Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kano Sakujiro ...At that time, Uncle was running an inn and a pharmacy at the edge of Shijo Ohashi Bridge. From Gion, crossing Kamo River westward and turning right toward Pontocho, there stood a three-story building on the corner where the second and third floors served as an inn, while the ground floor facing Shijo-dori contained a pharmacy. The inn was called Naniwatei, and the pharmacy was known as Naniwado. It was in the summer when I turned thirteen that I went to Kyoto depending on this uncle. I had gone expecting to enter middle school or something similar, but that proved illusory. On the very night of my arrival, Uncle had his mistress-turned-wife Oyuki knead his lower back while,

“Tonight you’re a guest, but starting tomorrow, you’re an apprentice,” he declared. And true to his word, from the very next day I was made to stand at the front of Naniwado. Since they sold common patent medicines and cosmetics as a side business to the inn, there were no other shop attendants. However, not even five or six days had passed since then when one day I was sent out on an errand. It was during Uncle’s absence that 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 Nishinokyo Tako-yakushi.

I was utterly bewildered. After all, I had only just arrived from a rural village in the northern provinces, still didn’t know east from west in Kyoto’s streets, and could scarcely make sense of the local dialect at the time. I had been thoroughly instructed about the path—going west along Shijo-dori, ascending or descending at some numbered intersection a few blocks away—but naturally couldn’t fully grasp it, remaining utterly disoriented. Moreover, there had been a bitter experience from before—when I was seven and my father had taken me along on a pilgrimage to Kyoto, during our stay at my aunt’s house in Rokujo, one day I carelessly wandered off alone to play around that area, became lost, was dragged here and there for half a day by a passing stranger, and in the end was swindled out of the haori coat I had been wearing before being abandoned on the outskirts at dusk—so I felt all the more uneasy.

But of course, I could not possibly refuse. “Get it done while the master’s away, yeah? It’s nothing—you could get there blindfolded if you had to.” “Off to Tanba with you, big shot!” While saying this nonchalantly, Oyuki made me carry that bundle. The bundle wasn’t particularly heavy for its size, but being far too large for my small frame, the way I carried it on my back made for a pitiful sight. On one wall of the shop hung a framed mirror advertising some medicine, and through my own reflection in it I came to realize this—though one might say the bundle had sprouted arms and legs, in truth, I resembled nothing so much as a turtle standing on its hind legs and wriggling about. Even Oyuki herself, who forced me to carry it, clapped her hands and laughed without a shred of sympathy. (From that time onward, I ceased to hold much goodwill toward Oyuki.) (She was a beautiful woman of thirty-five or thirty-six with an oval face, but somehow came across as cold and spiteful-looking.)

Along Kyoto’s most prominent thoroughfare of Shijo-dori, I walked in such a state, shuffling unsteadily. I felt as though the eyes of all the passersby and people from the shops lining both sides were fixed solely on me, and that everyone found me amusing and was laughing. Even as a child, I was so ashamed and humiliated that I couldn’t bring myself to lift my face. On top of that, heading to an unfamiliar place for the first time made the road feel unnaturally long, while the bundle on my back grew heavier by the minute. The sweltering August midday sun drenched my entire body in sweat, and rickshaws kept charging at me from both front and back, their drivers barking sharp rebukes—I truly felt on the verge of tears.

However, I finally managed to reach the house. Having neither the means to ask directions nor the courage to do so, I relied solely on the street name plates affixed to telephone poles at every intersection as I went. That I neither got lost nor took a single wrong alleyway was, even by my own estimation, less a matter of luck than a veritable triumph. It was a small, shabby house at the end of a certain narrow alley. Oyuki (I called her "Aunt" when speaking to Uncle or to her face, but used her real name when talking to others) had told me this was her sister's house, and indeed a woman who appeared to be that sister—in her late thirties or early forties with pockmarks on her face—came out,

“Thank you kindly for your trouble. Must’ve worn you right out, eh?” In a voice carrying some unplaceable regional accent—marked by a peculiar rising lilt—she said this and lifted the bundle from my back. I stood wiping sweat at the edge of the dirt-floored passageway garden when my gaze drifted toward the inner room. Through the reed screen dividing it from the front chamber, I saw a woman lying there alone. With her back turned, her face remained hidden, but she seemed to be nursing a baby.

