho… ho.” “Ho… ho… ho… ho… ho.” Was this laughter coming from Sensei herself or some mountain spirit? Rather than turning toward her, I found myself gazing toward some indeterminate distance beyond us—so compelled was I to identify this ethereal sound that seemed to hover beyond mortal dignity. I suddenly remembered Kuzuoka’s words before we left Tokyo—“Sensei’s laughter exists on a plane above this mired world we inhabit”—and understood their truth. Has Sensei gone mad? I wondered. Yet in that same moment she straightened up as though nothing had occurred and began surveying our surroundings—

“It’s nearly evening.—”

Since the meals at this inn were dreadful anyway, Sensei said she would make something for Ms. Choko, then quietly slid open the partition door and headed toward what seemed to be the kitchen.

In her place came a man around fifty who appeared to be the inn’s proprietor to hang the lamp. He was a middle-aged man of rather refined bearing with a mustache beneath his nose. Squatting on the tatami, he explained how the seven or eight ice porters lodging there had returned in mid-March, how skiing and skating had ended in early April, how the azalea season was half a month early—in short, how this was precisely the mountain’s least busy time. The lamplight suddenly began filling the room with dusk’s atmosphere. The ascetic-looking man who had been sleeping in the corner rose groggily, brought a small pot of porridge to the hearth’s edge, poured in hot water, and—after hanging it on the adjustable hook with a muttered “Just let this simmer”—returned to his corner. There, facing his ascetic robe, he began earnestly reciting something like incantations while clattering his prayer beads.

Out of sheer boredom, I began talking with Kuzuoka. "Indeed, just as you said, Sensei has changed quite a bit."

“See? Just as I said.” “There’s nothing more I can say now.” “But to tell the truth, compared to when I met Sensei at her family home before, she’s changed again.” “Oh, is that so?” “So, how has she changed?” “I can’t just say it.” “Why?” “Because if I tell you, you’ll either get jealous or angry.” “Don’t be absurd—coming to this snowy mountain now of all times…” “Then shall I try saying it?” “Ah.”

“The last time I met Sensei, she’d grown noble—well, to put it bluntly, she felt almost motherly or aunt-like.” “But meeting her here now—it’s an odd way to phrase it—she’s become strangely alluring.” “Not something I can say aloud, you understand—”

In fact, Kuzuoka said in a lowered voice. I tensed with such force that I could have slapped my knee,

“That’s exactly right.” I could not help but agree with Kuzuoka’s words. She had changed. Would someone like Sensei as she was now—united with the mountain’s nature—find herself freely yielding even to early spring’s temptations? The inn’s meal of simmered stems and crucian carp, accompanied by potato miso soup along with salted hamburger steak that Sensei had prepared using camp-style canned goods and a fruit salad, brought unexpected vitality to our supper tray.

After eating that meal, we were led by Sensei to venture out to the lakeside at night. The moon shone resplendently. Yet under this mountain night sky where stars cast long platinum thorns like a starry expanse—how mysteriously strange it all felt. The mountains seen by daylight—Koma, Kuro, Yakushi—had completely transformed their appearance, as though the mountain itself were now phantasmagorically manifesting forms it had dreamed. Though its surface lay pale blue with ice, the lake water—exuding a verdant dampness from its depths—seemed to strain tightening its veil of obscurity, as if to keep the moonlit night from discerning spring's stirring signs beneath. Drifting under my own shadow cast upon the water's surface, Kotori Island appeared to hover midair. At intervals along the lake's opposite shore—as if marking settlements there—lights from clubhouses and trout hatcheries dotted the darkness like fireflies. And when looking toward this side, here in Ōhora's dwellings, there were comparatively many lights.

“Come and see here.” Sensei drew me closer to the lakeside. She had me kneel on a rock there and peer through the moonlight at the lake’s surface. “You see? Large fissure marks have already formed in the ice there.” “We call these *emi* around here. The lake’s ice will begin breaking apart soon.” “When the warm southern wind blows—” “Look—those pale bluish-black patches across the ice.” “The ice has grown thin enough to see where the underwater springs flow beneath.”

After showing us a full tour of the mountain's night scenery and as we were about to return, Sensei said this to me: "Two or three days—no, three days—you must stay here. During that time, the southern wind will surely blow and the lake's ice will begin to thaw—"

The ice broke into individual shapes, drifting this way and that—a truly magnificent spectacle. "Since we’ve come all this way, we absolutely must see this before leaving," Sensei said. Then, turning to Kuzuoka,

“During these three days, you must not take Miss Kocho back. “I’m telling you this clearly now.” That night, we slept with Sensei in the middle, our pillows aligned near the hearth. The three of them, their bonds of love and affection now grown ambiguous, breathed quietly in sleep. The murmuring water sound that resonated through our pillows was said to be the snowmelt flowing down the Miya River. Entrusting ourselves to Sensei’s instructions—“During the day, properly tour the mountains; talking can be done at night”—we took the inn owner as our guide and toured various places, bringing along boxed lunches. As someone raised in the city, I had come to realize that even now, neither in thought nor contemplation could I grasp the essence of the mountain scenery. However, Sensei’s purpose in keeping us there seemed to lie in the nightly hearthside talks, and I found myself listening to them with feelings that took me by surprise. For convenience in recounting this, I will attempt to divide the three days and nights into each individual day and night and describe them.

First Day, First Night.

On this day, we visited Akagi Shrine, went to Kotori Island, and then climbed up Kurobe from the edge of the lake. We passed through places where dead trees crowded into forests, places where steep slopes stretched white as far as the eye could see, and places where the connection between mountains formed shapes like a horse’s saddle. In areas where the snow was deep, it had softened considerably, and I would occasionally plunge in up to my waist. Every time I did so, the inn owner would say, “The young lady’s been skewered by the snow!” It’s not as if they’re thorns. I was wearing Sensei’s borrowed ski clothes, so no matter how much they pricked me, I remained unfazed. But since it was so loose-fitting, to others’ eyes I must have looked like a theatrical mouse that had fallen into a flour box. When the inn owner and Kuzuoka tried to pull me out from being stuck in the snow by putting their strength into it, this time all three of us ended up getting stuck. The sound of human laughter summoned to an uninhabited snowy mountain. Upon persistent questioning, it emerged that while the inn owner was now completely an old man of the mountains, in his youth during the Meiji era he had apparently been a poet of the Myōjō school and had visited Tokyo several times. And then, out of nostalgia, he asked me about how the town around Kudan-Ichigaya—where the Shinshisha was said to have once existed—had changed. The inn owner, who had known Sensei since her girlhood, remarked, “Poetically speaking, when a woman like that grows accustomed to living deep in the mountains, she becomes a mountain princess, does she not?” A mountain princess is said to be something like a hybrid between a god and a mountain beast.

There were places where sunlight had melted patches of snow. The inn owner dug into the soil at a rock's base and showed me warabi sprouts beginning to emerge. They say these grow as long as a lady's walking stick by May. The panoramic view from the summit stretched in all directions. The day hung cloudy. The sky lay like rippled sand at low tide, mottled light and dark clouds frozen in formation. A dull glow seeped through from indeterminate origins. Peak after peak vanished into cloudbanks—those southern formations rolled like scrolls while western ones lay flattened. The entire mass drifted imperceptibly northward. From certain angles, the mountains protruding through cloud seas seemed all to glide southward together. What melancholy vistas. Might these peaks too writhe root-deep trying to escape their endless sorrows? Cold prompted me to thrust hands in pockets where Sensei's pipe met my fingers. I clamped it between teeth for effect. Gazing anew at this landscape, tears began falling without cause or name.

We also went to Gorin Pass and circled Lake Ōnuma before returning. That night, Sensei and the two of us sat facing each other by the hearth. Sensei named this night "Confession Night" to begin with, then started speaking as follows. “That during my girlhood I was a sickly, introverted girl who tended to bottle up my passions inward—you must have heard this from my younger brother back home, Miss Kocho.” “And also, that while working at the academy as a physical education teacher, when I saw you—Miss Kocho, my student—I came to think that if I could become anyone, you were the only one I would want to become... You probably heard this from Mr. Kuzuoka here.” “The reason I said that was likely due to lingering regrets and frustrations—this sense that had my girlhood self grown up unhindered, free to develop naturally, I surely would have become someone like you.” “Yet even if we had been raised that way—you a water-natured city-born girl, I a mountain-natured country-born girl—though I’ve lately come to recognize our fundamental differences, I still find myself envying how you sway gently with the current, drifting to any shore where duckweed flowers might bloom in their natural beauty—the beauty of a woman’s instinct. In this, my feelings remain unchanged from then till now.” “I cannot help but sense in you the tenacity that the weak possess.”

“And yet—why have I made it so that I, who love you dearly, stand opposed to you like enemies? Of course, I did place Mr. Kuzuoka here between us as the immediate cause—but pitiful as it may be, this was merely a wedge driven into a saw kerf on timber. A prism to isolate and examine the spectrum. To speak truthfully, Miss Kocho—I staked my own ruin in attempting to escape the influence of your character. To rephrase—an attempt to flee from womanly instinct, from life itself, from the tenacity found in weakness... I apologize if this sounds like grasping at clouds or solving riddles, but please listen carefully. For this was an endeavor—a method—seldom seen in this world. So even if you don’t understand, let that incomprehension be—only grant me your patient ear awhile longer.”

“In my girlhood, I was a gentle child who resembled you quite well—so how did I become this stubborn woman they call manly? From girlhood through maidenhood, I was a woman whose burgeoning growth was stifled. They labeled me a descendant of the dragon princess of Lake Konuma—a non-human creature. When I finally found a man to love and tried to marry him, they ruined the engagement, calling me a scaly woman unfit for intimacy with men. Even though these persecutions were based on crumbling legends and absurdly foolish customs, I was outnumbered—overwhelming numbers against me—so there was nothing to be done but endure their torment. You’ve probably already heard this story from my talkative brother.”

“I have thought countless times that I would be better off dead.” “And then, when I came to feel as if I were dead, it was inevitable that my resolve to counterattack would solidify.”

“People fear ‘death’.” “Even I was like that at first.” “But when one is driven to anguish where living becomes unbearable—when death’s realm presses against one’s face as if seizing them by the scruff of the neck—even while breath chokes, they cannot help but come to love something within this dark world.” “It seems human beings are made that way.” “After all, I too am fundamentally a woman.” “If I cannot be an enforcer, then even thorns or brambles—I will embrace them with my very body.”

“A world steeped in shadow’s hues; a desolate world where hearts freeze solid; a world with nothing to cling to but despair; a powerless world where not even lips can stir. ‘Grief’ and ‘sorrow’ are merely halfway feelings—terms we use because those emotions still retain some flavor. Those who stand on this world’s precipice and face it directly find only being shot at or lapsing into dazes—nothing more. You aren’t even allowed the indulgence of madness. And the mind’s eye must watch over this world without a moment’s negligence. In my girlhood, I was shot at endlessly, kept collapsing into trances, facing death’s realm. As this continued, it suddenly struck me—this world is an illusion. It has no true foundation. To put it another way—it’s like a magician’s curtain of darkness. There must be something hidden within. It must exist. This is what I’ve come to believe. ‘Very well,’ I resolved, ‘I shall retrieve it.’ Having become a magician myself, I must have begun loving death’s world before ever consciously deciding to. That is precisely why courage and familiarity welled up within me—why I could thrust myself into that darkness and grope for something tangible.”

“What was it that I loved and retrieved from the world of death? That ice-cold dagger of reason and the whistling arrow of self—its fletching of originality cutting through the wind—these two things. When a child picks up something a friend has dropped and shows it off with a hint of mockery, they say, ‘Look what I found!’ But I couldn’t speak of these treasures I retrieved from the abyss of my darkened trance in such plain terms, as if they were mere novelties. Therefore, I boasted to others as though I had seen the glint of scales from the depths of Lake Konuma at Mount Akagi—that place I frequented. Partly because there was likely some desire for counterattack against those women who’d branded me ‘Scaly Woman,’ but— My younger brother hasn’t told you about this yet, has he?” “What did he tell you?” “My, what a talkative brother he is!”

“Generally, when one makes discoveries of such a nature, their power tends to be directed outward. But sadly, I am someone who cannot wield it externally. As might be expected, I continue channeling it inward—ever inward—just as I did with my girlish disposition. In the end, I reshaped only myself as I desired, fashioning myself into someone who needs neither men nor love. I am everything. I alone am the world.” “Even without explaining this matter in detail here now, Kocho-san—who knows my past character and actions—would likely grasp the essence. To put it plainly, I excised from my nature any trait that invited bullying, any propensity for defeat, any susceptibility to humiliation—along with their very capacity for sensitivity. Even those endearing feminine qualities that would make others cling to me with life-risking devotion—those too I eradicated. I remade myself into precisely the woman I aspired to be: strong, exceptional, and consciously vital in her health.” “For a woman, this was agony and brutality akin to stripping flesh from bone, replacing the marrow’s essence, then reconstructing the human form anew. Yet I accomplished it. With reason’s dagger. With the whistling arrow of selfhood. With that coldly indomitable will from death’s realm.”

“Here, let me speak a little about the vigor and tautness of those dwelling in death’s realm.” “Yes—the more intensely one becomes conscious of life, the more theatrically they perceive death’s disquiet.” “Conversely, there exists no moment when life feels more achingly dear than when one inhabits death’s awareness most profoundly.” “It pierces the breast with bittersweet persistence, like longing for a beloved.” “At this very instant—which is to say, when one most exquisitely apprehends life’s delicious unease in their heart.”

"Is this not irony? Life itself—when emphasized, becomes imperceptible; when death is emphasized, life instead pierces through with visceral clarity. Now mark this well, Kocho-san—brand it upon your mind. The secret lay in how I preached idealism only to savor reality's grit, extolled Puritanism only to glut myself on its inverse desires—all learned from life's own ironic stratagems, then wielded in reverse. I've shouldered through existence by perpetually gripping its underbelly. Even weeping... even laughter—"

“Kocho-san, since you’re a woman cast from the same root as me, perhaps you’ve sensed this secret art of mine—even unconsciously—haven’t you?”

“Kocho-san, but if a bow is kept drawn taut, it will eventually slacken.” “If a handball is bounced continuously, it will eventually cease to rebound.” “As I deepened my consciousness of death and savored life’s intensity from its reverse side through that inverse grip, I eventually drew it too taut for too long, bending the bamboo stave of death’s consciousness into a permanent curve.” “If that happens, then even the opposing string of life has no reason to rebound.” “Now, even the melancholy, anxiety, and anguish of life that once compelled me to practice self-restraint, pursue ideals, and strive diligently have all vanished.” “What remains is only an Eastern-style chaotic world where neither being nor non-being exists.” “In this world, that which exists as life—symbolized by that useless tree which has survived for countless millennia, grown so vast it blots out the sun, yet holds value only in its useless utility—is an existence devoid of stimulation, devoid of both suffering and joy.” “Moreover, when it comes to death, it is an utterly carefree death where one continually reincarnates even as ants, mole crickets, or winged insects.” “The very scenery of this world where the bow of death and the string of life have slackened and drawn closer until they’ve nearly become a single line—the very perception of it—is the most formless and elusive thing imaginable.” “Eastern philosophers liken this to a butterfly’s fleeting dream, but in truth, it is a time and space of unfettered spontaneity where neither such ecstasy nor beauty—nor even their opposites—truly exist.”

How could our minds, nurtured by Western culture since the Meiji era—a culture that sought to pin down all existence through geometric dissection and rigid conceptualization—ever find rest here? Ever since resolving to reform myself, without allowing a moment's respite—pressing the dagger of reason and shears of self against my own breast as I drove myself onward—I had grown accustomed to this discipline. Now I felt like a monkey fallen from its tree. For the first time since my reformation, I thought I had become pitiable. There was not an instant when that vile reflection—the sort that makes one wake sweating at night wondering "Could this path be wrong?"—failed to peer from my heart. Most terrifying was how this laxity of mine let the woman hidden deep within my bones begin to throb anew. And with that, Kocho-san—to my bitter chagrin—your form started catching my eye. Your nature began clinging stubbornly to my heart.

During surgery for bone caries, the surgeon thoroughly disinfected the lesion, exercised their utmost skill, and sutured the flesh, convinced that not even a speck of decayed bone remained within. What could one do? Inside, powdered decayed bone had remained, and the bacteria, taking advantage of the flesh's weakness, swiftly began corroding the surrounding area. The external germs also responded to this. I had performed upon myself a surgery of complete transformation targeting the woman within me—I who believed I had attained my ideal form, a robust mind and body neither weak nor humiliated; I who had appointed myself as the surgeon of personality transformation—even I had overlooked something. There were areas where the surgery had been left incomplete.

“My, it’s gotten quite late. Let’s end our talk here for tonight and retire.”

Second day, second night.

Today, we again brought packed lunches and were guided by the inn owner to visit Lake Konuma. The inn owner grumbled on and on to us: “Why didn’t you come a little earlier, during the skiing or skating season? Or else, had you come a little later when the azaleas bloom, that would’ve been better. As it is, even if I try to show you around, there’s nothing worth seeing now.” Thus, his gestures of pointing things out lacked vigor, often slipping into a reminiscent poetic tone—“If only it were spring now, you could gather lilies of the valley here,” or “In summer, there are rare insect-catching violets to be found.”

We crossed a mountain to the south. After walking across the flat plain surrounded by a gorge—where the inn owner had remarked that in summer or autumn it would be filled with grazing cattle enough to frighten a young lady—we arrived at Lake Konuma. A lake about one-third the size of Lake Ōnuma, surrounded immediately by mountains that crouched close, where on the leaden water’s surface the weathered trunks of white birches stood out whitely, appearing like serpentine bones. It was a day with a hint of fog, the pale sun shining through. The leaden marsh and the entire white mountain emitted a faint bellflower-blue phosphorescence, so that it felt like a landscape crafted by spiritual essence. Ataka-sensei had been tormented her entire life by others due to the legend inherent in this lake. And then next, desperately using that legend in reverse, she counterattacked them. Last night’s story from Ataka-sensei remained unfinished, and though I could not yet see how it would twist and turn, there was no doubt that its repercussions had reached even us standing here. What tragically fated people they were. Though it was a snow-covered lake that inspired resentment, I continued to gaze at it endlessly. At the shore, a single remnant of a decayed lacquered box caught my eye.

To mourn the dragon princess who had thrown herself into the lake, every year on the anniversary of her death, the foothill village would steam red rice and cast it into these waters—yet the rice would vanish, leaving only the empty containers to drift ashore. This, the guide explained, was what lay before us. Despite being a coward at heart, I—a city girl with a taste for the macabre—continued to gaze intently at the awe-inspiring ice-covered lake for what felt like an eternity. Even if it was a lie, as I considered these silver scales said to be visible at the lake’s bottom—chilling the blood within me to my heart’s content—Kuzuoka urged, "There’s nothing here, just a dull view," and I reluctantly left the precious lakeside at last.

The path first led us back the way we had come; we circled around Chōshichirō Mountain and Kojiroga Peak, then strolled as far as an area called Rippei Tea House along the road leading to Mizunuma Station on the Ashio Line. It is said that Hakone salamanders inhabit the streams around here. We caught sight of a mountain dweller leading a horse laden with bundles of mountain udo like firewood, topped with rhododendron flowers, heading down to the village to sell.

Night came. That night, Ataka-sensei proposed calling it the “Night of Prayer,” and once again facing us by the hearth, she began to speak as she mixed perfume into her pipe tobacco and let it smolder enticingly. “Last night I spoke of how my consciousness of death slackened along with my consciousness of life—how I became like an amateurishly pasted paper shoji screen, my intellect and self together drooping into a state of equilibrium.” “And then, as I told you last night, the female instinct I had failed to erase from within myself—targeting the exposed hair roots of my heart’s skin—began responding to the influence of your personality, Kocho-san, from the outside, throwing me into disarray like a self facing imminent collapse.” “Now, tonight we’ll continue from where we left off.”

“I panicked then—truly panicked,” “Like discovering termites gnawing at the house’s main pillar.” “The breached embankment had to be mended above all else.” “The adhesion of corrupted flesh demanded ruthless severing through drastic remedies.” “I brought Mr. Kuzuoka here as a sumo ring to plug my embankment’s rupture.” “To prevent our flesh from fusing—yours and mine, Kocho-san—I wielded Mr. Kuzuoka as a scalpel.” “These words alone cannot make you comprehend.” “Let me lay bare the factual progression.”

“Why did I compel Mr. Kuzuoka to marry? A being like myself possesses neither love for men nor any marital desires. Though Mr. Kuzuoka served sufficiently as a partner for carnal sport, why then did I force marriage upon him? Ah, Kocho-san. You are both cherished and detestable to me. From this pig-iron body forged by draining myself of fresh blood, you alone effortlessly extract maternal essence identical to your own. In twilight moments by my dressing window—when you seem my daughter, or rather when I become your guileless child craving suckling—how could you possibly grant me this, Kocho-san? Yet should I pour out these instincts unaltered and sate them through you, I would face defeat at my own hands. I was never meant to be such frailty incarnate—this creature who might gather emotional detritus from any passerby. Fortunately, Mr. Kuzuoka loves you. Though your affection for him remains incomplete, you cannot refuse men who devote themselves utterly. This weakness I exploited.”

“To put it bluntly, I made unreasonable demands on Kuzuoka to distress him—and by making you witness his suffering and grow righteously indignant—I aimed to make you despise me.” “And I tried to sever this inevitable instinctual bond between you and me.” “If we had merely quarreled over trivial matters, your influence over me could never have been fully severed.” “To destroy this profound cause—our congenital sameness of instinct—I had to wield an axe of instinctual conflict with equally profound intensity.” “I resolved to do this.” “To protect the ideal self I’ve painstakingly built over my entire life until now—a self utterly incapable of acting against its inner convictions—” “This time, I directed my strength outward.”

“If this tactic failed to make us enemies who loathe each other, I had prepared another, harsher measure in reserve.” “Kocho-san, you mustn’t be shocked.” “I’ve investigated even your lineage and stand ready to expose it.” “With just this revelation—there, Kocho-san—you must be paling and trembling.” “But it matters not.” “All of this belongs to the hour of confession before prayer.” “I shall speak plainly.” “I had even prepared—should you have sunk into profound relations with Kuzuoka, or upon your nuptial occasion with that so-called pillar of the lower town, Ikegami-san—to proclaim your beggar-born origins far and wide, incur your eternal hatred, and thereby surgically excise myself from this instinctual fixation upon you.”

“You’re wondering how I discovered such secrets?” “Stay vigilant.” “That nursemaid Shima at your house is a foul-mouthed crone.” “Give her a little something for her nose, and she’ll sing like a bird.” “Ever since that old maid delivered the midyear gifts in your stead last Obon, I’ve had her in my pocket—your affairs have been an open book to me ever since.” “Kocho-san—will you weep? Go on, weep your fill.” “I too cried endlessly like that from girlhood until womanhood.” “Let me make this plain—no woman who resolves to cast aside another can remain so coldly cruel to both herself and others.”

“You heard of my cruelty toward Kuzuoka-san, grew thoroughly enraged, and seemed to turn confrontational toward me. Through intelligence from Shima the nursemaid and the state of Kuzuoka-san’s letters, I perceived—even while at my family home—that you had come to thoroughly despise me and, depending on circumstances, had even resolved to protect Kuzuoka-san’s very livelihood.” “I too recalled you—‘What an impudent little girl’—with bitter amusement. The result of my struggles—I thought this had turned out splendidly. I believed I had now at last sterilized the rotten bones of my womanhood with potent medicine and reinserted them soundly into my body, and that I had splendidly freed myself from your influence too, Kocho-san.” At that moment, I felt something inside me snap with a sharp crack—though I found it utterly strange—and I turned back from this task to once again face the world of death at the rising wellspring of power in my forsaken homeland. I tried to pick up the fallen, slackened bow of death. But it was nowhere to be found around there. The living string that had been strung upon it was naturally nowhere to be found.

When I looked around, both Western-style intellect and selfhood, along with Eastern-style undivided chaos, had all vanished. All that remained was my own spirit, shattered into fragments. Years upon years of unnaturalness, years upon years of defiance, years upon years of inversion—had they finally driven me to this ruin of self? But wait a moment. To consider this as mere personal ruin seemed a hasty conclusion. For why was it that these bones I now consciously recognized as my body and mind—this skull, spine, ribs, pelvis, limb bones scattered in fragments—though scattered, each appeared as clear as crystal, utterly unlike decayed remains left exposed in the wild? Was this the result of having thoroughly bared my life to my will through a woman's solitary power? And what intrigued me was how these scattered limbs and torso—when facing snowy peaks reflected them unchanged; when dear ones approached mirrored them in their dearness. How strange.

The night had grown quite late. “Let’s rest. What a strange tale this has turned into—I must apologize.”

The third day, the third night.

Ataka-sensei’s words carried the aura of an ancient philosopher’s maxims—while listening, we felt momentarily fulfilled by them, yet once finished, they left no lingering concern. Though her tale pertained directly to the three of us, it felt akin to hearing an old legend, and thus, upon waking the next morning, almost nothing remained in our hearts. As Ataka-sensei had suggested, we were led by the inn owner to visit Chōshi Temple that day. “We probably won’t make it that far, but since the young lady’s legs have grown quite accustomed to the mountains, let’s give it a try”—with that preface, we set out. As expected, I could not make it that far. After crossing beyond Gairinzan’s summit, grasping the pasture fence to descend slowly while surveying Chōshichirō-yama’s clear vista, passing through a ridgeline path with groves of mizunara oaks and white birches, and setting foot on the slope called Tomoshirazu—I declared I would turn back. The inn owner did not insist on pushing further, agreeing that this was for the best. He spread his cloak on the snow by the roadside, and as we ate our slightly early lunch, he told us all sorts of stories about the historic sites in this area. This path ahead was opened by ascetics, and it is said that many of the historic sites remain as they are, becoming hazardous spots. Benten Cave, Roaring Dragon Falls, Tengu’s Garden, Yakushi Rock, Womb Passage, Fudo Falls—merely hearing these names evoked humanity’s inescapable desire to bind religion and nature together, attempting to perceive a mystical world as reality. It is said that Tadanobu’s Cave, where Kunisada Tadanobu was pursued and recuperated from illness—originally used as a place for ascetics’ spiritual practice like the other caves—lay near Fudo Waterfall below this path. “The ascetic staying at our inn underwent a week-long fast at Fudo Waterfall and is now recovering through dietary care. If humans remained simply as humans, there would be no strife—yet by instilling desires beyond their station and subjecting them to curious trials, this Creator of ours seems to harbor an aversion to boredom.”

With that, the inn owner spoke coldly, adopting a poet's manner characteristic of the Meiji era. We then took an easy path winding around, visited Blood Pond, and returned.

That night, Ataka-sensei sat by the hearth with a deeply despondent expression. Declaring they should call this evening the “Night of Ascension,” she sang in a low yet clear voice before beginning her tale. The lyrics were in a foreign language I couldn’t understand at all. Yet within that melody lay a modulation of humanity’s final lament—a sorrowful sound that, even if all musical phrasings born of humankind were blown away by the tempestuous clamor of this transient world, would alone remain as a single unbroken thread, piercing inexorably through people’s hearts. Listening to this, there was a despairing resonance—one that, in the extremity of helplessness, paradoxically summoned an unnatural surge of strength.

After finishing her song, Ataka-sensei said, “This is one of the folk ballad poems from the Kalevala—the folk epic sung by Finnish peasants.” “Finland is the Nordic country where I once studied physical education abroad for some time.” She had previously told us that the Finns—originally Easterners who had adapted to Nordic nature—possessed gray-blue eyes and chestnut hair, yet retained an Eastern-style simplicity and single-minded passion.

On the land, the Saruposeruka of undulating rounded wave-like hillocks; the countless large and small marsh lakes held within them; snowfields and great forests and valleys and waterfalls. There, Ataka-sensei had discovered a foreign Akagi.

Ataka-sensei continued her story. “The Kalevala I just sang contains many myths and stories, but among them is one that has soaked into my heart and refuses to fade.” “Let me tell it briefly.” “It’s the tale of a mother who lost her child.” “The mother lost sight of her only son—the heroic youth Lemminkäinen.” “She searched everywhere in vain, then cried out to the sun.” “The sun turned its all-seeing eyes in every direction and revealed Lemminkäinen lying as white bones on the dark riverbed of the underworld.” “Though stricken with grief, the mother refused to yield.” “She went straight to a master smith and had him forge a great iron rake.” “With this tool, she gathered her child’s bones one by one from the underworld’s riverbed, patiently assembling them on the riverside stones.” “The bones took shape resembling her son’s form.” “Yet this figure would not call her ‘Mother.’” “Still the mother persisted.” “Cradling the skeletal form as she once held her infant, she sang her lament to a passing bee:”

“O Bee, O Bee, Fly beyond both moon and sun, Journey through the farthest reaches of sky, Bear the divine breath upon your back— The balm of life—O bee, O— To my beloved child.” The bee too was moved and brought the balm of life. The mother, with devoted care, anointed her son’s skeletal body with fragrant oil. “The heroic youth Lemminkäinen, now more beautiful and brave than before, was reborn.”

Ataka-sensei, after telling this story, then said the following.

“It was a mistake to think this story was merely a beautiful delusion born beneath northern snowy skies. When I reflect upon it now, I realize this tale had been created for me during this time.” I, who have never borne a child and remain alone, am both mother and child within myself. “The motherly me looks upon these crystalline bones of the child me—shattered into scattered shards—and though my heart crumbles with anguish, I will never give up. Were I able to cling to the Sun itself or make such requests, I would rush even to master blacksmiths—so resolved am I to restore these bones to their original form.” Fortunately, since this occurs within the spiritual womb of my own psyche, it proves far easier to assemble than when that mother gathered Lemminkäinen’s bones from the underworld riverbed. Yet even these bones transformed into beautiful crystalline jewels—illuminated and made harder than iron, colder than ice—lack the vital balm that might restore life’s breath. The mother within me now strains to discern what this essence could be and where it dwells. O bee, O bee—I beseech you—

What I have now realized is this: I am fundamentally of mountain nature. Amidst the overlapping mountain peaks, in the depths of rugged mountain paths—I felt as though it might be found there. "And yet, Ocho—you are of water nature. Henceforth, you will likely never witness particularly theatrical joys or sorrows. Like reed-patterned art, you will sway and pool languidly, twist and bind unwilled—depicting yourself, demonstrating yourself, becoming life and become death, channeling even people’s unfulfilled dreams into your flow. Swelling ever fuller as the stream itself, you—neither awake nor dreaming—will one day merge into the endless sea. While I find this too to be an admirable form of life," she said, "it is not what someone of my differing nature wishes for."

"There is just one thing I must say to you, Ocho—you whom I loved dearly. 'Those of water nature must not separate from the earth. Those of water nature are, in themselves, without inherent character. Character is defined by the earth.' 'You still seem afraid of your beggar origins, but what is there to fear? You must once lie down intimately with the earth and then learn something from it. You must come to have your character defined. That you are of beggar origins and are fated to return to that experience once—I somehow sense this through my intuition, which pierces through like a crystalline jewel.' 'Very well. Once, flow into the earth and see. For something new will surely come to be discovered by you.'"

“Well, it’s still rather early tonight, but you’ll all be departing tomorrow. Let us retire to rest our bodies.”

That night, I lay my head upon the pillow, but the strangely layered and tangled sound of the Miyuki River’s thawing waters kept me from sleep. Raising my head and straining to listen, I heard only an ordinary, smooth, single-layered sound. When I lay my head back down, it became tangled in two layers once more. I suddenly realized. Sensei was weeping so as not to let me notice. I don’t know why, but I decided to let her cry. Perhaps these tears would become the moisture for those chillingly cold, scattered shards of ice-like bones Sensei had spoken of—

Listening to the layered, tangled sounds of water, spending the midnight hours neither asleep nor awake, I suddenly noticed fog stealing into the room, the lamp emitting a circular glow like the cross-section of a summer citrus.

Beyond the sliding door, in the inn family’s living room, I could hear someone murmur, "The southern wind's come; the ice'll break." I remembered Sensei getting up about twice to go peer out through the small window in the wall, but after that, the fatigue from the day finally caught up with me, and I too fell asleep.

Awakened by Sensei, we hurried out to the lakeside to look. The night too was breaking into pale dawn.

The wind, coming over the southern outer rim mountains and through the gorges, transformed with each gust into an invisible fist, hurling masses of fog toward the lake surface. Fog masses collided and swirled in great comma-shaped spirals; fog swallowed fog; fog stretched and tore apart the mist between them. Yet within this milky whiteness as a whole glimmered a pearly radiance, and we felt as though we were inside a giant abalone shell. Through gaps in the thinning fog, thirty or forty yards ahead, the lake water—freshly exposed where the ice had melted—appeared vividly, its waves churning incessantly. When viewed casually, one could not discern it, but upon close observation, the frozen shore crumbled and broke off two or three inches at a time from the flapping of waves that surged back windward from the lake’s center, scattering toward the heart of the lake.

The wind grew even stronger. Each ice fragment along the broken and floating lakeshore gradually gathered together, forming into a large mass. Now the ice—still covered in soft snow and spanning about two or three tsubo—had begun drifting toward the lake's center. Having just woken up, and since it wasn't particularly unusual while the wind remained fierce, both Kuzuoka and I could only utter exclamations like "Oh!" or "Hmm..."

Ataka-sensei did not utter a single word. She was staring thoughtfully at each ice block as they broke and crumbled away. Another block began to sway gently. Then Sensei lightly hopped onto the skates with their blades removed and stepped onto them. I clapped my hands without thinking at her bravery. I kept watching, certain Sensei would return once the ice drifted within leaping distance—but when even that point passed, I felt a chill. Then Sensei waved her hand there,

“Goodbye, Miss Ocho.” I saw that face, realized she was serious, and was so shocked that blood rushed from my chest to my head; I let out a sob and screamed.

“Sensei! Sensei!”

“Take care too, Mr. Kuzuoka.”

Kuzuoka stood utterly dumbfounded. I smashed through the shore ice, stamping my feet,

“Sensei, come back—!” she shouted.

By now, Sensei’s face had faded into the mist, leaving only the vague positions of her eyes and nose visible at that distance. In that haze, Sensei swiftly slipped off the fur-lined winter coat she had been wearing. In the mica-colored mist, a woman’s nude body—balanced and pale rose—gradually faded into shadow as it receded into the distance. With a feeling that could be described neither as holding my breath nor grasping at empty air, I simply kept watching when Sensei’s voice reached me from within the mist.

“Well? Don’t I look like the Venus statue born from a pearl oyster shell?!” One last thing— “Born from death’s extremity—beauty’s fleeting play. “I’ll show you just once, Ocho—staking my very life.” “Now farewell—forever and always—farewell.”

“I won’t! I won’t!” I cried out involuntarily. Then I collapsed weeping onto the snowy shore. We immediately explained the situation to the inn owner and searched all around the lakeside, but Sensei was nowhere to be found. It appeared the plan had already been prepared since around yesterday, and upon checking, Sensei’s belongings from the old folding screen had mostly been cleared away. The unfinished manuscript of the "Death Book" had been torn up and discarded. For about two days, Kuzuoka and I waited at the inn in anguish for Sensei, but no news came. Eventually, we realized that Sensei had preemptively packed her clothing and essential belongings into a rucksack hidden at the lakeside ice hut, and when the drifting ice blocks reached the shore in favorable alignment, she had prepared herself there before departing for parts unknown.

The inn owner said helplessly. "So Sensei has gone to become a mountain princess after all." As we descended Mount Akagi, Kuzuoka muttered dejectedly. "For her to part ways like that—no matter how I look at it, I just can't bring myself to accept it."

I patted his back as if soothing a child and, “Now, now—there’s no such deep mountain in this world so alluring that people can’t return from it—we’ll meet Sensei again—”

The foothills were progressing from spring into the crisp freshness of early summer.

When Kuzuoka asked what we would do now, I answered. "I watched such an earnest performance that my body's gone completely limp." "I haven't the courage to return to Tokyo just to be scolded right now." "While we still have money, let's go enjoy ourselves in some tranquil countryside before going back."

It is said that when those who descend from mountain to field look back upon the mountain, their hearts—tangled with reluctant parting and lingering attachment—reverberate like the intricate patterns of a small drum’s strings.

And this was the mountain where Ataka-sensei—while proclaiming "the end of death" and "the play of beauty" as her life's final performance—had shown us a pale crimson nude tableau vivant along her departure into the lake's mist, before vanishing from our sight. However true it may have been, her outlandish behavior had a limit to how much it could reduce people to idiocy—and so we even came to hate the mountain that took Sensei from us as if it were an accomplice, turning our backs on it once. Yet beneath that hatred, I thought—Wait, perhaps it isn’t entirely so. Had we not formed such bonds of the heart, even if only between ourselves, Sensei might have gone her entire life without ever finding the chance to voice the loneliness of her solitary ideals. As we came to think this way, the pathos of evening clouds drawing us back to Sensei compelled us to turn our gaze once more toward the mountain.

In the course of lingering at the foot of the mountain, we visited the famous tree called O-Kakura cherry near Ōmama Station. By May, this magnificent weeping cherry had completely become a cherry tree in leaf. The base of the Kurogane was thick enough to conceal a cow, and its towering trunk was gazed upon as something majestically fearsome against the sky. Yet the dripping of young leaves cascading from branch tips in all directions tangled delicately with the wind to form a curtain-like rain—even the colossal Mount Akagi lay buried under this pale yellow water-color downpour.

“Foxes, raccoon dogs, damn beasts—”

As I bathed in this green curtain rain and gazed at the jade-shadowed mountain, I found myself compulsively repeating those words. That mountain—that Sensei—still held us under their spell. Even after cloaking our hearts with sorrow's lingering embrace, the memories of that peak and our teacher would likely keep luring us into peculiar melancholy for days to come.

Long ago—though the old farmer nearby says that judging by its age, it has likely been over six hundred years—there was a girl named Okaku who planted a cherry sapling with her own hands. It is said that this sapling unexpectedly endured centuries to become such a giant tree. The old man’s account of the cherry tree’s origin amounted to no more than this brief tale, yet within my heart I connected these thoughts to Sensei—and further yet, to this cherry tree’s maiden caretaker—pondering what profound circumstances might have shaped her life. Was not this girl of antiquity—this Okaku—too one of those unfortunate women who, finding their lives obstructed in the fleeting world, placed their hopes in ages yet to come, transplanting their vitality at last into unfeeling plants and trees? Whenever I beheld this ancient cherry tree—its single-minded resolve to alluringly drape itself over human shoulders even six hundred years later—I found myself reminded anew of the maiden who planted it, no, of all women’s eternally unfulfilled dreams of life stretching beyond time.

Across the plains of Joshu and Yashu, the conveniences of trains and trams spread out like a spider's web. We wandered across these web-like tracks, our conflicted hearts—yearning to leave the mountain yet still pulled toward it—taking physical shape through our meandering. Though we drew nearer to Tokyo with each step, even we ourselves appeared listless. For even if we had hurried back, nothing but ruin awaited us—there was nothing at all waiting in Tokyo.

We leaned on the rain-streaked inn veranda railing. A caterer brought modest lunches along the road in stacked tiered boxes. Our two-day stay at Yabutsuka Hot Springs found us listlessly making even this waiting into a pastime. We crossed over one mountain to the beyond. From the third-floor room, we viewed pine-dotted hills, windswept young rice shoots in Koyamada fields, and blue-glowing wheat plains beyond distant ridges. Here too offered nothing more—still with nothing to do—so we went to bed early at dusk. At Nishinagaoka Hot Springs, we listened through the night to wooden clappers signaling hot water being poured beneath our pillows.

We paid our respects at the renowned Donryū-sama of Ota. In the temple town, teahouses and inns lined the streets, and the voices of maids soliciting customers sounded rustic. The spacious temple grounds were now bustling with people, and many in the crowd appeared drawn toward the bell tower. All around, they exclaimed, "It's the Bell Memorial Ceremony!" On the scaffold constructed around the great bell of the bell tower, white-robed children began their ceremonial procession. In their innocence of all worldly matters, the children processed forward with mere ceremonial pomp. I too once had days when my only thought was to bloom upon the dance float. The droning voices of sutra chanting swelled louder. A bishop wearing a brocade hat shaped like taro leaves emerged from the procession and scattered paper lotus flowers from the scaffold to the left and right. For a fleeting moment, paper lotus flowers glittered silver and crimson in the midday sun before being gathered into people’s hands; children of men and women’s lives illuminated by love’s dual aspects of earthly desire and enlightenment vanished instantly into Mu-u-ka.

The young children, led by an old woman wary of the crowd, were being given biscuits meant as food for the small monkey in front of the small zoo’s wire mesh. The Goryo Pine—said to spread across fifty ken in all directions from a single short trunk.

Ota’s Kanayama, renowned in song, was lushly covered with young pine trees. It was said that from this mountaintop, the landscape of the Eight Kantō Provinces could be viewed. For the first time in a while, I felt somewhat refreshed and began moving both hands back and forth from the base of my shoulders. To where my outstretched fingertips pointed—the one on the right was the Tone River, the one on the left the Watarase River—flowing winding and twisting without care or hardship. As I gazed at this, for the first time in a long while, I felt revived by the sensation of my blood’s pulse beginning to flow again. What came to mind unbidden was Ataka-sensei’s words on the mountain. “Miss Choko, you are characterless water nature—your character is defined solely by soil.” Was not water defined solely by soil precisely a river? Ataka-sensei's human words on the mountain—perhaps governed by that grand natural environment—had sounded to me like listening to the jōruri piece Shinobu Mie, and I had retained them only as a beautiful melody. Yet these eyes that saw the river here now made those mountain words into living things and thrust them into my bodily sensations. Sensei had also said: “There’s no need to fear being a descendant of beggars.” “Try flowing into the soil just once.” “For from there, a fresh soul will surely be discovered.” Ah, ah, how keenly this plain and river seeped into my very being with their dearness. Sensei’s words had not been in vain. Perhaps I should just continue down this path of ruin and end up a beggar woman by the riverside. In my father’s dying words, he had said I should rest in the soil once nearing middle age—but at this rate, it seemed I needn’t wait until those years.

The several eccentric lives surrounding me seemed to have caused unexpected fatigue by gnawing imperceptibly into my body and mind. I wanted to lie down right then on a straw mat upon the earth, to be swept into the embrace of its compassion and consoled by the flowing water’s mercy. Not a single thought remained in me that considered this too early for a young girl’s circumstances. Though I myself felt aged, the riverside beggar woman had still come to seem dear to me.

