Pathway to Japanese Literature

From the direction of Gion, crossing the Kamo River westward, at the three-story house on the opposite corner where one would turn right to enter Pontochō, he used the second and third floors as the inn and opened the drugstore on the lower floor facing Shijō-dōri. And the inn was called Naniwatei, while the drugstore was called Naniwadō.

I was thirteen years old that summer when I turned to my uncle and went to Kyoto. I had gone there with the intention of being enrolled in middle school, but that proved to be a mere dream; on the very night of my arrival, Uncle—while having his mistress-turned-wife Oyuki massage his back— “You’re a guest just for tonight, but starting tomorrow, you’re my apprentice.” he declared. And true to his word, from the very next day I was made to stand at Naniwadō’s shopfront. Since they were retailing common patent medicines and cosmetics as a side business to the inn, there were no other employees.

However, barely five or six days had passed when one day I was sent out on an errand. During Uncle’s absence, I was ordered by Oyuki, the mistress of the household, to carry a large wrapped bundle containing bedding or something of the sort to relatives in Nishinokōin Tako-yakushi. I was utterly bewildered. After all, I had only just arrived from a remote village in the northern countryside and still had no sense of direction in Kyoto’s streets, nor could I properly comprehend the local dialect at that time. I had been given detailed directions—west along Shijō-dōri, ascending and descending several numbered intersections—but from the start I couldn’t properly grasp them, left utterly disoriented. What’s more, I had a bitter memory from when I was seven—during a pilgrimage to Kyoto with my father, while staying at my aunt’s house in Rokujō, I once wandered out alone to play around that area and got lost. A passing stranger dragged me about for half a day before swindling me out of the haori I wore and abandoning me on a twilight-drenched street in the deserted outskirts. This experience made me feel all the more uneasy now.

But of course, I could not refuse. “You should go while Master’s away and come back quick. It’s nothing—you could get there easy even if you had to grope your way blind.” “Off to Tamba with your grand airs!” Oyuki said this as if it were nothing and made me carry that bundle on my back. The bundle was large but not particularly heavy; however, being far too big for my small frame, the sight of me walking with it strapped to my back was a pitiful thing to behold. On one wall of the shop hung a framed advertising mirror for some medicine; I realized my own form reflected in it—a wrapped bundle sprouting limbs, or rather, like a turtle rearing on its hind legs to scuttle about—and even Oyuki herself, who had forced me to carry it, clapped her hands and laughed without a shred of compassion. (From that time onward, I came to hold little affection for Oyuki. She was a slender-faced beauty in her mid-thirties, but somehow came across as cold and slyly malicious.)

Along Shijō's main street—the most prominent in all of Kyoto—I trudged forward in such a state. I felt every eye from passersby and shopkeepers lining both sides of the street fixed upon me—that they all found me ridiculous and were laughing—and though just a child, I felt so ashamed and wretched I couldn't even lift my face. To make matters worse, heading to an unfamiliar place for the first time made the road feel unnaturally long; the bundle on my back grew heavier with each step; the midsummer August heat left me drenched in sweat; rickshaws kept charging at me from front and back, their drivers snapping sharp rebukes—I truly felt on the verge of tears.

But finally, I managed to reach that house. I had neither the know-how to ask people for directions nor the courage to do so, relying solely on the street-name placards posted on utility poles at every intersection along the way—yet despite not getting lost or making a single wrong turn down any alleyway, this was less a stroke of luck and more a personal triumph I could take pride in.

It was a small, dilapidated house at the end of a narrow alley. Oyuki (I called this woman “Auntie” when speaking to Uncle or to her directly, but used her real name when talking to others) had told me it was her older sister’s house, and indeed a woman who appeared to be that sister—a pockmarked woman in her late thirties or early forties—came out, “Thank you kindly. You’ve done well.” In some unfamiliar regional accent, her voice rising with an odd lilt, she said this and took the bundle down from my back.

At that moment, I stood where the earthen-floored entryway met the garden path, wiping my sweat repeatedly, when my gaze drifted toward the inner room—and through the reed-paper screen dividing it from the front chamber, I saw a woman lying there alone. Since she was facing away, I couldn’t see her face, but she appeared to be a young woman nursing a baby—or perhaps offering it milk. It was something I would come to understand later—that woman was Oshin, the very person I am about to speak of. She was Uncle’s foster child, and therefore counted as my stepsister-in-law. At the time, she had given birth and, due to circumstances, was being kept at that house.

Oshin was originally a beggar’s child.

――It was two or three months later that I first heard such an unexpected story. The story went that her parents had been living under Shijō Bridge, coming morning and evening to Naniwatei’s back door to beg for customers’ leftovers, when Uncle gave them some money and took her in on the condition that they would never show their faces around there again. This had happened when Oshin was seven or eight years old, so I was told. "She was crawling with lice." "When they said they’d bathe her and stripped off her clothes—it was horrifying!" "Her entire body was swollen bright red—so horrifying you couldn’t bear to look."

When I visited my aunt’s house in Rokujō, a certain regular visitor—a woman on familiar terms with the household—told me this in a tone implying she too had witnessed those events firsthand. "But soon enough, she turned into such a proper Beauty of a lady…" Her words dripped with scornful implications as she continued—that Oshin had taken a paramour and borne his child. "To be fair, even when she’d been begging, she was a lovely Beauty of a child." “Her parents weren’t beggars from the very start, you know.” "They hadn’t been at it long—word has it they once ran a proper oil shop in Nakagyō or such. Master Naniwatei being the kind-hearted sort he was, must’ve taken pity on them." “Maybe he even thought of making her a geisha later on or something.”

Uncle was not an honest man by nature; he was what you might call a chivalrous rogue. The immediate elder brother of my father, born as the second son of a Buddhist altar shop near Nishi Honganji, he had run away from home at sixteen to become an underling to some Osaka gangster; after knocking about for nearly a decade, he returned to Kyoto and struck gold by opening a udon shop before Shichijō Station. From there his fortunes soared—a poultry shop in Gojō, a banquet restaurant in Nishiishigaki, venue rentals in Kiyamachi, a geisha house in Pontochō, then an inn in Shijō—each new venture spreading his influence wider. Keeping four or five mistresses to manage these establishments with lavish flair, he became known in Kyoto’s pleasure quarters society as “Master Naniwatei,” rising to considerable prominence as a power broker. By the time I came to rely on him, however, Uncle had entered an irreversible decline—only his last remaining establishment, the Shijō inn doubling as a drugstore, still operated, and among his women, only the most recent acquisition Oyuki seemed to remain. Yet his adoption of Oshin as a foster daughter had occurred fourteen or fifteen years prior during his absolute prime, an act likely driven not just by chivalrous impulse but equally by passing caprice.