It was something I came to understand later—that woman was Oshin, the person I am about to speak of. She was Uncle’s foster child, which therefore made her my foster cousin in terms of family relation. At that time, she had given birth and, due to certain circumstances, had been entrusted to that household. Oshin had originally been the child of beggars. It was two or three months after that when I heard such an unexpected story. The story went that they had been living under Shijo Bridge, coming morning and evening to Naniwatei’s back door to collect customers’ leftover food, when Uncle gave their parents some money and took them 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 the story went.

“She was crawlin’ with lice,” “When they tried bathin’ her—makin’ her strip down—what a sight!” “All swollen red head to toe—couldn’t hardly bear to look at ’em.” When I visited my aunt’s house in Rokujo, a woman who often dropped by told me this, her tone suggesting she’d witnessed it herself. “But quick as you please, she bloomed into a proper Miss Beauty...” Then she went on, letting it hang unspoken—how that same beauty took up with some man and popped out a babe—her voice thick with spite.

“Though she’d been begging since those days, she was already a lovely little beauty.” “Even her parents hadn’t been beggars from the start, you know.” “They hadn’t been at it all that long since beginning—the story goes they’d originally been from a respectable oil merchant family in Nakagyō or some such, and Naniwatei being the softhearted sort he was, must’ve taken pity on them.” “Maybe he even thought of making her a geisha later on.”

Uncle was not originally a respectable man but rather what one might call a chivalrous rogue. He was my father’s immediate elder brother, born as the second son of a Buddhist altar shop near Nishi Honganji Temple. At sixteen he ran away from home, became an underling to some gangster in Osaka, and after idling about for ten years or so before returning to Kyoto, opened an udon shop in front of Shichijo Station that proved wildly successful. From there his fortunes skyrocketed—he expanded his ventures one after another: a poultry shop in Gojo, a banquet restaurant in Nishigawara, event space rentals in Kiyamachi, a geisha house in Pontocho, and finally an inn on Shijo-dori. With four or five mistresses whom he lavishly set up to operate these businesses, he apparently became such a prominent figure in Kyoto’s pleasure-seeking circles that people would murmur “Naniwatei-san” with deference, wielding considerable influence as a fixer during his heyday. When I came to rely on him, however, Uncle’s fortunes had already entered a steady decline, with only the combined inn and pharmacy on Shijo remaining of his businesses, and Oyuki being seemingly the sole woman left among his mistresses. But Oshin’s adoption had occurred fourteen or fifteen years prior, during his heyday—an act that appeared driven not just by a chivalrous spirit but also, in large part, by caprice.

By way of preface, Uncle had never taken a legal wife from the start, continuing a libertine lifestyle of moving from mistress to mistress, and since none bore him children, apart from Oshin and an heir-apparent foster son set aside, he had as many as two others who could be called foster daughters. One was Ofuji—the foster daughter of a woman named Ofumi (Uncle’s previous legal wife-mistress before Oyuki, who had separated from him due to illness but maintained contact)—who had been running a banquet restaurant in Nishigawara; the other was Otaka—the foster daughter of a woman named Otsuru, who had been running a geisha house in Pontocho. Thus, Oshin had become Oyuki’s foster daughter; by the time I arrived, the foster son Eizaburou (son of a geisha house owner in Osaka’s Shinmachi) had enlisted in the Fusimi Regiment, and Ofuji, having taken a patron, had established a household in the Gion area with her foster mother Ofumi, working as a shamisen instructor. She was a beautiful woman in her late twenties with large, wide eyes and an oval face. And then Otaka had become a geisha in Fukuchiyama, Tanba. Since she herself had adamantly insisted on becoming one, they couldn’t very well send her off right under their noses in Pontocho or Gion, so through certain connections, they had apparently sent her to Fukuchiyama instead. It had been about four or five years, they said, when—a little over two months after my arrival—she was sent back due to illness, and that very evening, no sooner had she wandered out the front gate at nightfall than she threw herself into the canal as if in a lie, and died. I had been following her at that time, keeping watch while concealing myself, but no sooner had we crossed Shijo Ohashi Bridge to the east and proceeded a short way along the Kawabata-dori street with its patchy lantern lights than—with no time to rush over and stop her—she plunged into the water with a splash in the blink of an eye. And had been swept about two blocks downstream to the edge of Donguri Bridge before finally being pulled out. Though she regained consciousness on the spot, she died in the hospital two or three days later as a direct result.

She was a woman in her mid-twenties with a dusky complexion and a tall, slender frame that matched her name, but appeared to have been suffering from severe neurasthenia. Now regarding Oshin—throughout my several years in Kyoto, I only met her directly twice, with no encounters before or after those occasions. Those meetings too lasted mere moments. Yet despite this, those impressions became so deeply etched into my heart that even now, forty years later, they return to me with a vividness as though they happened yesterday.