As for Kuzuoka, he had become like a straw doll with its spirit nearly drained, weeping intermittently in small bursts like passing showers. I—

“What happened to your vaunted toad philosophy?” Even when she provoked him,

“The mirror in the box of my life has shattered on one side,” he said. “The self born from anguish that I discovered through its reflection—that self no longer exists.” Even when he spoke these difficult words, the intellect that devised ways to parry such provocations seemed devoid of elasticity. “There’s no need for you to cultivate such tearful devotion toward Sensei,” I retorted with contempt. “Didn’t she say you were merely her sporting partner?” Yet even as I showed this scorn,

“Even if that’s how it was for her, it doesn’t work that way for me.” “After all, there’s still something pitiful and unbearable clinging around Sensei—even now tugging at the end of its thread over here to transmit sorrow.”

And then, “Sensei said I was just a wedge or an axe wedged in to cut through her troublesome fixation on Miss Choko’s character—but really now, could such a thing actually exist in this world—?”

Kuzuoka stared at my face with eyes wide open, drained of vigor. His appearance burned with a desperate hope—that if there existed another, more nostalgic and substantial reason, he wanted me to tell him of it. "What could Sensei have gone seeking into the deep mountains under her own conviction?" There could very well be such an explanation. But one cannot clearly say that it exists. The twisted strands of the human heart—truth and lies, performance and raw self—even if you extract a single thread and guarantee it as the core, that does not amount to an explanation of the whole’s true nature. The cunning Sensei had brought this to Finland’s *Kalevala* poetry, and concerning the totality of life in living flesh, she simply disposed of it by singing in recitative: “The balm of life—O bees, bring it forth.” If life is indeed the stratagem of some entity, then only something akin to those bees freely darting about the field could know the whereabouts of that scheming something. And if you were to ask that bee, this time it would likely pass word of its whereabouts to another one flying about the basin. My mother once explained those “feelings that cannot remain unexpressed yet cannot be fully expressed even when one tries”—using an old saying—as being “like writing documents under a lamp’s direct light.” If you try to write directly beneath the lamp, the paper becomes shadowed by your hand. If you remove your hand to avoid casting a shadow, you cannot write. After much back and forth, people ultimately came to call such frustrating situations “writing documents under a lamp’s direct light.” When humans try to tightly grasp something with conscious effort, they cannot seize it there; when they release the consciousness of grasping, suddenly only the whereabouts show themselves. Wouldn’t the whereabouts of life itself be much the same?

Therefore, I— “Sensei only said, ‘Bees, come forth’—but somehow, whether mountains or rivers, I think she went seeking whatever lies in those exasperating places beyond reach.” When I said this with a bitter smile, Kuzuoka reflexively muttered back in disgust, “Sensei went to retrieve something from that exasperating place beyond reach... Could that be it?” He said this, then continued, “It’s exasperating for me too, but more than that—doesn’t the loneliness become unbearable?” Raising his sorrowful face, he cast his eyes toward the shadow of Mount Akagi, now considerably distant from our current position.

The two still could not distance themselves from the mountain's shadow all at once, but finding a bus at Ōta Town's outskirts, they rode it sideways across Shimotsuke Plain along the distant mountain ring to Memanuma no Shōten by the Tone River. Jizō, Nabewari, Suzugatake—these familiar outer rim mountains loomed hazily at a comfortable distance. The locations of Ōnuma and Konuma lay nearly along our path, and from there onward into the depths, the loneliness of that willful middle-aged woman—who had hidden herself away so defiantly that we now resented her—appeared before us like the mist-shrouded silhouette of a nude figure. As I kept gazing at the mountains with lingering attachment, I came to understand—yes, of course Sensei favored Mount Akagi. Since these mountains themselves are Earth's passion—desperately erupting through the crust in feeble bursts—was it not inevitable that Sensei, sharing this same vital essence, would become bound to them?

They turned back from Memanuma no Shōten, and this time crossed the opposite Watarase River to stay in Ashikaga Town. The weavers' market day was bustling, with striped patterns that caught women's eyes carelessly thrown and piled onto carts.

Next, they also went to Sano Town, where the blue winds of the Aso mountain range were already blowing against the eaves of houses. The number of waterwheels on the stream used for twisting cotton thread. They lit candles and paid a visit to Izuru Mountain’s Kannon Hall cave.

Along the way, in villages where fresh green leaves adorned the houses, May’s carp streamers fluttered vigorously, but upon arriving in Tatebayashi, we heard rumors that the azaleas had also begun to bloom sporadically here and there. When boarding the shallow boat with its red blanket spread out, sharing the ride with worldly passengers as we headed from the Makomo shore toward the azalea-covered hills, both Kuzuoka and I found ourselves regaining some buoyancy of heart.

“It can’t be helped.” “There’s just no helping it, I suppose.” Reed sparrows sang. The farther we moved away from the view of townhouses and factories, the wider the marsh became. The grebes dove down near the bow as if paying their respects from the fluid water world, then lifted their small black heads above the surface. “How nice—taking a beauty around the sights until the thread prices settle.” “Ha, ha, ha! In the end, this way’s got fewer losses than bungling market speculations,” “Ain’t that the truth.” It was a worldly tale from local passengers accompanied by a geisha.

On the second floor of a traditional restaurant overlooking azalea-covered hills across the marsh, where we faced a midday meal featuring crucian carp, eel, and water shield—all said to be caught in this marsh—a humble shamisen melody drifted in from somewhere. Clusters of azalea shrubs blanketed the rounded hill in russet tones, over which budding flowers and tender sprouts appeared like pale kudzu vines draped across them. The early summer sun shone down, and the red-and-white striped tents of the rest area glinted, catching the eye. Small fish darted sharply through the bright water surface among algae, leaving trails of ripples in their wake as if fleeing something. The water’s eddies, splashing small waves onto surrounding algae while reflecting the oil-slick hue of the sky, spread their circles here and there. All around, marsh gas bubbles plinked against the water’s surface like raindrops.

When my body and mind settled, it was then that a restless, indescribable regret began to stir from within me. Of course, I had never consciously or intentionally done anything—yet interacting with Ikegami in Tokyo turned that young man into something like a mystic aspirant, and leaving him in that state while prolonging our journey in this manner was certain to exacerbate his condition—and still, I had set off on this trip. If I grew close to Ataka-sensei, I ended up making her vanish like a cloud. Though Sensei felt so drawn to me that she even blushingly asked me face-to-face to let her nurse at my breast—desiring an intimate familial bond—she ended up falling into contrary actions. While this might all stem from seeds within her own nature, could it be that I too harbored some Magatsuhi-gami within my being from birth—one that drew out such strange occurrences from people of that sort? When I thought this way, I grew utterly disgusted with myself.

This young man named Kuzuoka before me—listlessly eating his tasteless rice—when I considered it, also appeared to have been made into such a half-baked human through my Magatsuhi-gami working in tandem with Ataka-sensei's contrariness. The motive for my departure from Tokyo with this young man must have been my intention to confront Ataka-sensei in order to correct his beliefs, which I believed were being censured by her. It seemed I had stirred up maternal instincts toward the young man and something akin to feminine humanism. And what do you know—when on the mountain Ataka-sensei told me through a single remark that she felt no adhesion toward this man, but rather that the one troubling her with adhesion was myself, my spirits lifted at once.

Since then, I had stopped worrying much about what might become of this man. As long as he didn't flee from me, I found his unmoored spirit made him an agreeable companion—a male friend lacking stubbornness. Seeing this young man reduced to such profound weakness, I couldn't help feeling an affection tinged with dark humor. What self-serving maternal instinct—what presumptuous humanity—this revealed. Here too, I discovered that malevolent Magatsuhi-gami dwelling within me. Yet Kuzuoka himself had begun changing since our arrival here. He started exhibiting strangely agitated behavior. Perhaps his recent calm had allowed depleted physical energy to return in distorted measure. Midway through meals, he'd twist off simmered carp heads and hurl them unnervingly into marshes, unbutton shirts despite the cool air to vigorously rub his chest hair, click his tongue and slam chopsticks down—behaviors one might interpret, through resentful eyes, as blaming me for Sensei's incident and venting frustrations upon me. I merely thought "Oh dear," but my still-fatigued nerves found only his roughness gratingly unpleasant,

“Do be quiet.”

When I said this, Kuzuoka became all the more compelled to act. And so— "You’re so noisy. What are you even doing? How utterly unmanly." When I rebuked him harshly, Kuzuoka—as if finding the perfect target for the pent-up irritations he himself had been struggling to contain—raised his head like a viper and "What do you mean by 'unmanly'?" he said. "I said it’s unmanly because it’s unmanly. Sulking without even a word of explanation."

“Who’s sulking?” “Oh, who could possibly say you’re not sulking? No master choreographer could devise such death-throe gestures with honest intent as what you’ve just performed.”

“What do you mean by ‘death throes gestures’? Making a fool of me?” “If that doesn’t please you, you could say you’re like a hired hand who takes out his frustrations on the dishes because your wages won’t increase.” “In any case, how vulgar.” Unwittingly, I found myself mimicking the mocking tones of the downtown people who used to gather at my mother’s place and engage in lively banter—aware that the medicine was too strong, yet unable to stop myself.

Kuzuoka swelled up like a small pufferfish, turning yellowish,

“You worn-out wretch—I never thought you’d become such a worn-out wretch.” “I won’t associate with you anymore!” “What do you intend to do if we stop associating?” Kuzuoka was glaring at me with such intensity it seemed his eyelids might split, but— “What can be done? “I’ll just go off somewhere alone.”

he shouted. While a cruel affection welled up within me at the man's considerable pushback, I never let my attentive gaze stray from Kuzuoka's slightest movement. "Well now—if you're so desperate to go, then go ahead and scram! Between you and Ataka-sensei, running off alone seems quite fashionable these days." "Fine. I'll go." Kuzuoka grabbed his jacket and began rising. At this stage, Tokyo's downtown women possess customary phrases to effortlessly stop men in their tracks.

“Go right ahead—after all, you’re still clinging to Ataka-sensei anyway.” “How splendid—trailing after a woman ten years your senior into mountain after mountain’s depths as her pot-carrying assistant! What a romantically dashing gardener you are.” As expected, Kuzuoka whirled around with a “What—you think I want Ataka-sensei?” took my deliberate misinterpretation head-on, and—seemingly sapped of strength by the exasperation of being so thoroughly misread—hesitated before exhaling a heavy “haa” of a sigh.

“This is why,” she said with a laugh caught between fiery anger and icy bitterness, lowering her head. “Women are such a handful.” The moment had come—I would land the decisive strike. “Oh do sit down and compose yourself already! Honestly, for someone with that hulking frame, you’re being absurdly childish—utterly impossible, I tell you!”

Raising one eyebrow with deep affection, she chuckled softly. “Use this hand towel the inn gave us to wipe that sweat off already, I tell you.” Then Kuzuoka sat down heavily, rubbing his eyes with his arm, and after a moment, “Well, I… To be honest, I started worrying about what I’d left behind in Tokyo, so I just…” he said in a proper tone. What Kuzuoka meant by the things he’d left behind in Tokyo that were weighing on him was, of course, his family. Although he had sent a single notice via postcard from his travels to his home, it was certain that his elderly grandmother and mother had been anxiously awaiting their son’s return for over half a month.

"The severance pay from the academy should last through February or March, but beyond that—what they'll do next—they must be worrying themselves to death over it." "Especially lately, I've become someone my family can't even recognize anymore." Hearing this—though I myself couldn't see my own future clearly—still, "When we return to Tokyo, I'll take care of it." I found myself compelled to comfort him. He looked at me with doubtful eyes—this man who'd lost all confidence in his present life—and made a slight bow as he asked me to lend him some strength.

Through repeated nights of travel lodging to reach this point, Kuzuoka had ceased both maintaining the partitioning band of Ataka-sensei’s Niga Byakudō teachings and registering themselves as husband and wife in the inn ledgers. All of it was an act born of listless ennui. Without concern for this or that, the two of us had fallen into a relationship of strange resemblance. People do not necessarily fall into this only during times of intense love or passion. When young bodies have their core spoiled and a blue lethargy fills both mind and flesh, men and women indeed find themselves in peril. Ah, how perilous it is—this desperate youth within my own self that strives to survive even by unknowingly borrowing the power of the demon god of sin from that blue lethargy.

To me, Ikegami’s obstinate, boastful brandishing of “virginity, virginity” had always been intolerably grating, and even Ataka-sensei’s deliberate emphasis on sexual instinct—wielded like a reverse grip—seemed excessively contrived. Driven by that resentment, I had simply tried to cross this threshold with casual ease.

As we continued lodging night after night on our journey, that strangely similar relationship between us eventually dried up like the Minashi River’s flow. Had this sort of bond between us—like the Minashi River’s waters—never truly welled up from its source to begin with? For my part, I believe that the suffering of impermanence—which had awakened so profoundly within our circumstances—was not something one could easily forget through such trivial human affairs as scraping earwax with an earpick.

Passing through ridges between green barley and broad bean fields, we viewed the Bunbuku Chagama at Mōrinji Temple. The guiding monk brought out the old kettle onto the green bamboo railing. He chanted the legendary tale of Morihaku—an old priest once rumored to be a raccoon dog’s incarnation—who had wielded his inexhaustible mystical art during a thousand-person tea gathering. As if providing rhythmic punctuation to his words, he tapped the belly of what he called a purple-gold bronze kettle. A lonely, clear tone rang out from the kettle. I recalled Ataka-sensei’s unconscious, pitiful theatricality—which continued transforming us like some final lingering trace. Through that theatricality echoed the lonely, clear proper tone of a woman’s voice I remembered.

The famed wisteria of Kasukabe—once said to bloom so profusely in its prime that its flowers cascaded to the ground—now bore clusters that seemed merely plucked and draped like tasuki sashes from fingertips. Yet at the neighboring farmhouse, benches had been arranged and were awaiting guests. Ever since childhood, I who loved salt senbei found the name 'Kasukabe no Oshiosen' to resonate with bone-deep familiarity. On those rare occasions when I received it as a gift from neighbors and ate it, I would listen in rapt anticipation to the crisp sound of a rice cracker shattering cleanly between my teeth—as though touching upon the rhythm of something eternal. I would close my eyes as though performing something sacred and partake. As I now ate mechanically while lost in thought, swallowing without tasting, I found myself confronted by both the senbei and my own self—while the crackers themselves had likely grown inferior in quality, I couldn't help but despise how I too had become something coarse and debased.

But as we rode the Tobu Railway through Koshigaya, Soka, Takezuka, and Nishi-Arai, gradually approaching the capital, my blood swirled upward despite restraint, and within the core of my body—which I had thought hollow—there came a subterranean reverberation, as if sensing the vibration of some dynamo spinning life itself into motion. I had lost my composure to the point of finding myself repulsive. "Well, well—Tokyo!" I said, leaning out from the train window as far as I could to gaze at the view. Then, oddly enough, Kuzuoka too grinned and turned toward the window to gaze out, as if not wanting to fall behind me.

The rows of houses and soot drew near, and the train plunged into their midst. At Kita-Senju Station, we disembarked. Passing through the aroma of grilled crucian carp and sparrows, glancing back at the green willows by the bridge approach, hurrying toward Senju Bridge—and the Sumida River, lush with yellowish river mist under the early summer rain moon. That water flows onward to the canal behind the Nihonbashi house where I was born. Happy, happy. Kuzuoka, containing explosive joy in his smile, restlessly looked around. At this point, the two of them hardly exchanged a word as they hailed a one-yen taxi and had it hurry toward Ginza.

“First things first—don’t you want to get some strawberry sherbet in Ginza?”

Though it had been barely half a month, returning to Tokyo—to Ginza—from what felt to me like an epic rural journey was akin to revisiting a hometown after years away, yet startlingly fresh. Most of all, the early summer light and wind of the capital, with just a single exposure, made me realize how my skin had unknowingly become ash-coated and coarse—a hide weathered by enduring the harsh winds of mountain and river.

I hurriedly blended into the crowd of pedestrians—their gaudy colors, elegant stripes, and nimble strides—rubbing my body against theirs as if scrubbing off that grime. As I wove through them, I became a perfect fool in this exhilaration of not knowing whether I was reclaiming a pleasant drunkenness of old or freshly sobering from a bad one. Turning to look around me, laughter spilled uncontrollably from my mouth: “Ha, ha, ha, ah, ha, ha!” “Stop that—people are watching,” Kuzuoka chided with an elbow nudge, yet his own footsteps as he walked beside me bounced as if treading upon the staff of a march. Even if I felt somewhat embarrassed by myself, I told myself—after all, we are children. We are children riding on the merry-go-round of impermanence. Forgive me. Please allow me just a little frivolity when I’m in good spirits. I will fall from the horse eventually, so please settle the accounts then.

At a table in the shade beneath narrow monastery-style windows hung with coarse waterfall-striped curtains, when we finished our strawberry sherbet, our appetites suddenly surged forth, and we ordered crisp veal cutlets coated in fresh breadcrumbs. Then, after that, we suddenly developed a craving for sea bream head grilled with sansho buds in good soy sauce, and changed our venue to a Japanese restaurant where a small tatami room with green bamboo railings was arranged within a Western-style space. After that, craving something sweet again, we entered a narrow alley to an oshiruko shop with a mezzanine accessible in street shoes, where we sat back-to-back with Takarazuka Revue girls visiting the capital and ate mitsumame.

Even Kuzuoka, typically so frugal, not only made no complaint today but even handed over what little remained of his own funds to me. Perhaps he too had come to recognize in his heart the pitifulness of humans when wantonly indulging in pleasures, having sensed life to be a merry-go-round of impermanence.

The familiar rows of shop architectures lining both sides—ones I longed to walk between with arms spread wide to caress—though their second and third floors jutted over the street as if assaulting passersby, were softened by seasonal adornments and appeared as refreshingly light as paper-crafted ornamental cabbages. The kimono shop’s storefront decoration where the popular wisteria purple hue in both fabric and pattern could be examined with just two or three fingertips. A grocery store where from above the water tank hung a casting net draped over it like a crown, within which the first sweetfish of the season were made to leap. A street stall under a willow tree selling pots of supple silk thread grass—delicate and cool-looking in their slender elegance.

By the time we had regained considerable composure and courage, the western sun cast its light atop the scaffolding of the east-side café under reconstruction, the road surface grew dusky, and neon lights began flickering here and there. At the subway entrance, I parted from Kuzuoka—who was returning to Nakano—after establishing our agreed signals for future contact. At that moment, I transferred the few remaining silver and copper coins from my handbag into Kuzuoka’s palm—white, soft and swollen like waterlogged flesh since his unemployment. “There—that’s everything.”

Then Kuzuoka stared intently at what lay in his palm, but with his other hand took mine and gave it a shake. "How romantic." Having said that, he waved his hat and descended the stairs. "Den—no, den—tsurun-den—chin-den—no—chin-chin-chin-den—"

From a riverside house beneath the crescent evening moon came the deep, earthy voice of a man performing jōruri's vocal shamisen accompaniment. Gently opening the outer lattice of the thousand-barred door, I—true to form—stealthily slipped one foot into the earthen entrance from the edge of the threshold. Even so, when I resolutely called out “I’m home,” it was Ikegami’s manager Karoku who slid open the shoji screen and revealed himself. My “Where’s Mother?” collided with Karoku’s “Well now, Miss Kocho—this is unexpected.”

When I went up into the house, it seemed no one was there. Beside the guest cushion in front of the long brazier in Mother’s sitting room, jōruri books lay scattered atop the evening newspaper. A sake flask had been placed on the brazier's iron kettle. When I noticed Karoku wearing Mother’s tanzen coat, I said “Ah, I see,” and thus roughly grasped the state of affairs in my household during my half-month absence. “Well, please have a seat there.” Karoku seated himself on the guest cushion and had me sit on Mother’s cushion across the long brazier; as soon as he settled down,

“First off—where have you been all this time?” “I searched quite extensively for you.” When I pressed further about Mother, he explained that since my unauthorized disappearance, she had gone half-mad—throwing herself into daily rituals of shrine worship and fortune-telling—and that today, after visiting my former schoolmate Kira’s house in Akasaka to seek some clue, she had gone to Toyokawa Inari Shrine to perform her hundredfold pilgrimage.

When I asked about Shima, the elderly maid servant, they said she had accidentally slipped into the river and drowned on the second or third day after I ran away. "Why?" I pressed, and Karoku— "I'll explain that later, but first you must tell me your circumstances." —he did not speak.

While feeling an eternal strangeness at how utterly transformed I was—and how increasingly altered my Tokyo home had become—I explained with feigned sincerity about my unauthorized disappearance: that Karoku already knew the rough outline of how Ataka, the woman teacher, had retreated to her hometown due to severe neurasthenia; how that neurasthenia had intensified until she fled her family home with suicidal intent; and how I, out of longstanding obligation, had gone with Kuzuoka to apprehend her.

“The other party was fleeing through the countryside like their life depended on it—one place after another.” “If we hadn’t rushed, we’d never have caught up.” “Surely you understand we had no mental space left to even consider notifying the house or sending word midway through?”

Then Karoku laughed—Ha! Ha! Ha!—and "I suppose I'll accept your explanation as sufficient for now." Having said that, he checked the warmth of the sake in the flask on the iron kettle, "After all, if we informed the shop in Setomono-cho while searching again, the marriage arrangement would be annulled." "We had to keep the hiring of searchers secret from the shop—it was quite constraining." Karoku reached out and took two sake cups from the long brazier's drawer.

“Well, just one.” Since it wasn’t something I particularly cared for, I made a sour face and said, “There,” but— “To recover from your travel fatigue, another sip would do you good.” Having said that, he pressed. As I shared two or three cups with him, Karoku remarked that while my mother’s worries were one thing, the extent of Ikegami’s distress was unbearable to witness. “He drinks in desperation, but seems too restless to settle down, constantly changing where he drinks among the rooms in the dormitory.” “Moreover, Okimi!” “‘Your watch was careless,’ he says while striking her.” “Even if he is the master—that’s beyond all reason—”

Karoku fell silent. "So it turns out I've caused your daughter considerable trouble, hasn't it?" "In short—well, that's about the size of it." As for Ikegami, I could only think it was to be expected. But regarding Okimi, a strange impression arose. That maid Okimi had long seemed to me to have secretly harbored feelings for Young Master Ikegami, and if that were true, then even if she were beaten by him on account of me, Ikegami's fists now immediately engaging her physically might prove more satisfying to Okimi than when he had kept his distance and treated her kindly before. The reason was this: Okimi—a merchant-class daughter who had unconsciously received traditional education in the art of sustaining emotional vitality through patient endurance and victimization—possessed, even in her disposition for extracting sweet drops of happiness from such bitter experiences, certain unignorable qualities that I had discerned. As I considered this, Okimi struck me as a sinister and unpleasant woman, but Ikegami—unaware of such matters and indulging his young master disposition by seeking immediate venting of frustrations—also came to seem remarkably shallow.

I had resolved, from the moment I crossed my home's threshold until now, to keep any collapse contained to the smallest possible scale—to let life flow forward while sparing both myself and others from becoming casualties—yet it seemed the vast winds that had buffeted me across mountains and rivers for over half a month had blown open the latticed doors of my heart. Reflecting on the manager's account of those romantic entanglements within the dormitory now made me feel it would be both petty and tedious to rejoin that company again. I blurted out.

“Things at the dormitory remain unchanged as ever.” “And speaking of which—I’ve been growing doubtful about these marriage talks with Mr. Ikegami.” “I’ve lost all confidence in managing that man’s mercurial temper.” Karoku initially regarded me with bewilderment, but his expression gradually softened into a smile. “Well, if you’re saying that—to speak frankly—my own assessment aligns precisely there.” “Forgive my bluntness, but you resemble my runaway wife—hardly the type to keep one husband content through ordinary means.”

“Oh, please—such a prediction. But anyway, I suppose I might as well just quit—”

"If you were to withdraw, would this recent incident not serve as the perfect opportunity? Should we seize this moment, I could mediate to dissolve the arrangement gently and easily—" He abruptly stood up from his seat, went to the kitchen, and brought back what he called 'osusunko' to accompany the sake. Upon returning, he poured sake into my cup from the flask, drank a fresh portion himself, then rubbed and spread the spilled droplets across his palms with both hands flat. Then he said, "Pardon me briefly," and began meticulously massaging with both palms—starting from his narrow forehead where thick brows furrowed in apparent distress, moving across the plump slackness of both cheeks.

“If I don’t do this once a day, my skin gets rough.” I found myself drawn in and watched as, “Sake beauty techniques, huh? More thorough than a woman’s makeup base.” “Rice oil suits my skin better than nightingale droppings.” When he finished, he began repeatedly pulling up both earlobes with his fingers. I gazed strangely at the reddish lobes stretching like rubber while remarking, “You do such strange things. What on earth—there! Your ear radio exercises!”

Then he chuckled, chuckled, chuckled, and— “Exactly.” “Ear radio calisthenics.” In other words," he said with a serious face, "by doing this to shape my earlobes plump like Daikoku-sama’s, I’ll develop a money-attracting ear physiognomy in the future. I burst out laughing, but upon suddenly considering this manager's actions, I—along with at least two or three others whose lives were being affected by this crucial discussion—could not help feeling suspicious of his composure in calmly pausing midway through our consultation to perform these motions with such leisure.

Was this manager simply insensitive, or was he being negligent? Come to think of it, the manner in which he had once exerted force to steer my marriage arrangement with Ikegami and the force he now suddenly redirected toward annulment were both equally composed. Observing him this way, I saw that for this middle-aged manager, crisis ceased to be crisis and peace ceased to be peace—all things expanded into extremes that somehow coalesced into a strangely tenacious chaos which found its center somewhere. I found myself developing a genuine interest in this manager for the first time, and tentatively—

“No matter how much you make just your ears into lucky lobes, having a tear mole at the corner of your eye undoes it all, doesn’t it?”

I attempted to undermine him. Then he—

“Breaking my back only for others’ happiness leaves me with hardly any good fortune of my own.” He gave a wry smile and finally ceased his earlobe exercises. He brought out the rice container from the kitchen and, while eating his tea-soaked rice, spoke about elderly maid Shima’s sudden death without altering his tone in the slightest. This sixty-seven-year-old woman, apparently worried about my unauthorized disappearance from home, had gone to nearby shrines and temples to request prayers. Eventually her mind began slipping, and she started obsessively talking about a russet-colored kitten she had kept when first arriving at this house—one that vanished after two or three years. “Aka’s come back,” “I hear Aka’s bell,” they said she would mutter while making gestures as if chasing an invisible kitten—calling out and pursuing it. Mother and Karoku took care to keep her confined to her room as much as possible, maintaining quiet.

Though no one witnessed her falling into the water, it was surmised she might have heard Aka’s bell near the riverside stone pavement where the kitchen’s waste disposal opening stood exposed. “She must have stepped into the river chasing that illusion,” they concluded. “Then the old woman’s drowned body flowed out into the Ōkawa River and drifted with the tide into the Tatekawa canal on the Fukagawa side, where it was found.” “On that Tatekawa riverbank lives an old metalworker who apparently had a fling with her in their youth before some quarrel tore them apart—or so your mother tells it.” “Since they fished her out right where her old flame lived, we all had a good laugh at the wake, saying how she must’ve kept hidden fires burning beneath that prim exterior—some lingering allure for men she could never shake.”

This Shima was a woman initially sent by the legal wife of the main house into my household at the mistress's residence as both maid and spy. Over time she lost her loyalty to the main house, yet never fully became one of our household either. I find myself unable to stop thinking about this old woman's circumstances. When I was small, she would escort me to elementary school, grill the mullet bellies I loved, and shield me when Mother denounced me as a beggar's descendant—recalling these things now, I recognize many acts that might be called kindness. Above all, her conduct in secretly arranging my meeting with Father at the Meguro main residence before his death, meticulously preserving his final words like a testament and rehearsing them for me until adulthood—this seems to me something beyond mere kindness.

Then again, according to Ataka-sensei’s account in the mountains, she had been bribed with a paltry sum and even committed acts like selling my shameful secrets. Yet strangely, when I turned to reminiscing about her, even those acts that might be considered kindness did not feel particularly precious, nor did I feel much hatred toward her act of selling my secrets. It was as if she were some innocent insect driven purely by natural impulses.

What lingered in my mind now, above all else, was how she—old and senile—had chased after the phantom of a kitten lost twelve or thirteen years prior, and how her corpse, whether by coincidence or not, had drifted to the riverbank where her former lover once lived. This alone seemed to strip away all her insect-like qualities, laying bare her pitiable nature.

What a pitifully fragile and carelessly dismissed life this old woman had led, that even this should become fodder for jokes at her own wake.

“There’s a memorial tablet in Shima’s room—let’s offer some incense for her.” As I began to stand up, Karoku stopped me, “Your mother’s been in a foul mood—what with runaways and sudden deaths, nothing but trouble lately. She said Shima’s memorial tablet could stay in the house at least through the first seventh day, but after that, we were to take everything—even the inauspicious items—and clear out posthaste. The belongings were sent to that metalworker’s shop on Tatekawa riverbank, and the tablet was deposited at the temple with a sutra fee.” “You can go see if you want, but the old woman’s room has been cleaned up—now there’s just a single Shōki-sama doll for warding off evil, grabbing a red demon and glaring in all directions.”

Even though it had become past eight in the evening, Mother still had not returned. With the fatigue from the journey and a slight tipsiness from the wine on top of that, I grew sleepy. Thereupon, I—finding this manager who would devotedly become an accomplice to anyone’s needs for any ordinary matter to be easily approachable—requested that he now prepare a bath for me. Karoku chuckled, chuckled, chuckled again, and—

“Well now, you’ve given me my first command already.” “Ah, you’re just like her—my wife who ran off was also one to boss people about without hesitation.” While the bath heated, I went to take a quick nap in my second-floor room before rising again. Then Karoku called out to stop me, making me turn back— “I neglected to mention earlier—what with your disappearance and the old woman passing away leaving the house desolate, I’ve decided to move here temporarily at your mother’s suggestion.” “I’ll be in your care.”

he said. “I’ve taken the liberty of borrowing your room to store my luggage and such, but please don’t concern yourself—there’s nothing of importance here at all—”

Leaving behind Karoku’s words of “Goodnight,” I came up to the second floor that had been my room. Sure enough, under the electric light, there lay one old trunk and two suitcases—one large, one small—with hotel stickers pasted here and there. They were placed atop the blue, glossy edge of the rug spread out in the tatami room—the very edge that Father, in days past, would take hold of when drowsy and wrap around himself like a tobacco moth to sleep. The two or three volumes of legal codes—my father’s belongings—that had been placed on the staggered shelves of the tokonoma alcove were pushed into a corner, and in their place lay scattered jōruri librettos and entertainment magazines. The Belgian-made whiskey set had been moved to an unexpected corner of the tatami room, and the cherished amber liquid—Father’s leftover drink that had gradually evaporated over the more than ten years since I first noticed it, yet still remained nearly half full—was now completely empty. A Western-style garment with a downtown pattern and a merchant-style haori jacket hung from the nageshi decorative rail with kimono hangers. These things have been defiled. My anger banished even my drowsiness. I had thought this dwelling had naturally become my room from Father’s due to the house’s layout, but now, upon reflection, I realized I had kept every object in its place, protecting it with a daughter’s sentiment all along. My poignant heart. I felt more defiled than Father himself and kicked the suitcase’s flank with the toe tips of my white tabi. Then, thinking to at least relocate these defiling things to some corner, I took hold of the suitcases. I somehow managed to move the smaller one, but the larger was too heavy and wouldn’t budge an inch. A vexing pain seeped needlessly from the base of my shoulder and arm. Then, as if that heaviness and vexing pain connected to the sense of frustration Father had harbored in his belly while alive, I shed tears.

“Father, Father—Choko understands,” I choked back a cry. The sound of sobbing mustn’t grow loud enough to be noticed downstairs. I threw myself down and bit into my upper arm through the sleeve. From that pain Father surged up within me anew, and for a time I writhed as if to twist apart heaven and earth itself. Father, where are you now? On some distant riverbank’s soil? How can I reach you? A voice suddenly resonated in my ears.

Each spoonful I ate for Father’s sake, Each spoonful I ate for Mother’s sake, Oh—those lyrics—were they not the very words of that song I had sung in a hazy state of consciousness when ill, the song that turned Ikegami into a patient of mystical longing? If I sang that song, could I meet you? No—though I could not meet you, the catkin willow’s flower calyxes could scatter softly away. Father, that’s just too unsatisfying. No—that’s not it. Your true parents are there—in the very act of the flower calyxes softly scattering—

Splash, creak—splash, creak— The sound of swaying waves and the creak of the rudder reached my ears, and I awoke. I had dozed off while still biting my arm. It seemed to be high tide, with cargo boats busily passing through the canal behind the house.

It seemed Mother had returned—voices could be heard downstairs. I went to the staircase entrance and listened quietly. "If it's no use," came Karoku's voice, "then no matter how much you try to wrap things up, it's pointless once she's lost her resolve." "But what if I beg them one more time from my side?" Mother's voice interjected. "If you think that'll work, go ahead and try—but I knew from the first time I saw that girl she's got the nature of an ox and the edge of a dagger. She might look wishy-washy, but once she digs her heels in, she's a force to reckon with."

“What do you mean by that?”

“For the character *mesu* meaning ‘female,’ there are those written with this radical [女] and those written with the cow radical [牛] combined with the dagger [匕].” “Women of the [女] radical type can be managed by others, but those of the [牛+匕] type are impossible to handle.” “Even you couldn’t handle her.” Mother ridiculed him with “There you go again with your usual kanji moralizing,” then continued in a wilted voice,

“But, Mr. Karoku.” “The shop’s cutting off my allowance this June, and if that girl keeps acting however she pleases and throws me aside, I won’t be able to eat.” “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“That’s why I’m saying I’ll cover the living expenses for you.” “That may be a splendid offer, but I’ll have to decline.” “I want no part of relationships with binding ties—being some kept woman or wife.” “However, from now on, I ask that we keep our relationship simple—just mutual reliance.” “I’ll play the joruri shamisen for you as much as you like, though.”

Karoku laughed and,

“There’s no need to belabor the point. We’ve both endured enough hardships to reach this age—what value lies in some half-baked romantic entanglement now?” “As plain evidence—why yes, we might as well let another person join this tea-drinking club of ours.”

he answered.

I was once again confronted here with the mysteriously strange ways of this world across the ages. The endeavor that young people like myself had idealized in daily life—desperately struggling to create a simple group of male and female friends who relied on each other without troublesome complications—ended up producing the wounded and the broken. Yet these older men and women effortlessly materialized this rainbow through their own words. In the face of their excessive ease, I found myself even harboring resentment toward those who toil through life's hardships.

From downstairs, Mother’s voice informed me that the bath was ready. I descended the ladder-like stairs, placed the package of Hanayama udon I had bought in Tatebayashi in front of me, composed myself, and greeted Mother. “Here’s a souvenir for you.” Then, when I began to say something in excuse, Mother stopped me. “I already understand. And starting tomorrow, this uncle will handle all the arrangements, so leave it to him. I’ll just say this one thing—you listen well and remember it.”

Mother said that from now on, since she was poor and could no longer look after me, I should devise my own means to get meals. "If you're willful enough to have your own way," she said, "then surely you're not incapable of contriving such methods yourself?" While I was bathing, neighborhood youths who had apparently been stationed at various train depots to intercept me came straggling back one by one. Karoku treated them to refreshments and sent them off with congratulatory envelopes.

Manager Karoku, neither hurrying nor slacking, shuttled between my house and the Setomono-cho shop like a clock's pendulum, occasionally stopping by the Hamacho dormitory as well. During this time, the marriage discussions between Ikegami and me had dissolved like hot water poured onto ice. Karoku reported the results: "I was relieved when the Young Master, whom I thought would make the biggest fuss, unexpectedly handled it simply." The sole condition Karoku had extracted from Ikegami was reportedly the hope that he wished to continue associating with Ocho in the future, regardless of whether this incident had occurred or not. Here, Karoku laughed his characteristic "chichi" chuckle,

“Since both are self-willed comrades, it’s impossible to draw any more carpenter’s ink lines from the sidelines.” “The two of you should engage with each other from now on as equals in a one-on-one capacity.” “And as for your future interactions—well, I suppose you could call it what they nowadays term a casual friendship.” “Speaking of which, I suppose you could say the mother here and I are also in a casual friendship.” He laughed again with his characteristic “chichi” chuckle—an uncharacteristically lively demeanor for Karoku that likely aligned with his managerial philosophy: that even as humans tread catastrophic paths, they somehow manage to follow only the threads that suit their nature.

Mother glared at me while making sarcastic remarks: “There’s nothing more terrifying in this world than someone who can’t distinguish profit from loss.” The day after Karoku’s report arrived, an official notice of marriage dissolution came from the Ikegami household. The second manager rubbed his hands together as he offered what resembled condolences—“On this occasion, well... how abrupt”—then left behind a bolt of silk and a monetary envelope before departing. I remained at Mother’s house, my heart’s current drawn to the tranquility of a beggar resting on reed mats along the riverbank. Yet when stirred by the relentless pulse of city life around me, my stubborn pride surged defiantly—like weir stakes stemming that flow—determined to splendidly sustain myself through a woman’s solitary efforts. At other moments, reckless desires gripped me—to manipulate Ikegami more deftly, secure Kuzuoka’s livelihood as my burden, and indulge in carefree luxury myself. Each day brought fresh confusion and distraction—utter aimlessness. Yet this disarray never weighed me down. Such heaviness only comes when some persistent thread of self still struggles to bind itself together. Having endured senseless hardships in this young woman’s body until my very bones scattered—not as Ataka-sensei’s had, but in another manner entirely—having casually discarded even virginity to journeying’s gloom, I now observed this self I’d become as lightly as one might watch wind-tossed wastepaper someone had crumpled and thrown away. Regarding this matter, Ataka-sensei would speak of “seeking life’s reins,” retreating into deep mountains while pointing me toward riverbanks—but I felt no urge to chase such things. She often said even worldly maxims—the fifth-day winds, tenth-day rains—bring natural change when their time comes; if they don’t arrive, consider Amaterasu herself neglects her duties temporarily. In the end, while steeling myself for great trials yet becoming neither pretentious nihilist nor complacent Epicurean, I became like a divination box—shaken by whatever lurked within me, awaiting the fortune slip emerging from chance’s mouth to dictate my next inevitable move.

At home, we hadn’t employed any maids since the old servant Shima passed away. Thus, taking over for Mother, I put on an apron and cooked meals and did the laundry. In the mornings, I rose before others, let the intimate aroma of freshly cooked rice waft from the reed screen on the rice tub’s lid, took a round tray, and served Mother and Karoku.

“Buying morning glory pots from the florist and placing them where they can be seen from the breakfast table—Miss Ocho has become quite adept at managing a household, hasn’t she?” When Karoku said this, Mother—for her part— “There’s something wrong with you—you’ve changed too much; it’s unsettling.” As Mother expressed her bewilderment, I—

“But since I still can’t work outside to earn my keep, if I don’t do this much, I can’t even maintain appearances while staying at home—right?” “Or perhaps you’ll find me a decent waitress position or even a geisha spot?” “If you do, I’ll promptly go anywhere you say—”

I counterattacked with a laugh that even I thought sounded frayed—"Ahahahaha!" Somehow, it resembled the voice of the deceased old servant Shima, leaving me with a hollow loneliness I couldn't quite place. I still hadn't met either Ikegami or Kuzuoka. Immersed in domestic drudgery now, whether regarding Ikegami or Kuzuoka, even the thought of that first ice-breaking greeting upon meeting again felt strangely burdensome. In this mood like diluted ink flowing these days, whenever encountering men, I still had to apply some liveliness or contrived color to my heart's palette.

That was more of a burden for us women. There were times when a longing for human connection would well up within me. At such moments, with no particular person to address, I would write playful letters to either Ikegami or Kuzuoka. Then they too would send back jocular replies that never touched upon their true feelings. Whatever the circumstances might be, a man we've grown accustomed to becomes something we women can never quite shake off our hearts from—simply because of that familiarity.

Though it was a different kind of familiarity than what I shared with those others, I would from time to time nostalgically write postcards bought during my travels and send them to my old school friends Kira, Yoshimitsu, and Yaeko as well. To these people—since they had mentioned needing to find employment in passing—I added that if any suitable positions might exist through each of their fathers, I wished to be informed. The three kindly replied that they would search for opportunities matching my request. Seeing those responses, I felt somewhat pained in my heart, as though I had become a cunning adult deceiving children still sheltered within innocence’s fence—making them gather nuts while I waited beyond that boundary to collect them.

Summer reached its peak, and the time came for the Ryōgoku river opening ceremony. Since childhood, every summer I was always invited by someone from one of the riverside houses we knew, and I never missed viewing the fireworks. Though as I grew older, that overwhelming, vibrant charm gradually faded, it remained one of those urban annual events that left me feeling unsatisfied—as if skipping a year meant missing out on something essential. So when Ikegami invited me that evening, saying he’d prepared a boat large enough for me to bring one or two female friends, I gladly accepted but proposed bringing Kuzuoka instead—someone closer to me than mere friends.

When I went to the boat house at Yanagibashi Riverbank, I was immediately guided across the gangplank and ushered into the boat. As I tried to slip into the roofed boat while shielding my hair from its canopy, from between the hull— “Welcome, do be careful now.” The one who took my hand was Okimi, her hair styled in a marumage round chignon. Okimi wore a subdued kimono, with red accents visible only in the hand loop of her marumage and her obi sash. In that instant, I realized—Ah!—but still greeted her with, “The marumage suits you well.”

Ikegami, who had been waiting in the boat, was in high spirits. “Is today’s boat one of Wu and Yue sharing a vessel, or perhaps of lotus-bound souls sharing the same fate?” he said. Then, turning to Kuzuoka, whom I was introducing to him for the first time, “Thank you for coming. Please, make yourself comfortable—” he showed a casual demeanor.

The boat untied its mooring ropes. The boat inn’s mistress placed her hand on the prow—a gesture of pushing off with a “Safe travels” even though it provided no actual propulsion—a remnant custom from the late Edo period when choki boats carried pleasure-seekers from this area to Sanyabori and Fukagawa.

The sightseeing boats were already racing down the Kanda River toward the Sumida River. Our boat joined them. We passed beneath the iron Yanagibashi Bridge, which retained vestiges of the early Meiji period. Ikegami declared that this was a poem by an Edo-born poet who had composed verses about this very spot, Bamboo branch shadows lie between water pavilions; Spring enters tender waves washing jade bays Willow threads weave nightingale-feather hues; Cloud scales layer carp-pattern ripples He recited such verses for us. The upper and lower floors of the corner Ryukotei pavilion displayed their tiered splendor like a Hina-doll stand beneath the eaves' lanterns. Listening to fireworks launched at intervals and gazing up at umbrellas of light spreading across the sky, we emerged onto the Sumida River. Ikegami declared it was another verse by Shikō,

"With this crowd aboard, how cool the boat becomes," he recited with flourish. Kuzuoka listened reverently, whether he understood or not.