As a preface, Uncle had never taken an official wife from the start, continuing his libertine life of moving from one mistress to another; since none bore him children, apart from Oshin he maintained two other nominal foster daughters alongside an adopted heir. One was Ofuji—foster daughter to Ofumi (Oyuki’s predecessor as chief mistress, who had separated from Uncle due to illness yet kept contact)—who ran a banquet restaurant in Nishiishigaki; the other was Otaka—foster daughter to Otsuru who ran a geisha house in Pontochō. Thus Oshin became Oyuki’s foster daughter; by my arrival, the heir Keisaburō (son of a Shinmachi geisha house) had enlisted in the Fushimi regiment, while Ofuji took a husband and established a Gion household with foster mother Ofumi as a shamisen instructor. She was twenty-seven or twenty-eight—an oval-faced beauty with wide-set eyes. Otaka had become a geisha in Fukuchiyama, Tamba. Having stubbornly refused this path herself, they couldn’t place her in Pontochō or Gion under their watchful eyes; through connections she was sent to Fukuchiyama instead. Four or five years later—two months after my arrival—she returned ill and that very evening wandered out at dusk to throw herself into the canal like some cruel jest. I followed discreetly then; crossing Shijō Bridge eastward along lamplit streets until—with no time to intervene—she plunged into dark waters with a splash. Swept two blocks to Donguri Bridge’s edge, revived briefly on shore only to die days later in hospital. A woman mid-twenties—dark-skinned and gauntly tall as her name implied—she’d apparently suffered severe neurasthenia.

Now regarding Oshin—throughout my several years in Kyoto, I directly met her only twice, with no encounters before or after. Each time lasted but a fleeting moment. Yet those impressions carved themselves so deeply into my heart that even now, forty years later, they remain vivid as yesterday’s memories. The first occurred about half a month after my initial errand-run, when I went on the second delivery. This time I carried a small bundle manageable in one hand. Finding Oyuki’s sister absent, Oshin herself emerged to receive it—a petite woman around twenty with a softly rounded face plump at the jawline, narrow eyes brimming gentleness. As I turned to leave immediately, she said “Wait a moment,” drew me inside, and soon returned clutching a ramune bottle.

"It’s just one bottle. Drink it before you go—it’s nicely chilled," she said and held it out before me. “Oh, thank’ee kindly.”

I thanked her in my still-clumsy attempt at Kyoto dialect, but in truth I had never drunk ramune before and didn't know how to open the bottle. That round glass marble sealing the mouth of that uniquely shaped bottle with its constricted neck—I didn't know that primitive method where pressing hard with your thumb would make it pop-hiss out with an exhilaratingly crisp sound. And so, while I sat on the step-up threshold, shrinking in visible confusion for some time, Oshin—perhaps thinking I was being reserved—kept urging me to drink it quickly before it warmed up, saying it had been chilled just right. I grew increasingly flustered, blushing more from shame than heat, and could do nothing but wipe the sweat from my brow. At last Oshin too seemed to notice this—though perhaps out of consideration to spare me embarrassment—and merely allowed a faint smile to play at her lips,

“It tastes better if you drink it with a straw…” Murmuring this as if mentioning something else, she brought a cup and, with her own hands, popped open the bottle’s mouth with a ‘pon’ before pouring it in for me. And while I partook of her treat, there at her side she fed milk to her newborn baby and asked me all manner of questions—my age, my name, my circumstances. I answered each question as it came—that I was thirteen years old; that back home my father worked as a fisherman while my mother and I lived estranged; that I had one blood sister who had likewise come to Kyoto at thirteen three years prior, working as a servant at our aunt’s house in Rokujō (which was also an inn); and all such things—confessing everything just as it was, including how I myself had recently come to rely on Uncle and arrived here alone.

Oshin listened with particular interest, nodding at each disclosure—"Is that so? Is that so?" Her expression shifted noticeably when I mentioned serving at Uncle’s household and my sister working at our aunt’s in Rokujō, as if startled by some revelation, yet ultimately—

“Well, it’s not really all that much,” “But that’s admirable.” “For someone so small, you’re remarkably steady.” “Such a good apprentice.” “However hard things get, endure them—and work cheerfully with all your might.” She spoke these words with gentle encouragement, pressing a ten-sen coin into my hand as I left.

At that time, I still did not know who Oshin was or anything about her circumstances. Of course I didn’t even know she was Uncle’s foster child, let alone her name. I had merely imagined her to be perhaps the wife or daughter of that household, yet she struck me as someone remarkably kind and considerate—somehow deeply familiar, even stirring in me a sense of longing I couldn’t suppress. Nor was it simply because she had treated me to ramune or given me a tip. Rather, it was the direct impression I received from Oshin herself at that time—how she asked me all manner of personal questions about my circumstances and gently encouraged me like an older sister comforting a younger brother in service—that made me sense in her a warm human tenderness rich with affection, moving my heart all the more and drawing me to her.

From birth I had lost my mother soon after being born and knew nothing of warm maternal affection, constantly starved and parched for such tenderness—whenever a slightly older woman showed me kindness, I would immediately cling to her bosom and seek to indulge in that affection, a tendency I carried within me. And this tendency would easily transform into romantic feelings. Even without that, I was still a mere child of thirteen or so, sent off to serve as an apprentice in a faraway land. Though it was my uncle’s household—a close relative’s home—my time there remained new, leaving me unfamiliar with both the people and the land, and in every way I found myself unable to endure the lonely, desolate sorrow that weighed on me. For someone like me, then, even that small kindness from Oshin felt profoundly gratifying—a joy and solace akin to discovering a kindred spirit in desolate wilderness.

There was another unforgettable impression from that time. It was that Oshin was an exceptionally fair-skinned woman. I had heard in tales that Kyoto women were fair-skinned because they used the waters of the Kamo River for their toilette, and indeed, to my eyes—which until then had seen only sun- and sea-burned women from a rural fishing village—they all seemed that way; but Oshin was exceptional. As for beauty or ugliness of features, of course as a child I couldn’t discern such things, but in terms of her fair skin and beautiful complexion, I thought there could likely be no equal. At that very moment, she was nursing her baby, and on top of that, it being a hot summer day, her chest was nearly fully exposed; the clarity and beauty of her skin was utterly crystalline and translucent. Even I—a boy still untouched by worldly awareness—found myself stealing glances with a kind of dazzled feeling, wondering if phrases like "surpassing snow" or "jade-like skin" referred to such beauty as this. I too must have been approaching early adolescence around that time, which perhaps made me especially drawn to such things. At the very least, since that time, my perspective when viewing the opposite sex had seemingly changed.