The first was about half a month after my initial errand, when I went on the second one. This time, I carried a small bundle that could be held in one hand, but as Oyuki’s sister seemed to be out, Oshin herself came to receive it. She was a petite woman in her early twenties with a plump, round face that tapered slightly at the chin, narrow eyes, and a gentle demeanor. But when I made to leave right away, she said “Wait just a moment,” disappeared into the back, and soon returned holding a bottle of ramune. And then,

“It’s just one bottle—go on and drink up. It’s nicely chilled,” she said, holding it out before me. “Oh, thank you kindly.” I thanked her in my still-clumsy Kyoto dialect, though in truth I’d never drunk ramune before and didn’t know how to open the bottle—that primitive method where you press the glass marble sealing the narrow-necked vessel with your thumb until it pops free with that crisp, exhilarating hiss. There I sat on the raised threshold, fidgeting in confusion, when Oshin—perhaps thinking me shy—began urging me to drink before it warmed. My face burned crimson more from shame than summer heat as I uselessly wiped my brow. At last noticing my plight yet sparing me embarrassment, Oshin let only the faintest smile touch her lips—

“It’s better if you drink it from the spout...”

Murmuring casually about something else as she brought over a glass, then popped off the cap with her own hands and poured it in for me. And while I was being treated, she sat beside me nursing a newborn baby and asked me all sorts of questions—my age, name, and circumstances. I answered each question as asked—that I was thirteen years old; that back home my father worked as a fisherman while my mother was no longer alive; that I had one blood sister who had likewise come to Kyoto at age three-and-ten years prior to enter service at my aunt’s house in Rokujo (which was also an inn); and all such things—until finally confessing how I too had recently come alone to rely on Uncle.

Oshin, as if some special interest had been aroused, nodded along to each point while listening intently. When I mentioned that I was in service at Uncle’s house and that my sister was at our aunt’s in Rokujo, the expression shifted as if to exclaim “Oh!”—but in the end, “Well now, that’s not how it usually is.” “But that’s admirable.” “You’re quite capable for someone so young.” “You’re such a good apprentice.” “Even if you face hardships, endure them—and work as cheerfully as you can.”

She said this kindly and encouragingly, then gave me a ten-sen coin as a tip when I was leaving. At that time, I still did not know who Oshin was or anything about her background. Not only did I not know she was Uncle’s foster child—I hadn’t even known her name. I had merely imagined her to be perhaps the wife or daughter of that household, yet I couldn’t help but feel she was an extraordinarily kind and considerate person—someone I found myself inexplicably drawn to, even harboring a sense of longing. 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—from this woman who had asked me so tenderly about my circumstances, who had encouraged and comforted me as if she were an elder sister soothing a younger brother sent into service—that made me sense in her some profoundly affectionate, human warmth, moving my heart all the more and drawing me irresistibly toward her.

By nature, having lost my mother shortly after birth and thus never knowing warm maternal affection, I had always yearned and thirsted for such tenderness—so much so that whenever a slightly older woman showed me kindness, I would immediately cling to her bosom and seek to bask in her affection. And that tendency would often transform into romantic feelings. Even so—after all, being just a child of thirteen or so—there I was, sent into apprenticeship service in a far-off land. Even if it was the home of my uncle—a close relative—my time there was still brief, and I had yet to grow accustomed to both the people and the place. In all matters, I found myself steeped in a lonely, desolate sorrow that I could scarcely endure. For someone like me, therefore, even that small kindness from Oshin felt profoundly gratifying, becoming both a joy akin to finding a kindred spirit in a desolate wilderness and a solace.

There was yet another unforgettable impression from that time. Another was that Oshin possessed a complexion of rare fairness. 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—accustomed until then only to the sun- and sea-browned women of a rural fishing village—everyone here seemed that way. Yet Oshin was exceptional. As for beauty of features, of course as a child I couldn’t discern such things—but in terms of her fair complexion and beautiful skin, I thought there could hardly be another to compare. She happened to be nursing the baby at that moment, and it being a hot summer day besides, her chest was nearly fully exposed—yet the purity and beauty of her skin’s hue was utterly crystalline, almost translucent. Wondering if phrases like "snow-deceiving" or "jade-like skin" referred to this very sight—even I, a boy still untouched by worldly awareness, found myself unable to steal anything more than furtive glances under some dazzling compulsion. I too must have been approaching early adolescence around that time, which perhaps particularly drew my heart to such things. At the very least, from that time onward, my way of seeing the opposite sex seemed to have changed.