Indeed, even the usually wide river surface was now filled with moving boats and anchored boats. It was as if a city had risen within the river—one could not perceive it as mere water with its townscapes and thoroughfares. Moreover, each light flickered on, and with their twinkling glimmers, the river appeared to squirm along with both banks. A Water Police Bureau patrol boat was stationed at the intersection, using megaphones and lanterns to direct the incoming boats.

A low, growling roar of voices spread across the river’s surface; shrill women’s laughter rolled over it; shouts clawed and tore through the evening breeze; festive music floated from nowhere in particular. The shadow of Ryōgoku Bridge—thick and solidly spanning the twilight sky—urged on by traffic-directing lanterns, dragged the scuffing sounds of countless sandals as the crowd’s dark mass crossed like a swarm of rats over the river, seeming to surge endlessly from the railings with no sign of abating. At the base of the bridge glowed the neon lights of the fully occupied Kokugikan.

Our boat went out to Hamacho Riverbank and was assigned a residential berth in a section beneath Fukuiro. In boats undulating like city streets, through gaps in fences of boat lanterns and thickets of pole-mounted paper lamps that overlapped one another, the midstream fireworks-launching vessels woven into this tapestry could barely be glimpsed. Okimi, who had been taking out food from the tiered box and arranging it on trays in the boat’s hull space while soaking sake flasks in the copper pot of the box brazier, left the remaining tasks to the boatman and carried the trays to the front room. She formally greeted me and Kuzuoka once more, then picked up the sake flask.

Despite being inept at conversation, Kuzuoka endeavored to entertain Ikegami. From time to time, Ikegami would pass me the cup. Okimi, arranging the seating, now carried herself with complete composure and no longer had the air of a maid. As I watched admiringly, Ikegami said frankly,

“Ocho, I’ve finally had to take this girl under my care.”

he said and laughed “Ha ha!” Okimi’s face flushed slightly as she clasped her hands and said, “Please take care of me.” I— “Indeed, what a splendid match—you two make such a well-suited couple,” I lavished praise, whereupon Ikegami forced a bitter smile, “What? She’s not my legal wife. She’s just my concubine. I might even attach a dowry and marry her off somewhere eventually.” “She’s my dear concubine.” “Before long, I might even attach a dowry and marry her off somewhere.” he said. I felt righteous indignation at how outrageously he spoke of treating women as mere playthings, but since there are indeed girls who willingly enter concubinage service hoping for such things, I withheld my protest. Okimi pretended not to hear Ikegami’s words and lightly touched her marumage,

“The Young Master insisted I style my hair in a marumage today—though I’m not sure why…” she said, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I intended to surprise you, Ocho,” said Ikegami. The surroundings sank into deep dusk, and precisely because the riverside spectacle was compressed by ink-black darkness from all sides, it rose up in glittering splendor. The blossom-like umbrellas bursting in the sky drew nearer in their intervals, now and then showing two or three overlapping blooms. “Fireballs!——Sparklers!——”

From the boats and riverbanks, children’s voices cheered the fireworks. Perhaps an advertising boat, mingling among the sightseeing boats, was burning magnesium in a fan-shaped white light. I felt a joy welling up in my chest as though any happiness might come upon me from this moment onward—though I knew it had no connection to past or future, being merely a momentary habit from childhood—and even as I scorned it, I had no intention of quelling that joy. Ikegami appeared unimpressed by the surrounding festivities, and perhaps because the alcohol had begun to take effect, his voice took on a somewhat sentimental tone as he—

“To tell the truth, Ocho—I’d been worried sick imagining you on your journey with that traveling companion Mr. Kuzuoka, who hardly struck me as the upright sort—that you might’ve been seduced. I kept stomping my feet in frustration. —With no outlet for this pent-up anxiety, I took it out on Okimi here—making her my concubine and having to manage her affairs was just a warped extension of lashing out. —And there was this damned stubborn pride—how galling it felt to sit here properly with hands on my knees while you were off doing as you pleased—”

Then, as if correcting himself, he rinsed the cup in the sake cup washer and offered it to Kuzuoka, “Well now, Mr. Kuzuoka—though I say this—if it’s someone like you, a completely odorless, plant-like youth, I wouldn’t even begrudge entrusting Ocho’s body to you.” Here, he laughed again with apparent carefreeness. I let out a derisive snort, “I’m not lingering in such places anymore.” Though I had cast aside Ikegami’s schemes, thinking this was a good opportunity,

"But you know, do you remember that before I left the dormitory, I entrusted you with looking after a certain man's circumstances?" "Or has that arrangement been nullified because of this recent incident?" Ikegami remained silent for a moment before responding, "The only matter I dissolved was the marriage. As long as my will endures, I shall honor every agreement contracted with you." He deliberately employed convoluted language to obscure his embarrassment from those present. I failed to discern his true intent,

“Then I’ll make this request,” I said. “Couldn’t you hire Mr. Kuzuoka as the dormitory gardener at his former academy salary? Since he’s currently unemployed and in genuine difficulty, doing this would relieve me of such an immense burden.”

Ikegami, surprisingly affably, “What? That’s all you’re asking for? “It’s not money I earned through hard work—if spending it can be of use, you may command me to use as much as you like. Though this isn’t meant as compensation, I do hope you won’t forget that lifelong wish I once sought from you, Ocho.” As I listened to Ikegami’s voice—that of a carefree young master yet stubbornly persistent when it suited him—I recalled a day at the dormitory when he’d worn a pained expression and confessed he still hadn’t found the true beginning of life. Ocho possesses that. He wanted me to draw out that lotus thread for him. He wanted to be firmly tied to mine and kept alive forever—remembering those words, I felt exasperated wondering if the Young Master still obstinately pursued this,

“Anyway, what you desire isn’t something I ever possessed to begin with—it won’t diminish no matter how much I give. If that’s what you want—very well—I’ll give you as much as you please.” When I mocked him with this teasing tone, Ikegami glared at me with a face ready to erupt. Beside us, Okimi trembled anxiously, “Forgive me—I don’t understand these matters—but whenever the Young Master speaks of this, he becomes rough as though possessed. I haven’t the slightest notion how to appease him. If it could be arranged—if the Young Mistress would grant this favor—even someone like me might find salvation. I implore you.”

This plea from Okimi’s side laid bare ignorance’s crude power over this thorny problem—her artless approach unconsciously yet naturally becoming an elegant solution—so both Ikegami and I wore bemused expressions, gazing at her red handcloth-wrapped traditional chignon that swayed with each deep bow in the faint glow of boat lanterns. To our left floated a transport boat bearing a company’s tall lantern mark and red-white curtains, carrying employees’ families. A shirt-clad husband dangled his gauze-clad child overboard for urination while his wife fretted behind: “You’re drunk—don’t drop him!” The man retorted “Special cargo handling required! Ha! No harm done!” eyes glazed fixedly ahead. The boy hung suspended by his thighs munching pear slices leisurely over dark water. No urine came forth.

To the right, a motorboat filled with student-like men was drinking beer and making a boisterous racket as they commented on the women in nearby boats. Could they perhaps be members of Mukojima’s rowing team? They all had impressive physiques. One boat’s length ahead, a houseboat was moored. From there, they had the boatman’s apprentice cross the intervening boats to deliver a box of Osaka sushi. Okimi said, “They are geisha and male entertainers from Yoshichō. When she proposed, 'Shall we have them send a congratulatory gift from our side too?' Ikegami scowled and said, 'Don’t! If you do, they’ll come over with their greetings or some such nonsense—it’ll be a bother.'"

Having grown accustomed to both the fireworks and the bustle of boats, we half-heartedly watched them while for a time splitting into men’s talk and women’s talk within our boat. Kuzuoka had become fully absorbed in his role as Ikegami’s employed gardener, even addressing him deferentially as “sir” while explaining—likely about summer tree care—in a technical manner that respected every aspect of his employer’s title. I had come to see Okimi—with her marumage hairstyle that was both contrived and dutiful—as akin to a neglected wife within what felt like an unguarded family, and so I began confiding in her about various personal experiences.

“I’ve been doing the cooking at home lately.” “Look at these hands.”

When I held them out to show her, Okimi stroked my fingers, "Oh my, how dreadful for you. You could have just used the maids."

“I’ve come to realize I’m not in a position to make such extravagant claims,” I said. “Lately I even serve meals to your father and do whatever needs doing.” “My goodness, how truly admirable,” Okimi replied. Ikegami—who had been talking with the men while nervously eavesdropping on our conversation between us two women—turned toward me and abruptly spoke. “What a meddlesome thing to do,” he said. “If you’d simply dedicate what ought to be dedicated to me, you wouldn’t need to suffer such indignities. To begin with, Ocho’s cooking isn’t even passable.”

And then,

"But there's no helping it. Even I myself have this uncontrollable worm in my gut, dragging me along its own willful path." As drunkenness overtook him, his head slumped heavily forward.

As the night deepened, fireworks began launching in rapid succession from boats competing upstream and downstream. Scattering wildly spinning petals in their wake, they floated into the sky, transforming with unanticipated freedom into polychrome heavenly blossoms that shifted forms at whim. As if proclaiming that beauty was fleeting, when extravagance and splendor reached their zenith, they immediately faded—coolly vanishing into the starry hues of the afterlife. Then, as if protesting that beautiful things need not necessarily have short lives—seeking to reclaim their ephemeral forms from vanishing phantoms—the thick-petaled colors and light’s premature bloom burst forth once more toward the fading pale shadows. Within each blossom lay several duplicates; when the floral form seemed endangered, the petal tips burst forth new flowers, and from those flowers bloomed fountains once more. In the distance and nearby were duplicates upon duplicates—when they vanished, they were repainted; when lost, they were reborn. Like stitching thread, meteors streaked past each other. A cascade of falling stars—like messengers bearing fire from earth to sky, like a hose extending and pouring flames—several ascending dragons vigorously climbed heavenward, splitting the lingering shadows of blossoms to spew mouthfuls of sparks, then weakened and descended only to rise again.

In the void’s darkness, in the hollow sky, the fire concentrated its power for a time, striving earnestly to press humanity’s fleeting dreams into pressed blossoms. But eventually, its strength too waned, leaving only a single true star in the misted sky.

For a time, the fire's efforts made me forget myself, melting both body and soul into beauty. The sky fireworks dissolved without regret into the realm of longing after straining to their vibrant limits. But precisely when they melted away—through thrill and self-abandonment's interstices—we noticed seeds being planted within us: seeds of light and joy's world. Seeds in the heart. The fireworks would never vanish.

We huddled our sleeves together against the slightly cold night wind, “Ah, it was so delightful,” I said,

“I was lonely,” said Ikegami. The vulgar mechanical fireworks began, transforming Niagara Falls into a fiery cliff dozens of ken high that poured its sparks into the river’s heart all at once. On a small boat before it, the pyrotechnician’s shadow could be seen leaping about like a black marionette. Ikegami, thoroughly drunk now, roared, “Why must we force such monstrous pairings of men and women upon this world? Shouldn’t there be simpler unions flowing with life’s natural course?” He thrashed so wildly that passengers on neighboring vessels turned to stare at the commotion.

“Sir, please, calm yourself.”

With that, Kuzuoka steadily tightened his grip using his inherent physical strength, hoisted him up, fully becoming the gardener employed by the master, and without further incident, delivered Ikegami back to the dormitory. From Kira, Yoshimitsu, and Yaeko—each had inquired with their fathers about suitable work for me as a woman and kindly informed me by letter. They even said that if I wished, their fathers would arrange introductions. They remained as innocent and kind as ever, my old school friends. Yaeko must have sniffled and pleaded with her father on my behalf.

I chose from among these and took a job working with my hands rather than intellectual work. Kira’s father had a confectionery company among his affiliated businesses, and the special room in its packaging department was known for letting girls with creative ideas freely design product packaging and market them as luxury gift editions. I politely declined offers from my two other old friends and, through an introduction from Kira’s father, was hired into this special room.

Along with graduates from the Women's Art School—Sachiko, Matsue, Wakiko, and Itsuko—I was added to make five girls in total. From seven-thirty in the morning until four in the afternoon, we worked together, needing to pack roughly a hundred and twenty to a hundred and thirty boxes.

Boxes, oh boxes. A box as blue as the sea; a drifting box; a box with seaweed patterns pasted on, emitting a briny scent. I took that one. Instead, I struck it against the counter with a clang to test its contents. The white ribbon’s knot leapt like a seagull. As if to press down and conceal the seat of the box whose glinting silver sheen stung my eyes, I grabbed wax-coated white cut paper from a different box nearby and spread it out. On top of that, I gently placed brown cardboard. A carpet woven from countless sand dunes compressed together, imbued with a pleasant bounce and the weightlessness of dreams—the carpet of the Land of Sweets. At the flower’s core, I stacked Prima Biscuits. Again, I stacked Comet Biscuits. Ten paired with ten. Already within my mind floated thick-petaled flower forms and thin-petaled flower forms, blooming erratically in the paper with alternating rings. Wild stamens! Butter Finger. Stamens stretching forth. Ladies Finger.

“Hold this part here, please.” “Partition board.” “This one too—partition board.” The sound of waves—if longed for, is heard; when heard, that sound steals into the shape of a confectionery flower. Triangular prism-shaped biscuits become flower petals. One connector twists into place—ah, it sways unsteadily. Corin and Corin Cream. Don’t sway. The connector twists, intoxicated by the sound of the sea, and in trance-like form, triangular-petaled biscuits stack eight pieces each upon eight pieces each. Oh, it seems they won’t stand like this—press down here too, partition board.

The offshore island mountain became russet Helen and Helen Cream biscuits. Let me fit a medieval-style iron grating into the cave. Biscuit Louis IX—bearing the name of that king who launched the Sixth Crusade, was captured during the Egyptian campaign and ransomed himself, then after returning home launched the Seventh Crusade, and was granted sainthood by the Roman Church. The peninsula’s rocky reefs transformed into Metropole; the white sand into Cracker Cream. On the white sand lay a young lady’s ruby-encrusted brooch. Carol Biscuit. From the white sand stretching up to the mountains, the orchard stood dyed in twilight. A luncheon with dried grapes.

"Put the Bouquet Jam Sandwich in a cup, Cape Lighthouse. Scatter five or six chocolates wrapped in gleaming aluminum foil. Let them become scattered, glittering stars."

There, one box was all packed. Now, I used another sheet of cardboard as a quilt, placed soft-as-snow cut paper over it like a cap, and closed the lid. Dear biscuits, rest quietly now.

First I would give the box I had packed to Kira, Yoshimitsu, and Yaeko and have the three of them eat it. I would have them bless my work.

For a time, I worked at the confectionery company's packaging room, packing biscuits into decorative boxes while forgetting everything else. I wore a white blouse and cap. With those in their late twenties being the eldest and myself the youngest at nineteen among five girls, there stood a bookshelf holding European women's fashion histories, pressed flower albums, and design collections. Surrounded by display shelves arrayed with French dolls, Greek Tanagra figurines, artificial flowers, and medieval ladies' accessories, in this packaging room's atmosphere removed from worldly cares, it sufficed to surrender myself to creating beautiful things.

I had been exceptionally skilled at science and mathematics-related subjects in both elementary school and girls' school. But when it came to artistically oriented subjects—calligraphy, handicrafts, drawing—my talents had been utterly nonexistent. How then did I come to choose such a profession?

For me, the world of logic had become too transparent.

No matter where one fell, if one resigned oneself to where they’d land, life could hardly be such a cookie-cutter affair. In contrast, the world of beauty—though of course shadowed by suffering—emerged unexpectedly each moment, was born anew, and there was no way to determine where it might settle. This ceaselessly shifting, detestable abstract lover—before I knew it, I had begun being tossed about by the wiles of this irresolute, rootless lover, and came to find sheer delight in being thus tossed about. The still-clumsy hands with which I created this lover struck me as pitiable yet endearing.

The materials that produced beauty were neither brushes nor paper, neither paints nor canvas, nor yet metal or wooden instruments—but rather something that crumbled when touched to the teeth and flowed down the throat during chewing. Sugar and flour, and my designs became blood and flesh that melted into people. What a heart-leaping endeavor this was. Please—I didn’t want them eaten by grandpas and grandmas. I wanted them devoured by that young man whose muscles were so tautly defined they showed shadows of sorrow like harsh rope marks, that pale-skinned youth with shoulders, chest, and arms resembling Michelangelo’s youthful David statue. Then I might become like a vitamin within that young man’s body and live on through his lifetime. No matter how ephemeral the youth might be, continuing to coexist with Ikegami and Kuzuoka had become such a burden that I’d grown utterly weary of it.

When I told my female colleagues about this yearning of mine, they all wholeheartedly agreed. At three o'clock tea time, the girls had memorized all the finest chocolate varieties. As they selected and ate them while gazing out at Tokyo's suburban countryside from the window, cicadas were crying so fiercely they seemed ready to shake the hills. When I explained my wish to attract young David as a customer to Mr.S—the packaging department chief making his rounds—he had been weighing it pragmatically, but suddenly a youthful flush surged across his face,

“Yes, for this luxury box alone, I’d want either such a young man or a beautiful young lady to open and eat it.” “Most satisfactory.” “Let’s tell the advertising department that and have them write it into the promotional text.” “Given this company’s profitability regardless, there’s no harm in pursuing this degree of romantic commerce on the side.”

The girls, finding it amusing that their youth had lured away the chief’s professional composure, clapped their hands together and giggled in shrill unison. These girls—though neither the passage of time nor the gravity of events held particular significance for them—possessed such keen sensitivity that through experience alone they came to perceive a fundamental unreliability permeating all existence, yet were precisely the sort who maintained such infatuated faith and attachment toward their own youth. Thus feeling no bond with past or future, they inevitably tended to cherish each dew-like moment of the present, striving to imbue them with some form of worth.

“Marriage is—” I asked, and they replied, “Well…” “Singlehood—” I asked, and they replied, “Well…” “Lovers—” I asked, and they replied with shining eyes, “Well… but.” “But…?” I pressed, and they laughed sadly, “But…”

"Lovers are undoubtedly eternally good things, but does that also mean they eternally end with a 'but'?" All four were beautiful girls with a scent as fresh as young grass.

A room in the dormitory was assigned to us five girls, and when we finished work at four, we would bathe, apply light makeup, and head into central Tokyo for dinner. We would split into twos and threes to listen to Bunraku jōruri puppet theater, watch foreign films, or peek at new dance recitals. After two or three nights of this, some of us—declaring “all this gallivanting has coarsened the grain of our sensibilities”—would withdraw indoors, where those girls played accordions, skimmed verses from the classical poetry anthology *Matsu no Ha*, or read Mallarmé’s poems—

Through summer and autumn into year’s end, through New Year’s and even until the plum blossoms bloomed, I continued living alongside these young women who nurtured their own lives through pistils alone without stamen pollen—days I recalled with such joy that we five even locked arms and swore to Diana’s crescent moon guarding unmarried women to prolong this life as long as possible—but when word came of Mother’s illness, I was summoned home. After even a brief spell of good fortune, it was bound to come to this. Not a single one of the colleague girls said anything trite like “Come back soon”—they simply grasped my hands and parted with lonely smiles, their expressions suggesting that what should eventually befall everyone had simply come to this person somewhat too soon, murmuring “It can’t be helped.”

After giving birth to me at thirty-five, Mother had apparently developed postpartum pyelonephritis, but since this was considered common among women who had given birth, she recovered so completely that she practically forgot she ever had such a medical history. Yet as age advanced upon her, whenever I occasionally visited home after leaving it, I would find her managing household chores while complaining about her puffy face and swollen legs. However, Mother had always been neurotic about illnesses—even when she rarely caught a cold and ran a fever, she would become so dramatic, panicking as if this might be her end. Yet despite this hypochondria, she disliked doctors and would describe her symptoms to a famously inexpensive pharmacy in Hatchobori to procure medicine—this being precisely the sort of old-fashioned downtown woman she remained.

So this time as well, those around her did not worry as much as she claimed, and even if they had worried, they would not have called a doctor—so there was simply nothing to be done. In time, the ailments would eventually heal on their own, as was usually the case. However, this time, as her condition seemed unusual, Karoku and I practically had to scold Mother into allowing us to call his regular physician. When he examined her, he informed us that remnants of her past pyelonephritis had never fully healed and had suddenly worsened, now even developing signs of uremia.

"I will prescribe medicine, but dietary care is of utmost importance."

The doctor said this and left.

“I’m sorry to ask this, Miss Choko, but could you come stay at home for a while and look after your mother?” “Even if we were to bring in help now,” Karoku said, “given how Mother dislikes nurses and would suffer more with strangers, it’s still best for you to care for her.” When I answered, “Of course,” Mother heard this and turned her slightly swollen, wrathfully bloodshot eyes toward us,

“A nurse... get one,” she murmured. “Ocho dear, tending to my swaddling clothes is too good for you.” Having said that, she forced a strained smile in my direction through her suffering. Karoku, though his expression showed this was contrary to his expectations, rallied and summoned a nurse from the nursing association.

I could not fully fathom my mother’s heart, yet I found myself plunged into dark despondency. Whether out of reserve or stubborn pride—I couldn’t discern which—when I attempted to tend to her soiled undergarments by hastily sewing swaddling cloths and reached for the futon’s hem immediately after her illness struck, contrary to instructions to keep still, Mother must have sensed this even through her clouded consciousness, for she slapped the futon with numbed hands,

“Shoo! Shoo!” she said, chasing me away like one would a cat. When I coaxed her—citing her illness—to stop being stubborn so I could tend to matters, Mother let out a hoarse “Ah—ah” before slumping in despair and surrendering to my ministrations. Given this ongoing situation, I concluded Mother’s preference for a professional nurse over my care stemmed either from feminine modesty between relatives or from resentment at being tended by me—the very daughter she had so recently reviled with vulgar abuse. Yet even understanding this, I found it detestable that she, rendered so physically helpless, still maintained this fastidious aversion toward her own child. Even now, were she to call her child “too good for this” or force that strained smile—no matter how pitifully lonely these acts might appear—I couldn’t help but find them utterly repugnant.

The nurse they had sent was an inoffensive, mechanical woman who diligently worked for us, and in her spare time, she silently continued reading novels from women’s magazines. I had only to pay slight attention to this nurse’s meals and, during the daytime when letting that woman rest, stay by Mother’s side and replace her ice pack. The course of her illness had improved considerably, her consciousness had become clear, and her fever had subsided. Then Mother looked around at her belongings in the house—the wardrobes, tea chests, clothes racks, and those familiar old furnishings she had gathered over time—and showed a look of relief,

“I truly thought I would die this time.”

Then she took out the key ring that had been stuffed beneath the floorboards and handed me each key one by one, making me retrieve various items. Inside, addressing me, "My body reeks, right? You can go over there for a while." Implicitly encouraging me to keep my distance, during which she would take things in and out of her Shingen bag to settle matters or become lost in reverie—such acts too were part of her behavior.

I wondered if perhaps, weakened by illness, she was sifting through memories of my deceased father. "It's been twelve years since Father passed away, hasn't it?" When I said this, "The father who passed away never once gave us any real consideration—just kept going on about alcohol until he drank himself to death. So I haven't once given Father any real consideration either."

"Even if I were to die from this, I have no intention of ever going to Father’s side again," Mother said curtly. Karoku would leave early for work, and out of consideration for not imposing on Miss Choko with supper, he would eat somewhere before returning home—unless there was a banquet, he never stayed out particularly late—then come to Mother’s bedside to regale her with town gossip and business dealings comprehensible to laypeople. Stories about new and old eateries were among the things Mother would listen to with keen interest.

“Speaking of the Western dining hall on Fūgetsudō’s second floor in Minami-nabecho—back then, clerks in aprons used to bring plates, but huh, when did they start dressing like waiters? That old place had its proper charm though.” Stories of bygone days seemed to comfort men and women around early middle age. As her condition improved, Mother would sprinkle deodorant perfume by her pillow and wait for Karoku’s return. Karoku’s stories took on new life.

When Karoku had become a full-fledged clerk, he stubbornly forced his way into the wealthy shop owners’ social circle. “First-class Yanagibashi geisha like Tokitaro, Bairyu, and Botan mixed in too—we’d establish this Gaki Taishō Society and parade all around Tokyo.” Once a month on a set day, they would gather and, led by that month’s Gaki Taishō, roam about the city with no fixed destination. “Instead of the Gaki Taishō covering expenses, there was a rule that the president had to follow all his commands regarding their comings and goings.” “It was the month when Bairyu served as Captain.” After lining up about ten rickshaws and having light drinks at two or three fashionable restaurants, Gaki Taishō Bairyu led the entire group to Yoshiwara. After ascending to Kakueirō, a renowned brothel, the Gaki Taishō assigned companions to each president one by one. In the great hall, they made a lively commotion sitting in a circle—then just as everyone was about to retire to their respective companion’s rooms, the Gaki Taishō commanded, “Depart!”

“There’s nothing more bitterly ironic than that way of amusing themselves.” “Everyone grumbled as they set out.” “You must’ve had such allure about you back then, so that must’ve been tough.” “That’s right.” Karoku laughed his characteristic chittering laugh here. Mother too, as if stirred by youthful sentiments, recalled how treasure hunts had been popular during her days as a courtesan-in-training—how a certain lavish patron gathered about ten renowned courtesans from Shitaya and had them do it in the Iyo-mon garden. The patron buried a diamond-studded ring in an enigmatic location.

“In their attempt to dig it up, those ten apprentice geisha desperately jabbed with their chopstick tips until that splendid garden became pockmarked like an ammonite fossil bed.” The two of them laughed boisterously as if forgetting all about the illness. At that moment, in Mother’s eyes—which flickered briefly toward me—I recognized her habitual reproach toward what she saw as my stubbornly unmanageable nature. Karoku then appeared to remember something and pulled an envelope from his suit pocket. “Here’s the dividend,” he said, handing it over. “Thank you,” Mother replied as she opened it and questioned a few suspicious entries. Listening to this exchange, I understood how Setomachi shops tolerated senior clerks arranging small side deals alongside major transactions—minor spillover ventures they funded privately for personal gain. Through Karoku’s favor, Mother had been permitted into this circle of financial collaborators.

"The accounts are correct, so then—" With that, Mother divided a portion from the money and handed it to Karoku, saying she wanted him to keep what she should repay for having advanced some amount. Even when Karoku pushed back with “Well, it’s fine,” Mother kept insisting that wouldn’t settle things properly, so he then said, “I’ll take it then—but since you’ve improved quite a bit, why don’t we get something you can eat too, and I’ll have a drink myself,” ordering white-fleshed sashimi and heating sake for their nightcap. Then, Mother, lying down, ate the ordered food and looked up at Karoku,

“You’re still as generous as ever, aren’t you?” she lavished praise on him. In this intimate relationship where they nudged at small dishes with both tips of their chopsticks, their finances remained entirely separate from each other. In the end, was it not that Mother had wanted such companions to live on? When this proved untenable, and my father sought what lay within a woman’s heart—ultimately receiving no affection from Mother and perishing in vain—I felt such pity for Father. People say we settle where we belong, but I saw Mother—who had grown vulgar yet somehow more herself, vivacious in her own right after leaving Father and becoming single—and now, having sunk even deeper into baseness, I had witnessed Mother return entirely to her true metal.

“I want to eat something delicious.” When her illness slightly improved, Mother would start saying this, causing the nurse to furrow her brows.

The man called Karoku, though prudent in other matters—perhaps from never having been ill himself—turned brash when it came to sickness. Whenever Mother said such things, "You gotta eat a little to keep your strength." He’d order all sorts of delicacies or bring souvenirs to make her eat them. The nurse, powerless to stop this on her own, told the doctor. Even when Karoku put on an obedient face after hearing the medical orders—

“What’s the use of just obediently listening to everything the doctor says? You can’t handle a living body with mere medical theory.” “I’ve got experience, you see—”

Saying that, he became an accomplice to Mother’s unhealthy habits. So Mother’s illness would improve slightly, only to relapse again. Each time it relapsed, Mother grew increasingly childlike and unreasonable—terrified of death to an extreme degree—yet she could not restrain her appetite. While she treated me like a scrap of wood or bamboo when her health was good, when her illness worsened, for some reason she would grow flustered and start valuing me highly,

“I’ve treated God’s entrusted gift so carelessly until now—how wasteful, how shameful!” As she said this, she would sometimes press her trembling hands together in a pantomime of worship toward me. “To think you’d show me such kindness—how delightful!” Then she’d gaze at my face through narrowed eyes brimming with ingratiation, forcing feeble “ho-ho-ho” laughs that scraped from her throat like rusted hinges. I choked back tears of silent despair, shuddering at this grotesque parody of the woman who once commanded battalions of young men with her imperious vitality—yet still I couldn’t bring myself to scorn her outright. I averted my face,

“Don’t overexert yourself.” With that, she hid her tears as she wiped them away. Finally, a severe case of uremia struck. Though injections temporarily alleviated it, the doctor advised hospitalization, declaring treatment at home would be inadequate. By the time the patient transport automobile arrived at dawn, she had finally passed away.

In her death throes before passing away, Mother cried out in a young, coquettish voice like from her days as a courtesan-in-training: "Ocho-chan!" Mother had a younger brother who worked as an advisor for a geisha house in Yotsuya no Tsunomori and was usually out of touch, but due to his rheumatism keeping him bedridden, his wife and daughter came. They wore clothing characteristic of women from the pleasure quarters. Since we had become practically estranged, even these women who were my aunt and cousin felt like mere acquaintances at our first meeting, and they too only formally participated in the wake.

Even so, Karoku, dressed in crested haori and hakama, assisted me in every matter. For overseeing the kitchen arrangements, he summoned his daughter Okimi from Ikegami's dormitory. Okimi arrived with a maid in tow, and now fully settled into her position as honorable concubine without the slightest awkwardness, she expressed sincere condolences to me as a fellow woman: "The Young Master mentioned you must be terribly occupied with various matters," bowing with perfect propriety. There exist women who can maintain wifely chastity even as concubines. Kuzuoka came offering help with various tasks, but I declined his assistance. At that moment—though ill-timed—Kuzuoka said it was better to act quickly anyway, explaining how his mother and grandmother had grown frail, leaving him no choice but to marry some unremarkable woman recommended to manage household affairs. "We're ordinary folk destined for ordinary ends," he continued. "But Miss Ocho...I truly feel I can't go on without your lifelong support," he faltered. I answered that he should do as he pleased.

Karoku, with practiced ease, was greeting the neighborhood condolence visitors. “As for the mistress here—if we speak of desires, there’s no end to them—but we let her eat most of what she wanted, so I’d say she had a good passing.” Karoku continued in his practiced tone: “Relatives might meddle.” “Just to be safe, you should go through your mother’s belongings,” he said, pointing to the key ring. When I gathered them, Mother had possessed enough things for a woman to live out her old age alone. I currently had no interest in those things.

Inside the opened cupboard of the clothes chest was a cloth bundle addressed to "Miss Ocho." I took it upstairs and opened it in what had once been my room but was now entirely Karoku’s living quarters. It was an aged cloth bundle patterned with a scene from The Tongue-Cut Sparrow folktale—the old man carrying a light wicker trunk as sparrows escorted him from a bamboo grove. When opened, it contained: the contract documenting Mother’s release by Father when she had been a courtesan-in-training in Shitaya; receipts from the Miyakodori poultry restaurant banquet celebrating her debut among fellow apprentices; invoices for debut gifts distributed through the pleasure quarters; and photographs from her geisha apprenticeship days—all bundled together. Why did she leave these for me? Another bundle held a paper-wrapped umbilical cord bearing my birthdate, swaddled in a sheet of paper where a morning glory drawn in childish strokes bore a “Superior” grade at its margin. The name at the drawing’s edge showed my unmistakable childhood handwriting, with an inscription identifying me as a third-year student in Class B of ordinary elementary school.

The other bundle—which I had heard stories about being passed down from my beggar grandfather to my father, but was seeing for the first time—contained a copy of the family register inside a scarlet woolen pouch bearing a crest of hawk feathers crossed within a circle.

Late into the night of the wake, the town had quieted, the waters of Horikawa had stilled, and only the distant barking of dogs could be heard. Downstairs, Karoku was probably exchanging jokes with the wife and daughter of Mother’s younger brother. From time to time, I heard that familiar tittering laughter.

Under the late-night electric light that shone with intense yet vacant brightness, as I gazed upon these mementos of Mother, I realized that even through her life lived half in play, certain feminine instincts had flowed unbroken through her existence. The instinct to transmit one's own life through a child, and the instinct to wholly become part of a household and transmit that household through a child. Yet I found myself perplexed why Mother had taken my elementary school records from childhood and left them wrapped together with my umbilical cord. When I picked it up again, a small slip of paper emerged.

Miss Ocho, what made me happiest was when you were born, did well in school, and showed promise of becoming a proper wife in a good household. The life of a mistress comes with hardships unknown to others—I may have wept in secret countless times over. I wanted—by some means—to become a proper, respectable wife just once in my lifetime. Please try to understand these feelings of mine thoroughly. After all, with one parent and one child left in this world, you're the only one I can rely on.

From Mother

To Miss Ocho

If these feelings were genuine, then Mother's attitude toward me would have been half a lie. If Mother's attitude toward me was genuine, then these feelings would have been half a lie. Perhaps both lies and truths were mingled within her, and she herself never realized it. Even if it took a different form and meaning from Ataka-sensei, who had retreated into the deep mountains, wasn't this ultimately another performance of what a woman's true self is? Yet through it all, I couldn't help sensing the pitiable woman's true nature as a parent—how she'd seeped her feelings into me at the last, persisting through me, striving to live on within me. For the first time since becoming conscious of the world, I wept convulsively for Mother with a cry that came from my very core.

"Mother, Mother, I understand. You too were one of those pitiable women."

At such times, I felt as if yet another heavy burden had been placed upon my heart. Ah—how many burdens of others' lives must I bear before being freed from this suffocation? Though I had thought Mother was a person cut from entirely different cloth than myself, never in my wildest dreams had I imagined being made to shoulder such a weight from her. The mental fortitude I had painstakingly cultivated to remain unshaken by any circumstance had crumbled, and now I found myself utterly drained of both vigor and resolve.

Father, now at last I enter the intermission of rest you left me—this brief respite in life’s drama. The water’s edge, a tattered reed mat, and the scent of earth. Father, I shall inherit those eccentric aspirations you could never fulfill in your mortal form and realize them for you—though but a woman, precisely because I am your daughter. What truly worried me was whether I could manifest those inscrutable emotions and expressions—equal parts foolishness and chaos, defying all names—befitting this intermission of rest. Could someone as young as I truly become a beggar?

Since there was no other burial place, Mother’s remains were interred in the Somei cemetery where her younger brother, who had inherited the family home, served as custodian. Mother’s younger brother had reluctantly consented to this arrangement. Father had been buried in the Toshima family’s cemetery twelve years prior. In that case, whose child am I truly? I feel myself unmoored from all three realms of existence.

I entrusted both the house and inheritance to Karoku, and disregarding Ikegami and Kuzuoka’s desperate attempts to stop my resolve, I set out on a vagrant journey.

She fled the capital. She passed under the railway overpass and crossed the bridge. I had still been feeling those two heavy male arms clutching at my sleeve's edge—the sleeve I'd been shaking off all this time—but as I emerged from beneath the overpass into damp darkness reeking of mud, the sleeve grew gradually lighter. Instead came this strange lassitude from having to bear my own weight. When I considered it properly, I saw that as a woman I must have unconsciously relied on men in ways I never realized. Now this truth was dawning on me. Was this what they meant by growing disenchanted with things—or becoming clear-eyed?

The road ran straight west through the darkness. On both sides, there seemed to be rice paddies emitting a muddy stench mingled with a pungent, earthy odor. Frogs were croaking incessantly. While listening to the sound of earth striking the soles of my felt sandals, I walked on, letting my feet lead the way. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, I began dimly discerning things—the telegraph poles standing at meticulous intervals along both sides of the road, the lotus ponds scattered here and there among the young rice fields. As my eyes grew even more accustomed, I could faintly discern water glinting between the stalks of rice seedlings, and indeed, both the surface of the road ahead and the telegraph poles became barely visible through the reflection of distant city lights from the sky behind me. Oh, lights of the capital—

I don't know how many times I resisted turning back. Perhaps they were removing poles at the railway crossing still close behind me—that magnesium-like light flickered temptingly in the dark foreground, its reflection dancing before my eyes. Though it pained me to bid farewell to Tokyo, I resolved to take one final lingering look—drawing out my sorrowful yet resolute feelings, I lined my sandals on the roadside grass, spread a handkerchief beneath them, and stretched out my white-tabied feet onto the road. With elbows planted on knees and cheeks cradled between palms, as I turned my face toward Tokyo's northeastern sky—yes, there must have floated upon my features that Mona Lisa expression from my maiden days.

In the three months spent nursing Mother, I passed the days in such a daze that I hardly noticed when the month turned from late May to early June. But in any case, it was the dark night sky of early summer. Lustrous navy blue melted into the ink-black darkness. On its surface floated glimmers laden with moisture. The stars were swollen large like the mottled patterns on pufferfish skin, each one tingeing the surrounding sky with a poisonous yellow. The lower portion was blocked horizontally by the railway embankment and thus remained unseen. Used that as the near edge of a blast furnace, beyond it the capital’s sky burned as if it were the flames within a furnace. It was a white-hot brightness that made one’s heart itch restlessly. Ah, once more, the eyes gazing there transmitted through my body, and I felt heavily on the edge of my sleeve the weight of the two arms of the man who had parted ways. The faint dizziness when I shook it off. It’s disgusting—yet again. And within the fan-shaped fiery expanse spreading across the sky, neon lights flickered and glittered. No matter how much they coiled and coiled, like roundworms whose tails never reached their heads—the lights of the advertising towers. That’s right—the capital was still in the early hours of night. My heart, which had assumed the darkness ahead to be that of midnight, suddenly flared up with vivacity—how utterly unreliable my own heart was.

At our parting, Ikegami treated me to a kaiseki course meal at noon at Kasumigaseki Tea House. In the evening, Kuzuoka treated me to thick-cut tofu cutlets at a casual tea house in Shitaya. Both were suited to their status.

And Mother, on the morning of the day before yesterday, left behind the distasteful performance of her life along with her remains. The truth is Mother died the day before yesterday—but I simply can't bring myself to believe she's dead. I can't shake the feeling she's still somewhere in this world, sticking out her tongue tauntingly once more.

I reluctantly stood up. As if shedding the force pulling me backward, I shook my shoulders and head firmly, then resolutely turned my back on the capital’s night sky. Again I trudged into unknowable depths of darkness and the mud-smell of green rice fields—ah—ah, was this truly what it meant to be a woman all alone? Such a terrible feeling. But I had to attempt it. Whether reason or human compassion—all these shallow comprehensible things must be cast aside for now. It was there that truly profound human rest existed, and if there were such a thing in this world as the vital force of life welling up from the depths, it was precisely within that rest that it should be found.

How much road had I walked? A light began spreading through the clouds in the eastern night sky as a dewy large moon emerged. I recalled the opening lines of Bashō's *Nozarashi Kikō*—lines that Ikegami would often recite longingly though his own feelings never truly matched them—and found myself murmuring them aloud. Set out on a thousand-ri journey without sparing provisions. At third watch beneath the moon, enter nothingness.

Repeatedly murmuring them back and savoring them within myself, I wondered why this state of existence could be something people yearned for so deeply. Was this not precisely my current self-reliant state of mind? People entered this state of existence through yearning. I was driven to it and reluctantly entered this state of existence. Though motives might differ, entering remained one and the same. And there lay a further difference—austerity and youth. That was right. I was a woman—a woman and a young maiden—and now at last entered nothingness under the moon at the third watch. What manner of capricious play by creation was this? The author commented: "Error compounding error."

This was the beggar couple who would invariably plead "Could you spare a sen?" whenever they appeared before people. The beggar couple walked hand in hand through sleetfall, their hands reddened by cold to the hue of sweet potatoes, crossing a ditch bridge from the town's main street into the pleasure quarters. Both dragged their kimono hems carelessly across thinly muddy pavement as they trudged onward. They displayed bouncing hip lifts mid-stride and swaggering thrusts of slender shins as they moved. The sight of these physiologically flawed individuals—whose unnatural movements paradoxically evoked the grandly stylized artistry of master actors—stood out with striking prominence against the already theatrical pleasure quarter scenery, like a cutout from a kabuki procession pasted onto it, as they advanced hand in hand as man and woman pair. Thus when encountering courtesan-artists of the quarter—

“Well, well. You two.”

Though someone called out mockingly, the figures of the two continued onward through the sleet, repeating the same rhythm over and over without the slightest disturbance. That calmness commanded the space around them with such confidence in their comportment that one could scarcely discern its source, making them seem utterly composed. As she watched them go, their human comportment seemed genuine while her own mocking attitude felt false—drawn into this reversal, the pleasure quarter courtesan stood with her mouth hanging darkly vacant, forgetting herself as she continued watching them depart endlessly. This beggar couple had a filthiness born from having boldly soiled something gaudy—a filthiness so intensely extreme it verged dangerously close to becoming alluring.

According to people’s accounts, the beggars were a man and woman around forty years old who appeared younger than they looked—the man was a congenital idiot, and the woman was a former courtesan of these pleasure quarters who had been reduced to this state after courtesan’s disease ravaged her mind. The act of making two complete strangers hold hands apparently began as someone’s spur-of-the-moment prank, but when they tried begging hand in hand, people found them endearing and readily gave alms. Being called a "beggar couple" and treated somewhat warmly by society made their hands difficult to part. In time, though mere wooden clappers themselves, a bond arose between the two pieces—a mutual necessity, as it were.

The two made their residence under Aizome Bridge on the outskirts of town, and from there they set the pleasure quarters as their territory, daily collecting one sen each from regular patrons and selected passersby through begging. Though no one had taught them to limit their begged amount to one sen, they naturally learned through experience that being called 'desireless' ironically yielded greater gains—this truth the idiot internalized with single-minded obstinacy, upholding it as an inviolable creed through the years. The two proceeded through the sleet with hands clasped together. If they perceived a passerby halting with some stirring of emotion upon seeing them, they would discern this through beggar's intuition and approach without hesitation, holding out their palms to say, “One sen, please.” To male patrons came the male beggar; to female patrons the female—here too appeared some natural discipline at work. While one received a sen from a benefactor, the other would step back and wait with perfect composure. Yet their joined hands never parted under any circumstance. This firm clasp served both as livelihood’s emblem and as vital knot binding their two lives into one complete existence.