The second time was after half a year or more had passed since then. I had gone on errands to Nishinotoin many times by then, generally about once a month on average, yet never once did I meet Oshin. She was either out or, when present, occupied in the back room sewing or some such task, so she never came out herself to receive me. Oyuki’s sister would always come out to greet me, uttering rote pleasantries like “Thank you ever so much for your trouble” and “You’ve done splendidly” with nothing but empty words.

Each time, I could not help but feel a loneliness akin to disappointment. This was especially true when Oshin was home yet chose not to show herself. Though I alone nurtured this one-sided intimacy, the thought that not even a shadow of me remained in Oshin's heart since our first meeting left me with an uncommonly desolate emptiness. During that period, I gradually pieced together the outline of Oshin's origins and circumstances: that she had been a beggar adopted by Uncle; that he educated her in school and sewing until she blossomed into a beauty mingling with middle-class women at social gatherings; that she became lovers with Morita—a Tokyo telegraph engineer nearing thirty from the Ministry of Communications who lodged monthly at Naniwatei Inn; that initially Morita had been intimate not with Oshin but her foster mother Oyuki; that when their affair risked exposure, Oyuki deftly substituted Oshin as scapegoat to preempt Uncle's wrath; that upon Oshin's pregnancy they secreted her at Oyuki's sister's Nishinotoin residence for childbirth; that though she bore a son, Uncle raged at her impropriety—refusing marriage approval while vowing eternal disownment unless she abandoned both child and lover; that despite all appeals to pity for the infant, Oshin stubbornly refused compliance; that Oyuki—burdened by guilt—clandestinely supported her behind Uncle's back; yet Uncle knowingly feigned ignorance of this arrangement—and so on...

I did not hear all of this from a single source at once. Having pieced together fragments heard directly and indirectly from many mouths over many occasions—though I couldn’t discern how much was true—I nevertheless came to naturally understand through these accounts: why Oshin, being Uncle’s foster daughter, not only failed to return even after her postpartum recovery period but never once showed her face; and why my errands to Nishinotoin were always limited to times when Uncle was absent, with Oyuki apparently keeping this arrangement secret from him (though I only realized this later).

“We’re keeping it from Master.” “It’s not that I mind particularly,” she said, “but it’d be a problem if you left the shop unattended for other errands...”

In this way, Oyuki would casually admonish me in a light tone. However, such things—that Oshin had been a beggar’s child or had borne a fatherless child—had no effect whatsoever on my feelings toward her. Though I was indeed somewhat surprised and taken aback, not a shred of contempt or scorn toward Oshin arose in my heart because of it. On the contrary, gathering all these elements—her turbulent upbringing and circumstances compounded by becoming a victim of Oyuki’s infidelity and suffering disownment by Uncle—I somehow felt her to be a pitifully unfortunate person, so much so that even my childish heart harbored secret sympathy. No, to say that would be putting it a bit too strongly. Things like pitying someone’s circumstances or sympathizing with their misfortune—such adult-like critical emotions had not yet taken root within me at that time. Oshin’s circumstances—the complex relationships and affairs between Uncle, Oyuki, Morita, and others; that adult world—still lay beyond my ability to perceive, understand, or criticize. From our very first meeting, I had merely convinced myself that Oshin held some special fondness for me—indulging in a one-sided affection toward her regardless of her upbringing or circumstances—and with the simple heart of an orphan craving familial warmth, felt nothing more than a vague yearning. And so, going on errands to Nishinotoin became a delight—I would always set out with eager anticipation—but due to the circumstances I’ve just described, I would return each time with unfulfilled expectations and a despondent heart.

However, one time, Oshin herself unexpectedly and suddenly visited Uncle and the others.

It was the end of March; at that time, Uncle was living in the Shimizu area with Oyuki-san and me—the three of us. Uncle had long been suffering from gastrointestinal issues while leading an idle life, but shortly after my arrival, he built a villa-like small house near S Hill and moved there at year's end, partly for recuperation. And so I was taken along as a replacement for the kitchen maid. Oshin came alone without her child. After sunset, just as I had finished cleaning up after dinner and was about to come up from the sink area, she suddenly burst in from outside—startling me into gaping silence—

“Is this the place? Are they here?” No sooner had she abruptly demanded to know whether Uncle and the others were present than she pushed past me without awaiting a reply, her expression urgent and determined as she hurriedly forced her way into the inner room. It was as though she feared being turned away if she showed any hesitation.

This sudden visit greatly shocked Uncle and the others. As per his nightly post-dinner routine, Uncle lay on his futon having Oyuki massage his lower back when he suddenly paled and sat upright—muttering incoherent words through clenched teeth like pained groans—so thoroughly flustered he seemed at a loss where to put his hands. An uncanny silence thick with panic and disarray lingered between them. "What’d you come here for?" A considerable span passed before Uncle broke the silence. And in that voice lingered not anger’s heat but fear’s faint tremor.

From the next room, I listened through the fusuma to their conversation. Their voices would sometimes drop to inaudible whispers, sometimes erupt into fierce arguments, occasionally interspersed with Oshin's stifled sobs; from what I could gather through the sliding door, it seemed Oshin had come to bid farewell—ostensibly to seek approval—because Morita had been assigned submarine cable telegraph work in Shanghai for a year or two, and she intended to accompany him.

What had become of Oshin and Morita's relationship by that time was naturally beyond my full understanding; yet given that Morita still made occasional business trips here, their romantic—no, marital—relationship must have continued unchanged as before. I too had once glimpsed a man who seemed to be him at Nishinotoin. He was a striking figure—tall and slender, with a handsome handlebar mustache beneath his nose. As for this Shanghai venture—whether they had arranged it beforehand through letters; whether Morita had stopped by en route to his new post, prompting Oshin's abrupt decision to accompany him; whether Morita had already gone ahead and was summoning her from there; or whether Oshin herself meant to follow after him—in any case, she had steeled her resolve completely, with departure looming within two or three days.

“Then there ain’t no call comin’ here now spoutin’ that nonsense. You could’ve just gone off quiet-like, for all I care. What an idiot!” Uncle said indignantly, puffing himself up as though he were the one being scorned. “But Shanghai’s in China, you know. It’s a foreign country, you know.”

Oshin’s manner of speaking was just like that of an ignorant, innocent girl.

“What’s that got to do with anything? So it’s China—ain’t gotta explain nothin’!”

“Even if I’ve been disowned, how could I leave for such a faraway place without telling you?” Shanghai—though today it feels as familiar as Japan’s mainland—was in those pre-Russo-Japanese War days still widely regarded as a foreign land of distant Cathay, a realm ten thousand leagues overseas. From Oshin’s perspective, even amidst their severed familial bonds, the accumulated affection and obligations of their former parent-child relationship made it unbearable to depart in silence. This was why she had taken it upon herself to visit despite her disowned status: hoping against hope that this might become an opportunity for reconciliation—to have her disownment revoked and gain approval to wed Morita. Such had undoubtedly been her intent in coming.