The second time was after half a year or more had passed. I had gone on errands to Nishinotoin many times by then—about once a month on average—yet never once did I encounter Oshin. Either she was out, or if home, occupied with sewing in the back room—she never came out to receive me herself. It was always Oyuki’s sister who would come out to greet me, uttering the same formulaic phrases—"Thank you kindly for your trouble," "You’ve done well"—with nothing but lip service.

Each time, I couldn’t help but feel a certain loneliness akin to disappointment. This was especially true when Oshin was home yet did not show herself. It was only I who felt this one-sided closeness, while the thought that Oshin’s heart held not even a shadow of me since that time made me feel strangely desolate and empty.

During that time, I had somehow come to learn the outlines of Oshin’s upbringing and circumstances. Namely: that she had originally been a beggar; that Uncle took her in, sent her to school and sewing lessons until she blossomed into a beautiful young woman who mingled with respectable young ladies and attended entertainment parlors; that among these circles, she became romantically involved with a Tokyo man named Morita—a bachelor in his late twenties working as a telegraph engineer for the Ministry of Communications, who stayed at Naniwatei Inn during his monthly business trips to Kyoto; that in truth, it was not Oshin but her foster mother Oyuki who had first grown intimate with Morita; that when Oyuki’s secret risked exposure, she deftly pushed Oshin into taking her place to deceive Uncle and society; that after Oshin became pregnant, they sent her to her sister’s house in Nishinotoin to deliver the child; that though Oshin bore a son, Uncle—enraged by her indiscretion—vowed eternal disownment unless she relinquished the child and severed ties with Morita, forbidding her return home; that despite all persuasion, Oshin stubbornly refused to abandon her child out of pity; and that Oyuki, burdened by her own guilt, secretly supported Oshin behind Uncle’s back—though Uncle feigned ignorance despite knowing full well…

The above was not something I heard from a single person in one telling. I had pieced together these fragments—bit by bit, heard directly and indirectly from many people’s accounts over multiple occasions—though how much was true remained unclear. Nevertheless, through them, I finally came to understand why Oshin, despite being Uncle’s foster daughter, had not only failed to return even after her postpartum recovery but never once shown her face—as well as why my errands to Nishinotoin always coincided with Uncle’s absences, and how Oyuki had likely kept this arrangement secret from him (though I only realized this later).

“Keep quiet about this to Master.” “I don’t particularly mind, but it’s troublesome if you leave the shop unattended for other errands…” In this manner, Oyuki would offer such reminders in a casual, offhand 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 admittedly taken somewhat aback, not a speck of contempt or scorn for Oshin stirred within me because of it. If anything, compiling all these details—her tumultuous upbringing and circumstances compounded by becoming a victim of Oyuki’s indiscretions and being disowned by Uncle—only made me feel she was a pitifully unfortunate soul, and even my childish heart harbored secret sympathy.

No, to say that would be overstating it a bit. Sentiments like pitying someone's circumstances or sympathizing with their misfortune—those adult-like judgmental emotions hadn't yet taken root within me at that time. Oshin's circumstances—the complex relationships and entanglements between Uncle, Oyuki, Morita and others; that entire adult world—still lay beyond my capacity to grasp, understand or judge. I'd simply convinced myself from our first meeting that Oshin held some special fondness for me, then cultivated this one-sided affection toward her regardless of her upbringing or situation—nothing more than an orphan's simple-hearted craving for familial warmth manifesting as vague longing. And though running errands to Nishinotoin became my greatest joy—I'd always set out with eager anticipation—the circumstances I've described meant my returns would always leave me despondent, expectations unmet and heart unfulfilled.

However, one day, Oshin herself unexpectedly and suddenly came to visit Uncle’s household.

It was the end of March, and at that time Uncle, Oyuki, and I were living in the Kiyomizu area. Uncle had long been suffering from gastrointestinal issues and idling about, but shortly after I arrived, he built a small villa-like house near S Hill partly for convalescence and moved there by year's end. And I was taken along as a replacement kitchen maid. Oshin came alone without her child. After sunset, just as we finished cleaning up from dinner when I was about to come up from the sink area, she suddenly burst in from outside in a flurry and faced me standing dumbfounded in surprise,

“Is this where they are? Are they here?” Without waiting for a reply to her abrupt question about Uncle’s presence—delivered as if dousing them with cold water—she pushed past me with an urgent intensity and barged into the inner room. It seemed she feared being turned away if she hesitated even a moment. This unexpected visit shocked Uncle and the others profoundly. He had been lying on his bedding as usual after dinner, having Oyuki massage his lower back, when he suddenly paled and sat bolt upright. Muttering incoherently under his breath like a cornered animal, he appeared utterly at a loss. An eerie silence then descended between them—a stillness thick with disarray and barely contained agitation.