Since fleeing the capital—counting on my fingers—had it not already been more than five months? When frost lay white upon the earth and wind carried blades’ keen cold, I too had at last fully become a woman beggar in my own right. Through daily habituation, I no longer found contrived the arts of scattering mugwort through my own black hair and inserting wild brambles into my hairpin, nor that of mixing bonfire embers with river mud to paint my face in shadowed patterns. The partner in makeup—a water mirror that instantly washed away both shame and sorrow—now wore its surface clear with feigned innocence. With this mirror as my partner, were I but to utter a vulpine cry drawing out the wild fox nature within my womanly essence, deceiving even myself would hardly have been such a difficult task. As for transforming others through makeup—that was mere morning’s work.

In a vague, uncertain state of mind where I couldn't tell whether I was sensing someone else's body or my own unless I pinched my skin, I somehow managed to wrap myself in a long underrobe layered with patches from repeated stripping. The stiff sash creaked inward, the plumpness of flesh bursting forth above and below—no matter how filthily I made myself up, I worried it might still betray my youth. People seemed to notice it too, for when they looked back at me with those pitying eyes—comparing me to the dregs of rotten buds if I were a flower, or the frost-withered underside of kudzu leaves if foliage—their narrowed gazes that said "surely no woman one meets in spring could be like this" were not at all pleasing to endure. Among them were men who approached with smiles as if they'd discovered an akebi fruit at the vine's tip—grins that suggested, "If I split this shell with my fingers, there might still be surprisingly sweet flesh hidden inside this woman."

"If my youth were noticed, it would be dangerous"—at such times I thought, "Ah—ah—" "Mm-mm."

I pretended to be mute. Fortunately, the mannerisms of muteness were perceived as akin to madness, and the men recoiled with utterly stupefied expressions. People called me the mute-mad Ocho. What a delightful name this was for my current self. The first sound people make when opening their mouths—"Ah—ah"; the final groan when closing them—"Mm-mm". This was a voice that could symbolize either life or death. In my present state, there existed no life with before or after. With each utterance, I tasted life and death. Were one to accumulate them—tens upon hundreds of lives and deaths—but setting that aside, how absurd it seemed that these two sounds alone became words of expression leaving me utterly unconstrained. All I desired was "Ah—ah"; all I rejected was "Mm-mm." When given food—"Ah—ah"; when threatened with a stick—"Mm-mm."

To conceal my youth from others, the mute mannerisms I had unintentionally conceived became an unexpected blessing even for myself, and I came to deeply believe myself both mute and mad. For me—who had made mystery my heart's dwelling and sought within this dwelling a repose akin to primordial lake stillness—shutting off sensory traffic with the external world required a meticulousness like removing the front door’s hinges while simultaneously closing all four window shutters. I was now unexpectedly compelled by circumstances to do this. I gladly became mute. Not only did people treat me—now a mute—as some non-human creature, but through muteness’s insensibility I could gaze upon my surroundings as something entirely unrelated. The night storm of impermanence that had once clung so fiercely to my being now passed through me as I listened with detached clarity to nothing but pine sounds in distant skies.

Wandering out southwest from the capital—spending one month here at the village outskirts, two months there beneath that bridge—I migrated southward along the fraying border between old Tokyo's urban districts and what they now grandly call Greater Tokyo's rural counties, keeping the flow of the Tana River yonder as my lodestar. In the bustling towns of old Tokyo’s urban districts, there were already beggar territories and specialized begging rules creating a clamor, so many lived in rural areas with fields and mixed woodlands, slipping into town when opportunities arose. T—a small town formed around pleasure quarters in the fields—since the areas around this town also met these conditions, I stayed in this vicinity for a while. A canal drawn from the Tana River toward Tokyo on the town’s eastern side flowed almost at a right angle to the river, running from south to north. And spanning this branch river at the point where one enters the town from the village on this eastern side was Aizome Bridge. The town areas and pleasure quarters already had their territories established. I established a temporary residence in the Jizo Hall within the village beyond their reach. From time to time, I slipped into town, evading the eyes of the beggar bosses.

When I lay on the ground, smelling the scent of earth and gazing up at the solitary moon in the vast, open sky without hesitation, even in this body that had become both mystery and mute, something stirred deep within my heart. It was a feeling of compassion toward my deceased father—whom I had revived in the true life of a father—and my deceased mother—whom I had raised up into the true life of a mother—as well as all other relatives from my former existence: men and women who had approached me with both obedience and defiance, pleading that I extend and nurture their suppressed lives. But I was now at the moment of taking my first step into rest. Knowing that even designating this moment as rest would become an obstacle to the tranquil mind required for true repose, I strove to cast aside those feelings of compassion. And if those feelings—having been cast aside—were to return again later, then let them return; if they did not return, then so be it—I resolved with welling secret tears, casting them beyond virtue.

In my heart that had come to guard against external influences as blemishes with such vigilance, the self called "I" had vanished entirely—only the objective world of my surroundings now rose vividly stark before my eyes, its fleshiness robustly swelling into being. Yet knowing that becoming ensnared by this too would plant fresh seeds of exhaustion, I observed the scenery passing before me with dispassionate interest. Thus did the beggar couple become for me a landscape tinged with faint bittersweetness amidst this blandness. To forcibly erase or diminish this would itself become another seed of weariness. Therefore I resolved simply to entrust it to fate and keep watching.

The sleet was turning to snow, and the thick clouds, darkening as they scrambled headlong from the northern sky, swirled downward to engulf the earth. Like pillars propping up the harsh sky, several towers jutted densely from the brothel’s multi-storied buildings here. In their forms, there were those resembling city hall clock towers, others like Catholic churches that had lost their bells, some akin to the heavy pagodas of multi-storied temples, and others similar to meteorological observatory towers. And on those towers, despite the midday hour, rapeseed-colored electric lights glowed faintly, while in every window, panes of glass embedded with colors so garish they verged on obscene shone as though licked wet by lips. The grimy merino pattern of a forgotten night-quilt left to dry on the vermilion-lacquered railings of corridors spanning tower to tower. The corpse of a paper doll fallen on the tile roof. From the third floor down to the second, there were buildings with Western-style architecture resembling towers, yet some houses remained like old grafted tree stumps—establishments that seemed to preserve vestiges of brothels one might have glimpsed long ago in stable districts, their faded elegance still perceptible here now. The establishment had a roof of tiles layered like overlapping waves. The copper-plated front facade, its crests rusted and blooming with verdigris; lattice windows built into narrow gaps—spaces where an oiran holding a long kiseru could extend her arms up to the elbows but never reveal her face. Inside the lattice, a black satin curtain now hung drawn shut, and in the soil before the lattice, among the pine, bamboo, and plum likely planted for auspicious celebration, only the bamboo seemed unable to take root, leaving its resigned dead stalk arranged with the other two trees to stand sallow within the horse-tethering area. Amidst these brothels were mixed a proper front-facing clinic, a tobacco shop with an impossibly large red lantern hanging from its eaves, the only teahouse with latticework curtains in this entire quarter, and a kamaboko shop where the sound of chopping fish paste never ceased—though I had grown quite accustomed to it all, this remained a strange world to me. The dark clouds had now completely swirled down into this world, seemingly having engulfed heaven and earth within the pleasure quarter. Everything became uniformly stained with a chaotic earthen hue, as though the weather had achieved its purpose and reached equilibrium. Within this earthen chaos, a faint yet expansive light began reflecting upward from the road surface in grand fashion. The powdered snow, like scraped snow-fat, had begun accumulating white on all protruding surfaces around the area where the weather now felt tautly drawn, as though having decisively settled into a day of snow.

There was a crossroads. The beggar couple, who had been moving steadily and composedly up to this point, now slowed their pace as if fishermen arriving at their designated fishing grounds and began scavenging bit by bit to the right and left.

Humming a tune, a Western-clad middle-aged man wearing geta emerged from under the brothel’s noren curtain. “Lattices, sunlight streaming in, Nakadon—it all happens inside the quarters. Are you leaving already?” “It’s hard to say goodbye.” “When will you come? Uh, uh—I’ll come in the evening.” “You’ll get wet!” A geisha from the pleasure quarters emerged, chasing after the client and holding out an umbrella to him. As their path aligned with where the beggar couple was shuffling along, the beggars looked up at them. First, the male beggar turned toward the client and called out in a childlike high-pitched voice, “One sen please,” while extending his palm. The female beggar extended her hand toward the geisha.

The client, startled by the suddenness of the beggars’ actions, "What the—what is this thing?" widened his eyes and looked at the two of them. The geisha, fully aware, "Oh, they're just a beggar couple. They’re quite famous around here." Then, taking out a purse from her obi, she placed one sen into the female beggar's palm. The client, upon seeing this, “Hey, give one to this man here too.” instructed the geisha with a jerk of his chin, but she laughed, “If he receives it from a woman, it’d be disloyal to your wife. He’d never take it from someone like me. Give it from your own hand, Master.”

With that, she passed a one-sen copper coin into the Master's hand. The Master, upon receiving this, said "Here!" as if tossing bread mockingly to a dog and threw it into the air. The coin drew a parabolic curve and fell onto the road surface two or three ken ahead.

The male beggar hurriedly stepped out to retrieve it while keeping one hand clasped with the female beggar's. The female beggar, absorbed in carefully tucking the one-sen coin received from the geisha into the bag around her neck, was suddenly yanked down by the abrupt motion. Though attempting to rise from her sideways sprawl in the mud, she kept her right hand - which could have aided her ascent - firmly gripped in the male beggar's grasp. The male beggar wore a startled expression at her predicament yet made no move to assist, merely grunting "Ooh! Ooh!" as he maintained his hold on the hand that would have been simpler to release. Their twisted forms writhed in clumsy entanglement before finally regaining their original walking formation. With resentful glances, they trudged parallel to the client's path while brushing mud from their clothes.

“You should stop with such cruel jokes,” the geisha admonished. “Even if they’re beggars, don’t you think it’s pitiful?” The client laughed uproariously, mouth gaping wide. “What a rare spectacle—that shape they made just now—” But seeming somehow unsatisfied, he commanded: “Here—toss them a fifty-sen silver coin as disaster relief for the happy couple.” The geisha explained that these beggars followed strict rules—accepting only one sen per day from any single benefactor.

"That’s strangely impressive." The client seemed mildly affected. “Then how’m I s’posed to appease those paupers?” he asked the geisha. The geisha appeared momentarily flustered, but “Well, you might at least say something kind to them.” she suggested. Thereupon the client turned toward the retreating figures, “Hey! Be nice to your wife now!” he bellowed. Whether comprehending or not, the male beggar bobbed his head repeatedly in acknowledgment.

“To tell someone to care for their wife—as if you could ever perform such an act yourself.” The geisha poked the client and laughed. “Can’t deny that,” the client smiled wryly, his expression regaining its usual composure as though the matter were settled,

“As for that song we were taught—how did it go next...” she continued singing while trying to recall. "Oh dear, your hair's all disheveled—let me smooth it up for you—and your haori's slipping off one shoulder—ee—ee, ee ee ee—ee, ee—ee ee—how could you be this adorable?" The voice singing that song felt artificially bright yet hollow at its core. Her eyes kept drifting toward the retreating figures of the beggar couple.

The geisha seemed to keenly notice this and gave Master’s shoulder a poke, “How spineless—letting their hand-holding get to you like that! If I got hung up on every little thing like you do, I couldn’t manage my work day after day.” “Just think of that as a dragonfly’s fleeting connection—it’ll be fine.” Then Master said, “Even so, that sort of thing goes against my very nature,” and boomed out his song with forced vigor.

“You’ve gotten awfully thin there. Still clinging to your usual porridge? Why not treat yourself to beef once in a while…”

They were listlessly sent off to Hikite Teahouse.

A girl was returning from ikebana practice. When the female beggar with a hoarse voice extended her palm saying "A coin, please," and the beggar couple dressed like monkey cubs fidgeted while holding hands, she blushed crimson from her face down to her nape,

“Oh—look, come on, hurry up and take it.” She pulled out a gamaguchi pouch from between her obi, found a one-sen copper coin, hastily dropped it into her palm, and without even pausing to balance her running form with the umbrella in one hand and flowers in the other, fled the spot with disheveled posture. However, once she had put about ten ken between them, the girl turned back again—and this time, her expression held a slyness that seemed to steal a glimpse of secret allure. No matter how filthy they may be, there must be something in the tightly bound form of a man and woman that pierces the carnal passions of youthful flesh.

Regarding the beggar couple’s strict adherence to their one-sen coin rule, there existed various anecdotes. It was said that someone, like a biologist studying animal behavior, experimentally placed two one-sen copper coins into the male beggar’s palm. The male beggar appeared torn between desire and refusal—muttering incoherently as he held the coins out for the female beggar to see. The pair gazed at them for some time before he reluctantly pushed them back to the man. When the person divided the coins and dropped one into each beggar’s palm, the two finally smiled in satisfaction, as if they’d reached an understanding.

When it came to food, the two got along amicably. When one of them would purchase something with coins they had received, they would always divide half for their better half. However, in their haste to devour greedily, they sometimes forgot to share. Then, the one who had been staring intently, expecting to be given their share, finally lost patience. When the other ate halfway through the food, they would snatch it from their hand, claiming it as their own portion. The one who had it taken away finally noticed at that point and passed it by with a resigned expression.

Now, the beggar couple had collected one-sen coins from shopfronts and passersby in the snow, and as evening approached—perhaps finally unable to endure the cold—they entered the eaves of a familiar tsubo-yakiimo shop that usually looked out for them, receiving embers from the fire to warm themselves as was their custom. Next to the tsubo-yakiimo shop was an oden shop. Parting the rope curtain, a lone drunkard staggered out and began sneering at the female beggar of the couple who had caught his eye. "If a chaste woman like you can become a wife, then I’ll turn beggar too, eh? Hey, you grimy pretty lady—feeling proud of yourself?"

There was no greater panic than that of the male beggar in this moment. He suddenly grabbed the female beggar and fled headlong. And when they had put enough distance between themselves that the drunkard could no longer catch up, the male beggar retaliated in a vexed voice. “If you can take her, then try!” “She’s my wife!” “Idiot drunkard!” “Hey, serves you right!” Even when he had reached a distance where his words could no longer be heard, and even when the man had disappeared from view, the male beggar kept on speaking. So passersby, thinking they were being confronted, turned around with puzzled expressions. Beside the male beggar standing there in agitation, looking to see what the female beggar was doing revealed her showing a composed attitude—utterly expressionless, like a hen that continues pecking feed without distraction even beside cockfights, taking for granted being protected by a rooster.

Driven by the cold, I exited the pleasure quarter one step ahead of the beggar couple, crossed Aizome Bridge, and returned to my dwelling in the Jizo Hall. They were not companions whose eyes might draw one in, yet even so, the presence of this beggar couple could not be dismissed as entirely aloof. Whenever I noticed the two figures coming or going from town, I would unwittingly direct a gentle gaze their way and proceed to walk in the same direction, keeping some distance between us.

The female beggar who had initially regarded me as a migratory-bird newcomer with nothing but contempt gradually began to reveal an increasingly hostile countenance as days passed. The female beggar first showed me a mocking expression—shrugging her thin shoulders up and down forcefully, twisting her lips to one cheek. From then on, whenever she caught sight of me, she would fix her eyes from under her brow to glare intently at me, baring her canine teeth like fangs from the corners of her mouth. She finally could no longer contain her resentment and gave voice to it with these words.

“Get lost. You mute lunatic. Lay a finger on my man and you’ll regret it!”

She would raise her fist in threatening gestures, and finally even pick up stones to throw. She was jealous. At this moment, from the stiffened body of the Female Beggar—who had until now felt like discarded stone—a gentle warmth began to emanate. I felt a relaxation as if soaking in scented bathwater for the first time in ages, inhaling through my nose and slowly exhaling through my mouth. Having spent so long crawling in the dirt, separated from human company—could it be that this starvation for human affection had made my senses so acute that even from such crude, unreasonable outbursts of emotion, I absorbed the warm ambiguity of carnal desires? I found myself wanting to stroke the Female Beggar’s back and offer some explanation. But not only did I realize that getting involved in such matters would plant seeds of exhausting karma—the swarming crowds were too noisy, and the stones posed a dangerous nuisance. In the end, I came to avoid encountering the beggar couple.

The beggar couple lived under Aizome Bridge, while the pleasure quarter slept until around eleven in the morning at dawn; then they would slowly rise and go out to beg in the quarter. Since I knew this, thinking there would be no trouble while they slept, I would cross Aizome Bridge in the mornings, treading on the frost-covered planks in my wooden sandals. On the bridge, carts and people crossed before and after me too. Yet before long, the female beggar came to discern my footsteps amidst the noise, leaping out onto the bridge approach embankment to hurl stones in a frenzy. Though I believed myself to have fully adopted a beggar's gait, traces of an amateur's rhythm must have lingered somewhere—for the uncanny clatter of my sandals, neither beggar nor townsfolk in tone, could be discerned one time in three even by the sharp-eared simpleton's ears, let alone the doubly keen ears of the female beggar in her light slumber. I grew weary of this and began detouring to another earthen bridge further north to reach town.

Near the earthen bridge, there was a small lumber shop that had submerged a timber raft in the river’s flow and propped up timber and bamboo materials under its eaves. When I crossed the earthen bridge and was about to pass in front of that shop, the mistress of the lumber shop—who had been leaning out from the kitchen entrance facing diagonally from the bridge approach, gazing at the river—beckoned and called out, "Hey there!" I— “Aaah——uun”

I went over when called. The mistress withdrew once and came back out holding a boxed banquet meal still bound with its string. A sea bream's tail stuck stiffly out from beneath the lid. "Bringing this back now and then as my little bribe to palm off on me—aren't the folks at home being too obvious about their scheming?" The mistress sighed. "Not that you'd hear or understand even if I told you—but here, I'm giving this to you." "Take it and eat."

When I received the box, the weight of it settling in my palm—apparently packed solid with chestnut paste—made something hot well up in my chest before I could stop it. For I had suddenly remembered how my late father, though wearing an unsociable face upon returning from banquets, never failed to bring me a box of chestnut paste. To distract myself, I let out another wordless sound.

“Aaah—uun” The mistress sighed deeply again—whether for her own sake or mine remained unclear—and even pressed the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “Seen up close like this, you still look like a proper girl.” “Your features aren’t ill-proportioned at all—why were you born such an unfortunate misfit? Not that you’d hear me even if I told you—” “Aaah—uun” “Harsh as it sounds, seeing you has made resigning myself to this world somewhat easier.” “To think there exists a girl dealt such cruel fortune.” “Compared to that, perhaps someone like me still clings to extravagant desires.” “How exasperating—do you truly comprehend nothing at all?”

Aaah—uun Having apparently given up on conversation, the mistress brought an additional offering of alms—a packet of tissue paper—and tucked it into my shrivelled sleeve, saying, "Women find themselves helpless if they lack paper." Then through gestured conversation, she tilted her head and rested it on her hand in a pose of lying down to sleep—this signified that tonight had arrived. Opening her tightly closed eyes wide and demonstrating the act of washing her face—this signified that morning had broken after night's passing. Then pointing to the earthen kitchen entrance where I currently stood,

“Come here again, won’t you? “Alright? Do you understand?”

I formed a smile to convey my understanding and said, “Aaah—uun.” I returned to Jizo Hall and opened the boxed meal to find what I had thought were chestnuts turned out to be kidney bean paste—slightly jarring, but being from a countryside restaurant, I resigned myself to it. As I ate, I pondered how when I had exposed my former self—that girl with all five senses intact—to the world, I had unwittingly given people distorted impressions, yet now that I mimicked this crippled mute’s guise, people like the lumber shop mistress paradoxically drew comfort from breathing life into it. Thinking this strange phenomenon merely curious, I passed the night there and stood again at the lumber shop’s kitchen entrance at the same hour the next day.

Then the mistress slid open the kitchen’s shōji screen as if she had been waiting, “Now, now, don’t you forget,” she said, making me sit on the threshold. While I waited, she formed rice balls in the kitchen and wrapped them in bamboo sheaths along with simmered vegetables for me.

The mistress seemed intent on sending me home pleased with just this act of kindness today without saying anything, but when I prostrated myself while uttering my usual mute words of gratitude— “Aaah—uun” —she appeared unable to endure it any longer. “You needn’t thank me so profusely anymore,” she said, voice thick with compassion. “If anything, it’s I who’ve learned resignation through you—”

"But even speaking of resignation—resignation itself still has a forced quality to it." The Mistress sighed deeply with emotion, then had me promise to come again tomorrow.

When I went the next day, besides food, “It’s well and truly winter now. You can’t go on like that with your current clothes.” With that, she brought out Kurume indigo kasuri and gave it to me. “This was my sister’s keepsake... Somehow it feels better for you to wear it than me—” she said. I returned to Jizo Hall and, while spreading out that indigo kasuri garment, found myself musing idly. While that woman tries to resign herself by taking me as a model of misfortune, what sort of misfortune is this of hers that she cannot fully resign herself? It must be considerable misfortune. I too had grown weary of Impermanence, yet after dwelling half a year or so in mystery to evade it, strangely enough, I began to feel some longing for that very Impermanence. It is said that even those with excess stomach acid, upon entering old age, naturally come to favor sourness as their gastric secretions diminish. I do not consider myself old, yet even while knowing sorrow to be poison, this feeling of yearning for that sourness has arisen within me.

That night, a wintry wind howled fiercely across the fields, and the cold moon hung high in the sky, its light frozen in a glacial glare.

It mustn't be too much. A drop or two of impermanence might serve as a soothing balm to sustain this current state of mystery in my heart, which had grown somewhat parched. I headed toward the earthen bridge, hoping to glean something of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the Mistress of the Lumber Shop. It was a branch river where ferry boats could barely pass each other two at a time. The river, dried up in winter, showed here and there the shadows of mudflats where reeds had rotted—appearing like rust on a sword blade—while the remaining water reflected the moon's true color, running through the fields in nearly a single thread from south to north. This branch river had historically served not only for bleaching dyed fabrics but also as a waterway for towboats traveling from Tokyo in the north to the Tanagawa River in the south, so its embankments on both sides—flattened through constant treading—ran along the river at a height just sufficient to barely prevent overflow during high tide. Therefore, the small bridge spanning the river had been specially constructed high from its foundation to account for floods, raised so tall that even atop this elevated base the waters could not reach it—so that it alone stood out in the plain’s landscape like the shell of a sea turtle coiling its back. There was Aizome Bridge—situated upstream where water was drawn from the Tanagawa River—home to the beggar couple. Downstream from that, there was one earthen bridge in front of the lumber shop. The rest were mere plank bridges erected and removed as needed, barely catching the eye.

The final month's moonlight rejected all ambiguous haze with fastidiousness, leaving heaven and earth purified to vacuum-like clarity. Yet the hazel groves—a local specialty of these fields—stood arrayed along checkerboard footpaths and lozenge-shaped ridges, their branches bearing clusters of desiccated fruits that rustled endlessly in the shrieking night wind. From this sound alone one might fancy motes of jade dust ascending skyward—perhaps why the moonlit world seemed dyed in a faint hue resembling sandalwood's smoky haze.

When I looked around, not a soul could be seen in the wintry wind. Across the horizon—from the distant embankments of the Tanagawa River to shadowy seas of hazel groves—villages tinged with darkness blended into the sweeping view. Only in the northern sky could an aurora of city lights be seen. In this nightscape, two town entrances branched off toward the approaches of Aizome Bridge and the earthen bridge. As they delved deeper into the town, the shadows of houses grew denser by degrees, while in the western corner—rising distinct from the clusters of merchant homes—the brothel stood towering, its blazing lights studding it like a monster’s dwelling castle.

I wandered about the area, fascinated by the view, and before long found myself approaching the earthen bridge. As soon as the lights of the lumber shop's kitchen entrance and windows came into close view, I crouched in the shadow of the bridge's slope. I had spotted the figure of a woman standing alone on the embankment at the far end of the bridge. The embankment road, bathed in moonlight reaching its zenith, reflected it as smoothly as a whetstone's surface. The slender young woman paced back and forth across that surface almost soundlessly. Holding what appeared to be women’s clothing bundled under one arm, she would occasionally hold it up to the moonlight to examine it, then crumple and fold it back as before before letting her head droop and pacing back and forth along the same path once more. Was it due to her gait, or perhaps the play of light upon her—each time her body swayed, the woman’s shadow appeared sometimes single, sometimes double. When single, it appeared like a solitary single-petaled flower blooming in desolate silence; when doubled, like multi-petaled blossoms with each layer slightly askew, it stirred disquiet in the heart.

Perhaps it was due to the approaching river mist that it appeared so, but the wind began to subside, and the temperature suddenly grew warmer. From the moment I crouched in the shadow of the bridge's slope to avoid being noticed, I knew the woman was the Mistress of the Lumber Shop. Yet as she maintained this figure of sorrowful beauty, I wanted to gaze at her a while longer as a moonlit woman of lamentation rather than as the lumber shop mistress. Thus I did not immediately reveal myself, but kept peering at her form through the furtive night air. When I considered it, I realized I had long been parted from even the concept of beauty—since my time working in the biscuit packaging room at the confectionery company.

Toyed with by moonlight and swayed by river mist, the slender young woman's body paced back and forth along the embankment that lay like spread white gauze. Casting a single shadow or blurring it into two. The melancholic swaying of her form resembled nothing so much as a pale-burning flame separated from its firewood and cast upon the water.

From within the flickering light came a voice choked with sobs. The woman would occasionally stop to spread out the garment and examine it. In the moonlight, a bold pattern glimmered. Judging the moment right, I straightened up and uttered, “Ah— Ah—” The Mistress appeared startled but quickly recognized me. She glanced back at her house’s lit shoji screens before walking toward me with nostalgic familiarity. The wind had died completely, leaving fog shrouding the area. The brothel district’s lights glistened like dragon lanterns on a mountain beyond the sea. They descended to the embankment path hidden from the lumber shop’s view and sat side by side on a discarded stone there. The Mistress began by—

"Aren't you cold?" With that, she stroked my kimono, adjusted the collar to check that I was properly wearing the indigo-dyed kasuri fabric she’d given me earlier that day beneath it, "There, there—such a good girl." She gave a faint smile. I asked why the Mistress had paced back and forth on the embankment in that manner, why she had spread out the garment to examine it, and why she had been sobbing.

“Ah— Ah—” The Mistress gave a bitter smile and waved her limp hand, but compelled by my persistent questioning, “Can you hear at all?” “Even if you can’t hear me—as fellow women, a heart-to-heart talk should still manage to convey something between us.” “Anyway, I’ll try talking.” With that, she turned toward me—still feigning muteness—and began speaking as follows.

“About a year ago, the previous wife of this lumber shop passed away.” “The deceased wife was my elder sister.” “The master and my elder sister had been romantically involved for years before marrying.” “My sister died of tuberculosis about a year ago—she had lived less than three years after wedding him.” “On her deathbed, she willed that I should immediately become his wife and fulfill the marital bond she couldn’t complete.” “Better that than let another woman claim this husband she’d fought so hard to win.”

The Mistress married the master in accordance with her elder sister’s will. "The younger sister does not dislike the master." "The younger sister understood that when her heart was calm, she wasn’t forcing herself to act coldly." "Yet should she learn through some circumstance that the master had not moved beyond memories of her sister, her heart would be thrown into utter turmoil by jealousy and disappointment." "The master pleaded, ‘I’ll cast away all memories of your sister—so you must cast away your very self and become your sister in heart and mind for me.’"

The Mistress said that while discarding memories of the deceased might require backbreaking effort, casting aside oneself to become one's sister in spirit was an even more grueling labor. She began praying to her sister's spirit. "Please make me my sister's exact likeness," she entreated. The younger sister strove to imitate her elder sibling's temperament down to every gesture and turn of phrase. "Through these efforts," she said, "the master now occasionally glimpses my sister's visage within me." At this I felt a fleeting joy. "But what sort of achievement is that for a woman?" "It would merely become a handhold to steady my own heart." "The master's love still belongs to my elder sister—does it not? Not to me, her replacement." "And yet through my own power alone, this younger sister holds no hope of redirecting his love anew toward herself."

"The younger sister’s heart remained in turmoil, yet she concealed this turmoil from the master. 'The master says he’s recently come to feel nearly the same toward me as he did toward my elder sister,' she continued, 'and has begun taking out possessions he had carefully kept as mementos of her to give them to me one by one.' 'But regardless of appearances—how could I, with this inner turmoil, possibly wear my elder sister’s kimono against my skin?' 'The indigo-dyed kasuri fabric I gave you,' said the Mistress, 'was also done with that meaning in mind.'"

Tonight, having been praised by the master for growing ever more like her elder sister, the Mistress received this formal kimono—her sister’s keepsake—as a gift. “However, I’ll give you this formal kimono too.” “The more the master becomes like that—this bitter ache of my very self being cornered and pushed away—I’ve no idea how to bear it anymore.”

I thought of these words to say to this troubled woman.

"If you dislike becoming your sister, why not have her be reborn as yourself instead?" But I ultimately maintained my pretense of muteness. At present, such impertinent words—even if conceived—would never leave my lips. As I kept my head bowed, the Mistress took my hand and said: "Oh my, you're crying. They say even madmen have their reasons in Noh chants—so then, has what I said resonated in your heart after all?"

If I were to respond here with “Ah— Ah—,” matters would settle into a proper exchange and satisfy the Mistress’s feelings, but it would not become the impermanence of all things that I seek. I hardened my heart and said, “No.”

Upon hearing this, the Mistress sighed, “Ah well, there’s no helping it”—and her figure, drained of resolve, held a fragile beauty. How deeply that moisture must have seeped into my parched, enigmatic heart. I feigned numbness and drifted away—to let this exquisite resentment of unfulfilled yearnings linger eternally between us two women. Human kindness does not turn to ashes. Though neuralgia had begun plaguing my legs and hips from this new life upon bare earth—dreading winter’s deepening chill—the layered indigo-dyed kasuri formal wear beneath my beggar’s rags, given by the lumber shop’s Mistress, shielded me from damp cold with twice its warmth like clandestine tenderness. Even when pain flared, it settled as mere localized heat. I could not endure repaying this debt through muteness alone. Scouring Jizo Hall’s wilds, I gathered winter dogwood branches—lonely yet bearing white funnel blooms—and left them at the shop’s kitchen door. Let flowers speak gratitude where I could not. With those same steps I turned toward town. Thinking to visit the pleasure quarter after so long, I approached Mizo Bridge from the main street—only to cross paths with the beggar couple. The moment she saw me, the female beggar thrust out her tongue in childish mockery.

“Even if you doll yourself up, there’s no one to fall for you.” “What’s this—dressing up in fancy clothes you got handed to you, trying to steal my man? You’re a sex-crazed lunatic!” Even amidst her incoherent stream of abuse, I realized this woman had detected the fine garments concealed beneath my dirty outer layers, and that this discovery was further stoking the erratic flames of her jealousy. As I attempted to distance myself from the beggar couple and make my way into the pleasure quarter, the female beggar—unusually releasing her grip on the male beggar—lunged at me.

“Hand over the nice kimono!” She grabbed my decorative obi sash and slyly pulled it loose. It was brute strength.

I too, due to her excessive persistence, ended up— “Stop it!”

I ended up shouting, realized this was a blunder, but it was already beyond recall. Well, fine then—I thought, and immediately beneath that thought rose the ditty *“Sangasas tilted sideways, wearing tattered sangasas”* recited aloud by this beggar’s carefree self. I twisted the female beggar’s arm backward, threw her down onto the bridge, and hurriedly rushed into the pleasure quarter. In the midst of the commotion, I couldn’t see clearly, but it seemed the female beggar was wailing “waa waa,” while the male beggar—astonished that I had spoken—watched my fleeing figure with a shocked expression.

The next day, setting aside my anxiety about my feigned muteness being exposed, the fact that I had physically confronted the female beggar clung stubbornly to my mind with oppressive stickiness, leaving me disinclined to go out for alms. Under the eaves of Jizo Hall, I devoted myself to devising ways to dissolve my feelings into mystery.

Then, along the ridge path of the winter fields, the female beggar came alone. Her usual lurching gait occasionally lifted into the air today, and seeing how her face had turned bright red, it seemed she was drunk. I thought, "Oh." Having confirmed my presence on the veranda of Jizo Hall, the female beggar lunged forward to within about six feet of me, but perhaps chastened by yesterday’s demonstration of my capabilities, she stopped there and began performing bizarre gestures.

After stamping her feet violently as if under attack, she spat, planted her legs wide in a grandiose stance, arched her torso theatrically backward, then pulled the skin of her face taut with her lips to make a mocking, skull-like expression. Then suddenly, she screamed and rolled about on the frost-covered ground like a caterpillar swarmed by ants, tumbling over and over. She rose again, let out some incomprehensible cry, struck her own head with both hands, tore at her hair, then intensified her frenzy—baring her chest and clawing at her withered breasts with both hands’ nails as if they were a nuisance. This time, she hiked up her hem, alternately kicking up both legs, spun around sharply, shook her hips two or three times, and tried to expose even the parts that should be hidden to me.

I, thinking it was merely retaliation for yesterday and devising ways to remain utterly indifferent, found that she finally— “Hmph. Guess I just can’t measure up to you.”

Through those tearful words, I felt that even this idiot was a woman. The idiotic female beggar, due to her idiocy, had likely never once harbored the regret of being defeated by other women in matters of womanly prowess. Even if she had, she would have forgotten immediately. I had defeated her yesterday. And what's more, I had made her realize this through physical force. When a woman has what she should most rely upon as a woman defeated and loses her confidence, what becomes of her? There remains no path for self-preservation except transferring all self-mockery and self-reproach onto one's own person, establishing existence upon the power of self-condemnation and torment. When a woman utters from her heart, "Well, I guess I'm just—", no external force can withstand it. And it is precisely when she comes to place reliance upon her own ruthlessly cruel resilience directed against herself.

As Ataka-sensei had observed, I seemed to possess a nature akin to water—never had I properly contended with another woman. When conflict arose, I would flow around opponents like patterns of reed drawings, evading confrontation to the last. Some cunning vitality must dwell within me, I supposed. Yet should I ever truly fight and face final defeat, I knew with certainty I could only preserve and console myself through the very methods of this female beggar now before me. The sight of her ugly frenzy ceased to feel like another's affair.

“I beg you, don’t do that—I’ll give you these instead,” I said, taking off the two garments given by the lumber shop mistress and throwing them to the female beggar.

However, the female beggar “Don’t want it.” she said hatefully, then left after a while, sniveling as she went. Indeed, sensing that even in this idiot there remained a woman’s nature unwilling to be defeated by her own sex until the very end, I felt strangely chilled to the skin.

My own enigmatic heart, striving to pair with the rings of heaven and earth's mysteries, now teetered perilously close to unraveling. The female beggar seemed to have been diligently spreading word of my feigned muteness from the town proper to the pleasure quarter, and I began noticing a sharp accusatory gleam in the eyes of those who met my gaze. Yet whenever we encountered each other, the female beggar now completely transformed her demeanor, performing gestures that fawned upon me, flattered me, and sought to ingratiate herself with me,

“Oh Miss, my, what an adorable person you are!” With faltering yet feigned familiarity, she attempted to take my hand. How repulsive. If she’d lost, did she now mean to cling utterly to my riddle and trip me up from within by the ankles? That snake-like cunning and fox-like guile of hers—now laid bare—revealed her as a full-fledged woman who could no longer be dismissed as mere idiot or madwoman. Yet it was all staged in such childish, superficial fashion.

Having dwelled in mystery for some time now—living almost as though my true self were absent—the female beggar’s essence crept into me like a thief infiltrating an empty house, stealthily permeating my being. It seemed to grow familiar with the snake-like and fox-like natures within me, and though I understood that she was the one performing these acts while I was their recipient, whenever her gestures—childish as they were childish, shallow as they were shallow—aligned with the very essence of womanhood, I would abruptly become one with her. Only the sensation hung thick in the air: that we were deftly executing something reeking of femininity. An extreme pity toward womanhood, revulsion toward it, and perverse fascination became tangled and pounded together in my mind, seizing me with an indescribable feeling—neither painful nor nostalgically tender, but something utterly strange.

My heavy-drinking father would often order Saga’s famous *ganzuke* as a drinking snack and eat it. They crush small crabs crawling in the mud of Ariake Sea while still alive in a mortar, then add strong salt and plenty of chili peppers to ferment them—a type of salted fish paste. I learned from the elderly maid Shima how it was prepared and thought, What a cruel cooking method. When I was made to taste another bite of it, I once blurted out, "What a painfully awful taste this is!" "But the real taste is delicious," Shima said. Now, suddenly recalling that, I felt my brain—pounded by these clashing emotions into *ganzuke*—being marinated and savored by my own heart against my will.

Pointing to the *ganzuke* food, Shima said that once you knew this taste, you’d become unable to part with it, just like Father.

Now that I found myself on the verge of discerning the taste of *ganzuke* within my own breast, a perilous fear filled me—should this become a habit, I might become unable to free myself from the thoughts lodged there. To prevent this, the only course was to ruthlessly shake free from the female beggar and flee. The female beggar drinking in despair, getting drunk alone and roaming throughout the town shouting became a frequent sight. At such times when she spotted me, she repeated the same desperate gestures of reckless abandon she had once performed before my eyes when storming into Jizo Hall. I could not bring myself to utterly scorn her even as I averted my face.

Winter reached the peak of lingering cold and turned toward plum-blossoming spring.

The drums of the First Horse Day festival resounded deeply. In the distance, smoke rose from burning the Tana River embankment. Bush warblers sang in wild thickets. In the fields, people trod barley with their cheeks wrapped. A stray cat crossing Aizome Bridge romanced a town cat. The water grew lukewarm, revealing anglers raising their poles as they moved about trying to catch crucian carp entering the branch river. Equinoctial cherries bloomed; pious men and women of the Six Amida Pilgrimage wore teal-shaped bells around their necks. Each time the swallow crossed its flight feathers with tail feathers, its white belly flashed. Cherry blossoms bloomed, bush clover angled their frames in wild fields, reeds showed sharp edges in muddy shallows. Violets dotted the fields; people picked wild garlic. In vegetable plots, thick flower stalks stood tall as wisteria and peonies heralded summer's first breath.

When my feigned muteness became known, for a time the eyes of townspeople and pleasure quarter residents grew sharp with accusation toward me, but my beggar companions remained surprisingly unfazed. They wore expressions that seemed to say, "Well, if using such tricks gets you more alms, might as well try it." However, claiming that the town's beggar boss was expanding his territory into the villages too, a man called his subordinate began coming daily on an old bicycle to make his rounds.

The man, “Hey, show me your take.” With that casual remark, he scattered the coins from the bag I presented into his palm, picked out a portion from them, and deposited it into his apron’s bowl that already jingled noisily, “Keep hustling.” With that, he mounted his old bicycle again and hurried away, looking busy. There was something comically absurd about his businesslike appearance as he rode the bicycle. A man with sunken eyes and a sharply pointed nose resembling a kite’s beak, yet he was merely flustered and had no viciousness about him. He was a young man whose forehead always glistened with sweat, devoting himself wholeheartedly to his duties as a subordinate collecting tributes.

When this man grew accustomed to me, he would slow down somewhat, and among the things he told me about other beggars was the unexpected fact that beggars tended to be savers, “The wife of the beggar couple died yesterday.” “She’d saved nearly two hundred yen in her secret stash.” “Even so, they say she’d recently turned into a drinker and squandered a good portion of the money she’d saved.”

he said.

So that female beggar had died too? I felt somehow anticlimactic,

“How pitiful.” “And how is your husband faring?” “He’s a complete idiot.” “Just kept facin’ his wife’s corpse and sayin’, ‘Hey, wake up, won’t ya? Wake up, won’t ya?’—nothin’ more.”

That evening, sunset clouds blazed crimson in the western sky, the towers of the pleasure quarter gleamed with golden script, and the waters of Edagawa River mirrored the sky’s hues, flowing in shades of vermilion. Along the embankment, a white-wrapped coffin was carried out from the base of Aizome Bridge and proceeded southward along the river on top of the levee. The ones carrying it were the subordinate man who came to collect tribute and another brawny beggar. Following behind them were a boss-like man and one policeman. While being scolded by the boss-like man for lagging behind, the husband beggar followed along, repeating his characteristic walking style—now bouncing upward at the hips, now strutting forward with a narrow-waisted swagger—over and over again.

In the flower fields cultivated for sale to Tokyo, peonies, false hellebores, poppies, cornflowers, and such now bloomed in profusion, with the glow of the setting sun casting upon them like a five-colored cloud. The funeral procession of the female beggar passing through them seemed both lonely and splendid. The female beggar was probably being joyfully sent off now. While cradling in my palm a grain weevil with a reddish-brown back that I had found while sorting through donated rice, I considered that it might be time for me to move somewhere else as well.

To take my final look at the pleasure quarter, I went inside it. The male beggar was walking around alone, carrying a girl doll on his back while begging. Again, one of those author-loving people must have claimed it was a substitute for a second wife and made that male beggar carry it. They even taught this idiot to respond, “She’s my new wife,” if anyone asked. But I did not wish to see a life contrived to that extent. Let us simply observe this whimsical manifestation of impermanence that happened to catch my eye and move on. My heart had already come to feel that even mystifying mysteries or putting on airs of profundity now amounted to nothing but futile thrashing. The riddle of the Sphinx, the mystery of the Mona Lisa—both still reeked of affectation. It was merely said in the singsong of children.

“Riddle me this—what’s an umbrella doing on a sunny day?” From the cadence of these words arose a riddle’s mystery—neither wholly innocent nor simple—that came to feel as endearingly precious to me as any child I might someday bear. Within myself, I grew increasingly hollow, and precisely because of this, the scenery of my surroundings seemed to rise before my eyes solely through nature’s inherent qualities. The seasons and the flow of water carried me downstream to summer like a bamboo grass boat, and this time I became a female beggar in Heron Town along the Tana River.

A person was standing in the river. He wore a straw hat, the hem of his kimono trailing in the water. The water, reflecting the summer evening sky, spread out in a scorched green hue. When the wind blew, the sleeves of the person standing in the river fluttered. Then, the unassuming figure of the standing person appeared to walk across the water’s surface alongside a smoky shadow. From the bridge railing, three or four children were peering down. “Bunkō—you idiot—” “If you go out that far into the middle of the river, you’ll stray from the sandbar and fall into the deep part!”