“I haven’t forgotten the kindness and duty I owe you as my parent.” Oshin continued in a tearful voice. “What nonsense you spout.” “Like you came here pitying poor old me.” “That’s madness!” “Whose permission d’you think you got to go off to such a place?” “…………”

“If you haven’t forgotten your parent’s kindness and obligations, then why won’t you obey what that parent says?” “Which matters more—your parents or your lover?” “How could you say something so cruel…” “What’s cruel about that?” “But the baby’s the one who’ll suffer…” “Who told you to have that brat?”

“…………”

“Go throw that thing into the gutter and be done with it!” Uncle’s congenital temper gradually intensified. “That’s too cruel,” Oshin began sobbing resentfully. “You’ve never birthed your own child, Father—how could you know?” In her agitation—or perhaps because of it—Oshin had let slip an unforgivable remark. Uncle brandished his thick silver pipe as if roaring “What?!”—swinging it upward in an instant. The sliding door’s frame held blue gauze panels through which the scene blurred faintly visible. On his sickbed, Uncle—emaciated torso laboriously propped on an armrest—lurched forward. Sunken cheeks beneath a sallow complexion tinged more with sickly gray than pallor flushed crimson as he glared at Oshin with cavernous eyes glittering fiercely, his countenance truly dreadful. Though not yet fifty, whether from illness or premature aging, with all teeth gone from both jaws, he appeared hideously aged like a man of sixty or seventy.

But Oshin did not move a muscle, as though deeply resolved, facing away with her sloping shoulders rounded while keeping her head bowed low. Her hair was done up in a round chignon with a red-handled ornament, but the area around her white collar trembled in small, quivering shudders.

As for Oyuki, positioned diagonally between Uncle and Oshin, she tilted upward her melon-seed face—with its high-bridged nose, pointed chin, and chillingly composed features—adopting an air of affected solemnity as though lost in profound meditation (a habitual mannerism of hers that I particularly disliked), fluttering her long, narrow eyes. Then, abruptly raising her hand to cut off Uncle, she sharply condemned Oshin.

“Now, what on earth are you saying? How dare you speak that way to your father? Apologize this instant!” “But how could you say something so heartless?” “What nonsense are you spouting? It’s you who doesn’t understand yet keeps spouting nonsense! If even you would just obediently do as your parent says! First you go and disgrace yourself, then you won’t listen to your parent’s words—and on top of that, you’re spouting nonsense about running off to China or Shanghai with some man! How can you do something so reckless? It’s only natural Master would scold you like that.”

Oyuki spoke thus with harsh words, as if rebuking Oshin’s misconduct. Yet somehow it didn't seem to come from the depths of her heart. While feeling a twinge of conscience over her own words, there was something about her manner that suggested she was only saying such things out of deference to Uncle’s presence. For indeed, had it been true that she herself had sold Oshin to Morita as a substitute, then regardless of whether Oshin knew this or not, she could not have spoken with such authoritative force—hampered by her own guilty conscience.

Oshin said nothing in response to this. All the while Oyuki was speaking, she glanced sidelong at her twice. Then Oyuki—as if evading that gaze for reasons unknown—hurriedly turned her eyes upward toward the ceiling while performing her characteristic rapid blinking.

Then, after another round of heated exchanges, Oyuki spoke. “So no matter what you do, you’re determined to defy your parent and be with Morita?” “And you’re saying you’ll go to China?” “Please do allow it.” “I beg of you.”

Oshin lightly bowed her head. It was closer to a declaration of resolve than a plea. “I won’t allow it.” “You fool!”

Uncle bellowed in response. And as if struck by sudden stomach pain, he wrinkled his entire face and wrenched his neck with a violent twist.

I found myself unable to avoid taking Oshin-san’s side—not so much questioning why she refused to obey her parent’s will, but rather wondering why Uncle wouldn’t grant her wish to marry Morita and become his wife. Though she had even borne a child, there was no reason someone with Uncle’s background would lack understanding of young lovers’ affairs—and if that were so, then shouldn’t Oshin have been a bride taking a husband into her family? Yet that wasn’t the case. Though he had gone off to become a soldier, there was still the properly established adopted heir for succession. Uncle might have intended for his adopted heir Keisaburō to marry Oshin-san, but even so—now that she had borne another man’s child—it wouldn’t necessarily have had to be her. Surely it couldn’t be that he sought to monetize Oshin-san—having been, so to speak, purchased with money—through some scheme; or perhaps, since Keisaburō had at that time volunteered for reenlistment as a non-commissioned officer intending to remain in military life long-term, they had considered taking in a suitable son-in-law for Oshin-san to inherit the business? No—it might have been nothing more than this simple reason: that Uncle was an obstinate man of tyrannical temperament who would enforce any declaration by any means necessary—so even if he privately thought otherwise, he could no longer bring himself to verbally permit marriage with Morita now. Whether that was truly so or not, he had ultimately declared, “I’ve disowned you! Do as you damn well please! From now on you’re neither my child nor my kin!” yet in reality it had lapsed into tacit approval. Just then, Uncle suddenly blurted out a single sentence as follows.

"That bastard's a thief—my archenemy!" What did that mean? The room fell deathly silent in that instant, an eerie hush settling over everyone. Then Oyuki-san—visibly flustered—swiftly scanned the surroundings with her trademark fluttering eyes before abruptly standing with an affected cough and sliding open the partition door. Spotting me crouched in the dark corner, "What—you! Oh, you startled me!"

Exclaimed theatrically, she hurried off to the restroom.

Before long, Oshin announced her departure. I lit a paper lantern and escorted her up the slope to the rickshaw stand. “Take care now.”

After seeing her out, I offered my first greeting of welcome. “Could you see me off? Thank you ever so much,” Oshin-san replied gently. “I’m sorry about this.” “Don’t be absurd!”

I was happy that I had finally been able to speak familiarly with Oshin-san again like this after so long. It felt as though my long-held feelings had at last reached their destination.

“My, how you’ve grown. You’ve changed completely.” Oshin-san drew close to me and spoke as if comparing our heights. In truth, compared to when I had first come out last year, I had grown unrecognizably larger in just over half a year. Though I was thin and lanky, my height alone shot up like bamboo shoots in the rainy season, so no one took me for a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old child. I was often mocked by Uncle and the others—they said it was because someone who had until then subsisted on barley rice and miso alone had suddenly started indulging in feasts upon coming to Kyoto—but it seemed my feelings had also begun to take on a rather adult-like quality in tandem.

“If your father back home were to see you now, he’d be so surprised. Is he still keeping well?”