“What’re you here for?” It took considerable time before Uncle broke the silence. And in that voice lay a faint tremor—less of anger than fear. I eavesdropped on the three’s conversation from the next room through the sliding door. Their voices would drop to inaudible whispers, then erupt into violent quarrels, at times mingled with Oshin’s stifled sobs. From what I could gather through the door, Oshin had come seeking approval—and in a way bidding farewell—to accompany Morita to Shanghai, where he’d been assigned submarine telegraph work for a year or two.

As for the state of Oshin and Morita's relationship at that time, I naturally possessed no detailed understanding. However, given that Morita still made periodic business trips to Kyoto, their romantic liaison—or rather, what might as well have been a marital arrangement—must have persisted unchanged. I myself had once glimpsed a man matching his description in Nishinotoin—a tall, slender figure of distinction sporting an elegant mustache shaped like the character for "eight" beneath his nose. Regarding this Shanghai venture: whether they had prearranged matters through correspondence; whether Morita had stopped en route to his new post and impulsively decided to take Oshin along; whether Morita had already reached Shanghai and sought to summon her there; or whether Oshin herself intended to follow afterward—in any case, Oshin had settled her resolve completely, with departure looming within two or three days.

“If that’s settled, there’s no call for you to come sayin’ such things now.” “Just go off without a word then.” “You idiot!”

Uncle said huffily, as though he were the one who had been scorned. “But Shanghai’s in China, you see.” “It’s a foreign country, you see.” Oshin’s way of speaking was like that of an unworldly, innocent girl. “What’s that s’posed to mean? So what if it’s China?” “Even if I’ve been disowned… How could I go off to such a faraway place without telling my parent?” As for Shanghai—while today Japan’s mainland might share similar cosmopolitan qualities, in those days before even the Russo-Japanese War, it was still generally regarded as a foreign land of distant Cathay, a realm ten thousand leagues beyond the seas. For Oshin then, even in their state of severed relations, the parent-child bond they had shared and all its accumulated affection must have made silence unbearable—surely she could not simply depart without a word. This was why she had come unbidden despite her disowned status: perhaps through this opportunity, she thought, her disownment might be forgiven and approval granted to become Morita’s wife. There could be no mistaking this intent.

“I haven’t forgotten your parental kindness and duty, you see.” Oshin continued in a tear-choked voice. “What rubbish you spout.” “Comin’ here like you’re pityin’ me, puttin’ on airs like I’m some charity case.” “The hell d’you take me for!” “Whose leave you think you need to go swannin’ off there?” “…………” “If you came rememberin’ parental duty, why ain’t you heeding what that parent says now?” “Which matters more—your father or your fancy man?” “That’s heartless…” “What’s ‘heartless’?” “The babe’s so pitiful, you see.”

“Who’d tell you to birth such a thing?”

“…………” “Just go throw such a thing into the mud gutter.” Uncle’s inherent temper gradually intensified. “It’s too cruel,” Oshin began to sob resentfully. “You’ve never given birth to your own child—how could you understand?” Perhaps overcome by agitation, Oshin had let slip a grave blunder. Uncle—as if roaring “What?!”—suddenly brandished his thick silver pipe. The sliding door partition bore a blue gauze inset, through which the scene could be vaguely discerned. There on his sickbed, Uncle leaned forward from his emaciated upper body that had been wearily propped against an armrest—his hollow-cheeked face, lacking healthy complexion and swarthy with sickly pallor rather than pale, flushed crimson as he fixed Oshin with a glare from deeply sunken eyes that glinted fiercely. His countenance was terrifying. He was not yet fifty years old, but whether from illness and decline or premature aging, his teeth had fallen out from both jaws, making him look as old and haggard as a man in his sixties or seventies.