The person in the river turned toward the railing and amiably nodded his straw-hatted head up and down before facing forward again. Swaying as he spread his hem through the water, he advanced about six feet. His right hand swiftly struck the water. He tucked the glinting catch into his breast—he had caught a fish. He stood motionless in the water once more. The fishermen from the outskirts had set up standing nets around the great Ōsu sandbar for that day's spring tide. By around three in the afternoon, the water on the sandbar grew shallow enough to reach ankle depth. Using hand nets and barehanded grabs, they gathered about one and a half barrels of fish before removing their nets and departing. Yet even afterward, fish remained—creatures coated in algae and mud that had escaped the fishermen's notice, now lured by the rising tide to float up their half-dead bodies. Bunkichi under the bridge knew this well. His breast already held six or seven crucian carp and chub gasping for air. When he felt the fish thrashing against his body from within, he sucked in his stomach and smiled faintly with sleepy eyes.

Bunkichi, while targeting fish, ventured out to the river's center as far as where one might wonder if even a sandbar existed there. By now, he was near the opposite bank, pushing into the sparsely reeded bank's base, where within the embankment's shadow, the river's main current revealed the swift flow of the rising tide.

The number of people increased, with adult figures now mingling among them at the bridge railing. The children shouted themselves hoarse. “I wonder... Does Bunkō even know how to swim?” “Nah, he’s a floater.” “If he slips there once, he’ll turn into a drowned corpse, I tell ya.” “Though that guy had nearly become a drowned corpse once before.” “He’s been through the test before.” Adults and children mingled together, bursting into loud laughter in unison. “It’s not a drowned corpse. It’s a botched double suicide.”

“It’s not a double suicide. When someone tried to rescue them, they ended up bloated too.” An elderly man in a mesh shirt and white pants tapped cigarette ash against the railing as he spoke. “Don’t make it sound so amusing. Either way, it’s me who’ll end up dealing with the hassle again.” That was Kin-san, the town office’s caretaker. Once again, peals of laughter erupted. On the bridge, the flow of people and vehicles returning from Tokyo to villages near Heron Town had grown somewhat busier now.

The river, now fully enveloped in dusk, lay suffused with an aqua-tarnished shimmer across its entire surface. Within that aqua-tarnished shimmer, Bunkichi’s figure—still aiming for fish as he blurred into his surroundings—had come to look no different than an old stake. A young man holding a block of ice, still astride his bicycle as he leaned against the railing watching, said: “Hey kids, someone go to Oshu’s boat rental and tell her that Bunkichi’s gone into the river!” “Yeah, I’ll go tell her that.” Two or three children ran off. The ice vendor youth started pedaling his bicycle toward the opposite bank, whistling a popular tune all the while. With this as the trigger, the majority of the crowd departs. The remaining few adults and children were all from Heron Town; they knew that Oshu of the boat rental was the girl who constantly looked after the beggar Bunkichi, and they also knew just how furious she would become upon seeing Bunkichi’s reckless behavior. So they still lean against the railing, maintaining their curiosity as they wait.

Children’s voices echoed along the river’s edge as a boat carrying children, rowed by the girl, glided out from under the bridge. As the boat approached Bunkichi, who was floating from the waist up in the dimming water, the children helped as he was forcibly hauled aboard. At the same time as a sharp woman’s voice rang out, the figure of the beggar being beaten came dimly into view. The sound of children’s laughter could be heard from the boat. As if harmonizing their voices, the children on the bridge railing laughed too. Above the clustered roofs of Heron Town huddled at the left bank’s bridge approach, the main hall roof of Seikōji Temple, this area’s renowned temple, rose high and towered. Then, leaning slightly away from the river, a broom-like tree jutted sharply into the sky. A single tree appeared like an entire forest. When the earth-shaking evening temple drum sounded, innumerable bird shadows scattered from the broom-like tree in the sky, emitting thin, short voices like frayed ends of sewing thread as their figures mingled together; but when the drum ceased, they were immediately sucked back into the aerial broom as before.

By this time, the children had vanished from the bridge, leaving only the dim lanterns of handcarts, bicycle lamps like ceramic marbles, and occasional fan-shaped truck headlights passing through the darkness. Soon after, the area upstream of the bridge suddenly brightened, part of the river's surface illuminated as smoothly as a reverse-painted glass panel. These were observations from about two months after I had become a female beggar along Heron Town's riverside of the Tana River, journeying southward.

Oshu lit an acetylene lamp on the dock and kindled a small charcoal fire in the tobacco brazier used for rental boats, drying the hem of Bunkichi's kimono while he still wore it. In the river he had appeared like a hunchbacked old man, but here he stood blocking her path as a youth retaining a childlike face. Though tattered, it remained unmistakably a hemp kimono. As Oshu wiped sweat from her brow with the apron edge tied over her work clothes and held the beggar's kimono hem over the fire, the garment began gradually stiffening as it dried. The beggar pressed fish against his chest with one hand and gripped his waist with the other, but when Oshu started rolling up his hem to dry it over the flames, he cried "Ah!" and pressed it flat with his palm. Oshu fretted in frustration,

“What’s there to be so embarrassed about? Even as a beggar, you’re still putting on airs and worrying about your reputation?” Oshu laughed as if coming undone and firmly rolled up his hem. Then Bunkichi hurriedly pressed it back down with his palm. The moment it was rolled up, the brand-new indigo and white Scotch plaid of his undergarments briefly caught Oshu’s eye. Bunkichi had peculiarities unusual for a beggar—while his outer garments were one matter, anything worn directly against his skin had to be freshly laundered. When it came to food, he would not eat anything other than sweets unless he had cooked it himself. The town doctor would say, “That’s mysophobia—a type of mental illness,” but he didn’t exhibit spasms or prickly sensations severe enough to be considered pathological. Within his overall low intelligence, this habit lay like a deep-rooted foundation. So at times it appeared extravagant, and when townspeople tried to give him leftovers which he refused to accept, they would say, “What an impudent beggar.” There were those who would say, “Here, eat this!” while splashing water on him. Oshu had at some point begun looking after this beggar and often found herself inconvenienced by it, sometimes even feeling resentment, but she found this particular habit of his to be poignantly endearing. Even if you took other grasses to an insect that ate nothing but mulberry leaves, it would pay them no mind and waste away. Instinctual arrogance. It was a similar trait.

Oshu adjusted Bunkichi’s obi knot slightly for him,

“There, it’s completely dry.” “Return to your residence now.” “Because the mosquitoes are terrible, stop by our place and get some mosquito-repellent incense from my mom to take with you.” Oshu gave a light tap to Bunkichi’s obi knot. At this moment, a womanly emotion welled up fleetingly within her. Having reached the age of twenty-eight without a husband or children, her unmarried state came to mind. Oshu felt intense resentment that such emotions had been drawn out by the beggar. Bunkichi, pressing the fish firmly against his chest with both hands and circling past Oshu while watching her face with a wary, lazy-looking gaze, made her think—though no one would ever try to take the beggar’s fish—When will he ever understand others’ feelings? That’s where his foolishness lies. Amused despite herself, she pretended not to notice him, but just as she assumed he must have left by now, the hem of her simple work clothes was suddenly flipped up from behind. Oshu let out an “Eek!” and plopped down onto the dock. The instant she did, the pattering sound of Bunkichi’s footsteps fleeing up the embankment could be heard. Even as she listened to these footsteps, blinking rapidly while her initial fright began to fade, she grew concerned that Bunkichi—who until now had shown childlike innocence toward the opposite sex—might now have some spark of awareness ignited within him. Yet that concern carried an oddly vibrant quality. She stood up and, turning back, raised her hand in a threatening gesture.

“How could you do such a thing? Alright—tomorrow I’ll have the police evict you from this land—” From atop the embankment, Bunkichi stretched out his neck, shook his head repeatedly, and said: “This is payback for earlier!” Oshu, realizing through Bunkichi’s merely mischievous tone that her own sensitivity had been a self-conceited notion, turned back toward the river with a hollow feeling. In front of the shop behind the embankment, Bunkichi was shouting in a dull voice.

“Old hag! Old hag!”

Oshu’s mother, “Calling me an old hag again? What a troublesome boy you are. You don’t call someone else’s mother an old hag. You must say ‘Honorable Mother’. Go on, say it.”

Oshu, thinking that another mutually incomprehensible exchange between the two had begun, rested her hands and gazed at the river surface illuminated by the acetylene lamp. On the bank where the waters of the Tana River—flowing from the northwest, colliding with the eastern shore on the opposite bank before bending sharply toward the southwestern shore—formed a deep pool for some distance, lay Oshu’s boat rental shop. Tana River Bridge spanned the boundary between this deep pool and Ōsu, where Bunkichi had been gathering fish earlier.

Oshu’s boat rental shop had been at its peak seven or eight years ago when her father was still alive—during the time when fishing first became popular among amateurs—with fifteen or sixteen rice field boats, three cargo boats, and even a used motorboat purchased during that era. They also had about two hired boatmen. However, amateur anglers gradually became skilled, and as the home ground for crucian fishing shifted from these overfished urban rivers near the city to distant tributaries of the Kotone River and areas around Narita. At Oshu’s house, they gradually transferred their owned boats to others, installing oar clutches only on the remaining neat little vessels to turn them into pleasure boats even women and children could row. On summer nights, these boats with paper lanterns shaped like Chinese lanterns erected on their bows enlivened the river surface.

No customers came to rent the motorboat with its peeling paint. Therefore, they normally didn’t keep gasoline on hand and only rented out the motorboat to customers who brought their own fuel. Having already realized that this kind of business was no longer suited to the times in this area, Oshu had resolved to make a decisive choice by the end of that summer—either to resolutely relocate or to reorient the business to suit the times.

Even so, fishermen from Tokyo’s downtown areas—unable to quite forget the feel of rod-fishing they’d grown accustomed to on this river—and workers from nearby factories who lacked time for distant excursions still came each day, three or four people at a time, to rent boats. Today too, about three boats had gone out, and those boats returned around sunset. However, the motorboat that had been rented out for the first time in a long while still had not returned. Since the early July flood, Oshu had lit the acetylene illuminator that hadn’t been used since then and had been waiting.

That customer was peculiar. He was a gentleman accompanied by a woman who appeared to be his own daughter. Seeing the motorboat tied up at the bank, he suddenly seemed to have an idea and, going so far as to have his driver buy gasoline from a town stand, borrowed the boat and set out. The woman who appeared to be his daughter took charge of the engine, and her handling of it was practiced. The man who appeared to be her father seemed slightly drunk but purchased shark fishing gear and bait from Oshu’s shop. When the boat was leaving the shore, the driver asked if he should come to pick them up again. After replying that it was unnecessary, the man said this.

“Go buy sesame oil and have the tempura ready. I’ll catch a whole bunch of sharks and bring them back as souvenirs.” Then the driver, with a look of utter resentment, “Please refrain from making such transparent jokes. I’m already putting up with my irritation here.” He resentfully drove the car away, turning from the embankment toward the bridge. From the very beginning, there had been something unsettling in the driver’s attitude toward this gentleman who appeared to be her father. Glimpses could intermittently be seen of the gentleman managing him by alternately displaying his imposing side, flattering obsequiously, and affecting a carefree manner. The daughter feigned ignorance.

The acetylene flame’s vigor waned, dimming to candlelight intensity. Oshu pressed and lifted the bottom of the acetylene canister, then tapped its shoulder with brisk knocks. The flame suddenly roared and flared up. With this, the riverbank scenery that had momentarily darkened suddenly regained its brilliance. In the field on the opposite bank, a bush warbler chattered repeatedly. The acetylene flame had again quickly diminished to candlelight intensity, so when Oshu brought her ear to the canister’s side to check, the sound of dripping water had ceased. Oshu had gone back and forth between the house over the embankment and the pier two or three times since earlier while waiting for the returning boat, but the motorboat customers still had not returned. Considering how the gentleman and his daughter had behaved, it’s unlikely they’d steal the boat. Surely they wouldn’t commit a parent-child suicide. The tide had fully swelled to its limit, languidly floating bubbles along the pool’s edge. The three rice field boats that had worked today and earned their rental fees had been washed clean by Oshu’s mother and were lying there looking cool. The remaining four rice field boats remained tied to their posts, completely dried out and appeared to be suffering from the heat. The radio from town was broadcasting the nine-thirty news.

Oshu, having waited impatiently and seeming to realize she should at least check the customer register that had been filled out when renting out the boat, carried the extinguished acetylene canister and, after glancing toward the bridge, went into the house.

I returned to the area near Tana River Bridge and quietly peeked to see how Bunkichi was doing. Bunkichi was still sipping from his shochu cup while grilling fish meat under the bridge’s darkness, having lit a bean-sized lamp there. He didn’t particularly like alcohol, but wanting to imitate adult behavior, he would have them sell him about five shō at a time cheaply from the town’s liquor store. With the fingers of his right hand, he flipped and ate the fish meat on the grill while holding the red-rimmed glass cup in his left hand as if it tasted foul. Then, tilting his head back and forth, he muttered.

“Anyway.” “So.” “So.” “That will do.” “First, that will do.”

“In short.”

Such words spilled sporadically yet ceaselessly from Bunkichi’s mouth. Bunkichi envied adults. He envied the words adults spoke—words that sounded so thoroughly adult-like. Now, bringing them into contact with the sensory receptors of his lips and savoring their texture filled him with such profound joy that it seemed to seep into his very being. The self who spoke those words to hear them with his own ears felt he had become exactly like an adult. His shoulders hunched, his happy-looking expression faintly illuminated by the diminutive lamp. He took another pained sip from his cup, and this time—

“×××××,” he said. Then he let out a “Ha ha ha ha” that echoed across the river and laughed maniacally. He had learned from observing adults that after spouting nonsensical trendy phrases, someone would always erupt in booming laughter. He stopped drinking and turned to his meal. The rice cooked in the earthen pot had cooled to an ideal temperature. With methodical care, he transferred it into a small boatman’s lunchbox, scooped a portion into his bowl, then held up a piece of fish meat to inspect it through the bean-sized lamp’s faint glow. Crucian carp pieces still lay plentiful in the bowl, marinated in soy sauce flecked with chopped sansho leaves. He peered upstream through a gap in the dense reed screen blocking the northern side. Lowering his head this time, he stared downstream through the open southern darkness. With an air of ceremonious reluctance, he arranged the fish on the metal grill and began eating. Though summer had rendered the crucian carp lean, its fresh flesh released sweet steam mingling with charred sansho and soy sauce aromas. He devoured bowl after bowl with apparent relish while periodically shooting sharp glances downstream.

There were six resident beggars near Tana River Bridge including myself—the newcomer—alongside Bunkō, yet those who consistently held Bunkichi’s attention were Tagame—a panhandling specialist nicknamed “Tagame”—and Osan—a mother-child beggar duo making their rounds collecting food tabs. From Tana River Bridge where Bunkichi lived, the promontories on the opposite shore were visible to both left and right due to the river’s bend. The downstream area was called Nagato, where Bishamon Hall stood and Tagame lived. They said he was a former sailor; if those he extorted refused his demands, he would suddenly grab them, leap into the water, and force them to gulp down copious amounts until they relented—a tactic that made him feared among his peers. Bunkichi had never once been subjected to such acts, but he often heard the phrase “If you keep whining, I’ll make you eat watery gruel!” from Tagame’s mouth. He mainly preyed on beggars in Yota Town across the river, but would occasionally swim upstream and come to Bunkichi. “You’re such a greenhorn—shaking you down ain’t no challenge, but cough something up if you know what’s good for ya,” he said. When told this, Bunkichi would grow resentful and defiantly hand over whatever he had—be it money or food. Then Tagame said, “Hmph. You’re quite the obedient one.” “Consider this thanks,” he said, snapping his grip around Bunkichi’s wrist and grinding it in a twisting motion with his broad-bean-like thumb and forefinger. Then, the ticklish sensation shot up to Bunkichi’s nose, and the pain drained all strength from the vital points throughout his body, leaving him only to open his mouth in a voiceless “Ah— Ah—” as his entire form writhed helplessly against the air. At times, the breathless agony became so overwhelming that he would involuntarily wet himself. Then Tagame released his grip,

“Hah, looks like your idiot face finally tensed up a bit.” “Heh heh heh heh,” he sneered, then plunged into the river with a splash. Bunkichi remained dazed as if caught in a whirlwind, but Tagame was like a monster who knew human pressure points one would never expect—people avoided him if they could.

Upstream Desaki—known as Magarikute—had a small brick factory. Osan was a thirty-seven- or thirty-eight-year-old beggar who constantly carried her child while collecting leftovers from restaurants and cafés in Yota Town. Between the embankment and the river lay a sandy area where a quay extended into the waterway, perpetually piled with bricks and tiles awaiting shipment. She had skillfully constructed a dwelling from these bricks, roofing it with old corrugated iron sheets to make her home. Though lame-legged and homely, her sturdy frame hinted at farm origins as she existed in a daze of complete resignation. Taking pity on her status as a mother with child, the elderly wife of Saginuma-cho’s venerable Hyakuse family had arranged for her to cross the bridge into their town, even designating her household among their regular patrons for provisions. Yet when beggars from other towns crossed the boundary between Tokyo City and Kanagawa Prefecture to encroach upon their territory, Saginuma-cho’s two alms-specialist beggars erupted in fury. After a major clash with Hanada—the bespectacled beggar who mediated the dispute—it was decided that only leftovers from the Hyakuse household would receive special allocation in Saginuma-cho and be granted to Osan.

Despite her sturdy build, Osan produced almost no milk. She raised the child by buying or receiving leftover milk from the dairy shop, but it often cried. Even when she offered her breast, the child knew nothing would come out—when made to suckle, it would push the breast away with its tongue tip in visible distress. At such times, Osan took out a small paper-wrapped packet of red sugar from her sleeve and smeared it on her breast with her finger. The child suckled awhile until the sugar’s effect faded, then snuffled through its nose before letting the breast slip from its mouth to gaze up at the mother beggar’s face. The mother beggar’s eyes remained drowsily half-closed. The child’s face contorted—its small pink mouth gaping open—before finally bursting into tears.

Bunkichi liked peering in and watching this scene. It was unbearably cute. He loved watching up to the moment when the breast would dangle limply forward, the face twisting and the pink mouth beginning to open. But when the child began crying, he would panic. He would walk busily this way and that as if searching for something. He kept scratching both his sides. When he heard that voice, it became unbearable because a restless, prickling sensation would begin crawling up through his entire body.

When Bunkichi ate, he always seemed to experience two emotions. One was a feeling of vigilance, and the other was a vague sense of longing for human connection. Conversely, it could be said that without this duality, the act of eating would not linger in one’s heart. When he managed to obtain something delicious to eat, these emotions became all the more profound.

Even now, Bunkichi warily peered downstream toward Tagame through the tightly sealed makomo reed screen while glancing upstream at the mother-child beggars and finished his meal. He washed his eating utensils in the river water as the tide began to recede, tidied them away with practiced ease, then spread out a child’s napping tatami mosquito net—patched all over and of uncertain origin—before lying down on the thin-edged tatami mat. He had forgotten to extinguish the bean-sized lamp, so he started to crawl out of the mosquito net but stopped and went back inside. He wanted to keep the small lamplight visible toward the mother-child beggars at Magarikute for as long as possible. From the chimney of the brick factory on the opposite shore, smoke reflecting firelight could be seen. He said "Heave-ho" like an adult and lay down on his back.

I too lie down inside my handmade shelter a few ken upstream, without any light. The embankment suddenly appeared high. Rising early in the cool of the morning, I enter Sagicho and eat the leftover Buddha rice offerings in an unnoticed corner of Seikoji Temple’s grounds. Crack crack—gunshots echoed through the morning mist. The sun had not yet risen.

In the temple grounds of this town, a great number of herons had infested the famous trees, ravaging the rice fields beyond anyone's control. There had apparently been a dispute between the temple's head priest and local officials over whether to cull these herons, but ultimately the priest conceded after obtaining necessary approvals, agreeing to limit hunts to one hour at daybreak when few people would be disturbed. The task fell to Keiji from the new Hyakuse branch household, who wore tie-less shorts and wooden clogs as he wielded a double-barreled shotgun, firing relentlessly at the forest-like crown of an ancient tree.

The trunk at the base of the giant tree was a colossal thing measuring six arm spans around, its bark marred by rough, cracked fissures yet studded here and there with knobs resembling a camel’s knees. Because its leaves resembled those of a chestnut tree, some called it a monster chestnut tree, while others claimed it must be an aged hazel tree. When tapped, it produced a hollow, empty sound, lacking the mystique to warrant a sacred shimenawa rope. From a point higher than the temple’s main hall roof, its branches and leaves abruptly thickened into a shape resembling a frayed old broom, tilting slightly southward.

Keiji pulled one of the double-barreled shotgun's triggers and let the muzzle bark *Bang*. From the forest-like treetops, thirty or forty herons burst into the morning mist. As they flapped in panicked circles through the canopy airspace without yet returning to their perch, he pulled the remaining trigger and fired another *bang*. Typically one or two birds would drop. "Odd," came Hanada's voice through tobacco smoke. "With that many bursting out, you'd think spraying shots randomly would hit something. Yet you still need precise aim after all."

The beggar Hanada (Glasses) sat perched on one of the giant tree’s roots, smoking tobacco as he watched, when he made this remark. “It’s truly strange.” “When they cluster together like that in flight, you’d think aiming roughly at the mass would work—but it never hits.” “Yet if you properly aim at a single bird, you might actually hit others besides your target.” Keiji responded while reloading shells into the shotgun. “It seems their flight paths appear scattered, but there might be a fixed probability between individual birds.” “So if you just fire shots carelessly without aiming, they’ll slip through the gaps untouched.” “But aim at one bird—others at matching distances might get hit too. That’s the idea, I suppose.”

“For that, we need to investigate not just how the birds fly but also how it relates to the spread pattern of the shotgun pellets.” “Anyway, if you get greedy trying to take many at once, you’ll rarely hit any. But when you intend to work diligently one by one, there might be unexpected catches.” “This could almost be some kind of life lesson, couldn’t it?” Keiji rested the butt of his shotgun on the tip of his right shoe and laughed. “Exactly.” Hanada (Glasses) also laughed. “That’s a crow! A crow—” Hanada stood up and pointed at the sky. The morning’s cloudy sky, glimpsed by the dawn, brightened into a somewhat lemon-like hue. From the other side of the temple's main hall roof ridge, a crow abruptly stepped over, hopped up onto the roof ridge again, and began walking in this bird's distinctive manner as if measuring the ridge’s span.

“Oh! The cheeky thing.” “Did that bastard come back thinking our shooting time was up? — Keiji, I’m begging you, take the shot.” “That bastard! That bastard—” “I could shoot it for you, but are you sure?” “Is that crow even edible?” “It’s safe—definitely a mountain crow.” “Its beak is delicate, and its feathers shine with a purple hue.”

Keiji coordinated with Hanada, had Hanada throw a branch onto the roof, and prepared to shoot as the crow took flight. Keiji, having previously been asked by Hanada to shoot a crow on the roof—only to damage the roof tiles with bullets and get thoroughly scolded by the temple—now imparted his wisdom to Hanada. As Hanada raised the branch and was about to throw it, another crow glided down from somewhere in the sky and let out a single cry: “Caw!” Then, the crow on the roof caught sight of its figure, leaped up, and gave chase. A gunshot rang out. The fallen crow did not seem to have sustained a fatal wound and, mustering fierce leg strength, fled through the temple grounds. Hanada threw away the branch and desperately gave chase. He circled around Kokuzo Hall, stumbled into a pine tree, jumped into a leaf-disposal trench, threw his coat over it, and finally pinned it down.

“Damn thing, making me work for it!” The comical sight of his appearance—I couldn’t help but laugh. “Who’s laughing?” Hanada glanced briefly in my direction but, upon saying “Clueless Ocho,” became absorbed in his own affairs once more. Having apparently twisted its neck while pinning it down, by the time he brought it to Keiji, the crow had closed its eyes and hung its head. Keiji, who had been watching Hanada chase the crow while holding his stomach and laughing heartily, wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with his thumb and said.

“The way you chase things is dead serious. You show a level of speed you don’t normally have.”

“Don’t mock me.” “It’s all I want—to eat.” “When a beggar’s after food, anyone’d get fierce, don’t you think?” As Hanada stroked the purplish wing downward, Keiji rested his hand on it,

“Is this really that good?” “You never fail to show your eccentricities.” “You’re the sort who can’t feel any desire unless even your appetite’s tied to worthless things, aren’t you?” he said. Hanada replied, “No—this is different.” “I lived in Ueda, Shinshu, for years.” “There’s a place there that serves Uden-gaku as their specialty.” “It was cheap, so I went often and developed a taste.” “This faintly ashy aroma—it’s indescribable,” he explained.

“There you go—liking that ashy smell just proves your taste for worthless things.”

At the temple, the six o'clock drum began to sound. After Keiji had Hanada help him carry the heron they shot down to the temple kitchen for burial, the two exited Seikoji Temple's gate. I too, having no particular purpose, followed them out afterward. To the left stood a bathhouse where an attendant swept the entrance. The bathhouse attendant showed no suspicion—the whole town knew Shin Hyakuse's son associated with Hanada the beggar—and simply offered Keiji a morning greeting. Across the highway rose the town office with its slight front setback and lattice-patterned glass windows lining the facade.

“Last night was so stifling I couldn’t sleep at all.” The town office caretaker Kin-san sat on the stone steps before the morning glory pots he had watered. To the left, about one and a half *chō* ahead, the modern bridge piers of Tana River Bridge glistened in the morning sun. The rear figures of vegetable-laden carts bound for Tokyo from the village clustered together as they departed. This highway—once a side road of the ancient Kamakura Kaido—had undoubtedly been built up with earth many times over. From its pale brown central roadway arched like a gentle hump, the surface sloped toward residential plots on either side, fading into mouse-gray through a gradation Keiji often remarked carried history’s indelible scent. Keiji, who in the city had repeatedly thrown himself forward only to crash headlong, must have returned home to let this very odor soothe his forcibly agitated heart.

South of the town office, about one and a half *chō* away, merchant houses intermingled with farmhouses lined the street. Among them stood a tailor shop displaying a sign that read, "Work clothes for fieldwork made here." Then at the town's center came into view the imposing gate structure of the Hyakuse residence. Beyond its carriage turnaround with cycads and trimmed pines stood Shin Hyakuse's shop—a merchant-style building where an apprentice now hung the noren curtain. On their way there, the two spotted a beggar who had abruptly emerged from a side alley. Passing by Keiji and Hanada, he swiftly plucked items from the road surface with large bamboo tweezers and tossed them into the basket on his back. A hand towel covered his cheeks beneath a straw hat, while his old marked haori hung loosely—the excess fabric below his waist wrapped around his hips like a soiled Indian's loincloth, passed from crotch to front and tucked at his stomach. He lumbered off as though ignoring their presence entirely. Hanada called out to stop him.

“Tanba, don’t start working so early.” The man tilted his head slightly, then leaned his shoulder toward the two like a paper kite with a torn tail tilting toward a tree. He had a large pale face, his forehead etched with numerous worry lines as neat as ruled guidelines. Having clearly heard Hanada’s words, he responded amiably: “Ah, gotta work. Gotta work,” he said. Then he patted Hanada’s shoulder with womanly suppleness and walked away.

When Keiji noticed, before he knew it, another man—a hunched figure—had emerged onto the highway, also dressed as a scavenger, and began scavenging along the right side of the road. "Hey, Setokan."

Even when Hanada called out, he pretended not to hear and briskly walked away. The reason he seemed to occasionally steal glances toward Tanba—as if trying not to fall behind—was that the two had divided their workplace between the road's left and right sides while scavenging. If unwatched, their territorial rights were easily violated. That's why they proceeded side by side like that, Hanada explained to Keiji. After handing the gun to the shop boy and chatting briefly with Hanada again, Keiji noticed Bunkichi approaching from the bridge's direction. When Keiji said, "Another one of your comrades has come," Hanada made a bitter face and...

“He’s one of those early-rising beggars.” “Lately he’s been coming to the elementary school for group calisthenics,” said Hanada. Hanada disliked Bunkichi. He usually said he was the sort of person who somehow sapped people’s willpower. “When I walk with you, beggars always seem to catch my eye,” Keiji said with a laugh. Hanada finally smiled and— “You’ve had your horizons expanded to the stratum below vagrants too—all thanks to me.” With that, he walked off toward the small bridge on the town’s outskirts where he lived.

It was probably around the time Keiji was eating breakfast. From the direction of the elementary school, the sound of a piano mingled with calisthenics calls could be heard. From the beginning of summer, through discussions between the town’s education committee members and elementary school teachers, it was decided that early-morning health exercises would be conducted in the schoolyard. Students were required to attend without exception, and townspeople—adults included—were also encouraged to participate. The Tana River, flowing out from the Chichibu mountains and into Tokyo Bay, diverges early from mountainous terrain in its upper reaches and winds southeast through the Musashi-Sagami Plain, causing the area around Heron Town to exhibit diverse topographical features and geological formations.

For about one *ri* upstream from the town, the river still retained the character of a mountain stream; the flow roared over rapids, and the riverbed was entirely covered with gravel. In the evening, evening primroses bloomed faintly there, and ayu could be caught. Downstream from Sagi Town, the river had fully taken on the form of a lowland waterway; the waters stagnated, the banks clung with mud and sand, and among the sparse reeds, reed warblers sang. It was now the season when ayu could no longer be caught, and there were crucian carp and Japanese dace. For the next one and a half *ri* downstream, reed beds spread increasingly wide and thick. On windy days, the brown water churned with soap-like foam bubbles, giving the river near the sea its distinctive appearance.

The mountainous region upstream, having once drawn away from the river, ran parallel to it as if watching over the waters while gradually spreading its foothills, turning its orientation toward central Sagami and lowering in elevation. The ridge of this vast mountain range was said to be formed by a geological stratum called the Kobotoke layer. And the diluvial layer between that ridge and the alluvial layer of the river basin formed a stretch of wrinkled hills. This geological formation extended across the Tana River to form an elevated plateau. These hills were mixed forests abundant with pine trees, and the locals called their intricate undulations Kujukudani and such.

The mountain ridge of the Kobotoke layer extended its rugged skeletal formations into clusters of hills here and there, yearning toward the river, but it amounted to nothing remarkable. However, near Sagi Town, this became slightly more pronounced, stretching the rock layer like a single tentacle of an oceanic plate that pierced through the hilly belt and reached the riverbed downstream. Curiously, part of the Mesozoic layer's rock composition could be observed on surfaces washed by those waters. In that fault lay shale in which Hanada—known as the scholar-beggar—held particular interest.

Born in Echigo—a region notorious for tsutsugamushi disease—and having received his middle school education in Niigata, the precocious Hanada learned to indulge in the pleasure quarters during his studies. Even after graduating, he lingered for seven or eight years in this cultured city, racing through all manner of decadent hobbies. By his late twenties, he had immersed himself in geriatric pursuits ranging from tea ceremony and Noh chanting to calligraphy, painting, and antiques. Among these, stone appreciation (suiseki) became his final decadent pursuit; in XX Town, he built a hermitage-style house, arranged garden stones worth a fortune, and hung a sign at the gate reading “Viewing Permitted” to complete the effect. In his hometown village remained an older brother, but this brother surpassed even Hanada in profligacy, taking whatever household items he could find and using them extravagantly. Hanada’s decadent pursuits and rebellious determination to prevent his brother from single-handedly depleting the family’s possessions coexisted; but by the time he grew weary of hedonism, resolved to reform himself, and left Niigata to enroll at Matsumoto Agricultural School, both his hermitage-style house and belongings had nearly all passed into others’ hands.

While the elder brother, with his flamboyant disposition, remained content working menial jobs at racetracks to sustain himself even after similarly depleting the family fortune, the younger brother Hanada withdrew into himself, gravitating toward increasingly austere pursuits. Even during his agricultural school days, he had developed an interest in soil and stones. After barely graduating, he traversed the Shinano River basin, ventured into the Kōbushin mountains, and spent about ten aimless years before meandering from the depths of Chichibu along the Tana River basin. By the time he reached Sagi Town, he reportedly discovered himself living fully as a beggar and gave a wry smile. He did not speak much about his life in the mountains. He often said things like this.

“No—if you want to talk about something being arduous, there’s nothing more back-breaking than crossing that line from vagrant to beggar.”

With that, he would only give a wry smile. He had established and lived in what his companions called a *suburi* beggar hut by a small bridge on the southwestern outskirts of town, directly opposite the Tana riverside where my hut stood. It was conveniently located by the stream flowing from the fields into the Tana River for cooking purposes. Next to Hanada’s hut stood another *suburi* hut. The Tomi family—beggars specializing in collecting the town’s kitchen waste—lived there. It was said that Hanada had gotten into a major fight with Tomi and another man—Tora from Tatsumi Nagaya—over Osan from Magarikute, though he usually got along well with Tomi. Tomi was a beggar from his parents' generation, and there was something deeply rooted in his manner of begging. Hanada probably respected that aspect. Tomi had one of his many wives and supported one child from a previous wife. When Hanada peered in, the wife was sleeping against the wall in nothing but her undergarment. When he asked the thirteen-year-old girl, "Where's your father?" she replied, "He went to get something from the wake."

I had nothing to do from breakfast until lunchtime. Retracing my steps through the town in the opposite direction, I came to the grassy embankment along the Tana River and wandered aimlessly.

It was a clear morning, incongruous for a year that had seen so much rain. The blue of the clear azure sky was being stripped away layer by layer, as if exposing raw scorching metal beneath. While mirroring the sky's shifting colors, the river swelled its waters vigorously. In every copse of trees, cicadas cried out so valiantly they seemed to crease the air like crinkled crepe. From within dazzling reed beds, warblers raised skin-piercing calls as they darted briskly through the stalks. All clouds hung thickly from Ōyama's range to Chichibu's peaks as if swept toward that horizon. Yet above them stretched mountain ridges blue enough to sting the eyes.

Oshu from the fishing boat inn, due to the nature of her trade, opened the doors early, tidied the shopfront, purchased a small amount of shark-fishing bait such as ragworms and crucian carp-fishing bait such as earthworms from the bait vendor who came around at the appointed time, and then read the morning paper at the storefront.

When I said “Good morning,” Oshu replied “Clueless Chatterbox. Still early as ever, aren’t you?” Just then a regular crucian carp-fishing customer appeared, so she handed over the rod she’d been keeping for him, placed the bait and tea-tobacco tray into the boat, and sent him off.

Oshu seemed to suddenly recall the motorboat that had ultimately not returned the previous evening and began examining last night’s passenger register. I also peered in. Since I was regarded in this place as nothing more than a clueless beggar—neither harmful nor beneficial—Oshu, not even thinking of me as much as a fly, said, “Can you even read?” and let me do as I pleased. The male passenger’s surname was Nagamatsu, and the one presumed to be his daughter was listed as Sachiko. His occupation was listed as company employee. If it had been a fare evasion, they wouldn’t have bothered to write their real names—Oshu had likely just glanced at it as a precaution. This morning as well, she still couldn’t bring herself to think they were suicide pact passengers. Oshu seemed to have resolved in her mind that she would wait another hour or two, and if there was still no news, report it to the police—she closed the register—but her subsequent expression showed she didn't particularly regret losing the boat, nor did she seem overly concerned about what might happen to the passengers.

Rather than that, she seemed to harbor vague anxieties about how to manage her life going forward while supporting her mother. When her father had been alive during prosperous times, she had attended girls' high school as the daughter of a fishing boat proprietor, but now this education had become an impediment to marriage. The sons of the town's middle class—middle school graduates becoming family heirs—sought brides with girls' high school credentials, yet hesitated to marry the daughter of a client-dependent fishing boat business. Oshu sometimes resolved she didn't care if it meant marrying a factory worker or farmer—she wanted to wed quickly and escape the hardship of single-handedly managing a household—but men from such families found her girls' high school diploma oddly restrictive and refused to even discuss proposals. Moreover, her mother's presence proved unexpectedly burdensome. "As long as we keep the boat and you marry locally," Mother would say, "I've only got seven or eight—maybe ten years left." "You'll be living among fishermen—marry without reservations," she encouraged, but being elderly nonetheless required constant care. Even promising marriage arrangements on the verge of settlement faltered when these conditions arose—while prospective grooms might readily consent, family elders foresaw future troubles and raised objections. Mother absolutely opposed taking in a live-in son-in-law. In Mother's family home, a man had married into her elder sister, leaving Mother—the remaining daughter—cast out.

“I might not know just how much easier it would be to resign myself to cleanly handing you over to someone else than being driven out by you and your husband.” Mother often said things like this.

The ones who came insisting they absolutely wanted to take Oshu into their households—fully aware of the attached conditions—were the chief priest of Seikō Temple and the deputy mayor of the town office. Both were undoubtedly members of the town’s intellectual class, but they were middle-aged men who also had children from deceased former wives. Every time such topics arose,

“There really is something about me that smacks of being a stepmother, isn’t there?” Oshu told her mother this with a face that was part tears, part smile. Mother uttered “Hmm” and fell silent. While sinking into profound sadness, Oshu also seemed to feel a surge of youthful vigor welling up within her, as if something intriguing awaited her ahead. If she surrendered to that mood, each passing moment didn’t seem quite so painful. Though outwardly she maintained her reputation as the amiable daughter of the boat rental business, well-regarded among townspeople and regular customers, deep down she knew none would ever become truly close to her. Having grown accustomed to guarding her solitude, she had learned ways to console her loneliness alone. At times, while scraping scum from the shore boats, she would suddenly feel like fishing, take out a customer’s stored rod, moor her boat beneath Nagato’s Bishamon Hall, and try catching crucian carp. Saying I was a clean beggar, she sometimes took me along on the boat. What brought her the greatest joy was calling over the beggar Bunkichi and explaining the photo sections of the newspaper’s children’s pages to him. Oshu said she felt relieved when looking at Bunkichi.

Around eight o'clock, another fisherman who had rented a boat arrived. Oshu went out to the pier and was preparing the boat when the sound of an engine echoed from downstream. When she thought "Oh?" and looked, yesterday's motorboat had returned. However, the operator was different. He was a young, robust man. The man skillfully docked the boat at the pier, came up, and said: "Mr. Nagamatsu went up to Isogo last night and checked into a ryokan there. Since he found it too troublesome to return, he asked me to take his place and bring back the boat for you." "Delaying the return must have caused you some trouble." "He told me to say he's sorry."

The man handed Oshu the overtime fee he had tucked into his woolen belly band. Oshu served the man bitter tea and such, entertaining him for a while. The man said he supervised the ryokan’s rental boats. As Oshu asked, “Well, the ryokan in that area isn’t doing poorly this summer either.” “Quite a lot of customers come.” he said. The man’s words made Oshu realize how surprisingly vast the world was. And regarding yesterday’s passengers,

“They’re not parent and child.” “That girl—despite how she looks—is Mr. Nagamatsu’s second wife.” “Ah, despite how she looks, she’s twenty-eight.” Oshu’s heart inexplicably skipped a beat when informed that this concubine’s age matched her own twenty-eight years. Even after the man had left—having said he would return by land transport—that restless feeling seemed to linger in her chest. For a girl in my circumstances seeking livelihood, becoming a concubine might be one possible path. It must have been because those latent thoughts—ones too painful to consciously consider—had been forcibly exposed. Precisely because the words were spoken without ulterior motive, their aftertaste turned sour like being shown an ill-omened divination hexagram. Thus resolved to distract herself with Bunkichi, she invited “Ocho, won’t you come too?” and began strolling along the embankment toward the bridge. At that moment, I suddenly recalled having seen Bunkichi heading toward the elementary school earlier, imagining him now doing morning exercises with students and townspeople on the school grounds—so I told Oshu,

“Bun-chan’s exercises—they’re so amusing. Let’s go see,” I invited Oshu. But she replied, “Well… but I prefer strolling along the embankment. If you want to go see, you can go alone.” Since she said this, I parted from Oshu and went to the elementary school, peering through the fence from outside.

Bunkichi was, as expected, doing exercises on the elementary school's sports ground. On the platform, a young gymnastics teacher demonstrated the movements in time with the radio calisthenics commands amplified from the staff room window. Starting with the youngest children and moving up through the grades to upperclassmen, then came the men and women of the youth group lined up in rows. The final row consisted entirely of adults, including school committee members participating as event organizers. Bunkichi stood two or three ken apart from the group, moving his limbs to match their rhythm. Though his motions mirrored theirs exactly, each movement sent his neck and waist flopping limply - his body as supple as an infant's.

The teacher who first noticed Bunkichi mimicking exercises outside the schoolyard fence, impressed by this, had proposed letting him join inside. The adults did not agree, but the youths supported the teacher’s proposal, and as there were various heated exchanges between the two factions—with some even vehemently arguing that beggars were also citizens—the adults finally gave their consent. On the first day, Bunkichi’s position was made to stand at the end of the first graders’ row. This was likely due to the judgment that his intelligence was below first-grade level. However, once the exercises began, his body went limp like an infant’s, making everyone laugh. Since this posed a problem, the next day they made him stand at the end of the group’s rear line, but afterward a young man next to him complained, “This is too much no matter how you look at it,” and in the end, they ended up making him stand a few steps outside.

When Bunkichi was made to stand at the very front—even among the children's rows—he looked pleased with himself. As a result, his neck went even limper. When moved back to the adults' row, his face suddenly turned sullen, and on that first day of standing in the isolated position completely separated from the group, he wore a twisted, tearful expression. He must have found it vexing to be excluded from the group's unity. However, he seemed to grow accustomed to this before long, and Bunkichi began eagerly taking his position every morning. This morning when the exercises ended, there was a notice from the town doctor about epidemic prevention, and the group was dismissed.

Bunkichi stood at the gates of various houses around town, following his daily morning routine. These were all households familiar to him, where rice and coins were kept prepared and given willingly to Bunkichi. When Bunkichi noticed my figure, “Hey, Clueless Ocho.” he called out. I once again pretended to finally notice and raised a dull gaze to look at Bunkichi. Bunkichi briskly came up before me, looked me up and down, shrunk his neck as if he found it utterly ridiculous, and let out a stifled laugh. Then, slowly and deliberately, he extended a single index finger as if offering it to a flea. When his fingertips reached my forehead,

“You’re such an idiot, for all your airs.”

and pressed his finger firmly into the center of my forehead. He had likely simply transferred onto me the manner in which he himself was habitually treated by others. While exaggerating the appearance of staggering from having my forehead pushed, I cast a sidelong glance—accompanied by a "That’s terrible"—at this idiot beggar in the prime of his development from adolescence to young adulthood. That was a rather seductive electric charge as well. Then Bunkichi, as if amusingly electrified, broke into a grin with a faint shudder and laughed mechanically—heh heh heh. The seductive electric charge I cast would, if directed at a man of ordinary disposition, seep deeper into his chest—there weighing on the scales of favor and disfavor, clinging back or scornfully rejected, at least leaving some psychological resonance—and in some cases, even sparking reciprocal desire through their gestures to elicit a response from me. But Bunkichi simply left it at that. Could it be that this electricity, beyond its mechanical effects, simply passed through his body and dissipated into the earth? When electricity is applied to the nerves of a dead frog in a girls' school physiology experiment, temporarily, the frog's limbs twitch as if alive. Yet just as removing the electricity returns the frog to its original silent state, the seductive electric charge of my cast sidelong glances mechanically affected his neuromuscular system while being directed at him—but when I ceased those glances, he simply reverted to being Bunkichi the unremarkable idiot. Was he a man without a heart, or had he left his heart behind on that vast earth when he was born?