To my surprise, Oshin-san knew my father.

“Oh, when was that now? When he came to Kyoto last time, he stayed at the house on Shijō for two or three days. I believe Asa-han mentioned it. He was a good man.” Oshin spoke in a completely unreserved tone. The first time we had met at Nishinotōin, she had apparently chosen not to disclose her circumstances—that she was part of Uncle’s household—treating me as someone unaware of this fact (which was true).

This matter suddenly drew my heart even closer to Oshin-san. In an unfamiliar land, encountering someone who knows your parents and siblings brings a dear and joyful feeling equal to meeting someone who knows you intimately. All the more so when it concerned Oshin-san, whom I had secretly yearned for day after day. I truly felt deeply close to Oshin-san at that time, as though she were my own blood sister.

Oshin-san continued further.

“But still, you're fortunate enough—even if your mother's gone, you still have your father. That's happiness enough.” Feeling something pierce through me, I involuntarily turned to look at Oshin-san. It seemed less like she was comforting me with those words than lamenting her own circumstances—that even though her biological parents must still be out there somewhere, she could neither meet them nor exchange letters, not even know whether they were alive or dead.

It was a moonless dark night, and an unseasonably cold, icy wind blew fiercely. That area, which bustled with tourists from the provinces during the day, would typically see all foot traffic vanish abruptly come evening. Though night had only just begun to deepen, not a single house kept its doors open, and the surroundings lay as still as midnight. At a gourd shop halfway up the slope, the clatter-clatter of seeds being scooped from dried gourds rang out high and clear as though through frost-laden night air, intensifying the surrounding stillness.

“Do you know everything about me... and still...?” After walking a short distance, Oshin-san prefaced with those words and began speaking penetratingly about herself.

“Though I don’t know what you think of me... I find it unbearable too.” “Father says such terrible things, and Mother too, well…” “Truly, when it comes to those who’d put themselves in my place, there isn’t a single soul. Pitiful thing, ’tis.” “Well, what can I say… If bearing a child out of wedlock is wrong, then wrong it is, and defying Father isn’t right either—but that—I know full well.” “But there’s the baby to think of—even Father is being rather cruel about it.” “It ain’t like I’m dead set on bein’ with Morita or nothin’.” “It’s ’cause the baby’s so pitiful—that’s why I’m beggin’ like this. Even if they tell me to ‘do somethin’ ’bout the child,’ how could I ever commit such a cruel act?” “It’s a sin, I tell you.” “Even if they tell me to kill it—I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” “Even if their parents are beggars, for a child, living with their birth parents is happiness.” “Don’t you think so?”

Somehow, I could not bring myself to look at Oshin-san’s face. In the dim lantern light, I couldn’t make it out clearly, but Oshin-san’s cheeks seemed to be wet with tears at that moment. Though I lacked the capacity to fully understand or judge matters like Oshin-san’s feelings—her determination to defy Uncle for her child’s sake even at the cost of severing their familial bond, yet being unable to resist going to Morita—or the right and wrong of it all, my heart was filled with pity for her unfortunate circumstances, trapped in such dire straits. And to someone as insignificant as myself—a mere apprentice of no consequence—I felt I could understand the lonely heart that had laid bare its hardships as if I were a close friend or something. I wanted to say something in return, but knew no words to speak.

“If only the baby weren’t here…” Oshin-san started to continue speaking, but at that moment she suddenly tripped on the stone steps and nearly pitched forward. It was exactly midway up the slope. Instinctively, without even time to switch the lantern to my other hand, I thrust out the same hand holding it to catch her. “Oh, careful!”

Oshin-san grabbed my arm and finally steadied herself, but as I too was somewhat unsteady, the lantern swung violently, and the flame snuffed out with a pop. At the same time, one of Oshin-san’s clog thongs snapped. “Oh dear, what have I done?” “You fool!”

Oshin-san continued berating herself while clinging even more tightly to me, "If I fell and died here, that'd be the end of me."

There had long been a legend that if one were to fall on this slope, they would die within three years. Fortunately, I had matches. Earlier at home, I had lit the lantern and occasionally kept it in my pocket as it was. I immediately relit the flame and was about to turn back, thinking to find some string or the like, but Oshin stopped him. “It’s fine, really. We’re nearly there now.” And then, just like that, she started walking, dragging along the clog with its broken thong. But the slope was steep, and the wide stone steps—three shaku across—glistened as if polished smooth, their surface treacherously slick so that our footing grew precarious with every step.

“Please hold onto me.”

With those words, I angled my shoulder and arm toward Oshin-san. "Is that so? Thank you kindly." "Well then, I'll take you up on that for a moment." Oshin-san, without hesitation, casually rested her hand on my shoulder and, "You said that so kindly—what a relief." "I'll thank you properly later." I felt glad to hear that. Even this trivial act—knowing I could be of some help to Oshin-san—filled me with quiet joy. If there were more I could do, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into it. The persistent weight and warmth of Oshin-san's body against my shoulder felt comforting.

When we climbed the slope and walked a little further, we came to Kiyomizu Street—there at the corner stood the rickshaw operational base. Though they called it an "operational base," in reality it was merely a shared parking area for a few regular rickshaw pullers, and there wasn’t always a rickshaw available. Especially at night, depending on circumstances, it was common for them to either withdraw early or fail to return directly from their destinations. And when we arrived, unfortunately, everyone had already left.

We had no choice but to decide to wait for a while at the rickshaw stand.

Set back slightly from the thoroughfare, in a corner of a small vacant lot, stood a weather-beaten makeshift shack enclosed by planks. That was the rickshaw stand, and people were calling it the office. Narrow and squalid, it was nearly unbearable to even step inside, but the biting wind outside was too cold, and inside there was a makeshift bench, so resting there was preferable. Indeed, the cold and chill of that night were abnormal. The weather had turned abruptly just before evening—though we should have been hearing the first whispers of April, a midwinter’s howling wind now swept through, creating a foolishly harsh chill that threatened to bring snow flurries. Oshin-san said her hands were freezing and even warmed them by the lantern’s flame.

"This makes it a bit better, at least." Holding the lantern on her lap as if cradling it, Oshin-san laughed with an air of feigned composure while shielding both hands over the light. Her pale, slender fingertips—catching the glow from within—appeared faintly translucent, tinged with a rosy cherry-blossom hue like silkworms on their rearing frames. This evoked in me the image of a certain refined, high-quality dry confectionery. Were I to put it in my mouth, it would become an indescribably delicate sweet dew, gradually melting away at the tip of my tongue—it even stirred something akin to appetite.