But Oshin did not so much as stir, as though she had steeled herself completely, her rounded shoulders turned away while she kept her head bowed motionlessly. Her hair was done up in a marumage with a red cord, but the area around her white collar quivered in small, violent tremors. As for Oyuki, she sat at an oblique angle to both Uncle and Oshin, her sharply upturned nose and pointed chin lifting her coldly elegant oval face in an affected pose of solemn meditation—a habitual mannerism I always found disagreeable—fluttering her long-lashed eyes. But now she suddenly raised a hand to stop Uncle, sharply reprimanding Oshin.

“What on earth are you saying?” “What manner of speech is this toward Father? Apologize at once!” “But you’re the ones speaking such cruelty.” “What nonsense do you spout?” “It’s you spouting nonsense here.” “If only you’d obeyed your parent properly from the start.” “You brought this upon yourself through misconduct—disregarding your parent’s words, then recklessly planning to traipse off to China and Shanghai with some man!” “It’s only natural Master would reproach you when you carry on this way.”

Oyuki rebuked Oshin harshly for her transgressions. Yet her words seemed hollow, as though they didn’t come from the heart. While feeling guilty about her own accusations, she spoke as if compelled by Uncle’s presence to voice them nonetheless. For if it were true that she had sold Oshin to Morita as her substitute—whether Oshin knew of this or not—then Oyuki herself must have been too ashamed to wield such authority convincingly.

Oshin said nothing in response to this. All the while Oyuki was speaking, she shot a sidelong glance at her twice. Then Oyuki, as if avoiding that gaze for some reason, hastily turned her eyes upward while fluttering her long lashes in her usual manner.

After yet another round of heated exchanges, Oyuki spoke. "In that case, no matter what you do—you mean to defy your parent and be with Morita?" "And go to China—is that what you're saying?"

“Please grant me this,” “I implore you.” Oshin gave a shallow bow. It resembled a declaration more than entreaty. “Never.” “Enough of your idiocy!”

Uncle roared immediately. And suddenly, as if struck by a stomachache, he wrinkled his entire face and wrenched his neck sideways. I found myself siding with Oshin despite myself, wondering less why she refused to obey her parent’s will than why Uncle wouldn’t permit her to marry Morita. Though she’d borne a child already, someone with Uncle’s background ought to understand young love—and if that were so, then Oshin wasn’t exactly a daughter meant to take in a husband. Though he served in the military, there was a proper adopted heir in place. Perhaps Uncle had intended for Eizaburou, that adopted heir, to marry Oshin—but even so, now that she’d found someone she’d even borne a child with, it needn’t necessarily be her. Surely Oshin—bought with money, so to speak—couldn’t be part of some scheme to monetize her; maybe, given Eizaburou had volunteered for reenlistment as a non-commissioned officer aiming to stay long-term in the military, Uncle considered finding her a suitable son-in-law to inherit the business instead? No—perhaps it was simply that Uncle, stubborn and tyrannical by nature, felt compelled to enforce whatever he declared, so even if privately conflicted, he couldn’t bring himself to verbally approve marrying Morita—sheer emotional obstinacy. Whatever the truth, he’d finally barked: “I’ve disowned you—do as you damn please! From now on, think yourself neither my child nor I your parent!” Yet this became tacit approval. At that very moment, Uncle suddenly blurted out:

“That bastard’s a thief! My mortal enemy!”

What did that mean? In that instant, the gathering suddenly fell deathly silent, and an eerie silence hung in the room. Then Oyuki, flustered in some way, swiftly looked around in all directions with those fluttering eyes of hers, but suddenly stood up with an affected cough and slid open the partition door. And there, spotting me crouched in the dark corner,

“Oh, it’s you— Oh my, what a shock!” she said with exaggerated drama, then hurried off toward the toilet. Before long, Oshin took her leave. I escorted her to the rickshaw stand at the top of the hill with a paper lantern. “Safe travels.” Having escorted her outside, I offered my first farewell greeting. “Would you see me off? Thank you kindly,” Oshin replied in a gentle tone. “I’m terribly sorry.” “Not at all.”

In this way, I was happy to have exchanged intimate words with Oshin after so long. It felt as though my long-held feelings had finally reached her. "My, how you've grown," Oshin said. "You've changed completely." She drew close to me, speaking as though comparing her height to mine. In truth, compared to when I'd first arrived last year, I had grown remarkably in just over half a year. Though thin and lanky, my height had shot up like a bamboo shoot in the rainy season—no one would have taken me for a child of thirteen or fourteen. Uncle and the others often mocked that this growth spurt came from feasting in Kyoto after years of barley rice and miso back home, but my feelings too seemed to have begun acquiring a distinctly adult quality.