After his hollow laughter faded, he reverted to being a lonely, vacant-faced ordinary boy, merely moving according to the single-minded compulsion of an idiot yearning to surpass someone.

“Stay close and follow me quietly. Don’t go wandering off!” He issued commands to me.

About two months ago, I moved from the vicinity of T-- Town upstream, where there was a red-light district, to this Heron Town downstream. It corresponded to what I had once heard from that old beggar. Was it the end of the year before last? That was still during my former life as an academy girl. I had gone to deliver year-end gifts to Ataka-sensei's residence and, finding her absent from her villa, entered the oak forest on the hill upstream from the academy where something like her hunting rifle's report echoed. Passing through, I was hailed by an old beggar in the riverside wilds. The small-statured, kindly beggar roasted sweet potatoes over a fire for me out of simple nostalgic kindness. He not only told me in detail about Ataka-sensei and Kuzuoka the gardener's whereabouts but also shared curious natural phenomena and stories of beggars' lives. Among these were accounts of riverside beggars sensing floods like wild animals and fleeing swiftly, or how those relocating would drift ever downstream with the current's pull, tumbling like spawning sweetfish. At the time, preoccupied with concerns about Ataka-sensei and Kuzuoka, these tales scarcely registered—yet now I realize they'd quietly seeped into my beggar nature, stubbornly remembered. Thus my own movements came to mirror them exactly. However I consider it, I've no intention of returning upstream henceforth. It chafes the spirit like stroking fur against the grain.

It was one evening about two months ago when I arrived in this area and was trudging across Tana River Bridge that I first encountered Bunkichi. He saw me—a novice beggar—disdained me as a woman, and abruptly raised his fist with a threat: “I’ll thrash you!” Having grown accustomed to such opponents and situations by then, I unhesitatingly put on a show of tears and kept crying out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

He panicked, circling around me like a frantic mouse—as though his blunder were an irreparable fire mishap—but when I quieted my protests, his relieved expression gave way to a derisive laugh. “What an idiot you are,” he said, peering into my face as he drew near. He placed his hands on his hips in an officious manner and interrogated me in detail—where I’d come from, what my name was, and such matters. Seemingly developing a peculiar fondness—the sort that deems someone worthy of guidance—in response to my foolish replies made through pretense, he said, “You’d better behave yourself. Come here,” then led me under his bridge dwelling and fed me there. From then on, he fully assumed the role of elder brother, fussing over me with repeated calls of “Ocho, Ocho,” even selecting a spot for my makeshift hut on the upstream embankment less than eighteen meters from his own bridge dwelling. He brought various building materials and helped construct my hut. For begging rounds, he took me along, shared his regular patrons, and among fellow beggars—despite his idiocy—took pains to mediate relations.

However, there were times when he lapsed into complete dementia. It seemed he had withdrawn entirely into himself, severing all connection with the outside world—while his own being grew hollow, that vast heart he'd left behind on the earth rose up to dominate him instead. He appeared both as a man in collapse and as some transcendent divine child. His form would look faintly desolate in the moment, yet when recalled later from a distance, it somehow evoked an unfathomable sense of fulfillment. At such times, even when I stood directly before his eyes, he'd either freeze like a stake or shift his body awkwardly to avoid me as one would a stranger, then pass by.

For my own respite, I too had feigned vagueness as much as possible, even making efforts to blur my tangible presence not just to others but to myself. Thus, despite such a relationship between Bunkichi and me, our interactions remained relatively unremarkable.

What, then, of my own state?

Ah, my extraordinary respite in life—physically dwelling in riverside soil, mentally passing through layered strata of mystery’s essence—has now brought me to wander morning and evening across the foundation of an utterly childlike heart, one that murmurs riddles like “Nazonazo nanii teru hi ni kasa: What’s the riddle? An umbrella on a sunny day.” Nothing strips away the scent and fragrance from living essence and dries things into chemical-smelling pressed specimens quite like explanation and commentary. However, a record of one’s mental history that lacks any handholds or footholds would also be meaningless. So perhaps I shall try to describe just one small thing that might serve as a starting thread for future recollections.

I probed the impermanence of all phenomena, contemplated the contradictions of human existence, and examined the weariness of life—sometimes burrowing deep within them, other times casting them aside entirely—all while intending to dwell my heart in mystery. Yet the teeth of some unknown quest ground ceaselessly through these factual matters day and night, regardless of my efforts to still them, their gnawing motion ultimately biting back into the very heart that observed mystery through their sharpened tips. And thus, before I knew it, I had arrived at the foundation of a single heart-field.

Ah, my deceased father’s entrusted life, my deceased mother’s entrusted life—and the burdened lives of Ataka-sensei, Ikegami, and Kuzuoka too, who bear their loads through this transient form veiled in mist—when these enter this heart-field, there exists neither hardship nor ease that distinguishes self from other. It is known as the torrential flow of an unrivaled and untamed great river coursing through heaven and earth—when distorted, straightening through its distortion; heartrending sorrows remaining sorrows; yet perhaps constituting breathless pleasure itself. Ah, the river within water—so full of grace—when I ply its course aboard a transcendent raft with an oar of shared life and death, drawing near, the currents of lives—my deceased father’s and others’ manifold streams—flow into my single thread of being; releasing, my solitary current dissolves into their countless flows.

“Riddle me this: What’s an umbrella doing on a sunny day?” This brief phrase toyed with by children’s lips—I had offhandedly picked it up from a roadside child in T-- Town as mere innocuous words, working them in my chest like chewing gum from dawn till dusk. But the more I gnawed, the deeper their essence plowed into my heart-field, dissolving and sinking me into restfulness akin to breathless, dense sleep even while remaining awake.

From the eternal past, it has questioned itself since time immemorial, and toward the eternal future, it continues questioning itself away—the mystery of heaven and earth, the mystery of human existence. Resolution and completion reside solely within human habit—they likely hold no existence beyond. Resolution and completion may be akin to humans stretching a carpenter’s ink line across their partial limitations. The history of humanity, which knows no ultimate end, seems to teach us this chain’s indistinctness—that incompletion marks completion’s beginning, and completion becomes incompletion’s starting point.

Humanity and nature repeat again and again contradictions akin to holding umbrellas on sunny days. Moreover, sunny days emerge, then empty umbrellas appear; sunny days emerge again, then empty umbrellas appear once more—they repeat this alternating game of tag. If one views this through fate's narrow lens as the impermanence of all phenomena, then it is precisely within that impermanence that lies the driving force for bold strides toward destiny's next horizon. Without the impermanence of all phenomena, how could there be the momentum to take the next step? The impermanence of all phenomena itself is nothing but the ornamentation of life’s beauties—flowers, birds, wind, and moon.

If we take this as a contradiction from the short measure called ideals, then this contradiction becomes a double-edged sword that cuts through rotten conventions and scrapes away fixed rust-moss. Why would one set out toward resolution and completion while fearing the unresolved and incomplete? Life—each time stirred, it flickers; each time stirred, it flickers—a lantern of life’s passing showers that belongs to no one. The rush wick was never meant to be thin or short from the beginning. The oil to be poured shall never run dry for all eternity. If one grows accustomed to the mystery of an empty umbrella on a sunny day, then the empty umbrella on a rainy day becomes an alluring yet uneasy mystery; and if one dwells for a time within the rainy day’s empty umbrella, here again one yearns to leap forth into the fresh mystery of a sunny day’s empty umbrella.

Though I prattle on with such pretentious wisdom, the true locus of my chattering life lies absurdly in a three-foot-deep pit of obscurity - even were I to brandish a naginata of enlightenment, its blade tip could never pierce reality's battlefield, becoming but a shadow-Benkei lurking behind shields. From a resting place quieter than breath toward vibrant reality, such commentaries retained elements still unripe in their essence, leaving regret that their digestion never reached completion. To attempt to apply intuitively grasped truths - those confined within subjectivity's realm - to objective phenomena reeked of presumption. For this reason, I resolved not yet to bridle my surroundings' impressions with subjectivity's reins. I would lay myself prostrate in enlightenment-attained mystery's realm, awaiting nature's ripening for harmony with the external world.

Yet youth—adolescence—this maiden—even while lying prostrate in the land of mystery—the more I lay there, the more my inner being flushed with pale plum-blossom hues, and the seductive electricity I generated could not help but yearn to rush toward the opposite sex. Yet I could not bring myself to shock some unwary soul with this current. That backlash would surely strip away my temporary beggar’s mask and render this hard-won respite void. Only Bunkichi remained vague and boundless as the earth itself—the electricity I emitted caused neither pain nor repulsion, like a needle sinking into tatami. Thus I attempted coquettish glances solely at him. I discharged the electricity within. I resolved to at least squander my youth.

Having passed through the influence of my coquettish glances and reverted to his usual self, Bunkichi— “You stick close to me!” —began striding proudly. I too abruptly reverted to my former self as a woman beggar. To my eyes, both the houses and roads of Heron Town now sizzled under the midsummer morning sun’s light, as if deep-fried in oil. Bunkichi led me along as he made his rounds of the gates, then entered the main gate of the Hyakuse family’s estate. At the shrubbery border, I caught a fleeting glimpse of Osan—the child-toting beggar—entering through the main entrance with its carriage turnaround. The kitchen lay beyond a small gate to the right, but we avoided that path, instead arriving at the left fence’s wicket gate where only Bunkichi opened it and slipped into the garden. When guests were absent, I would see the elderly master—paralyzed on one side—lying on a chaise lounge with vacant eyes. To Bunkichi, this old man remained perpetually unfathomable. He mumbled incoherently through slack lips yet somehow maintained an air of authority; his elderly wife would treat him like a child, alternately soothing and coaxing him—though perhaps this stemmed from his white-haired visage still sporting a stately beard that defied infantilization.

When he caught sight of Bunkichi, the old man’s nervous eyes gleamed sharply as he glared, but his expression immediately softened into a smile, “Bunchika, you came!” Then, using his functional left hand to ring the bell and summon his elderly wife, he stubbornly fussed over Bunkichi, demanding they feed him this and that. The elderly wife was a large-framed and robust old woman. She let most matters slide without letting them get to her nerves, but knowing that Bunkichi wouldn’t eat any rice dishes unless they were home-cooked, she soon brought him a heaping pile of sweets cradled in both hands.

Bunkichi would share a few sweets with me waiting outside the wicket gate, but he devoured nearly all of them right there on the spot. The old man, who had been watching this with apparent delight, demanded that Bunkichi show his arms or bare his shoulders once he finished eating. Once that was done, he next ordered him to perform clay pounding—to mimic levee construction. I peered through the wicket gate, thinking the old man’s teasing of Bunkichi had begun again.

Bunkichi said, “I’m tired of this,” yet somehow seemed to feel bad refusing. Lightly rising to his feet, he pounded the earth firm, assumed a posture supporting a stick with one hand, swayed his body to keep rhythm, and sang the clay-pounding song. O monk, The mountain path, The okesa chafes oh, Ho! His voice held a slight rasp, yet quivered here and there like aspidistra leaf edges—warm yet lonesome. The old man listened with fixed stare, large tears rolling from his eyes. Through this song familiar since childhood, memories seemed to stir in the old man’s heart—of the fervor he’d likely devoted all his life to this town’s growth.

Then Bunkichi shouted “Heave-ho!” as he pretended to strike the embankment soil with a stick, interjected with “Hoi! Hoi!” From aged eyes tears steadily trickled down. No matter how long he repeated it, the old man did not tell him to stop. Bunkichi became drenched in sweat and said, “I can’t do this anymore.” All the while, the elderly wife wore glasses and sprayed kimonos with mist as she folded them, but from time to time pursed her lips and gazed at the two through her lenses. Yet she showed no particular reaction. Only rarely would she open her mouth wide, laugh in a carefree manner, and say something like “What foolishness.”

When Bunkichi started to leave, the old man raised his functional hand and wagged his index finger, “Bunchi, are you going to the new branch house?” “Then tell Old Badger that I’m hale and hearty.” “Got that?”

Needless to say, Bunkichi hurried me along to Hyakuse’s new branch shop with the very steps that had left the main house.

Here in the inner parlor too, an old man lay ill. To Bunkichi, this somehow seemed to form a matching set with the main house, which struck him as novel.

Having synthesized people’s accounts and supplemented them with my own observations, the relationship between the main house and new branch house is roughly as follows. After the upheaval of the Meiji Restoration, several people who had lost their stipends or occupations in Edo drifted into this town, among whom was one blind man. He was accompanied by a child named Tadaichi. Though called blind, he could faintly discern human figures, so the previous head of the Hyakuse main family had him work as keeper of Tana River Bridge and collect tolls. Being financially astute, this blind man would gather bridge tolls from morning until evening, and during the seven or eight hours before submitting them to the municipal office, lent money to those in urgent need while collecting interest. Through other such nimble dealings, he amassed small sums of money.

The previous head of the Hyakuse main family, for reasons unknown, became intensely preoccupied with this blind man—not only shielding him from disrepute but arranging his marriage to a woman who had served as wet nurse to one of their children and remained in the household after weaning, then having him set up a small general store across from the main estate. He even granted them the Hyakuse surname to formalize kinship ties. This stemmed from the blind man's unyielding stubborn pride. The former family head would frequently play Go and Shogi with him. Whenever defeated, the blind man would contort his face into an expression of bitter frustration, forcing it into a twisted smile,

“Because I owe the Master so many favors, I can’t bring myself to openly oppose him.” “If I weren’t holding back out of deference, I could do anything.” And with that, he would challenge him to another match. He would lose again. He would say the same thing again. He never admitted defeat. To the previous head of the main house, the blind man’s distorted face with upturned whites of his eyes in such moments—suddenly reeking of oil and becoming unbearable to look upon—simultaneously struck him with a rawness he had never before witnessed in this world. And he became filled with the desire to somehow crush this blind man’s rebellious spirit and make him bow his head to him in genuine submission.

This was true not merely of amusements like Go and Shogi—no sincere gratitude could ever be drawn from this blind man toward any kindness shown him. Moreover, these successive favors—arranging his marriage to the wet nurse, establishing shops for him, absorbing him into the family—amounted to nothing beyond the previous head’s escalating desperation to crush this man’s wretched independence. The blind man assumed an air of reluctant compliance—“Well, if the Master insists...”—yet ultimately accepted their patronage. Once granted a shop, his household began amassing wealth with startling speed.

The blind man’s stepchild Tadaichi and the main family’s only son Yataro were, so to speak, foster brothers. Both attended terakoya-style elementary schools at that time and followed roughly the same educational course. After graduating elementary school, Yataro assumed duties akin to those of a town postmaster while still young. Tadaichi assisted clerks at the municipal office. Using this as their starting point in public service, the two devoted themselves to the town. When Yataro became village mayor, Tadaichi served as deputy mayor, and together they elevated Heron Town—nominally a town but still under village administration—to full-fledged town governance.

In such movements, Yataro required various funds. Yataro also became involved with local political parties. The main Hyakuse family’s assets consisted primarily of land and real estate, so their properties were successively mortgaged off. At first, deeming it unsightly, they requested loans from the well-established O family in upstream F Town. However, even the O family, who held goodwill, could not take on so much distant land. Finally, Yataro openly devised a plan to convert all his land holdings into cash through every possible channel.

This was an era when cultivators were few and new taxes were being imposed—a time when even in the farmlands near Tokyo, there emerged cases where land was given away for free with just a sho of sake attached. Thus, Yataro’s calculations proved arduous. Meanwhile, Tadaichi developed his side business as a moneylender into a financial institution’s office and had even established a small local bank. Tadaichi was an honest man who drank no alcohol, smoked no tobacco, and worked single-mindedly. From time to time, he would complain, "A man without any hobbies like me is completely missing out." He held Yataro in high esteem. He gazed admiringly at Yataro’s gallant nature—undaunted by failure, ever brimming with fresh hopes. He was quick-witted even in leisure; he praised his magnanimous behavior at banquets and such to no end.

Yataro finally approached Tadaichi and began asking him to take over his fields and provide him with loans. Even then, “I’ll handle the financial matters, but there’s no need to go sending over fields like we’re strangers—” Tadaichi would refuse, but Yataro—eager to demonstrate his generosity—insisted on writing far more fields into the deed than their collateral value warranted. After such incidents occurred two or three times, the Hyakuse family was ultimately compelled to liquidate their assets. The final fatal blow was the Tana River Bridge reconstruction project. The reorganization took over two years, but as the saying goes, “old rivers never run dry”—the residence and just enough to live on remained, along with a single rocky mountain on a downstream ridge. This was all well and good, but even the ever-vigorous Yataro appeared to have suffered greatly, and combined with the toll of years of heavy drinking, he had succumbed to paralysis.

Meanwhile, Tadaichi too experienced an unexpected turning point in his life.

Suddenly, there was a middle-aged woman who had drifted into this town. Relying on a slight connection, she stayed at a watermill by the mountain stream flowing along the base of a rocky ridge. Some said her past had been as a hostess in Kofu; others whispered she had once been a prostitute. She was a woman of elusive character. She would appear in the rice fields wearing a hand towel tied in an older-sister-style headscarf with her obi loosely fastened, picking bush clover and catching locusts. At times she helped out at the town’s banquet gatherings and told crude jokes.

Before anyone knew it, Tadaichi had become involved with her. From Tadaichi’s perspective—having lamented a lifetime of losses as a man without hobbies who neither drank nor smoked but simply worked—he may have intended to recoup it all at once here. Tadaichi had three sons. His eldest, Shigeshi, following Tadaichi’s ways, graduated elementary school and began by assisting clerks at the municipal office, gradually gaining practical experience in public service until swiftly rising to become deputy mayor. Despite his youth, he had become involved with political parties and taken on the form of a local political boss. Lawsuits were constantly arising. Shigeshi was short in stature but had broad shoulders, a sensitive nature, and a thick belly.

The social influence of Old Man Yataro from the main house was beginning to shift to the eldest son of the new branch family. The second son, Keiji, was a pseudo-intellectual young man who mainly resided in Tokyo and had embarked on a scholastic path. The third son, Jōshi, while possessing something like an extraordinary quality within his ordinariness, was an innocent child who delighted in joining the village farmers’ children to play.

In reality, everything had entered Shigeshi's era. In his old age, the money Tadaichi spent on women left no real mark on the Shin Hyakuse family's standing, and those around him came to feel a peculiar fondness for him—scornfully yet finding some human quality in how even that upright Tadaichi could engage in such deeds.

Tadaichi followed the woman’s instructions to open a small restaurant in a bustling district on Tokyo’s outskirts and negotiated taking over a vacant house in F Town’s red-light district. Before long, he fell ill. Though the nature of his illness remained unclear, his legs and hips became disabled. Town rumors claimed he had contracted a bad disease from the woman. Tadaichi visited doctors and hot springs, but his legs and hips remained stiffly disabled; meanwhile, the woman sold off the restaurant as a going concern and eloped with the chef.

Tadaichi came to lie with his disabled body in Shin Hyakuse’s inner parlor. Old Man Yataro had come to hold a vague resentment toward Tadaichi from around the time Tadaichi began his womanizing. He now thought that Tadaichi, whom he had trusted since childhood, was merely a raccoon dog wearing a mask—finally revealing its true form. He felt as though he had been stripped of the superiority he had maintained by always mocking Tadaichi’s dutifulness and lack of refinement—those very qualities he had made objects of contempt. He had become an outcast. He thought that Tadaichi’s nature—that foolishly honest worship which had once made Yataro alone his hero—had surely vanished by now.

The other reason, ultimately, was jealousy toward the shifting balance of power. Even mountain forests and rice fields whose assets had been reorganized and temporarily fallen into others’ hands—due to regional circumstances—ended up having to descend to the Shin Hyakuse household, which possessed both economic power and various socially convenient channels. If one were to view this resentfully, it could only seem as though the new branch family had secretly manipulated society and spitefully brought everything into their own household. Bunkichi entered through the side gate of Shin Hyakuse’s shop, where many carts were parked. It was a small plaza surrounded by three or four storehouses, where store clerks and loaders were unpacking crates of sundries. Even when called out to, Bunkichi ignored them and proceeded further inside. After making me crouch at the base of the paulownia tree by the wellside, he proceeded to crawl along the edge of the inner parlor. In this inner parlor facing the garden lay the bedridden old retiree Tadaichi. His stout, stocky body bore a faded reddish-brown hue, and from the neck up, he appeared facing toward the hemp futon.

Bunkichi said, “Oh, you’re lying here too,” uttering an observation befitting his simple-mindedness about the strangeness of two immobile old men—separated only by a road—lying bedridden in the inner parlors of rival households. As he turned toward Bunkichi in a flustered attempt to sit up, the old man cried out, “Oh, owwww,” and lowered his body back down. His bloodshot, bulging eyes darted about nervously. “Bunkō? What did you come here for?” he said. Bunkichi said innocently, “I came to see you lying here.”

“Idiot! You shouldn’t come to see someone lying down like this!” Tadaichi scolded him, but more than that, his desire to hear news of the main family through Bunkichi must have prevailed. He called Bunkichi over to the edge of the veranda and, in a whisper inaudible to the household,

“How’s the old man of the main house doing?” he asked. Bunkichi haltingly recounted how he’d been made to mimic clay-pounding and such. Urging him on with “And then? And then?” while trying to discern the main family’s elderly master’s state of mind through Bunkichi’s account, Tadaichi finally heard Bunkichi— “The old man of the main house says, ‘You’re healthy on this side, so you won’t die anytime soon.’” “He told me to say that to the raccoon-dog old man.”

Upon hearing this, Tadaichi exhaled as if all strength had left him. "So Old Man Yataro really can’t stand hating me, huh?" "So he’s trying not to show any weakness, huh?" "I don’t recall doing anything wrong to the main house, though…" he muttered. "I don’t know why, but he called you a raccoon-dog old man." Bunkichi said amusingly. The veins in Tadaichi’s face swelled up.

“If you’re going to be like that, then I’ll be like this!”

he said and let out another sigh. This was a statement of defiance against what appeared to be the main household’s baseless hatred—a sentiment shared by all members of the Shin Hyakuse household except Keiji. “Next time you go to the main household, go tell the old man: ‘The Shin Hyakuse raccoon-dog old man is still going strong.’” “‘I’ll die before that main household’s old man? Not a chance!’” Bunkichi, having apparently grown tired of watching the old retiree, casually said “Goodbye” and drifted away. It seems he forgot to bring me this time, and I had been left behind.

I returned alone to the riverside and entered my subri hut. Bathed in sunlight, the summer grass began emitting a pungent, awakening scent that I spent time inhaling.

Oshu came searching for Bunkichi under the bridge. However, Bunkichi was not there, and the vivid morning sunlight streamed into this beggar’s uniquely compact and neatly kept dwelling. Oshu said, “Oh—was that so?” Oshu made a peculiar expression—though she knew full well that this was the time Bunkichi would be out in town collecting alms, rather than chiding herself for being slow to realize it, she seemed to think she was in some altered psychological state.

Next, Oshu realized that when she wasn’t thinking such thoughts, she held little interest in Bunkichi’s existence, yet whenever she felt compelled to seek him out, he always seemed to be there. Now she stood vacantly, as if contemplating whether this was her own caprice or if Bunkichi simply possessed such a nature. All around, the thick heat of summer grass rose up, and the leaves that had clung together with dew sprang apart with a snap. The sound of insects hidden at the base of the thicket could be heard. The new straw matting, bathed in the midday sun, emitted a somehow familiar heat haze. Oshu sat cross-legged on the straw matting and squinted as she surveyed the river’s surface upstream. Due to the high tide, the large sandbar was hidden from view. The oil-colored water, spread out across a vast expanse and slightly lowered, flowed quietly downstream. Its majestic flow appeared almost like that of a great river. Yet just ten chō upstream, this same river became a rocky stream crowded with stone riverbeds—as if one had entered some mountain country—which I found oddly amusing. Separate from Oshu, I observed this from within the subri hut. On the opposite bank, a blue embankment laid over reeds came into view, while the clustered backs of Yoden Town’s houses, jumbled at the bridge approach, peeked in dense clusters over the embankment. Then upstream, the houses grew sparse, and suddenly a brick kiln with a tall chimney came into view at an angle. Near that embankment, bricks and roof tiles were piled high, and from its shore, a jetty extended into the river, shining white. Carp fishers were lowering thick rods. What a commonplace yet serene landscape this was. Yet this very ordinariness had soaked so deeply into my being—what an inescapable landscape it had become now.

I recalled that even this Heron Town, which lay behind the ordinary scenery I had gathered from people's accounts, had traditions and romantic tales passed down about it. Long ago, descendants of the Hatakeyama clan who came down from the mountains of Chichibu settled in Musashino and proclaimed themselves the Edo clan. Among them stood Edo Tarō Shigenaga as the most renowned figure—the one who rushed to join Yoritomo when he was defeated at the Battle of Ishibashiyama and entered Kazusa from Awa to rally his forces. Due to this meritorious service, he was granted administrative authority over central Musashi by Yoritomo after the war.

Among their clan, those who settled in this area and became local lords included three or four households along this Tana River. Upstream in F-- Town, the O-- family stood as the foremost among them, while downstream along the old Tokaido post road in M-- Town, the M-- family represented another such example. The Hyakuse of Heron Town too numbered among these. Edo passed through the eras of Ōta Dōkan, the Uesugi, and the Hōjō, yet these local lords endured like moss clinging to the earth. Tokugawa Ieyasu's policy of protecting established families permitted these households to bear family names and swords as local authorities, their residential lands exempt from tribute taxes.

In E-- County closer to Tokyo beyond this river and another one, there were seven burial mounds known as the Women’s Mounds. When Nitta Yoshioki, having been defeated, entered Musashi from Echigo and was planning a resurgence, the Ashikaga clan in Kamakura attempted to assassinate him by sending someone named Sakyo to approach him. Sakyo also assigned a capital-bred woman referred to as the Shōshō—a high-ranking title—as a spy. However, the Shōshō became bound by Lord Yoshioki’s compassion and came to lean toward his side. The plan to assassinate him under the pretext of a moon-viewing banquet was thwarted when the Shōshō hinted at the danger and prevented them from approaching it, so Sakyo became enraged and killed her. He also killed her seven maidservants. The villagers took pity and buried their remains together with hers—this is said to be how the Women’s Mounds came to be.

However, if the Major were included there should have been eight mounds—the fact that only seven existed gave rise to another legend. Among the maidservants was a beautiful woman with whom the young lord of the Hyakuse household fell in love. It was said he secretly helped her escape and took her as his wife at his inn. Oshu’s family too had once been vassals to the Hyakuse household—legend told how during the Tenbun era when Hojo Ujiyasu swept through Kanto, they had barricaded themselves at Daishigahara and fought alongside their Hyakuse lord who supported the Uesugi faction. Perhaps because of this connection, Oshu’s household too had borne the Hyakuse name.

During Old Man Yatarō Hyakuse’s vigorous years, driven by his fondness for organizing events, he once formed what was called the Hyakuse Association—gathering all those in the vicinity who went by the Hyakuse name. They numbered twelve or thirteen households scattered from this town to nearby villages. The oddities among them were an itinerant opéra-comique actress and a single beggar. When the secretary consulted Chairman Old Man Yatarō about what to do with them, he replied to bring them regardless, so they were brought. The actress went by Ruiko and was said to be the troupe’s leading star. The beggar was called Hyōgojima and was an exceedingly filthy beggar.

As I gazed at the river and Oshu’s figure while vaguely pondering aimless thoughts, a woman’s voice called out from the bridge.

“Bun-chan. My kid’s cut a tooth.” That must be Osan, the female beggar. As Oshu stood silent beneath the bridge, Osan’s figure appeared from the bridge approach—clambering up the embankment with a child in her arms, an oil can dangling from her hand as she dragged her lame leg. “Oh—the boat rental shop’s young lady? Thought Bun-chan might be here again.” Osan leaned in to peer at the tied-up, unkempt head and spoke.

“Alright, show me where the baby’s tooth has come in.” Oshu pressed her palm against her breast, which seemed to squirm as though she felt an itch deep within her body. “Is that so? You’ll take a look?”

Though she began descending the embankment with her lame leg, seemingly pleased, her unsteadiness prompted Oshu to climb up to meet her instead. “Let me see.” Osan wiped the child’s face with the torn sleeve cuff of her kimono as if it were a tool, then thrust it forward. “I’m afraid it’s rather dirty.” The flat face with roughly placed features and only the chin protruding looked just like the mother’s, but on a child’s face, it had a certain charm. The child was chubby and dressed in a hand-me-down kimono meant for a seven- or eight-year-old—where they had gotten it—yet there was an uncanny charm about them.

Oshu said, “Oh my, how adorable.” Osan used her thick, farm-bred index finger to roll up the infant’s lip. Between the gums, a speck of white could be glimpsed. “I don’t have much milk, but when they cry too much and I let them suckle, they bite down with this tooth, I’m afraid. Ah.” “They say the gums get itchy around where the tooth is coming in.” The child, annoyed by the mother’s finger, stubbornly clenched their teeth. Then Osan grabbed the child’s nose as if handling some tool. The child gasped and opened their mouth.

"My, how big it is! I'm astonished!"

In Oshu, a feeling akin to adventure must have arisen.

“I want to try letting them suckle.”

“It’s quite dirty, I’m afraid,” said Osan, though she made no real effort to stop her. She wiped the soot from the baby’s face two or three times with her palm before speaking. “How fortunate for this brat to have the young lady’s breast to suck on.”

Oshu looked around.

Unaware that I lay in the Saburi hut, there was no one else around outside. Oshu bared her breast and positioned the child against its firmness. With vigorous sucking sounds, the child latched on. Oshu's face twisted as if giant leeches encircled her whole body—an uncanny expression—but as she endured it, she soon showed a look of fresh love welling up, as though wanting to melt together with the child. Yet even while steeped in this rapture, the raw tension of fearful anticipation—waiting for when those gums might clamp down on her nipple—appeared to suffuse Oshu, her softened features tightening sharply once more.

Oshu must have felt a cataclysmic shock, as though heaven and earth had split apart. “Ouch!” she instinctively cried out, her face contorting—and in that instant, Osan grabbed the baby’s nose with her usual practiced hand. She then took the infant, who had opened its mouth with a gasp, into her arms. “Ha ha ha ha. Just as I said—it’ll bite down,” she said, peering at the nipple together with Oshu. There were only slight reddish streaks; it hadn’t turned into a wound.

While an agitation of indeterminate nature—whether it was hatred or pity—seemed to pass through Oshu, she stared at her breast, lost in thought, as if a new hope had surfaced in her chest like some half-formed plan. What manner of thought was this?

Well then, shall I indulge my imagination and hazard a bold conjecture? Could it be that she contemplates avoiding the arduous business of marriage altogether to raise a single child? Yet judging by Oshu's inward-gazing expression, she seemed not to have resolved whether this child would be one she bore herself or received from another. Hanada of the Glasses finished plucking the crow's feathers and set to pounding the meat upon his chopping board. A narrow stream flowed nearby - water channeled from northwestern hills to form the Koame Dam reservoir, this same rivulet that irrigated fields before gathering itself to spill into the Tana River. Black feathers drifted from gently flowing shallows into deeper waters.

Judging from his usual remarks, even as he pounded the meat with his hatchet knife, he was likely thinking about the shale in Toro—the rocky surface of Oneyama Ridge exposed along the Tana River. He had quickly realized it could be used for natural cement, but beyond that, he reportedly kept saying he couldn’t shake the feeling that if one crushed it thoroughly, something distinctive might emerge. “Perhaps bentonite or something might come out of it,” I mused from beneath the fig tree’s thick foliage on the far side of the stream, where I had spread a goza mat and lay propped on my elbow, feeling the cool breath of flowing water while gazing absently at the scene.

Behind Hanada stood the little girl from the neighboring Saburi hut, watching. The little girl occasionally tried to talk, but Hanada stopped her with a "Quiet~~". Undeterred, the little girl started talking again right away. What peculiarly irritated Hanada wasn't so much his thoughts being disturbed as the child's way of bluntly acting and speaking on impulse. "Children are such egoists. Completely insufferable."

He pounded strenuously, his sallow emaciated face—all angular jaw—showing the working of masseter muscles. By nature he perceived something superficial yet visceral in all living, moving things. This drew him gradually toward waste and inanimate objects, though not solely for their stillness. To discover and wield life concealed within extinction through something like human will—this he found bizarrely compelling. What lives and moves from inception already bears nature’s imprimatur. Where nature abandons effort, where things rest eternally—there he wished to seduce forth life. Only through such ambition could this strange man’s consciousness of being be drawn out.

At the base of his kite-like nose, round eyes resembling stubborn pellets pressed close emitted their usual fearsome light, yet held a vulnerability to any true force of reality. Having finished pounding the meat, he entered his Saburi hut to retrieve the sansho peppercorns meant for mixing. The bag had fallen from the shelf and torn. He exclaimed: “Do mice truly eat something as pungent as sansho?”

Then, the girl who had been peeking from behind spoke.

“Lately, field mice have been crossing the river, they say.” “Field mice eat even chili peppers, they say.” “It can’t be helped. I’ll go pick some sansho leaves.”

Hanada ordered the girl to keep watch over the pounded crow meat and went out to pick sansho leaves. Since I had nowhere particular to be, I found a certain charm in the scholar-beggar's sansho berries being eaten by field mice—just when he'd been counting on them—and trailed after him at some distance, wondering if this might lead to further developments. Hanada, who loved spices, knew well where such plants grew. The nearest sansho tree stood at Heron Town Theater on the corner where the town's main street curved—a short walk back toward town from these outskirts. It was beside the large garbage bin at the stage door there.

The site where that theater now stands was originally the garden of Waki Hyakuse—the town's deputy mayor—where there had once been a tea room called Shisō-an. During the economic boom of the European War era, Shingoro—head of the Waki Hyakuse household—noticed this district lacked any entertainment venues and conceived the idea of establishing a combined rental hall and variety theater. He then consulted Shigeshi of Shin Hyakuse, who needed assistance in all such matters. The portly Shigeshi recommended making it a stock company theater capable of handling both motion pictures and revues.

A corner of the spacious front garden was cleared, and Shisō-an was relocated to another side of the garden. There was a sansho tree at the mizuya-guchi, but being an extremely old tree, only a few leaves had sprouted. In this land existed a custom that transplanting a sansho tree only to let it wither would bring ill fortune, so they built the theater without moving it, leaving the tree exactly as it stood. The sansho remained pressed against the outer side of the backstage paneling. Everyone had completely forgotten such matters, installing a large garbage bin right beside it.

Hanada went to check on the sansho tree and exclaimed “Oh!” in surprise. The new buds had already been neatly picked. When food matters didn’t go his way—Hanada, who would turn into a raving madman—he kicked the garbage bin’s flank with his rubber boots until it seemed excessive. I couldn’t help chuckling under my breath, whereupon Hanada turned and fixed me with a piercing glare. At that moment, Hyogo Island arrived, revealing his bearded face.

“Hey, Glasses Hanada?” “All the sansho buds I’d been counting on were picked clean by someone.”

Hanada pointed. “Sansho, huh?” Hyogo Island peered in. “Last evening, Bunkichi from under the bridge took them away.” “He said he was going to grill scaled crucian carp.” Hanada made a stunned face and said “Huh?” before muttering, “Does he know about this?” As I listened to Hanada continuing to grumble disjointedly at Hyogo Island—while it was true that sansho trees were relatively scarce in this town, they could still be found both beside the paper mill’s company housing in the backstreets and at Seikō Temple’s graveyard. And all of them were close to the Tana River Bridge where Bunkichi stayed. However, as these sansho trees were young saplings, their fruits actually had a strong astringency and a raw pungency. In contrast, the new buds of this old tree by the theater were delicate, their pungency mellow and rich. The fact that Bunkichi, when gathering sansho leaves, did not go to Seikō Temple’s graveyard near the bridge or the paper mill’s company housing, but instead came all the way to this distant theater, could only be thought to mean that he knew of the superior flavor of the old sansho tree’s leaves. However, that such an idiot could know such a subtle thing simply could not be believed.

“Why on earth would that Bunkichi come all the way out here to gather sansho leaves? There are still some closer to the bridge.”

Hanada involuntarily let out a lament. Then Hyogo Island said: “Bunkichi came last night for the first time and said he’d found these sansho leaves here before—the softest and most delicious ones.” “He’s such a strange one—” Hyogo Island spoke of how Bunkichi possessed an uncanny sensitivity toward nature. Maple trees were stylish and disliked exposing their bare trunks to the sun. So they gradually lowered their dense foliage downward. Red pines, fond of being bare, steadily pushed their branches and leaves upward toward the treetop. Cows disliked headwinds and preferred tailwinds—Hyogo Island recounted how Bunkichi had made such observations.

“When it comes to the lifespan of trees, Bunkichi really does predict them accurately.”

At the theater, the stagehand seemed to have woken up; there was the sound of a window being opened.

“It can’t be helped. Let’s head toward the paper mill’s company housing.”

“We’ll go too.” “If the theater caretaker spots us, we’ll get another earful.”

“The thing is, I’m starving.” “Hunger, huh? Right, wait a second.”

Hyogo Island, using hands with long nails like a rake to sift through the debris inside the garbage bin,

“After all, the theater’s in a slump—they don’t toss out anything decent,” he said as he fished out five or six pieces of sushi clumped together in paper. Hanada muttered “Much obliged,” peeling off the wrapper and eating as they made their way toward the main street.

Since it seemed this sansho incident might develop further, I decided to follow along after all. Hanada turned around again, making a bitter face. “A beggar shouldn’t cling to another beggar. It won’t earn you a single penny!” he said, but I paid no mind. Due to the abundant water and the land’s suitability for growing paper mulberry, there had long been handicraft-based Japanese paper factories in this area. It was one of the achievements of Elder Yataro of the main Hyakuse family to have converted those into modern Western-style paper factories. Though it was a small factory employing seventy to eighty people, the local youths—descendants of generations accustomed to hand papermaking—possessed an inherent expertise for the papermaking industry, which still demanded craftsmanship requiring skilled hands even after transitioning to mechanized production. They were able to produce quite high-quality products.

There had been several merger offers from large corporations, but Old Man Yataro stubbornly refused to accept them. Since these companies faced opposition themselves and weren’t formidable enough to force compliance, they left matters as they were, converting the factory into a subcontracting operation that supplied raw materials and collected finished products. Fluctuations in foreign exchange rates had devalued the yen, making American-imported papermaking adhesive prohibitively expensive. This glue was absolutely essential for laminating premium-grade paper. As these processing agents fell under the factory’s purview, the soaring import costs rendered them unaffordable. Though the parent company’s research lab was developing a substitute, such an invention couldn’t materialize overnight—consequently, the factory suspended production of its highest-grade paper and redirected all efforts toward manufacturing moisture-proof paper.

For buyers in their business operations, having someone produce completely perfect moisture-proof paper was an important issue, and it seemed that neither the waxed paper nor the kraft paper they had been using up until then could be called perfect. It seemed that Imaida, the factory’s chief engineer, had set his sights on this and was desperately struggling with it.

Imaida, blessed with many children—the eldest being eighteen—could be seen in the company housing’s family room, surrounded by his seven or eight children as they ate breakfast around the low dining table. He seemed to enjoy developing his thoughts amidst the clatter of rice bowls and the lively clamor of children crying and laughing. In front of the family room lay a garden, beyond whose hedge the factory stood visible on the left side. To the right stretched rows of the president’s company residences. Between them flowed the downstream current from Koizume reservoir’s northwest channel, entering the factory grounds. This water served miscellaneous purposes, while purified water drawn from a mountain stream along Oneyama approached diagonally from the upper left. For a factory near the city, this water system had been incorporated with remarkable extravagance—a point of pride Imaida always emphasized.

Suddenly noticing, from beyond the second bamboo fence of the company housing, Imaida peered out from the family room and saw Hanada the scholar-beggar picking sansho leaves while talking to a bearded beggar. Imaida, having noticed me too, furrowed his brows as if condemning why this town had so many beggars, yet seemed to want to discuss his ongoing research about the moisture-proof paper invention with Hanada—his usual conversational partner on such matters. However, knowing Hanada disliked places crowded with children and hesitating because inviting him would inevitably bring along that notorious filthy-bearded beggar causing trouble, he was still vacillating when Bunkichi—carrying a begging bag—suddenly appeared around the corner of the company housing. Seeing this, Hanada grabbed his arm and said a few words—then began hitting and striking. The bearded beggar tried to intervene but was struck along with him. Imaida stood up and scolded the children who were trying to go outside to look, stopping them. Bunkichi wailed and hurled abuse as he ran away. The bearded beggar also disappeared somewhere.

Feeling disillusioned, Imaida changed into his work clothes and began preparing to leave for work. Hanada was plucking the remaining sansho leaves. And then, Bunkichi suddenly reappeared from behind the company housing. After that, the boat rental owner Oshu appeared.

Strangely, when Hanada saw Oshu’s figure, he stopped plucking the sansho leaves and stood frozen as if cast in metal. Hanada had always struggled with young women—Oshu most of all. Faced with Oshu’s reprimands, he fidgeted by scratching his head and rubbing his ears—behavior utterly at odds with his usual arrogance. When Oshu seized his shoulders and shook him roughly, Hanada bowed deeply to Bunkichi. Then Bunkichi too bowed deeply.

Imaida saw this and, feeling something amusing, burst out laughing. Even the children gazed from the veranda and burst into laughter in unison. Oshu started walking, taking Bunkichi and me along. When I looked back, Hanada had already lost the courage to pick sansho leaves and hurriedly retreated in the opposite direction.

Keiji of Shin Hyakuse had a habit of taking a nap after breakfast, the fatigue from his early-morning heron hunts setting in. When I entered the courtyard seeking alms, he appeared to have just woken, smoking his morning cigarette with a puffy face. His younger brother Tsuneji had returned from the funeral and was changing into khaki clothes beside this middle brother while preparing to go out. When questioned by the middle brother, he answered that he would make rounds through Koizume's houses before going to gather the young women's group for afternoon levee repairs.