We waited a good ten minutes, yet there remained not the slightest indication of any rickshaw approaching. The shops along the street had all long since closed, with only the faint glow of eaves lights sporadically illuminating the thoroughfare here and there, and scarcely any passersby remained. "They aren’t coming anymore." “If we keep waiting like this and they don’t come back, we’ll be done for.” “If this damn thong hadn’t broken, we could’ve walked over to where the rickshaws pass by! How infuriating!”

Oshin-san said impatiently and stroked her chest with her palm. Her breasts must have been engorged. “Never mind—maybe I’ll just go draggin’ these clogs as they are.”

At that moment, I saw a rickshaw coming up from Gojōzaka Slope diagonally across. I immediately dashed out. It appeared someone was riding in it, but I thought to request its return trip. But that turned out to be the doctor’s private carriage—useless for our needs. “Damn it all!” No sooner had that one ascended toward Kiyomizu Temple than another rickshaw came down from above, nearly passing it mid-slope. This too carried a passenger, but I ran alongside and begged the driver to relay a message—should he meet any vacant rickshaw below, have it come up here. The driver raced off without acknowledgment.

"I’m causing you so much trouble." “I’m ever so sorry.” Oshin-san came out to the thoroughfare thinking that last one might have been empty and said gratefully to me.

“What’re ya sayin’.” At that moment, an especially fierce gust of wind swooped down from the mountains, churning up a thick whitish cloud of dust at our feet that glowed visible even in the night’s darkness. I instinctively tried to dodge aside, but in that instant found I could no longer open my eyes. A fierce sandblast had struck me full in the face—something had gotten into them. I cried out “Ah!” and stood frozen with both hands clamped over my face. “What’s happened? Did you get dust in your eyes?”

Oshin-san asked while inserting her face between my hands as if peering up from below. I felt it so close that I thought Oshin-san’s lips might have touched my cheek. “Which one is it?” “The right one.” However, because of that, I couldn’t keep either eye open for even a moment. I kept rubbing and blinking my eyes, but to no avail—only tears trickled down in vain.

“Did a pebble get in?” “Wait a moment—you mustn’t rub them like that.” “I’ll get it out for you.”

While saying this rapidly, Oshin-san guided me back to the shack. It was a distance of less than ten steps, but this time I had to be led by the hand by Oshin-san. "A lame and a blind," Oshin-san laughed as she began walking while dragging one leg. "But when it comes to this, being lame ain't so bad after all."

I too forgot the pain in my eyes and couldn't help but let out a stifled laugh. Oshin-san had me sit reclined on the bench while making me hold aloft a lantern in one hand, paying no heed to my attempts to refuse as she pried open both eyelids of my right eye with two fingertips, dampening the edge of her handkerchief with saliva and repeatedly wiping them as if scrubbing.

Yet it had absolutely no effect. Whatever had gotten in there felt like a thorn piercing my eyeball—if anything, I began to think Oshin-san might have driven it deeper instead.

“What’s gotten in there? It’s so persistent.” “How’m I supposed to deal with this?” “Maybe I should try licking it with my tongue.”

And Oshin-san seemed on the verge of doing just that. "I'm fine, really!" In my panic, I pushed against Oshin-san around her chest as if to shove her away.

“This is a real bother. I don’t know what’s best to do.” Oshin-san fretted intensely until she suddenly seemed to notice something. “Ah, right—that’ll do,” she muttered to herself, then abruptly clambered onto my lap as if straddling it. Before I could process her forcing my face upward—unable to see how she managed it afterward—the next instant, in less time than it took to gasp, I felt Oshin-san’s soft breasts pressing against my face amid a faint feminine scent of skin, and realized her nipple was being pressed against my rapidly blinking eyelids.

“Even if it’s unclean, you’ll just have to bear with it for now.” I could not possibly refuse. This was all carried out with astonishing swiftness in a matter of seconds, yet there existed in Oshin-san’s actions something of such unyielding gravity—a pressing earnestness that simply would not permit refusal or resistance. It felt less like someone trying to save a drowning person and more like an instinctual desperation akin to one thrashing about while drowning themselves—a primal urgency. I was overwhelmed by this and found myself unable to move a muscle.

Thus was the eye-washing with breast milk performed. It seemed but a second or two that this continued, yet also felt like an eternity. Throughout this, I remained in a suffocating state of mind—jaw clenched tight, hands gripping the bench with every ounce of strength in my body, desperately resisting myself. Had I not done so, my mouth might have clung to Oshin-san’s breasts at any moment, and my arms might have wrapped themselves around Oshin-san’s waist at any moment.

“That’s enough now. “Much obliged.” Before long, I said that and turned my face away. And finally, as if waking from a dream, I heaved a great sigh and stood up, opening my eyes for the first time.

“Did they heal?”

“Ah, much obliged.”

“Thank goodness it worked out, ain’t it?” “Now you can wipe your face.”

Oshin-san lent me a handkerchief. And she too, as if relieved, gave a gentle smile. But she made no move to immediately cover her breasts. While I was wiping my face and still blinking my eyes, she kept them raised as if to ask if this was sufficient, watching me intently. “That felt disgustin’, didn’t it?” “But you can’t be sayin’ such things.” “Since they’re precious eyes—different from the rest of your body—I was thinkin’ you can’t be dawdlin’ around.”

“Thank you kindly!” I reiterated my gratitude from the heart. In that moment, my chest suddenly constricted—I nearly choked back a sob. What I felt emanating directly from Oshin-san’s bosom transcended mere goodwill or kindness—it was something else entirely—a fundamentally human tenderness, an innate and genuine compassion of that nature. “Truth be told, this’s helped me some too,” Oshin-san smiled gently again. “My milk’s been swelling something fierce since before.” “Look here—see how it is?”

The milk that had once found release now dripped incessantly from the tips of her pure white breasts—rounded and plump as small hills, swollen to such fullness in her chest that one might mistake them for containing it all. Oshin-san gave it a slight squeeze. Then, as if from a fumigator, in the dim glow of the paper lantern’s flame, it sprayed out with a sharp hiss, arced in a rainbow, and scattered into mist. As the effect from one side caused the other’s opening to begin spurting, Oshin-san bared her chest further and drew that one out too. And then, with both together, twisting and kneading the nipples with her fingertips while—

"They’re so heavy it’s exhausting." She heaved a deep sigh with her shoulders, her expression troubled. But somehow she seemed to be feeling a pleasant sensation. I simply couldn't bear to keep looking directly at her any longer. My vision swam as if struck by a searchlight’s brilliant beam cleaving through the darkness. Oshin-san still did not seem to recognize me as a member of the opposite sex. But at that moment, I dimly became aware of myself—just beginning to awaken to that realization.

“You’ve no idea how these little ones are aching to let go and weep.”

Then, having said that, Oshin-san tucked both breasts back into her chest.