“If your father back home were to see you now, he’d be astonished.” “—And are you keeping well?”

Surprisingly, Oshin knew my father.

“Hmm, when was that now?” “When he last came to Kyoto, he stayed at the house on Shijo for two or three days.” “Asan did say that, wasn’t it?” “He was a good person.”

Oshin spoke in a completely relaxed tone. At our first meeting in Nishinotoin some time before, it seems she had deliberately not disclosed her background—that she was part of Uncle’s household—treating me as someone who still did not know (which was indeed the case). This fact suddenly drew my heart even closer to Oshin. Encountering someone in an unfamiliar land who knows one’s own parents and siblings feels as warmly nostalgic and joyful as meeting someone who knows oneself. All the more so when it concerned Oshin, whom I had secretly admired day in and day out. At that moment, I truly felt as deeply familiar with Oshin as if she were my own blood-related sister.

Oshin went on. “But you’re doing just fine, ain’t ya? Even if your ma’s gone, you still got your pa. That’s still a blessing.” While feeling something that startled me, I instinctively looked back at Oshin. It sounded less like she was comforting me with those words than lamenting herself—how though she supposedly had both birth parents somewhere in this world, she could neither meet them nor exchange letters, nor even know whether they lived or died.

It was a moonless dark night, and an unseasonably cold, icy wind was blowing fiercely. By day that area bustled with visiting sightseers, but it was customary for laborers to abruptly vanish come evening; though only slightly past early nightfall, not a single house kept its doors open, and the surroundings had already fallen as silent as midnight. At the gourd shop halfway up the slope, the clattering rhythm of seeds being scooped from dried gourds resonated with crystalline clarity through the frost-laden air, its sharpness only deepening the silence that enveloped all directions.

“Now that you know everything about me, what will you do?”

After walking a short distance, Oshin prefaced her words in that manner and began to speak earnestly about herself. "I don't know how you see me, but I'm suffering too." "Father says such cruel things, and Mother too..." "Truth now—ain't a soul alive who'd walk a mile in these shoes o' mine. Pitiful, ain't it?" "Well now, I know it's wrong—wrong as can be—that I went and conceived a child, and it ain't right to go against Father. But that—that I know full well." "But there's the baby too—what'm I to do? Even Father's bein' cruel about it." "I ain't sayin' I'm dead set on bein' with Morita or nothin'." "It's 'cause the baby's so pitiful—that's why I'm beggin'. Even if I tried doin' somethin' about the baby, how could I ever manage such a cruel thing?" "It's sinful." "Even if they told me to kill it—couldn't ever manage such a thing." "Even if birth parents are beggars, a child's still happiest livin' with 'em." "Don't ya think?"

Somehow I found myself unable to meet Oshin's gaze. In the dim lantern light I couldn't see clearly, but Oshin's cheeks seemed wet with tears at that moment. Though I lacked the capacity to fully comprehend Oshin's feelings—how she defied Uncle to the bitter end out of love for her child, even after severing their familial bond yet still being drawn to Morita—or to judge the rights and wrongs of it all, my heart overflowed with inexpressible pity for the wretched circumstances that had cornered her into such misery. And I came to understand the loneliness of her heart—how she had bared her hardships to someone like me, a mere apprentice of no consequence, as though confiding in a close friend—but though I wanted to offer some consolation in return, I knew no words to speak.

“If only the baby weren’t here—”

Oshin was about to continue speaking when she suddenly tripped on the stone steps and nearly tumbled forward. It was exactly midway up the slope. In that instant, without even time to shift the lantern to my other hand, I thrust out the hand holding it and caught her.

“Oh, careful!”

Oshin grabbed my arm and managed to steady herself, but since I was also a bit unsteady, the lantern swayed violently with the motion and the flame went out with a snap. At the same time, one of Oshin's geta thongs snapped. "Oh dear, what did you go and do?" "What a daft fool I am!" Oshin, while scolding herself in this manner, clung even more tightly to me, "If I went and died trippin' here, ain't that just a fine way to go."

There had long been a legend that if you fell on this slope, you would die within three years. Fortunately, I had matches. Earlier at the house, I had lit the lantern and occasionally kept it just like that in my pocket. I immediately relit the fire and was about to turn back thinking of finding some string or something, but Oshin stopped me. “It’s fine—it’ll hold for now.” And then she began walking just like that, dragging along the geta with its broken thong. But the slope was steep, and moreover, the wide stone steps—three feet across—glistened as if freshly polished, slick and smooth enough that one could easily slip and lose their footing.