Keiji, the middle brother, was fond of this younger brother. He was quiet and cheerful, occasionally saying lighthearted things. He had a fine physique of pale peach tinged with a bluish hue, his chest muscles chiseled like a Greek sculpture. From a young age, he had loved playing among the village children, and according to Keiji’s oft-repeated story, during the time he attended higher elementary school, whenever he saw mud-covered children digging out a stream and looked closer at one who seemed familiar, it would invariably turn out to be Tsuneji.

Both the eldest brother Shigeji and the middle brother Keiji now carried themselves as though they never discussed anything personal with their youngest brother Tsuneji. When his brothers attempted to broach such matters, Tsuneji inherently rebuffed them with speech so guarded and evasive that it left the initiators flustered instead. The second brother expressed his affection simply through repeated calls of "Tsuneji, Tsuneji." He had graduated middle school and entered a private university's preparatory course, where he competed in sumo and swimming before abruptly quitting to return home. There he adopted the local dialect and settled into life attuned to his hometown rhythms. Various incidents in town troubled Shigeji, the influential eldest brother. As Shigeji was primarily based in Tokyo, he delegated most affairs to this youngest brother as proxy.

“Tsuneji, I’m counting on you.” When his eldest brother said this, Tsuneji protested “No, no” but still handled matters. If one peeked through the restaurant’s side window at him sitting in the seat of honor as his brother’s proxy—clad in haori and hakama—they would see a handsome youth with thick eyebrows and robust features who always seemed ready to leap up and plunge himself into some active endeavor. Though outwardly reticent, his heart appeared perpetually racing from one action to the next.

To the local girls, his personality and actions were too transparently clear for him to become an object of romantic sentiment. His kindness appeared universal and impossible to monopolize. He seemed the type who increasingly took on the appearance of a formal, bureaucratic youth as time passed. Even when he frequented the town café, there appeared to be no women who felt jealous. For the women likely perceived that his café visits were merely one of those obligatory duties in his active life meant to fulfill some role. He also served as caretaker of the women’s youth group. They would collectively gather and cling to Tsuneji like a mother figure. When everyone faced Tsuneji together, a certain vigor emerged. In that sense, Tsuneji remained popular among them.

As I walked along the road from town to Koizume for alms collection, Keiji came riding up from behind on the village road alongside Tsuneji, their bicycles side by side on a summer morning. Seeing his twenty-two-year-old brother—his firm jaw freshly shaven blue and his jet-black eyes shifting restlessly—pedaling along, Keiji stared intently as if trying to determine whether this guy was a fool or clever. Up to the town outskirts lay sandy soil with many peach groves and mulberry fields. Beyond that, the earth turned rich and dark where rice fields spread across the view. Nearer the hills, black soil hosted vegetable plots. Frames stood visible here and there across this plain that rolled in gentle swells, dotted with small hamlets. Each settlement clustered in scattered patches among encircling stands of trees.

The water of the Koizume reservoir was glinting in the distance.

The hills visible at the far end showed patches of white limestone skin in places, though mostly cloaked in mixed trees. Beyond their backs, forests of red pines rolled through the subsequent Ninety-Nine Valleys, their wave-like crests appearing as parallel rows of soft green along the hills’ ridges. The villagers called it Matsugaoka. To the left, one could see the elephant’s trunk of Oneyama protruding in a T-shape from Matsugaoka toward the Tana River. The base of Oneyama was covered with mixed trees including red pines, just like Matsugaoka, but the closer one approached its tip, the more the rocky surface of the hills became exposed. The willows and acacias lined up in a row marked where the mountain stream flowed. A waterweed hut stood visible.

The rice fields were now at their peak growth, emitting a fresh, invigorating smell under the midday sun. The third group of men and women weeding the rice fields were crawling around within them. When the rice weeders caught sight of Tsuneji, they called out to him. Tsuneji called back. Whenever he spotted young women, Tsuneji, “Make sure you come out for clay pounding this afternoon!” he shouted. The young women, “Yeah, we’ll come.” “Yeah.”

Tsuneji stretched up on his bicycle, “Don’t just give me empty replies—” “Ahahahaha, we’re fine!” The cheerful laughter hid amid the green leaves of the rice plants. As they neared Koizume, where the road split straight toward the farmland hamlet and left toward Oneyama, Keiji parted ways with Tsuneji. At the moment of parting, Tsuneji called out to Keiji and,

“Brother Shigeji’s been getting pretty worked up lately, seems like. “The company’s affairs are completely at odds, gravel isn’t selling because the recession means fewer concrete buildings, and passengers aren’t riding the buses because fares are too high—” “So that’s how things are?” Keiji looked at his younger brother in surprise. “I don’t really know the details, but that’s the gist of it.”

There, he pressed down on the pedals and turned onto the farmland path to go his separate way. Keiji turned his handlebars toward the mountain ridge road when he suddenly noticed me. “Oh—Clueless Ocho.” “Why don’t you come along to Zōgahana for a bit?” Having said this casually without pressing further, he turned his head to gaze across the fields at his younger brother’s retreating figure. In his younger brother’s figure, there seemed to be no sign of concern whatsoever. Keiji once again found himself unable to stop considering whether this youngest brother of his was a fool or clever.

I had been invited by this young man once again, and abandoning my alms collection in the Koizume direction, walked silently alongside his bicycle. Keiji left his bicycle at the watermill and ascended toward Oneyama's elephant trunk ridge. I climbed too. Oneyama's elephant trunk ridge was covered in pampas grass, slightly elevated with rounded contours that indeed suggested an elephant's head merging into its trunk when viewed from this perspective. From Oneyama's base to its elephant-head formation belonged to the main Hyakuse family. The Hyakuses maintained a legend that this ridge would become their salvation in times of crisis. They said it must never be relinquished. In truth, there were accounts of it having saved not just the Hyakuses but this entire area on two occasions. Once during the Tenpo famine when wild yams had spread across the ridge, letting villagers dig them to stave off starvation. They also told of edible earth being gathered from between rock layers - soil that could be mixed into rice cakes. Then again during early Meiji years when torrential rains made the Tana River breach its banks and flood these settlements. Had this mountain not served as refuge then, they said all lowland dwellers would have perished. Even Old Man Yatarō from mid-Meiji's enlightenment era hadn't dismissed this legend as superstition; when settling his estate he'd struggled mightily to keep this mountain alone.

On the elephant’s head stood what had once been a small observatory pavilion, now weathered by wind and rain into little more than a few roof tiles and pillars. They were said to be remnants from Old Man Yatarō’s prime, when he would bring geisha to lay out viewing mats in the peach grove. Keiji lay down on floorboards that had been bleached by the elements until they resembled a ship’s plank, tossing two books from his pocket near his head. I sat slightly apart at the edge of the floor’s threshold.

After gazing at the scenery for a while, Keiji slowly turned toward me. “Miss Ocho.” He called. The words carried both familiarity and an honorific, which made me start. Finding myself unable to reply, I cautiously studied Keiji’s face. Keiji’s expression held a faint triumphant smile. “Miss Ocho, don’t you think it’s about time you took off that mask?”

The sun neared eleven in the morning. The river, the town's rooftops, the vegetable fields and rice paddies all appeared to have their surface layers gradually stripped away by the white-hot glare, swirling upward like particles of mica dust. Even if the light beneath the eaves where I sat was merely reflected glare, having this sunlight illuminate my smoke-stained, grimy beggar's face and expose it to the young man opposite me—regardless of how it happened, now that my true identity had been sniffed out—was unbearably mortifying. I abruptly hid my face in my sleeve,

“Oh, how embarrassing! How did you know?” I said. Keiji perceived my self-consciousness and, without looking at me, blew tobacco smoke toward another part of the sky while— “Why, you ask? Because that scholar-beggar Hanada is a man with a particular knack for investigating the elemental nature of his fellow beggars’ existence.” “The fact that you’re a fake beggar—he sniffed that out before ten days had passed since you came here.” Hanada the scholar-beggar was fascinated by extracting some value from decaying natural objects and could not rest without monomaniacally investigating their sources. The same applied to beggars as human detritus; once he set his sights on a particular beggar, he had a disposition to persistently pursue his inquiries.

“Since you’ve fallen into that bloodhound’s clutches, Hanada’s thoroughly investigated everything—that you’re the illegitimate child of a university professor from beggar bloodlines, and that as a woman lost in life’s confusion, you’re gaining beggar experience inherited from your parent—and laid it all out for me.” “Only two people in this town knew your true nature.”

I supposed there was nothing left to do. "I hate this! You knew?" "Then I must have looked utterly absurd to you." "That was absurd." Keiji suggested I wash my face with water so we could speak properly face-to-face.

The Sasa River at the foot of a hillock where mimosa trees cast their green shadows across the ground. As I washed my face and limbs, I laid bare the woman's true nature hidden beneath the beggar's guise, beneath the coarse matting. Facing the quiet stream, when I smiled, my reflection smiled back - the unadorned visage of an innocent maiden. The water mirror that splits one existence into two - this world and the world below - now existed in a realm beyond earthly comparisons, neither fully present nor absent. I faced my own image, "It's been some time... How I've missed you."

I greeted. And then,

"But you might be the first young woman I've ever properly met," I added to my reflection. As if commemorating something in my heart, I plucked blades of grass from the shore, set a single leaf boat adrift upon the current, then climbed back up the hill. Keiji had still been waiting there for me. The beggar's life I described and Keiji's tales of academic dissonance—whatever their nature—when a man believes a woman has shed her disguise, he'll now proceed without reservation, determined not to let escape this heart-to-heart communion through mutual self-abandonment. There must be few men who'd resent such treatment. Our conversation gained momentum despite its somber undercurrents.

“The cause of all my failures until now has been not connecting what’s called rationality to human life.” “Isn’t that very reasoning itself proof you’ve failed to connect rationality to life?” “No doubt.” “Then what the hell should I do?” “It would be good if I could lose myself completely while sober.”

“Hmm.” “Hanada said you’re a woman with the nature of Ull Mutter (Root Mother)—to think he can grasp such things through experience and intuition.” As noon approached, the sun began blazing down. The water bent sharply before striking the deep pool before Oshu’s boat rental; rebounding from this impact, it formed a sandbar at Bishamondo Hall on the opposite bank where Tagame dwells, then struck this shore again to create the Elephant’s Trunk Pool. For a rural suburb, the splendid Tana River Bridge spanned sparkling a short distance upstream from the deep pool before Oshu’s boat rental. From that bridge, Heron Town lined both sides of a single thoroughfare with buildings of varying heights, particularly standing out were Seikō Temple’s hall roof and the giant tree nicknamed Sangyoku.

When Keiji glanced down, rock layers lay exposed from midway along the Elephant’s Trunk at his feet down to the shallows near the pool’s edge—precisely where Hanada the scholar-beggar had been ardently studying what he insisted were shale deposits—and there a driver-like man was breaking apart rocks with a prospecting hammer and hauling them into a car parked atop the embankment.

Keiji descended and asked, “What are you doing?” The man who looked like a driver replied irritably, “It’s for testing at the boss’s factory.” When Keiji pressed again—“What kind of factory?”—he retorted, “Even if I told you lot, you wouldn’t understand.” Driven by impertinence, Keiji deliberately persisted: “Hmm. What sort of factory?” The man glared up at Keiji with an enraged face, but choking down his fury, answered in a hollow voice:

“It’s called Nagamatsu.” Keiji turned slightly toward me following behind and said he recalled having a brilliant friend named Nagamatsu from his high school days—one whose family were industrialists—and suggested it might be the same person.

“Nagamatsu, hmm. Are you Nagamatsu’s driver?”

The driver, already finding it a nuisance, turned back to his work and gave no response whatsoever. I also told Keiji that this driver had yesterday driven his employer and that employer’s second wife to Oshu’s boat rental, and that the employer and woman had then taken Oshu’s motorboat without permission to cross the sea to Yokohama’s Isogo where they stayed overnight, and that a man from an Isogo inn had come to return the boat. Seeing the driver break several rock masses from the shale at the base of the hill and load them into the car to carry away, Keiji said with a wry smile.

“Industrialists sure have sharp eyes for opportunities,” “Especially during this depression when everyone’s struggling desperately.” “They’re indiscriminately targeting others’ land—even showing their thieving instincts.” Then he declared that with this development, the townspeople could no longer remain complacent. When the town staff heard from Keiji that Tokyo industrialists had set their sights on the shale at Elephant’s Trunk Pool in Oneyama, their previously indecisive plan—to mobilize all human and financial resources for expanding operations centered on the paper mill while aggressively managing various enterprises—finally gained momentum. Of course, both Hyakuse families and their clan formed the core.

From shale came natural cement; whether bentonite could be obtained with a bit more research; that waterproof paper could be produced from said bentonite—with these and various other discussions and studies, the town grew increasingly vibrant. Being an amateur, I did not fully understand these technical matters. These matters were based on the theories of beggar-turned-Chief Engineer Hanada and Deputy Chief Engineer Keiji of Heron Town Products Company. It was said that if there were social demand for the mineral-rich surface of Oneyama’s rocks, even food substitutes could be extracted by crushing and processing the rock through the power of new science.

Thus four years passed during these operations. The mountainous region that originated alongside the Tana River at Chichibu's peaks—having once distanced itself from the river in its upper reaches—continued running parallel while gradually turning toward central Sagami and descending as it spread its foothills. The ridge of this vast mountain range consisted geologically of strata called the Kobotoke Formation, with diluvial layers between this ridge and the river basin's alluvial deposits forming uniformly crumpled hills. This geological structure extended beyond the Tana River into central Tokyo, said to form the elevated Yamanote district. These pine-rich mixed-wood hills bore intricate undulations locals called Kujukudani. Though the Kobotoke Formation's ridge extended jagged mountain bones into hill clusters here and there as if yearning toward the river, this held little significance. Only near Heron Town did this become pronounced—like a sea plate's tentacle piercing hilly terrain to thrust rock strata toward downstream riverbeds. Remarkably, water-washed surfaces here reportedly revealed patches of Mesozoic-era rock composition. This very fault held by the main Hyakuse family became Heron Town's inexhaustible treasury—a new foundation for prosperity.

Thus, four years ago, Heron Town—which had been left behind by the times, nestled quietly in the countryside with this ridge as its backdrop—now stood amidst forests of smokestacks and the sounds of revelry. For in any remote corner where factories and entertainment guilds have taken root, there remains no simplicity of life.

As for the bustle of Heron Town, I left its description to the soot filling the sky and the mingled sounds of revelry beyond the shoji screens and proceeded to relate only those matters pertaining to my own circumstances.

At the urging of Hanada and Keiji, I became the female manager of Heron City’s municipal club-style hall now under municipal administration. Initially Keiji had proposed marriage to me, but following Hanada’s theory, I yielded the suitor to Oshu. According to Hanada’s analysis, I was said to be a woman of Ull Mutter—Root Mother. No single man could monopolize such maternal benevolence. Even were I to consent, they claimed I’d either be swiftly discarded by the man or grow restless myself, scattering that benevolence among many men by nature. Through self-examination I sorrowfully accepted this disposition. What suited me best was being that club girl who daily welcomed and saw off the town’s men, attending to each with heartfelt kindness to soothe spirits and lift hearts. Just as Hanada had plucked me—a castoff beggar—to make me a club girl, so too did he and Keiji lift up this town’s beggars: Osan with her child, Tagame, Tanba, Setokan, bearded Hyogojima—each given some role under their direction. This owed less to charity than to the city’s labor shortage. Only Bunkichi remained merely doted upon and left to roam the streets.

The main and new branches of the Hyakuse families grew amicable through combined financial interests. I hereby pay homage to the grand denouements of popular fiction. For indeed, this world does not lack conclusions to events. Should some force surpassing human endeavor arise, gathering people like windblown leaves would prove effortless. Yet regrettably, though Heron Town's affairs had coalesced thus far, in this narrative—no trite novel—the incidents now burst out anew from their resolution.

There was now a renowned singer from the Eastern Capital named Otsuyu who had long been frequently requested to perform at the municipal entertainment hall, Heron City Theater. Every time she performed, she would stop by Heron City Hall—which I managed—for rest and meals. A woman innocent as a child yet imbued with sumptuous allure. When she composed herself demurely, this middle-aged woman resembled an elegant antique doll. From our first meeting when she exclaimed "My, I like this one!" and embraced me saying "You feel just like my niece," she maintained that sentiment and began inviting me to her Tokyo home. I realized I had encountered for the first time a woman whose profound temperament yearned to connect hearts in this world. Yet her excessive passion for greedily snatching men's affections—as if seizing even my portion—also stirred sharp resentment within me.

As for how a popular performer like Otsuyu came to be frequently invited from her busy schedule to this suburban Heron City's entertainment hall, it began with an old tea room called Shisō-an within the residence of Mr. Shinzaburō Wakihyakuse. To this place, a middle-aged haiku poet referred to as Otsuyu's uncle would often come to hold poetry gatherings. Through becoming acquainted with him, Shinzaburō and the town elders through his mediation earnestly requested that Otsuyu perform at this entertainment hall. This uncle, who took the artistic name Ichijin’an Haruo, resided in a hermitage in Nihonbashi. This hermitage had reportedly been inhabited by an elderly Edo-school haiku master named Ichijin’an Shikio. After Shikio's passing, Haruo became his successor and relocated there together with Otsuyu and his junior disciple Akiou.

When I went to Tokyo for matters like procuring provisions for Heron City Hall, I would frequently stop by this Shijin'an retreat to Otsuyu's delight, but that Otsuyu too finally passed away several years ago.

The grandeur of that funeral—how both allies and rivals in the artistic world mourned her prodigious talent—these must have become tales recounted in artistic circles in recent years. Now during Otsuyu’s lifetime I had associated almost exclusively with her, but after her death, this uncle of hers—Ichijin’an Haruo, with whom contact had been established through her final wishes—began weaving a peculiar emotional entanglement between us. That was the incident that most profoundly stirred my heart during my relatively long residence in Heron City throughout the first half of my life.

As for the nature of this uncle and the circumstances concerning him—no, rather than my recounting them myself, since the letter he himself wrote at that time still remains in my possession, I shall let it speak for everything.

From Uncle

Ocho Was the river crossing safe? How goes the household? Though not truly anxious, as I now attempt to write our first letter since matters have come to this between us—after much wrestling with how to begin—I settled at last on this plain opening. Like those ancients who, after endless vacillation over how to convey their feelings, would simply write “Out of longing” on blank paper before sealing it away. I write these ordinary inquiries about matters of little concern as if they were customary greetings. But through these sparse words I chose to ask—ah—can you fathom the depth and breadth of love within my breast, its boundlessness?

I sent you home by car, deliberately stopping well short of entering Heron City proper at Tana River Bridge before returning to my hermitage. The tearoom had been unusually cleaned by Akiou, the junior disciple, and the electric light seemed to glow brighter. Beneath its illumination, we drank coarse tea and exchanged a few words.

"I said to Akiou, 'Who can measure how profoundly the assurance of mutual understanding calms the human spirit? Now that things have come to this, whether we meet or not is no longer a significant problem.'" Akiou replied, "This calm will likely last at least until tonight or maybe tomorrow noon," then added with a laugh, "But come tomorrow evening or so, things will get dangerous again." He—having heard my utterly unreasonable decision and recalling the dawn rain when he too had been compelled to make a collateral resolution—now savored tonight’s serenity of insect songs in comparison, appearing at last relieved. The two of us went to sleep in separate beds under north and south windows within the austere male hermitage.

Ocho, you came to my hermitage this afternoon, heard my sudden violent resolution from me, and said, "How dreadful!" That resolution was the execution of my desire: that by any means necessary, I must make your body my own at least once. I declared that should you demand an apology for this outrage, I stand prepared to pay either price: submitting to imprisonment under judgment for violating your chastity, or taking my own life.

The passion I had harbored for you—this smoldering affection I could scarcely endure—had since last night swelled even more intensely, leaving me unable to sit still or remain standing without resorting to final measures. Though consumed by this unbearable feeling, I had been commissioned to inscribe a plaque for the modern Edo-school haiku group to be dedicated at Mimuro Inari Shrine in Mukojima, with only four or five days remaining until the ceremony date to complete it. This plaque dedication was an exceedingly important undertaking for us Edo-school haiku poets. I had to suppress my unbearable feelings and continue inscribing. Even so, I told myself that precisely when I completed this plaque would come the end of my world, the end of my life—and in exchange, I would obtain the one thing I had truly desired in this world. With this conviction, I attempted to begin the inscription. But the heart cannot focus single-mindedly simply by being told to do so. My heart strayed from the brush, growing ever more restless toward you. Having no other choice, I—who detest medicine—resolved to continue taking the paralytic drug for my chronic stomach spasms, prescribed by my doctor, for four or five days. I drank the medicine; its effects emerged; and riding the mood that dissolved and set me adrift into a world of undulating medicinal efficacy where everything resembled single-minded focus, today I finally began inscribing. At that moment, busy as you were, you unexpectedly came to visit the hermitage. The mere sound of your voice soothed me like a garden arrangement where moss pine is edged with balloon flower roots, and unwittingly I shed tears of pity toward this self that had grown brittle. After Akiou had recounted the general outline of my condition to you as if it were a medical history, I at last met with you and broached the subject.

I leaned shoulder to shoulder with you—still reluctant to grow close—against the wall of Ichijin’an’s tearoom, and persuaded you to let me rest my hand on your shoulder. The pent-up electrical passion within my body carried dangerous potential—unless gradually discharged through such contact, it might erupt in unforeseeable ways. Passion separated from the body discharges all the more violently. When you heard my confession, you gasped, “How dreadful!” I revealed how Akiou had resolved to either await my prison release for joint exile or handle my funeral should I die. Though I’d scheduled this desperate act four days hence to complete the plaque inscription, why—in my near-pathological state—didn’t I seize those irreplaceable hours in the tearoom? Did I unconsciously sabotage myself by forewarning you?

Ocho, I tell you this regarding you—it lies in my training as an entertainer. I mutter to myself that I remain, as ever, in this pitiful state of discipline. Ocho, I don’t know whether you’re aware, but my former self was a taikomochi, and though my taikomochi master has passed away, he was the great master Takinoya Kijō. He lived in the pleasure quarters of Nihonbashi Sukiyachō and was Tokyo’s most renowned taikomochi in his day. He resided in an ordinary commoner’s house, dressed in regular townspeople’s clothing—nowhere could you detect any trace of him being a taikomochi. He bore no resemblance to those taikomochi who would affect peculiar gestures and raise strange voices upon seeing clients. He appeared no less dignified than an upstanding proprietor of a main-street establishment who had weathered life’s unavoidable trials, retired safely, and now dabbled in artistic pursuits during his twilight years. He spoke to the gentlemen clients calmly and ordinarily. Yet they found themselves enveloped not only in rich fragrance and warm ambiguity but also compelled to unlock their hearts’ deepest latches of worldly caution. When stockbroker gentlemen sought connection through stock talk, he engaged them on stocks; when lawyers tried bonding through litigation discussions, he met them on that ground. Others—people of varied professions—received responses that satisfied their chosen topics of approach. He did not answer through any specialized or concrete knowledge. Rather, he possessed empirical wisdom gained from years of interacting with diverse humanity, coupled with sharp insight honed to pierce reality—enabling him to expound upon the deepest strata of any topic presented by clients, grasp the essence within essences, and return these insights without effort. The clients were made to open up until their very bones seemed to dissolve, learning life’s emotional subtleties while gaining fortitude to brave society’s path. In this manner he generally interacted with gentlemen clients as equals, yet in every particular secretly maintained his station.

When a guest showed any inclination toward visiting the restroom, he would say, “Shall we relieve ourselves? Certainly,” accompany them, open the toilet door to usher them inside, then wait from their entry until exit—all while preparing a ladle of water and a freshly cut hand towel from his robe pocket to stand ready outside. In this bearing that seemed artless yet free of cloying affectation, not a moment’s lapse could be detected upon close inspection. Thus even the young geishas—those who spent themselves so thoroughly on dance they grew gaunt—would remark: “There’s nothing remarkable about the great master at all, yet somehow that very quality makes us utterly charmed.”

Whenever Kijō heard such rumors of praise, he would droop his shoulders and sigh, saying, “Well of course they would. After all, I was standing guard for my clients with my life on the line every time back then.” He would declare: “A taikomochi who has been bought must understand that while under contract, we’re not just playthings for our patrons—since the client is our sole master, we must even be prepared to safeguard his very life.” Speaking of taikomochi, there exists no unified artform polished enough to market as a proper commodity. For those who purchase our services to put rice in our bowls, we must at least protect our buyers’ physical safety with our lives throughout our employment. This constitutes both the duty and pride of a male entertainer. Without cultivating this depth of sentiment and pride, how could any self-respecting man endure working in this scorned profession? Whenever I accompanied a client from banquet room to corridor, I already anticipated assassins might be lying in wait. Should such attackers strike, I never failed to position myself as a human shield from all directions, ready to take my patron’s place. “A life-risking bearing—that flawless poise captivates anyone,” Kijō would say. Ocho, I was sent by my father to apprentice under a taikomochi of such caliber. My father was a moderately renowned dance instructor in Nihonbashi’s entertainment district. Yet his reputation couldn’t begin to approach Takinoya Kijō’s stature. Throughout Tokyo’s pleasure quarters—save Yoshiwara and Suzaki—most male entertainers proudly claimed affiliation with Kijō’s school, adopting the Takinoya name. The great master of House Takinoya was revered not just in Tokyo but across the three capitals’ entertainment circles as the reviver of Edo-period taikomochi traditions during Meiji’s cultural renaissance, his fame resounding far and wide.

Most entertainers were like that, but my father was an especially honor-obsessed wretch. If asked why—originating from Confucian scholars of the former Ise Domain—while some brothers became beggars fixated on inventions, there was also one who died young in his twenties, highly praised as a preeminent scholar in Osaka's academic circles. My father had wandered until his dexterity saved him through art, becoming a dance instructor for certain circles in the Eastern Capital. Yet he who believed solely in their genius lineage attributed his own fall into lowly circumstances entirely to fate, perpetually resenting the world and people while pursuing his ambition to restore the family name through peculiar means. "Be Japan's best at anything," he declared, forcibly making me enter apprenticeship under Kijō—whom he worshipped—at age thirteen.

Ocho, how I lamented as a child being forced to become the very type of entertainer I detested from the depths of my heart. Though I attended elementary and middle school from my master's house, when my classmates eventually learned of my circumstances and called out "Hey, Little Raccoon!", how profoundly I felt their contempt. Having already been trained, how I strained to suppress my own preferences while trying to devote myself wholeheartedly—I believe I must have told you some of this before, so I shan't dwell on it now. As a live-in apprentice, I would snatch moments between serving my master's meals and running errands to face whatever rice tub lay nearby—following his instructions—pretending it was a client while practicing flattery and banter with fan in hand, tears never ceasing. Let this account suffice.

Master Kijō had by that time entered that period of ascetic pessimism so common among long-lived artists. He would only attend banquet engagements with clients he favored, refused to take disciples, and permitted only my youthful innocence to remain in his household. In the house, aside from the elderly master, there was only a deaf old man who cooked rice. Late at night, after the rice-cooker had gone to sleep, I would wait alone for Master’s return while preparing his nightcap. Whenever Master returned from his engagements and noticed my damp eyelids as he took up the cup from the tray, he would say: “Haru, you lonely? I’ve got plenty of ways to lift your spirits and ease your mind.” “But that’s a technique for business.” “I hate how hollow it feels to use such trade tricks on you—someone who ain’t even a customer.” “What little real kindness I’ve got left barely keeps my own self alive.” “Ah, no help for it—cry there all you want,” he’d say, letting me weep freely while he drank his sake before me.

“Once you’ve cried your fill, your heart will clear. I’ll keep watch over you.” This was the only genuine kindness Master ever showed me as a boy—but could I have cried enough to clear my heart? When my slightly eased self began to weep, Master would scold—“What a crude way to cry!”—or admonish—“How amateurish! Can you call that an entertainer’s tears?” At times when words failed, he struck my slender forearm with the thick end of an inverted chopstick; at others, he demonstrated proper crying himself. After receiving this discipline and settling Master into bed with a “Thank you. Goodnight,” I’d head to my own pallet—now finally free to weep for myself—as dawn crows cawed and the eastern sky whitened. If I didn’t snatch quick sleep now, I’d miss accompanying Master to his morning bath. For Kijō, art and life knew no boundaries in matters of training.

In this world, there exists such a thing as discipline—compared to that, one’s own preferences scarcely matter at all. From my boyhood days, I engraved this truth harshly into my very bones. My training bore fruit when I graduated from a private university’s humanities department—my master had declared modern taikomochi required education and enrolled me there—launching my career at an earlier age than most to become a moderately popular young entertainer. By then Kijō had fully withdrawn from banquet engagements, transforming into a recluse who idly composed haikai verses; uncharacteristically, he summoned me to his retirement chambers.

“Haru, you’ve graduated school and made quite a name for yourself—that’s commendable. I’ve been hearing scattered rumors about women, but as a taikomochi, I want you to keep this in mind.” “That a taikomochi must never consort with prostitutes from his own territory—even if compelled, he must never play with them there; matters of being paid by those from other territories or paying them himself, or cases of mutual affection—these codes traditionally upheld in the pleasure quarters were things I had long known without needing my master’s reminder.” “What are you telling me now?” I listened, hands braced against the threshold’s outer edge. The master continued: “When dealing with amateur women—if they’re buying you with their money, treat them as clients. Take every coin without hesitation.” “But if they’ve genuinely fallen for you,” his voice hardened, “this becomes grave. You mustn’t exploit their vulnerability for sport.” “Either make them understand your position and turn them into patrons, reject them outright, or—should you yourself fall—make her your lawful wife. Choose one path. Never handle this with our trade’s tricks.” “A taikomochi is a man who’s willingly lowered his station. Toward amateurs’ pure affections, maintain reverence fit for deities.” “Defy this, and punishment will come.” “And if you were to love an amateur woman first—” Here Kijō’s tone turned severe: “A taikomochi possesses nothing within himself worthy of matching their sincere hearts.” “To succeed here,” he concluded, “treat your very life as the work’s target. Abandon your trade first. Return to being a scrupulous amateur.”

Ocho, you and I were in that sealed-off tea room for over half a day. At times we even linked arms. The incense smoldering in the hearth and the lingering floral scent from the alcove made you complain of a headache. Why—when I felt love as if born anew, this unbearable ache turning pathological—did I fail to act on my resolve in that moment?

Struck by the secrets of my heart that I gradually revealed, you said even the essence of your physical being had been drained away. You tilted your body near my shoulder, leaning in with slightly disheveled hair. In the small garden of my hermitage, salvias now bloom in clusters—that voluptuous beauty, innocent yet intellectually untamed grace one discovers at dawn after rain. My sensual tongue tasted in your form at that moment a richness mirroring their splendor. Yet I pressed on with nothing but devotion, fervor, tears, and entreaties. Why? Therein lay my upbringing. But the heart that reached out cast aside all discipline, baring newborn sincerity.

In the pleasure quarters, there is another proverb: "There is nothing as raw as a professional who has reverted to being an amateur." I am this. The opening words I spoke when broaching the matter were: "Ocho, it's no use anymore. I'll broach this without shame or regard for appearances." Thus it was. And with manly resolve, I concluded: "Please, Ocho—I know it's inexcusable, but don't abandon me forever." A man who shows tears while courting a woman must resign himself to future defeat; a man who lets his secrets be known while courting a woman might as well have handed over his vital points—as someone from the pleasure quarters, I knew such romantic stratagems as easily as eating breakfast. Then, to entice a woman to become infatuated, first set up a decoy woman to spark competitive feelings and reel her in; spread baseless rumors around, and through the measure of lies that turn into truth, obtain the woman who has become desperate. I knew several such political-diplomatic tactics in matters of love. But frustrated that the sincerity of my heart was not reaching you, I uttered these words as though tearing open my chest to reveal where my heart lay. To have my heart understood by you—what time would I have to devise tricks beyond this single effort? Techniques and strategies are, in the first place, matters of secondary importance. I am a man who, by some mischance, would either be bearing the shame of manacles within a week or else no longer exist in this world. Even as I spoke, my heart remained still, fixed at the base of my neck.

When you had heard most of my story, you suddenly threw your arms around my shoulders, tears flowing freely as you said, “What a pitiful uncle you are.” Then you shook the shoulders you held—as if trying to coax my loneliness into bloom—along with your tears. “Aah—Uncle, I tell you...” Under your beautifully disordered brow, I crossed my arms and closed my eyes slightly. I finally felt a hollowing of spirit, like bamboo stripped of its nodes.

My secret concerns the circumstances between myself and Oen, the recently deceased master of classical ballads. Oen and I became lovers when she was a geisha in Yanagibashi. Rather than lovers, it would be more accurate to say I was drawn into her. Oen was a woman of a type rarely seen in the world—a blend of saintly purity and maiden-like innocence—who possessed an allure that extended beyond her voice to her very being. Men captivated by her froze like frogs under a snake’s gaze and were slowly devoured. Otherwise, those struck by her spirit became malformed half-men—unable to transfer their affections even if they took new wives or lovers, doomed to remember her their whole lives. The woman I first knew was a vague, quiet young geisha whose nature remained ambiguous—neither fully of the sea nor entirely of the mountains. Even when attending banquet rooms, she would sit motionless in one spot, staring at the tatami mats while lost in thought. Her demeanor held only refined dignity without charm, so her engagements never grew popular. She herself had no desire whatsoever to become sought-after. In that stifled manner, she plunged her heart ever deeper inward, gazing at her own inexplicable allure—an innate passion too abnormal to name—pitying herself as she wept silently. Yet when she sang, mysteriously beautiful melodies choked forth from her throat—this alone earned her renown.

Due to professional circumstances, I sometimes shared engagements with her. There was something mysterious about her silence and somberness. Something made my heart restless, and within me arose an agitated mood that wanted to stir up her shyness. At the time—though of course I hadn't realized it—I had harbored boundless resentment and pity toward myself, who had been utterly confined by upbringing since childhood; upon discovering her who seemed to exist in the same state, I likely felt righteous indignation.

I am a banquet entertainer in Nihonbashi, and she was a geisha in Yanagibashi. There were no obstacles to our meetings. Time and again I would cross Yanagibashi with its iron railings and weeping willows, then lead her to where the riverbank changed its character. One year later, I extracted her from that world and made her my wife at the inn. The deepest stratum of my being had been consumed by her; the layer above held that humanistic indignation I mentioned earlier; but what first rose to conscious awareness was apparently a frivolous impulse—the notion of possessing this unconventional woman who seemed unlike any geisha. An ancillary cause lay in her latent allure—however inconspicuous she might appear—which had already drawn two young performers under its spell by that time. That I cast aside what I'd considered mere playful fancy and resolved to make her my inn-bound wife stemmed partly from youthful rivalry—the desire to outmaneuver those romantic competitors. Rumors claimed she came from a decayed aristocratic family near Tokyo; though she never disclosed her origins in life, she carried both dignity and unexpectedly sharp intellect. Thus excepting one or two lovers of her choosing, she refused oppressive patrons and naturally never received clients at their bedsides for money. That her geisha house permitted this indulgence formed part of her mystique—that allure blending refinement with keen-mindedness. Her charm held extraordinary power; even women occasionally fell prey to it. Without lifting a finger, she enthralled even the couple who owned a major geisha house. These proprietors doted on her obsessively, treating her like royalty—from her days as their apprentice they'd addressed her as "Young Mistress." Consequently, she drew fierce envy from her peers.

How much effort did I exert to wrest her from such a household? It strained my relations with both father and teacher beyond measure. I refrained from physical relations with Oen until we had established a proper matchmaker and conducted a formal wedding ceremony. Those hearing this might marvel at such restraint from an entertainer. But I declare: Precisely because I was an entertainer—because our ancient path reveres discipline—I would not profane this course through recklessness. Though undeniably ensnared by her allure, I believed myself to have fallen willingly. Yet her attitude toward me remained ambiguous—as though caught between affection and indifference. I convinced myself this stemmed either from some vestige of aristocratic upbringing or, like myself, from a secondary personality forged through childhood discipline in grand geisha houses—a self-deception mingled with righteous indignation that stifled raw emotion. But to claim intimacy without mutual proof of affection amounts to keeping a mistress— The gravest shame for any entertainer— For it betrays lack of skill to truly captivate another’s heart. I found contentment in making her my inn wife. By then I was rising as both an intellectual banquet performer and an emerging Edo-school haiku poet.

My father had found some hope that seemed capable of satisfying his ideal of "Become Japan's best in everything," and was thinking of having me inherit his dance style's artistic lineage before long, assign me a wife who met his standards, and have me bear his name to become Japan's top banquet entertainer. A wife meeting his standards needed, at minimum as an entertainer’s spouse, to respond adeptly in all directions, manage a household well, and above all be nothing less than a filial daughter-in-law. Having taken in an unremarkable geisha as if borrowing someone else’s cat, their enthusiasm toward me waned, yet they still clung to the hope of making me Japan’s top entertainer.

My teacher, for his part, had been scheming to have someone inherit his artistic name and fashion an exemplary banquet entertainer who embodied his ideals. Through my teacher's guidance, I alone had graduated from a private university—in this regard, as an intellectual entertainer, none among the other banquet entertainers in the pleasure quarters could hold a candle to me. Yet my teacher still harbored ambitions. For no matter how intellectual a banquet entertainer might be, being merely a banquet entertainer had its limits. In this modern age, he wanted to see in his successor a banquet entertainer of such cultured mastery that one might glimpse the Genroku-era Shikō or Eichō. In other words, he had come to hope for me to become a banquet entertainer who was a true artist. According to him, both Shikō and Eichō had been not only haiku poets and painters but also banquet entertainers themselves. For this reason, upon his recommendation, I became a disciple of Shikiou Ichijin'an—a senior poet of the Edo school then at the depths of decline—and what my teacher desired for my future was that I remain single for life, just as he had done, on the grounds that family obligations hindered the refinement of one's art.

Due to my betrayal in taking a wife, my teacher harbored great resentment; yet he never abandoned his dream of realizing through me—as his successor—the ideal of a banquet entertainer as true artist. While satisfied with having gained an inn wife, I remained tormented by pity over betraying both father and teacher; though I had chosen my wife according to my own preference, I secretly resolved to sacrifice all else in striving to bring them satisfaction worthy of recompense. I was then a full-fledged man well past twenty. No matter if they were father or teacher, they could no longer voice their covetous demands to my face. Even when I told them things amounting to betrayal, they would merely say, "That too is acceptable." They could only strike grandiose poses while muttering, “Well, do as you please.” Yet how could this mind of mine—forged since childhood through discipline that slaughtered my true self, trained exclusively to discern and cater to others’ expectations—fail to see through this charade? After striking these poses, the old man would dart resentful white-eyed glances at me that clashed with his words, then fidgetingly turn away toward clumsy handicrafts—the loneliness etched into those retreating shoulders. In father there was a loneliness like the neck of a plucked bird laid bare by resignation; in teacher, a stout loneliness born of stubborn pride—like striking a great tree’s trunk to produce hollow echoes. Either way, their loneliness seeped bitter acid into my bowels. Having taken an inn wife, while feeling some victorious rebellion against these two benefactors, I ultimately resolved to cast myself away with the thought: “Very well—let this self become fodder for those aging hungry ghosts’ dreams.”

Ocho, that I wanted to lament even as I clung to you—a mere girl—in a manner unbefitting my age was due to this weakness of my spirit. For some reason, from the very first moment I saw you, I wanted to lay bare this truth. I longed for you to comprehend this heart of mine—yet while this desire lay dormant, something insensitive to worldly matters hatched various unexpected schemes along the way. Ahh—that outward persona of mine as a dashing aesthete, a man of Edo spirit, hailed as "that one" and "connoisseur," even affecting at times the airs of some dissolute libertine—was mere camouflage to conceal this singular weakness festering within me. From childhood until now—pitiful creatures, especially those wretched souls masking self-serving desires behind propriety and wounded pride—whenever I became ensnared by such people, this weakness of spirit would surge forward uncontrollably.

I made Oen—the woman I had nurtured—into someone whose capacity for love grew too vast. When I lamented and shook her, I feared I might also disturb the love in her heart for others who stood equal to me. From this arose an allure that unconsciously devoured the sincere emotions I offered, transmuting them into nourishment for her own life. These fears meant I could never pour out my heart to her unconditionally. So when I lamented to her, I timidly carried only those feelings safe to lose. Now through you, I’ve found a single quilted wall within this maternal realm—a space where casting my entire being into lamentation brings not devouring but greater reward. This wall grants repose eternal as death and lures me into slumbers unfathomably warm and sweet. Yet from my usual view, the club girl seems fidgety—springing about with ceaseless giggles, too dizzying to grasp—until she anchors herself to receive me. How then does she become a woman of such depth and substance? I’ve met the true you. A woman of boundless,endearing frailty.

Returning to the earlier narrative—on one hand I tasted happiness by gaining Oen as my inn wife, while on the other I sought to cast myself aside and become a sacrificial instrument for my father and teacher’s ideals. As a banquet entertainer, I tried to refuse vulgar assignments whenever possible, taking only high-class engagements while reserving my remaining energy for devotion to haiku’s path. My income could hardly have been substantial. I kept Oen in poverty. When I later asked Oen about her feelings from that time, she said: “I didn’t mind the poverty at all—it was your failure to devote yourself wholeheartedly to me that left me disappointed.” Of course this was true—no matter how selective one claims to be, a banquet entertainer’s livelihood lies in banquet rooms. My nights out were frequent. Possessing lingering childishness myself, and dreading being called provincial for clinging domestically after taking a wife, I strove to maintain social engagements with colleagues as diligently as possible. I wanted to don my groom-formal crested kimono and visit teahouses—to parade myself before that businesswoman who had once been linked to me in scandalous rumors before casting me aside like yesterday’s sleeve lining.