At that moment, an empty rickshaw came from below. The earlier message had worked.

“So... you won’t be coming out anymore after this?”

Taking Oshin-san's hand and starting to walk, I tentatively posed the question. When I thought that Oshin-san might leave for Shanghai like this and we might never meet again, I found myself unable to bear the regret of parting. Of course, this was solely my own feeling. What emotions I held toward Oshin-san—she remained completely unaware of them. I found it deeply regrettable that there existed no means for her to know this. To Oshin-san, I was after all nothing more than an apprentice at my uncle's house—a truth I had to accept. And losing her under these very circumstances left me with unbearable loneliness.

Oshin-san did not answer my question. And so I pressed further. "So you're really going to China after all?" Oshin-san, however, did not give a direct answer to that either. Just a single word,

“Take care of yourself now.” Having said just that, she became a passenger in the waiting rickshaw. Oshin-san had indeed gone to Shanghai. After a little over a month had passed, such a letter arrived. I read it. Since my uncle was illiterate and unable to write, I had been both reading aloud and penning most of his letters. Oyuki-san could have written them using nonstandard kana and such, but she ended up pushing the task onto me. I had only recently dropped out of the four-year higher elementary school at the time, and while writing was naturally beyond me, I couldn't easily read the cursive-connected letters that came from others either. Yet compelled by necessity, I somehow managed to handle both writing and reading duties—albeit reluctantly—as best I could.

In that letter, Oshin-san apologized for her recent selfishness and unfilial conduct, then went on to write that even as one who had been disowned, she would continue to revere her uncle and Oyuki-san as her parents and would surely repay their kindness in due time. "Smooth talker, ain't she?"

Uncle said with a bitter smile. A little over a year had passed when Oshin-san sent notice that she had returned to the mainland. And it had come from Tokyo. It stated that having been slightly ill and having been taken straight to Yokohama by ship while lying down, she had been unable to stop in Kyoto; that she was living together with Morita’s parents; and that Morita’s father was an old detective with the Metropolitan Police Department.

I never forgot about Oshin-san. Above all, the time when she washed my eyes with that milk became a kind of bewitching phantom that constantly lingered before my eyes. With a heart that longed for a mother’s warm embrace while yearning for a lover’s tender breast, I would recall Oshin-san.

Amidst all this—and over the several years that followed—drastic changes occurred in my surroundings, and consequently in my own circumstances. Come spring of his third year counting from when he went to Shimizu, Uncle returned once more to Shijō, this time opening a Western-style restaurant in place of the inn. And I was working as a shoe clerk and delivery boy when, about a year and a half later in the autumn of the following year, Uncle’s illness recurred and he suddenly died. I had been told that if I worked satisfactorily until twenty-five, I would be given a share of the shop’s name—a promise that had even been written into the will—but whether it was fortunate or not for me, such things soon became worth less than a scrap of paper. This was because, within less than half a year of Uncle’s death, Naniwa-tei’s shop and everything else had abruptly ceased to exist one after another without a trace. The house passed into others' hands due to Uncle’s debts. Oyuki-san had taken up with a new man before the mourning period had even ended, while Keisaburō the adopted son—in despairing recklessness over her misconduct—had gone and taken up with his own woman before leaving for good. Such was the state of affairs.

And so I, still a sixteen-year-old boy, found myself cast out alone into the world. From there I became a copyist’s apprentice, worked as a clerk for a lawyer, went to Osaka to take up a post at the post office, drifted from place to place—six months here, a year there—before finally returning to my hometown to become an elementary school teacher, after which I resolved to further my studies and set out for Tokyo.

It was the autumn when I turned twenty-one.

One day, on a sudden impulse, I decided to go visit Oshin-san. Strangely enough, I knew Oshin-san’s Tokyo address. It had been written in the letter she sent to Uncle’s place after returning from Shanghai—something I had kept firmly in my memory even five or six years later. It was Shitaya Ward, Ōtamachi 2-chōme ××-banchi. In a certain narrow alleyway, I found a house with an aged nameplate reading “Morita-gū,” its ink faded to indistinction. A compact two-story house wedged between a joinery shop and tailor’s shop, its second-floor bay window lined with two or three omoto pots soaking up the wan afternoon light of late autumn. After pacing endlessly before the house, I finally gripped the latticed entrance door. A hunched old woman—likely Morita’s mother—emerged and raked me with suspicious eyes, but inquiry confirmed this was indeed the sought house.

However, Oshin-san was not there. After returning from Shanghai, she had lived for a time in Tottori City—Morita’s former post—but when Morita died about two years prior, she had soon been divorced, so it was said. “There was a child, wasn’t there?” “How pitiful the baby is! How pitiful!” she had pleaded so desperately—to the point of abandoning the foster parents who had shown her years of nurturing kindness—what had become of that child? Without discerning right or wrong, I asked almost reflexively.

“Well, there was a child—but they died in Shanghai.” “Another one born there also passed away after staying just a month or two, they say.” “After all, they say the climate or something there was bad.” “It was such a waste.” “If even a child had survived…”

The old woman recounted matters in that fashion. And she continued, "Well, you see, with our son having passed away, there wasn't much we could do on our part—though I suppose you might say she withdrew herself of her own accord..." she said, as if offering justification.

I inquired further about Oshin-san’s whereabouts, but as there had been no word from her since then, her address and all else remained unknown.

Then another three years or so had passed. I was studying at a certain private university around that time, and when returning home for that year's summer vacation, I visited Kyoto for about a week after a long absence.

One day, after visiting the traces of my boyhood days around Shijō and Shimizu—places thick with memories—I went to see Ofuji-san in Miyagawachō. As mentioned earlier, Ofuji-san was one of my uncle’s foster daughters who had once worked as a shamisen instructor in Gion, but around that time had moved to nearby Miyagawachō and opened a small tobacco shop. “I started doing it for fun about three years ago—couldn’t bear being alone with just the maids, you see.” “Even teaching shamisen was dreary—I couldn’t stand it.” “I quit that long ago.”

Ofuji-san related those subsequent events, but having completely failed to recognize me, at first she couldn’t recall me at all. The student-clad me—utterly unlike the self Ofuji-san had once known in age, build, and attire—led her to assume I was a passing customer with her "Welcome, what can I get you?" Even when I stated my name, she still couldn’t readily believe it. Ofuji-san was now approaching forty, and at first glance her oval-shaped beautiful face seemed unchanged from before, but upon closer inspection, small wrinkles had formed—particularly around those famously striking large eyes of hers, where faint dark shadows now settled like a halo. And that Uncle had changed as well was something I had heard at the house of my aunt in Rokujō where I was staying.

Ofumi-san, her foster mother, had long since passed away. It was said to have occurred about a year after Uncle’s death—she had come to be called a nembutsu fanatic, one who would chant “Namu Amida Butsu” at once upon seeing or hearing anything, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down. When we lived in Shimizu—a time when we kept two or three Japanese white-eyes—she once came by and, upon seeing the birds eating their feed, bathing themselves, and singing in high-pitched trills, cried out “How grateful! How grateful! This too is all Buddha’s merciful grace!” while fervently pressing her hands together in prayer toward the birdcage. While Ofumi-san’s estrangement from Uncle was said to have stemmed from this affliction of hers, there were also those who claimed its true origin lay in Oyuki-san having later entered the household and usurped Ofumi-san’s position as legal wife. Those such as Ofuji-san were naturally among them, having never spoken kindly of Oyuki-san. They even asserted that the destruction of the Shijō household and the eradication of Uncle’s lineage were entirely due to Oyuki-san.

We exchanged various reminiscences about the events and people surrounding Uncle, when in the midst of these exchanges, Ofuji-san said:

“You know Oshin-san, don’t you?” “What do you think that person’s doing now?” “She’s working as a prostitute in Shichijō Shinchi, you know.” “What?!” “A prostitute? Is that true?” My shock was so intense that Ofuji-san, in turn, found it strange and scrutinized me intently. “It’s been half a year since this happened, mind—can’t say if she’s still there now—but when the milkman who delivers to our house went to visit the brothel, well then that prostitute woman—somehow or other—didn’t she go and say she was Oshin-san?”

Ofuji-san told the story in that way. I simply couldn't bring myself to believe it right away. I couldn't help thinking it must have been a case of mistaken identity—that man had surely confused her with someone else. First off, the very idea that this milkman knew Oshin-san was hard to swallow. Hadn't Oshin-san been away from Kyoto for over ten years? But when I pressed further, I learned the milkman was a forty-year-old widower who'd frequented Naniwatei since the old days and had known Oshin-san well since her girlhood—there could be no mistake, she insisted. Ofuji-san recounted the milkman's tale with evident amusement—how he'd been startled himself, but how she'd been even more shocked, fleeing back in panic.

“Ohhh, that’s quite a shock, isn’t it? What in the world could have happened? Do you know that house?” I said with the eagerness of someone about to go visit immediately. “What name is she going by?”

“I don’t quite remember, but Mr. Milkman mentioned something about it.” “If you like, I can ask.”

With a faint smile playing on her lips, Ofuji-san joked, “Why don’t you go buy her once, pretending not to know who she is?”

“Ahahaha, that would be quite something.”

“No need to worry about that. She mightn’t even notice you.” “After all, we barely know each other, don’t you think?” “I only saw her face once or twice, just briefly.” “Then she’d be even less likely to recognize you.” “Why, even I didn’t notice someone like you.” “Well now—she’s quite the beauty, I tell you.” “A woman so fair-skinned, with such clean skin and deep feeling—men are bound to fall for someone like that.” “She must’ve been all the rage.”

I was suddenly filled with an indescribably unpleasant, dark mood. Through Ofuji-san's way of speaking, I felt as though I were being shown a wretched scene before my very eyes—Oshin-san's beautiful, supple flesh being trampled under filthy, mud-caked feet. "But pitiful 'tis pitiful, I tell you," Ofuji-san said gravely. "With an infant in her care—what's become of that man, I wonder?" "I suppose so."

I tried to broach the subject of my visit to Oshin-san in Tokyo but somehow let the moment slip without speaking. Part of this stemmed from how that earlier conversation had unfolded, but I also felt an inexplicable guilt at having my profound concern for Oshin-san revealed now, of all times.

“So she was abandoned by a man after all,” Ofuji-san speculated. And with such arbitrary conviction, she affirmed it: “There’s no mistakin’ that. Had she done as we said back then—sent the infant to the countryside and cut off that man—’twould’ve been better for her. “Father had said he’d lift the disownment if she did that—so she wouldn’t have suffered such a fate. “Running off to godforsaken China or trailing after some man’s backside—she’s a damn fool. “A beggar’s child will always be a beggar’s child, I tell you.”

She spoke with scorn rather than pity, then added: "But 'tis better than beggin', I tell you—given her roots, might just suit her perfectly." I found this brutally unsympathetic, yet kept silent. Though unaware of the exact circumstances that had brought Oshin-san to such wretchedness, I vividly imagined the path she must have walked—a path anyone could too easily picture once knowing she'd lost both child and husband. No widow could remain in Morita's household under such conditions; social propriety would demand her withdrawal. Yet with no means to sustain herself elsewhere, she had somehow returned to her birthplace only to find no sanctuary—utterly alone in the truest sense. No friends nor acquaintances remained. Even had she crept back to that long-abandoned home under night's veil, not a soul from the past lingered there—all traces extinguished. And her birth parents...? Perhaps Oshin-san now regretted—nay, resented—having become Naniwatei's foster daughter all those years ago, a choice that cost her those very parents.

“Even if one’s parents were beggars, a child would still find happiness living with their birth parents…”

In days past, having single-mindedly determined—for the sake of her blind love for her own birth child—to turn her back on the foster parents to whom she owed so much: this was Oshin-san. That had been an anguished cry born of her own lived experience—but had she not now brought this anguish back to her heart and reconsidered it anew? Ofuji-san had said it was better than begging, but even among those living in rock-bottom circumstances, there could be no one as lonely as Oshin-san...

Thinking such thoughts, I soon took my leave from Ofuji-san’s house. The image of Oshin-san—who had treated me to ramune, had tenderly cared for me like an elder sister, and had especially on that final night of parting washed my eyes with her milk—floated faintly before my eyes. I felt as though the scent of that milk still lingered in my nostrils.

About half an hour later, I walked along Shichijō Shinchi street. It was a narrow, squalid lane running downward from Gojō Ōhashi Bridge with the Kamo River at its back—directly en route to Rokujō's inn. Identical lattice-fronted two-story houses lined the southern side, each entryway hung with paper lanterns listing prostitutes' names in rows. Already those lanterns burned bright with oil light, their glow marking that hour when punters taking evening air began appearing here and there.

“Step right up, step right up, come on in.” “Step right in and come along now.” Every house was uniformly arranged—in the corner of its lattice-framed facade, a small square window (or rather, a hole carved out), from which women with pale necks poked only their faces, calling out so persistently.

Each and every face appeared to me as Oshin-san’s face, and each and every voice seemed to sound like Oshin-san’s voice. With my heart thundering between the thought of what might happen if a miracle were to grant me a reunion with Oshin-san and the fear that at any moment my sleeve might be grabbed to drag me into one of these houses, I walked briskly with feigned purpose—twice—from one end to the other and back again.

(June 1940)