However, the woman called Oen was a saint, a maiden, and a woman of contradictions—and moreover possessed something of the witch about her. When she obtained a man, she would impose acts such as making him lock eyes with her in a staring contest for two or three hours straight in a single room, while his heart still hadn’t found peace. To ensure the man’s heart never strayed from her for even an instant, he would become utterly exhausted by her allure, falling entirely within the grasp of her love. If it was a man she had obtained, she would grow jealous even of him speaking about other women appearing in dreams he had while sleeping alone. I still wonder—could there exist in this world a man who, alone, could love her with equal force? Even if such a man existed, he would likely have been defeated by the ferocity of her love over time and ended up a spiritual weakling, I imagine. Her love possessed something like a magnetic force that drained the very essence of life from its recipient. After taking the seed for offspring, the female devours the male—it was akin to that mantis spirit for whom such an act constitutes the consummation of love. On the other hand, there was no woman as endearingly pitiable as her. For whereas what women of ordinary measure found satisfactory was unsatisfactory for Oen—it would not comply. In this sense, few women have as keenly felt the impermanence of all things in reality as she has; she desires something beyond the human world within the human world itself. And she herself, while possessing a beastly body, had also grasped something sacred. I did not notice that until much later.

Once a couple becomes husband and wife, even laypeople lose all interest in their relationship as a man and woman within two or three years. How much more so for fellow entertainers who should be worldly-wise. Any love-struck wife should inevitably transform into a serene, businesslike caretaker spouse. I was becoming precisely that. But she did not become so. Rather, her passion as a woman seemed to progressively intensify toward me after marriage. Having become my inn wife, she now thrust into me her lover's affection like a sharp needle—as if newly awakened—and demanded I too should cross blades with it. She seizes a husband without knowing servitude, makes a man her spouse without conjugal tenderness. This seemingly impossible act is performed by the queen bee among insects. She was also the queen bee among human women.

I was troubled by the ferocity of her passion and, fearing her queen bee-like authority, found myself unconsciously exerting effort to deflect the intensity of her gaze—diverting it left, right, and in all directions. "Can't you handle this bit? You're an entertainer's wife, aren't you?" "You're an entertainer's wife, aren't you?" "An entertainer’s wife tolerates her husband’s affairs and allows his social engagements to proceed freely." "In return, having a man for occasional dalliances yourself—now that’s true skill."

This old ideology was also the prevailing custom in entertainer circles during the late Meiji period. Ultimately, elevating the husband’s social standing was an expression of collaborative marital love. “If we have one thing mutually acknowledged deep in our hearts,” I said, “then for the rest, we can mostly overlook things by considering them for business.” “Entertainer couples should live by that.” “You should try to be a bit more reserved yourself.” She listened with an unimpressed expression. At that time, I still believed that through the husband’s superiority, she could be tamed and reshaped by male power. There are many women in society who are made to be so. However, there are occasionally women who are not made to be so. I discovered that rare woman within her, and the time finally came when I had to remove my helmet.

One day, invited by a client on an excursion, I crossed the Edogawa River and went to Mama's Koboji Temple on the hill by the riverbank to view the autumn foliage. The client was a master who had grown weary of amusement, and the entourage he brought along consisted of four or five male geisha mixed with elderly courtesans. Since they were all types who twisted haiku a bit, on the way back they playacted a poetry gathering at a riverside restaurant in Ichikawa with me as the judge. When dinner came and the drinks started flowing, they ended up deciding—as a bit of fun—to summon some country geisha. Among the geisha we hired, there was a woman who was not particularly beautiful but simply young and supple, and she was assigned to me. I felt my mind, wearied by daily frustrations of worldly affairs and the provocations of my inn wife, was unexpectedly soothed by this geisha. We sent only the elderly courtesans back to Tokyo, and each of us took along a geisha as our companion, then spent two or three days wandering through unassuming oyster-shell-smelling fishing villages like Yawata, Funabashi, and Gyotoku—places beyond urbanites' imaginings—starting that very night. This was the first time since our marriage that I had stayed out without informing her of the reason. The escapist mood of our seaside village wanderings had dissipated, leaving even that act feeling wearisome.

The moment I stepped through my home’s gate and saw my wife Oen’s face come rushing out at me, I froze in my tracks. Her countenance resembled that of a madwoman’s—every feature broken. When she saw me, she stepped back as if frightened, tears trickling down her cheeks. “It’s no use anymore,” she said, uttering just those words. And then she collapsed in violent sobs.

However, this despair of hers was also due to an aging banquet entertainer—one who envied my superiority as an intellectual performer yet insisted on playing the senior role despite being my predecessor, and who moreover harbored an illicit longing for my wife Oen—having heard of my whereabouts from an elderly courtesan who had returned to Tokyo, then twisting that information with calculated embellishments to provoke her.

Despite being an entertainer's wife—and one who should have known the character of the man making the report—Oen accepted it at face value when she shouldn't have been so easily swayed. No matter her age, Oen retained something of a maiden girl untouched by experience. She had interpreted it as me being moved by passion to elope with that geisha. When I married Oen, I had confessed my past affairs to her beforehand, just as upstanding amateurs do before marriage. Oen had been pleased to consider me relatively unscathed among entertainers in the pleasure district. But this time, she took it that I had succumbed to a moral lapse with a woman of the trade—and Oen's devastation was profound.

For about a year, Oen was mentally broken and did nothing but repeat that she wanted to die. In fact, there were actions that might well have ended in death, but in the end Oen stopped herself. A daughter had been born to us. This child died at twelve years old, but Oen ultimately refrained from death both for this daughter's sake and to spare me—who at the time had become an honorary beggar for my master's benefit—from social disgrace. Had she been raised as a chaste wife, she might have become a near-perfect model of chastity. Whether what prevented this was due to the man's character or professional circumstances—in any case, I cannot claim complete innocence. For the next two years or so, she gradually recovered while using potent medication.

Throughout my life until now, I had been made to keep my neck perpetually erect for Oen's sake countless times. Yet there were no days when I sustained such uncertainty about life itself as during those three years. I deeply regret that the root of Oen's suffering lay within me. Had she but once cried out "Won't you die with me?" while I dwelled beside her profound anguish, I would have gladly died if it could have redeemed my remorse. In that immediate moment, I cannot say how much lighter that might have felt. But true to form—that was Oen through and through—even now I find myself peculiarly awed. She never spoke those words. For her, the vindictive resolve to make me eternally witness her torment and regret wrestled with a pitying heart that whispered "How pitiful—this man who unwittingly wrought such consequences"—thereby sealing her lips.

Oen was a woman who habitually said, “There’s no going back now.” Even if she merely made a mistake in cutting a single piece of undergarment fabric, she would utter that phrase and lament it as though she had accidentally lost her virginity. For a woman of professional background, she remained uncommonly tenacious. It may sound strange coming from me, but to convey her own words directly—she felt no attraction to any other part of me. Yet because I was considered a rare handsome man in society, she claimed she wanted to keep both that aspect and my heart entirely as her own possessions by her side forever. That had once passed into another’s hands. In her mind, it had become irrevocable—a matter of “There’s no going back now.”

I returned from a raucous banquet where I'd danced wildly with a troupe. There in the dim-lit room she lay moaning. Patting her forehead, I grew weary and slept beside her. She was already a woman with a broken mind. At night she'd suddenly erupt into madness - my breath's source might be stilled as I slept. Each morning I'd start awake, visit the dawn bathhouse, and find it strange beyond words to confront my living face in the steamy mirror.

Choko, when you heard me make one extraordinary request of you while declaring my resolve to even discard life—that which humans most treasure—as the cost of atonement, you may have felt suspicion or resentment at how I speak of life so easily and handle it so lightly. However, that was neither a threat nor an affectation.

For me, I had trained considerably in separating it from my body and discarding it. During Oen’s illness, I practiced this discipline, and moreover, both my father and master—who had endured the hardships of the Bakumatsu and Meiji Restoration art world—would declare that life should be pledged as currency to pay for grasping difficult matters whenever occasion demanded. In dance choreography and in the professional training of banquet entertainers for forced drinking, the two elders would habitually say, "Stake your life on it," and moreover, those were not empty words. I had in fact stopped breathing temporarily many times due to the unreasonable training in heavy drinking. When my body quaked violently like an earthquake, sudden darkness would sweep at my feet, and I would collapse limply into a place of absolute rest. When I suddenly noticed, all the stars in the sky would sparkle and scatter from my eyes, and my body would revive in a nostalgic vagueness. Before my eyes, a vivid world like a new moon after bathing would unfold. Thus I had transcended a lifetime of life and death. When I resolved myself for death, closing my eyes and giving my head one shake, I could sever myself from future desires like a tugboat releasing its towline from the steam-powered vessel it had been pulling. At the same time, the modest body of work from my past became a caressing hand that stroked my back and sent me off, granting such full comfort that even the obsidian-dark world I was about to enter ceased to feel dark. In my heart, death was simply excusing itself as it was. At that moment, if I formed my hands in prayer and focused my mind, I could already sense the faintly visible world’s tide beyond discourtesy. The Meiji-era historian and critic Yamaji Aizan once remarked to the effect that “if one becomes even somewhat accustomed to focusing one’s mind on a mere fragment of wood, conquering the fear of death becomes a relatively simple matter”—and I think so too. Death was not so difficult. But life—what an arduous thing this was. Especially for those who had gained love—

Choko, therefore, the death I would exchange for what you held most precious in your maiden years is not, in truth, so costly a thing to me. But even if I were to pay you with my life—which I deem more valuable than death—the vulgarity within you would grant it no moral currency value, and thus you would doubt my sincerity. Unavoidably, I have merely staked my life in accordance with vulgar convention. Now, Oen had kept repeating for three years that she wanted to die—she wanted to die endlessly. And yet, pulled by some childlike compulsion and valuing my dignity, before achieving her goal, she abruptly sat up. Then she declared solemnly: "I'm sorry, but could you formally process the divorce and from now on become my brother in name instead of my husband? A clean relationship—" Oen had this cleanliness compulsion; though unskilled, she sewed every garment touching her skin herself without letting others handle them. She detested having others meddle with things intimate to her. Thus, her cleanliness compulsion rejected me as a husband—not merely physically defiled by that courtesan after our marriage, but spiritually unworthy henceforth. I am fully conscious of my duty to atone. If she would but return to life, I would agree to any demand.

She said again. “Even if you’re just a Brother stripped of charm, I can’t bear to see you taken by another woman.” “So I’m sorry, but at least keep your chastity proper, okay?” “In return, I’ll keep my own chastity proper as well.”

I agreed to this as well and believed her own vow.

Choko, and so I—indeed—through all those years from when you first became aware of things until becoming the woman you are now, absolutely never touched the skin of the opposite sex. Choko, not only this, but I—a man who became part of the demimonde—have surprisingly few traces of women in my personal life for an entertainer. If I were to write my Geschlechtsleben—my sexual history—the number of opposite-sex partners would likely be far fewer than that of provincial youths of that era who were considered licentious in that regard. Externally, one could immediately attribute it to that entertainer’s discipline, but internally, it stems from my own character. I do not have a shred of self-conceit that would attribute this to some notion of being an Edoite connoisseur. Merely through harsh self-critique, what a foolishly honest, heroism-loving, idol-worshiping show-off of a man I am. In other words, I want to mock myself for being made into this foolishly fortunate person who can be so easily deified. Especially when it comes to women.

When I was a young man working as a banquet entertainer while attending a private university, there was a renowned middle-aged courtesan named Oshina in the Nihonbashi pleasure quarters. She had a patron who was a local brewer and kept the young master of a fish wholesaler then operating in Nihonbashi's fish market district as her lover-client, living without material want. This Oshina took me under her wing. Ultimately, her patronage seized upon what I now recognize as my character's weakness like a lever, molding me into a decorative ornament that suited her whims. She exploited my beauty, drilling into me the most urbane and polished scholarly attire and mannerisms. To speak without modesty, I was indeed a youth of such radiant beauty in those days that one might squint. Yet I remained an earnest, vivacious student. She would take me along with her patron-lover and entourage of geisha to various venues, attending what we called friendly competitions at banquet rooms hosted by fellow geisha. The arts displayed at demimonde banquets were generally trifling matters. Judging the contests proved difficult on the spot. Yet Oshina would catch my eye and command me to remove my face covering. What had until then appeared as merely a guileless student would, when the screen slid open, reveal itself to be an entertainer raised from childhood. The more I sang and danced, the more effortlessly I parried and overwhelmed the full room of entertainers assailing me with mock punches, witty repartee, and challenges from all quarters. They finally doffed their caps, declaring, "We can no longer match you, young scholar." Oshina smirked privately. I felt the spoils of conquest. Thus when I sheathed my blade once more, I became again that beautiful scholar whose radiance made eyes narrow. Several unrequited admirers came to pine for me. Courtesans of such renown that they were deemed "name courtesans" would gather entertainers under their patronage alongside their sponsors, establishing their factions' influence throughout the Hanamachi pleasure districts. Faction vied with faction for prestige.

The ebb and flow of their influence was also tied to the reputation of their leading courtesan. Therefore, they devoted themselves to acquiring formidable entertainers among their followers, and ultimately I was merely used as Oshina’s propaganda tool; however, in making me so, there was also the preference of the downtown courtesans. Constantly socializing with merchants and stockbrokers, they harbored a novel interest in the students of that era; yet uncouth or boorish students did not suit the texture of their cultivated tastes. A stylish student. This was precisely what aligned with their tastes. I, with my susceptibility to women’s guidance, was exploited for my weak character and molded into her ideal idol by the courtesan.

She admonished— “You may visit restaurants alone for amusement if you wish, but you must never enter teahouses with private rooms. “Because it would tarnish your reputation.” From time to time, she would replace them and provide me with young apprentice geishas as lovers. The two of us were permitted chaste rendezvous, but all other interactions were strictly monitored throughout the pleasure quarters under Oshina’s oversight. Out of necessity, we entertained ourselves with futile love within those boundaries.

"What a beautiful romance between the two of them!" The people bestowed a lovely name upon it, and Oshina smirked once more. Ah, ah, why is it that people so desire to make others do what they themselves cannot and watch from the sidelines? And in this world, there are also rare individuals who cast aside themselves to fit others’ demands and perform the role of that idol. I was born into that rare kind of people.

Choko, why must I feel compelled to confess this weakness of mine to you? Since this forms one reason for my present expectations toward you—beyond the years of abstinence imposed by Oen—I carry this further history of restraint compelled by others. Thus having long kept distant from women, I came to sense in the female form a faint moonlight, a sacred white monument, the fruit of eternal life. Lately upon careful reflection, I realized I had left no mark of my own existence in this world—nothing carved for myself alone. This seems the great cause that now drives me to attempt engraving my life upon your flesh's walls, wielding my desperate love as a chisel. I who seldom fear death already acknowledge immortality beyond this world. Yet this does not mean I bear no lingering attachments here. Shall I vanish from this realm without imprinting myself? In that instant, I felt your flesh as raw marble awaiting form.

When it comes to repaying others' kindness, few could have been blessed with better fortune than I. For my father's sake, I became Japan's foremost banquet entertainer in his cherished dance lineage; for my teacher's sake, I achieved feats sufficient to revive Edo-school haikai amidst this era of uncouth rustic verses, transforming myself into both entertainer and true artist. Though this might place me among fools, I saw my father and teacher appear in dreams countless times to thank me. And during her lifetime, that haughty woman Oen once pressed both hands to the tatami and said, “Thank you, Uncle. I’ll be fine now.” Sensing an ominous premonition—as if this marked her life’s ordained conclusion—I deliberately sharpened my voice in anger: “Fool! Who could be content with such trifles? Your future still lies ahead,” I urged. Then she shifted tone and replied, “Ah... I see.”

Choko, you know well how I became Oen's Uncle and devoted myself to her. Oen's desire lay in carving into as many people as possible that soul's ultimate passion where the supreme beauty and deepest anguish of human emotions—writhing dimly yet fiercely within her—intertwined and melted together. At that time, I noticed the popular songs using the newly emerging phonograph as their expressive stage. I swiftly propelled her into that world. Secretly gathering old ballads and classical tunes, I reproduced them to suit modern tastes. I made her chew and savor ballad verses, took up the shamisen myself to hone her singing, and showed her where public preferences lay. How could they prevent her from becoming that society's master? For here was one capable man pouring his very life into breathing it forth. Yet she too had greatness. When protecting her life's true desires, she became immovable as bedrock; yet to those who proved willing to devote themselves to those desires, she cast aside and gave her entire being. In those moments, she grew light as a feather and attached herself to them. Had I told her, "This is my instruction—lie naked in a spreadeagle on Nihonbashi Bridge," and been beside her, she would have calmly assumed that naked pose like an infant waking—gazing at me with childlike dependence yet utterly unfazed by the gathering crowd. Shown such resolve by a woman, how could I as a man not pour my strength into this? It was not I alone. The several men supporting her—embracing this self-sacrificial reliance—all rushed to aid without self-regard. There were times she wholly departed from prepared lyrics and melodies to sing spontaneous inspirations. These were no mere whims. Transcending human artifice, life itself gushed forth in song. The way her voice left the human realm to gently merge with mystery carried the semblance of a celestial saint.

Everyone knew this and waited for her to break free in this sense. Ever since radio emerged, the stage upon which she gained renown as a master expanded hundreds of times over. Her true essence was that of a woman who overflowed the confines of art and suffused her life with passion. Her abundant, gushing, inexhaustibly fresh love took several men and women through love in various meanings. Seeming almost like a flesh-and-blood niece—Choko—Oen took you into her love, and also took Akio, who now shares this hermitage with me as a lover brimming with youth’s delicious sap. When society came to know that I had long severed our marital bond with Oen in both name and reality, leaping into a sibling-like relationship, yet still saw me doting on her with lingering affection, “Foolish Uncle” became my nickname. In the backstage bustle of performance venues, her disciples would lose sight of me, and when searching would call out loudly without using my real name—“Has anyone seen Foolish Uncle around here?” Someone positioned along the way would spot me and relay, “Ah, yes! Foolish Uncle is right here! Hey there, Foolish Uncle!” I again responded, “Yes.” And through all those years—so many that even I myself ceased to find it strange—no one laughed at the term, and I kept it in use.

Next, Oen began calling me “Uncle.” How convenient this title was—not merely free of romantic connotations toward women, but one that demanded obligations alone without claiming a single right. “Choko, you too have followed Oen’s example and call me ‘Uncle’.” Akio does the same. Ahh, what wretchedness. Oen addressed me as “Uncle” in name while truly burdening me with an uncle’s responsibilities in practice. The men and women whom Oen successively loved and claimed throughout her life—together with her, I supported and shielded them to prevent complications. Akio, who shares my hermitage as my haikai disciple under a poetic name, counts among them. Though once a promising young gentleman esteemed in his professional circles, Oen wrested him from his future path and placed him in my care. I became his protector.

Oen would instigate such incidents, and each time she overcame them to bring matters under control, she summoned new passion and acted with single-minded, life-risking determination. Each time I set my soul ablaze, then cowered before her who seemed to emit violet flames like electric sparks, bowing to her sincerity. Yet in those early days, I still harbored jealousy born of lingering attachment toward Oen, and couldn't help considering societal appearances out of cowardice. In moments of indecision, she would cling to my chest and plead desperately. “Uncle, it’s all right, isn’t it? Please say it’s all right.” Then within me, all that had caused hesitation was flung away by a glorious reckless force—before me loomed even the dim-lit world of death where I’d clutch her under my arm and flee when crisis struck. “Very well—do it.” But as my heart still trembled, I bolstered myself with resigned words: “If we fail, we’ll be utterly destroyed.” “After all, we’re a race meant for ruin.” She peered up quizzically at this, shaking my collar as she protested: “Why make such grand pronouncements over trifles? "I’m frightened. No—I detest this talk of perishing.” Hearing this—whether through womanly instinct’s strength or life’s sheer tenacity—I crashed against her unfathomable depths and found courage as if seized by the scruff.

I have risked such crises several times and protected her through them all. If I were to think meanly of myself, I have lost the power to generate that necessary thrill in life for my own sake. Have I not barely managed to dispel life’s tedium by partaking in that which she risked her life to create for me? If that's the case, then I am a rather cunning person. In the end, I find myself utterly fed up with myself. In truth, while she was alive, I was constantly kept in anxious suspense by intense unease, with no moment to release the tension that gripped me like an earthquake’s night sash. With Oen dead and everything steeped in grief, there remains but one thing to be thankful for even when bowing to heaven and earth—that she was spared the dread of descending into madness. I had even steeled myself to endure the years of nursing I anticipated by her side once she lost consciousness.

And when I encountered the day when this fear had vanished, I found myself doubting how I could have possibly mustered such resolve through my own power back then—the world now felt so hollow and vacant. She had been inherently fragile from the start. Yet despite this fragility, she had to test herself to the very brink of collapse—I could not comprehend her otherwise. Her lifelong catchphrase was “Ride or perish.” She dismissed all in-between states as unworthy of being called life’s purpose. For those who accompanied her, it meant an unending series of overwhelming trials paired with a profound fulfillment imperceptible to outsiders.

For her, and for me who had gone from being "brother" to merely "uncle," enabling her to achieve fulfillment in every aspect of a woman’s life was also my own fulfillment. That I hoped to have her blossom as the happiest woman in the world meant nothing other than my own greatest happiness in the world. Having been severed from all spiritual and physical interactions with her through other relational channels, I was permitted to pour the full force of my lungs solely into striving for her supreme and unparalleled happiness through the sole conduit of kindness. Choko, the one you’ve so casually grown accustomed to calling Uncle is such an unheroic, pseudo-righteous being.

For a woman's happiness, money still comes first after all. The earnings from banquet entertaining and haiku judging were trifling at best. I studied art and antique appraisal, took brokerage commissions, and shifted my career into buying and selling them myself. The acuity of my discernment in such matters and social adeptness allowed me to grasp considerable sums upon entering this world. She had limitless resources at her disposal—all she needed was to expend the effort of writing amounts and signing checks with her mother-of-pearl-inlaid fountain pen when spending money, without another care thereafter.

Choko, when Oen succumbed to illness, Oen and I—the one you call Uncle—set aside our grief and first searched our hearts to see if she had any unfulfilled dreams or lingering concerns. That task was what remained of my love for her. Of course, she never intended to die. A woman like her had likely long since erased the realm of death from her very being. That is why she left no will. I could only discern through her usual words, actions, and demeanor.

The first thing that struck me was her eighteen years of abstinence, which I had counted out on my fingers. This referred to the vow she made to me—"We two are mutual"—which I too had upheld, yet considering her circumstances as one whose body maintained equilibrium while successively loving and taking up with several men, how excruciating must that physical self-restraint—devoid of corresponding spiritual resolve—have been for her. From my own experiences, I came to deeply understand the pain of that. Tears streamed freely down my face. Yet I could not very well present a young man at her grave. I sought to transfer this unending regret as a tribute onto what should be regarded as others' unresolved concerns.

That was something she had been concerned about in various ways during her lifetime, saying she felt you were like a biological niece of hers. “Uncle, do something about that,” she said to me once in her later years. The reason was your marriage, Choko. Though she would express gratitude toward me when away from my presence regarding matters she herself had set in motion—leaving me to handle their aftermath—given her innate nature that rarely allowed her to make requests or offer thanks directly to my face, I understood this utterance to be no ordinary matter. I cannot fathom why Oen left you with such profound concern, Choko. Perhaps she was ultimately a lonely soul who felt toward you—whom she perceived as a niece—the sole physical kinship she ever allowed herself.

But precisely because you yourself didn't particularly desire marriage, this became rather troublesome for me. I called you to the hermitage and explained what I believed had been Oen's feelings toward you in this matter, trying to direct your mind toward marriage. For Oen—who had focused single-mindedly on burning through her own life while reflecting on how she'd had little strength left for others—it must have been lonely; and even someone as extraordinary as Oen, when considering her own excessively eccentric life, would have felt pained and perhaps wanted at least you, a beloved woman of the same sex, to follow an ordinary yet safe path. The only thing I found strange was how she then added afterward: "Once everything's done, I'll leave it all to you, Uncle." Leaving those subsequent words as they were, I then employed every means to search for marriage prospects for you.

Oen had several women whom she would arbitrarily bring in as an aunt, stepsister, or half-sister, convince herself they were such, and once convinced, could genuinely feel familial affection toward them as though they were blood relatives. I diligently complied with those women and what seemed to be her will. At that time, my interactions with you, Choko, and my feelings toward you remained calmly within these bounds. Yet it seems Oen’s feelings during her lifetime had weighed particularly heavily on you, Choko, so my attentiveness too deepened within those confines.

Choko, though I harbored little regret for actions long accustomed to being decided by Oen, I could not help but look back with profound emotion on those days—spanning over a year—when, driven unconsciously by the loneliness of losing her, I took you out under the pretext of showing you the world and indulging your preferences through leisurely outings and strolls. You said that at first, feeling as though you had gained an unreservedly carefree and kind-hearted father figure, you accompanied me with affection. But Choko, you were no ordinary girl either. Your lineage bore such flaws that from the eroded recesses of your heart there ceaselessly seeped a nature exuding compassion and nostalgia toward those who shared similar pains—this quality was ever-present. Choko, your exterior shone bright and shrewd. It even appeared somewhat cunning at times. Yet before I knew it, seeing through that facade, I came to sense within you both a profound loneliness and a deep warmth that cherished such loneliness—and found myself growing increasingly unable to withdraw. You would declare, “I’ll look after Uncle,” and I in turn vowed, “I’ll look after you.”

One factor was that there were numerous marriage proposals, and their dragging on had not been good. In this modern age, when a daughter suddenly resolves to marry and blows the pure clarion horn of proposal, the men of the world do not so readily dance to its tune. They approach marriage proposals from positions of superiority—speculating, calculating ratios, considering profit over passion. I grew increasingly unable to bear how you were put on display through arranged meetings like department store food samples, scrutinized and evaluated by suitors. Marriage proposals are doomed to fail. "At first I comforted you with 'Strengthen your heart,' but as humiliation's indignation grew within me," I snapped impatiently, "Do as you please!"

But in this matter, you too bear fault. To speak truthfully, you likely rejected or dragged out all those countless marriage proposals for reasons of your own heart. Yet I would never lay that sin at your feet. Had our positions been reversed, I would have surely done the same. A lifelong partner must possess something that shakes one to their very foundations—something allowing no room for hesitant deliberation. None among them carried such karmically destined allure.

When I finally came to know myself as such and, after agonizing turmoil, resolved to confess my love to you, you were astonished. However, you considered it an honor. For you knew the external aspects of my life—the dashing aesthete with Edoite spirit, the connoisseur called a *sōremono*, the middle-aged haiku poet who sometimes appeared a licentious rogue—yet here this man had abruptly bared his chest to show you the beating heart of his true self. Because I approached you with the reverence owed to one’s first love. Why did I, so unbecoming of my years, do such a thing to a young girl like you?

You had a voice like paulownia blossoms blended with bellflowers. The aural texture of this voice permeated my heart—layered like a pine stump armored through years of self-restraint for worldly conformity—and awakened me to the naïve essence within my own being. Your figure bloomed with both delicacy and dewy vigor. And no matter how repositioned, my cultivated tastes and desires—forged through discipline into a posture of proper dignity—worshipped and exulted.

Your countenance was the very essence of innocent beauty, while the ample flesh around your firmly set jaw evoked the stature of a household-attached daughter's Woolen Mutter (root mother). When told something by me, you would think with an upward gaze, your eyes appearing happy as if envisioning poetry—that opened onto the realm of dreams. All these were merely me listing the charms you drew out from me. Now came my turn to present you with my own charms. O pitiable Adolf Manjuu! Having reached this point, my mouth withered. When I first confessed my love to you, Choko, I had spoken neither of my age nor appearance. What I uniquely relied upon was the unexpected fact that after Oen died—after my feelings, gouged by chisel-sharp anguish, had once ceased breathing and submerged—the raw essence of fresh youth had emerged from my heart’s depths; the sentiment that Oen, true to form, had praised my decades of devoted service as “Uncle” and lavished upon me what remained of her unused youth in this world; and finally, the confidence born from vital energies accumulated through eighteen years of abstinence. While conversing with many young men, I had secretly attempted to compare our mental resilience; yet I could not help but conclude that I possessed far more tenacious youthfulness, and in both the effort to grasp beautiful dreams and make them reality, as well as in adventurous spirit, mine was decidedly fiercer. That heartrending throbbing in my chest—where shame and the urge to leap forth twisted together—would, if dyed onto paper, have taken on the hue of your beloved balsam flower’s nectar.

Until her dying moment, Oen would occasionally run her fingers through my hair, combing it up with apparent fondness while murmuring “My beautiful Uncle”—but even were I to tell you this, it would only amount to tasteless propaganda. When confessing my love that time, I spoke solely of your charms and never touched upon my own. Back then, I truly did not mention them. At that moment, there was truly no need to mention them. Having been utterly infatuated with you while demanding nothing in return, this could only ever be Uncle’s love. Thus unburdened, you could say “What an honor” even while reeling in astonishment. Yet I did declare this much: “Now that matters have reached this point, I can neither seek marriage prospects for you—whom I love—nor counsel you regarding them.” “Too hollow. Too hypocritical.” “Therefore you must handle that alone—my apologies.” “After all, this love of mine approached prepared for heartbreak from the start, requiring no reservations whatsoever on my part.”

However, after parting ways that day, the very next morning I rose resolutely and proposed marriage to you. After thinking through the entire previous night, I had reached the conclusion that my marrying you would not only benefit myself but bring you happiness as well.

You were thrown into confusion. You said: “Me becoming Uncle’s bride—I could never feel that way.” You said again: “All I had was the joy of thinking I’d found a good Papa I could tell anything to—” I had no choice but to grieve meekly and wait. I said I would wait forever until you changed your mind.

That night, I was examining various problems concerning the physical and spiritual aspects of love with Akio. And from this Akio—the hermitage cohabitant with whom I had consulted without hiding anything from confessing my love for you all the way to proposing marriage—upon hearing his unexpected revelation about his relationship with that woman Oen, I felt as though heaven and earth had overturned, and here embarked on a new psychological journey.

…………………………………………………… Within three days of hearing this, I felt my heart somersault three times. First, I took Akio’s hand, shook it vigorously and said.

"Thank you for doing that for me. My greatest suffering had been that Oen maintained abstinence for eighteen years out of obligation to me. Yet in truth, no such obligation existed. I had never felt such release from burdens since birth. ‘After prostrating myself thus before you, I’ll treat you to anything.’"

When the next night came, I avoided Akio and wept steadily throughout the night. Those were tears I had not once shed since becoming a man. Since becoming a man, I had cried several times for my father and teacher, moved by the pitiable nature of their hearts. Yet regarding my own wretchedness—had I ever wept except in childhood? To cry for myself while discipline laid down its principles was egoism—tears of self-indulgent sarcasm.

That night, I cried until my heart felt like it would give out. Breaking free from my own discipline, I cried for myself for the first time. I wept while mocking my lifelong foolish honesty, my absurd sense of chivalry, my heroism, that idolatry of discarding myself to fit others’ demands, my vanity. That night, I shed a lifetime’s worth of tears for myself. As for me, isn't this enough now? What remains is the sensation of a celestial drifter. Such things don't matter.

I spent yet another entire day the following day lost in thought over this frustration—that despite Oen, who had left this world after imposing upon me a lie vast enough to overturn my very existence, being someone I ought to despise, I simply could not bring myself to hate her completely. A voice was heard within my heart. "Uncle—isn't that enough?" And so I cast everything aside—right and wrong, resistance and all. After all, she was but a guileless child in adult form. I knew no way to contend with this child by any means.

Akio remained as cheerful as ever. He watched my thrashing about with apparent amusement. As if the thrill of life-and-death matters—absent from this hermitage since Oen's passing—had been revived through my current love affair in all its rawness, he participated in my consultations, even bracing himself to be caught in the crossfire. I could only thank Akio for Oen's sake, feeling no anger in my heart. When questioned, he too confessed that before being won by Oen's love, she had fabricated three world-overturning lies for her own ends. He recalled how his initial fury had erupted into fierce conflict, yet later reflection made him pity her—that woman who had labored so desperately just to possess him through that single flame of desire. That he had ruined his life for Oen had long compelled me to regard him tenderly. Having abandoned his family's profession over the scandal with Oen, he entered my Ichijin'an hermitage, became my junior in haiku, and helped me revive Edo-school haiku for modern times. Should anything befall me, he would inherit Ichijin'an and steer Edo-school haiku forward. While I scoured classical lyrics for Oen's art, he studied modern styles to cultivate her craft. How else could Oen's songs have gripped the public heart without that modern element slipped in like love philtres among the classics? Initially approaching me as "Uncle" who served his beloved Oen, he eventually discarded that bridge to seek direct intimacy with me. Was it men's pathetic habit of staking lives on women that bound us thus? Or rather, did Oen's uncanny allure—that controlled magnetism—forge this bond? Neither brothers nor uncle and nephew, we became something beyond naming—indescribably close. Now knowing Akio as Oen's true husband after our divorce, as I began relinquishing what I'd considered my eternal duty and partial rights toward her memory, both lightness and loneliness assailed that void within me. Even aware this was a cabal of deceivers against me, still I find myself yearning helplessly toward Akio.

"Akio, bring the shamisen here for a bit, would you?" "How unusual, Uncle."

"My love is the log bridge over Hosodani River: terrifying to cross, yet if I don't cross, I'll never meet my beloved. Hurry now—come on, get moving! My love is a razor honed on a coarse whetstone: if we do not meet, it will not cut. It’s not a snake, you know—this half-dead state." "Well now, how unusual, Uncle." "Sangari and such," said Akio. "Hmm, but back in our youth when we worked the banquet rooms—no matter how rowdy the party got—once a geisha took up the shamisen, well... even if just for form’s sake, she’d perform the opening piece and then at least briefly transition into this sangari. After which they’d duly respond to whatever party songs the guests requested." "Geisha back then wouldn’t perform popular songs in school-song style right from the start like they do now—not even if their chastity depended on it," I said. "Another one of your discipline stories, Uncle?" I let out a hollow laugh. "Counting back—it’s been twenty-eight years since I last sang this sangari." "At that time... you sang for Oen who’d passed away?" "Yes." "And now it’s for Choko?" "Yes." "The song may be the same, but the circumstances differ." "The other party’s half-heartedness remains unchanged." Akio laughed heartily—true to form. I persuaded Akio to sing Paris’s new popular song "Ju, Ju no Uta" from imported sheet music. In the pathos of song’s essence—East and West share no distinction.

The night rain echoed against the pillow.

After spending the entire night without sleeping a wink in thought, I arrived at a newly reached resolution. "That is the resolution I told you about—the one you called 'How dreadful.'" In my life, as a lover, I never won any woman's heart. I gained only that much as an uncle. It was a lonely life. The sole warm ambiguity was that Oen, the nation’s singer, had practiced abstinence for my sake just as I had. That had made me feel a great burden, but somehow it also made me feel a sentiment tinged with allure. As something beyond mere goodwill toward Uncle, I felt I had the strength to continue gladly living this abstinent life long after Oen's death. Through that effort, I was able to continue treating Oen even after her death as a woman with a somewhat alluring heart that could still connect—but.

When Oen died, I said to Akio as we leaned on each other's shoulders for support: "I no longer have strength to sustain life, but nevertheless, we must keep living." Oen had been that sort of flamboyant, electric woman. "Even if she sleeps, she won't enter some deathly gloomy realm." "If we clumsily killed ourselves and went there only to miss her, it would be irreparable." "Until we somehow determine where Oen has gone, we must survive at all costs." This was my resolve. Though I couldn't tell when, I felt certain I'd meet her again in some world of suffering and joy like this one. I strictly impressed this upon Akio too. But that connection too was severed. What little amorous bond I'd imagined remaining with Oen was gone. My abstinence had become merely a one-sided human obligation—meaningless now. Yet who could I entrust this to at this late hour? Akio, genuinely concerned by my agonized thrashing, suggested: "Don't you have pent-up desires in your body? Why not try venting them with something money can buy?" But scattering this carelessly toward purchasable things seemed too wasteful. Even admitting I'd been deceived, my soul of eighteen years' ascetic discipline would surely weep. For me now, this thing called myself held neither interest nor hope. I'd even considered forcibly entrusting my now-unwanted life—wrapped like ceremonial noshi—to you, Choko, believing you alone deserved my purest love this lifetime.

Why seek the physical? If I were to seek the heart, I would immediately be rebuffed as Uncle. And as I mentioned before, through my long abstinent life, women’s bodies had become abstractly idealized—scented by faint moonlight, appearing as white sacred monuments, perceived as elixirs of longevity. My feelings toward the opposite sex were sublimated into the metaphysical; a single beautiful woman’s body connected horizontally to all beauties in the world, vertically to those throughout history. I wanted to carve my soul into this ample boulder as a memento of this lifetime. Humans possess some instinct to etch themselves into concrete forms and leave them behind. Even Hanshan of China—that monk who boasted freedom from desire—though he might have been content merely composing detached verses like “My mind resembles the autumn moon,” went so far as to inscribe them lingeringly upon cliff walls. Thus are the pure monk’s attachments laid bare.

Now, you may wonder why I would fixate on you alone when this wall of women stands as such a boundless and infinite barrier. To carve requires a center. And you are the girl I feel most inexplicably drawn to. Why do they speak of being inexplicably drawn? Does being inexplicably drawn require a reason? My discipline dictated that I reveal this to you in Ichijin'an's tearoom four or five days prior, so you might have ample time to either escape or deceive me before I carried out this act. Though I called it discipline, in truth it must have been my anguished poem. How could I, in this world, ever be permitted to destroy you who embody love's ultimate form—no matter the reason? In my heart's deepest depths, I now realize I had been convinced you would skillfully escape or deceive me, letting me keep just one seemingly genuine beautiful memory—whereupon I'd inevitably either wander aimlessly, plunge into dissolution, or vanish body and soul. Love confuses the heart. Then and now—ah, I cannot make sense of myself. In Ichijin'an's tearoom, I removed the bamboo nodes from your heart's core. You understood me—something I'd never imagined possible. How strange—from that moment, all physical desire within me vanished clean away. I had transformed into nothing but a supple, reverent creature. I became a single mindless being, led entirely by the chest I'd discovered in you—infinitely deep, warmly ample, fragrantly moist like a lily's heart.

Akio came to the tearoom too, and together we ate soba. You said: "Let me think a little longer—I might just end up having you take me in, Uncle." I cheerfully replied, "That would be a blessing," but—it seems from that very moment I had already begun setting myself aside and resuming Uncle's discipline of considering only your happiness.

I put you in the car and drove you near Tana River Bridge before returning home. That evening I slept soundly. From the next day onward I began writing this letter. I wrote endlessly without pause. After briefly dipping my brush to compose verses for an important commemorative haiku plaque, I spent three or four days writing this letter while barely eating meals. The plaque likely won't be finished for its dedication ceremony. My plans to continuously drink stomach-paralyzing medication evaporated somewhere along the way. The feelings I held when starting this letter differ completely from those I harbor now at its conclusion. I've relinquished all claim to your body. Should you find no better prospect through your various searches and trials, know that my marriage proposal remains available as one among many options—a final refuge should desperation strike. What compelled this? Those two lips you pressed upon me in that frenzied moment after hearing my story—when you threw yourself forward crying "Uncle! From now on truly live for yourself!"—those lips alone. I excised that moist supple fragrant sensation from my own lips and sealed it within my chest as a memory-flower pressed between pages of time. Periodically I retrieve it to press against my mouth—this tiny blossom whose colors never fade nor fragrance dims nor dew-damp softness withers. When those petal-lips touch mine, woman's true essence seeps through my entire being until numbness sets in—this truth obtained by one encrusted soul within an encrusted world becomes my sole foundation for believing myself henceforth a happy man.

Choko, you yourself are not solely the you of that transient instant. Yet through these two lips alone, I can convince myself of both that momentary you and your essential self. In gratitude for this, I shall cast off presumptuous desires, discard myself entirely, and return to being Uncle—he who weighs nothing but your happiness. Lonely though it be, this still feels rooted in my fundamental nature. I shall impose no obligations upon you. But one thing I must have you hear. Until you find one to whom you may dedicate yourself, I will maintain this life of abstinence. Without even this slender thread of secret connection, being merely an uncle and provisional niece would prove too desolate.

I found myself compelled to read this lengthy letter through to its end—at moments stirred by excitement, at others wearied by redundant rewrites of familiar passages, at others moved to tears where it pierced my heart. After finishing, I pressed the letter to my chest and pondered how this differed from all the men who had courted me until now, and whether there lay any new insight to be found. When all was weighed, what lingered within me was the sensation that this man had thrust his rough hand into my very core and forcibly extracted the essence of my womanhood. The others who had approached me would cling like beggars—burdening me with their demands while pleading for scraps. Yet this Uncle—though his methods were harsh—left me feeling no burden at all; what I sensed was only the passionate yet measured heart of a man past his prime, straightforward in his ways. The tips of those insistent fingers seemed smeared with cloyingly metallic blood drawn from my own heart. Having read this letter, I nearly leaned forward with tears welling up—

“Uncle, it’s no good anymore—no good at all!” I muttered under my breath, yet still resolved to wait a moment longer. It seemed my womanhood had matured enough to draw from Uncle something pure and burning that I’d never extracted from other men—yet even so, he still lacked the youth and vigor needed to claim me fully. I was twenty-three then. Even setting appearances aside, Uncle remained mismatched to me in matters of youth. There clung to him an air of aged decay—stains imprinted by fate and tradition that no amount of scrubbing could erase. At that moment I thought: if only he could shed every last trace and revive completely as a twenty-three-year-old equal, I might become his lover or even wife.

But I gave Uncle no response whatsoever and simply left Heron Town with Bunkichi, the simpleton beggar, in tow. Why did I do this? It was solely to fulfill that wish of Bunkichi’s—his constant refrain of "I want to see the sea, I want to see the sea" that he kept repeating. Whenever I perceived this simpleton’s oft-repeated yet unfulfilled wish, I would always find myself shedding tears that no one else would see. Though I had already reached the age when women become young mothers, was it because I had no child? Or perhaps it is because a greater human element stirs within a woman’s being? The act of fulfilling this desire for Bunkichi now welled up in my chest as the freshest force.

I had Bunkichi take off his beggar clothes, dressed him up like an ordinary young man, and took him along. For a while, the river’s banks stretched as reed beds where great reed warblers chirped incessantly; here and there between them, boat landings and fishing houses came into view, and as the river gradually widened—finally, the sea—.

Startled into voicelessness, Bunkichi turned his gaze toward the blue expanse; his eyes appeared both dull and yet strained to the point of icy clarity. Now within those eyes were reflected waves that ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed. As the eternal undying waves of the sea moved, so too did Bunkichi’s pupils dilate and contract.

At last, Bunkichi spoke. “Are there lots of living things in here?” “Yes, lots.” “When those living things die, where do they bury them?” As I stood there hesitating, having only managed to say “Well...”, Bunkichi—paying me no mind—spoke up with a look of understanding. “Yeah, that’s right. There aren’t any graves in the sea or anything.”

A world without graveyards—it was from that time onward that I came to prefer the sea over rivers and became a woman sailor.