“Here, take my arm.”

“Here, take my arm,” I said, thrusting one shoulder and arm diagonally toward Oshin. “Oh? Thank you kindly,” she replied. “Then I’ll lean on you a bit.” Without hesitation, Oshin casually rested her hand on my shoulder. “You said just what I needed—this helps mightily,” she added with a soft laugh. “I’ll give you proper thanks later.” Her words filled me with quiet gladness. Even this small service—the mere thought of being useful to Oshin—somehow lit a warmth in my chest. Had there been more I could do, I’d have gladly shouldered any burden. The persistent pressure of her body’s weight against my shoulder and arm—its tangible warmth—stirred a peculiar comfort within me.

When we went up the slope a little further, we came to Kiyomizu Street where there was a rickshaw stand at the corner. It was called an office, but in truth it was merely a shared parking area for two or three regular rickshaw pullers, and there wasn't always a vehicle available. Particularly at night, depending on circumstances, they would often withdraw early or fail to return directly from their outings. And when we arrived, as ill luck would have it, all had already gone out.

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

Set back slightly from the main street, in a corner of a small vacant lot, stood a weathered wooden shack with makeshift plank walls. That was the rickshaw stand, and people called it the office. Cramped and squalid—so much so that one could barely enter—but being exposed to the biting wind outside was too cold, and inside there was a makeshift bench that made resting there preferable. Indeed, the cold and chill of that night were unusually bitter. The weather had changed abruptly just before evening—though signs of April’s approach were already in the air—as a biting winter-like wind whipped up, creating a deceptively mild chill that threatened to bring snow flurries. Oshin complained that her hands were freezing—so much so that she warmed them over the lantern’s flame.

“This helps a bit, don’t it.” Oshin hugged the lantern to her lap and cupped both hands over it as if to hide her embarrassment, but her slender white fingertips—illuminated by the light within—at times appeared faintly crimson and translucent like silkworms ready to spin, tinged with a cherry-blossom hue. It made me think of a certain refined, high-class dry confectionery. If I were to put it in my mouth just a little, it seemed it would turn into an indescribably delicate sweet dew, slowly dissolving on the tip of my tongue—even evoking something akin to appetite.

We had waited nearly ten minutes, but there was no sign of a rickshaw coming. The shops along the street had all closed long ago, only the faint glow of eaves lanterns dimly illuminating the thoroughfare here and there, with hardly any pedestrians remaining. “They ain’t comin’ from over there. If we wait here and they don’t come back, that’ll be a fine mess. If this thong hadn’t broke, we could’ve walked to where the rickshaws pass by—what a pain!”

Oshin said impatiently and stroked her chest area with her palm. Her breasts must have been engorged.

“Never mind—maybe I’ll just go as I am, dragging these geta.”

At that moment, I spotted a rickshaw coming up from the direction of Gojozaka Slope across the way. I immediately rushed out. It looked like someone was riding in it, but I thought to ask for a ride back. But that was the doctor’s private car and wouldn’t do. “Damn it!”

Then, as that one was heading up toward Kiyomizu-dera Temple nearly passing it, another came down from above. This one also had a passenger, but I ran up to its side and asked the rickshaw puller to pass along a message for someone to come up here if they found an available rickshaw down below. The rickshaw puller raced off without even replying. "I'm causin' you such trouble." "Ain't right of me." Oshin had come out to the street thinking that last one might be vacant, and spoke to me gratefully like that.

“What’re you saying.” At that moment, an especially strong gust of wind swooped down from the mountains, whirling up a white cloud of sand and dust beneath our feet that appeared white even in the night. I instinctively tried to dodge, but in that instant, I could no longer open my eyes. I had been struck full in the face by the blinding grit of the sandstorm, and something had gotten into my eye.

I cried “Ah!” and stood frozen, my hands covering my face.

“What’s happened? Did dust get into your eye?” Oshin inquired, peering up from below as if inserting her face between my hands. I felt her so close that I thought her lips might have touched my cheek. “Which one?” “The right one.” Yet because of this irritation,I couldn’t keep either eye open for more than an instant. I kept rubbing and blinking,but only succeeded in making tears stream down uselessly.

“Did a pebble get in there?” “Wait a moment—you mustn’t go rubbin’ it all reckless-like.” “I’ll get it out for you now.” Oshin said all this in a rush while leading me back to the shack. It was a distance of not even ten steps, but this time I had to be led by the hand by Oshin.

“Lame and blind, we are,” Oshin laughed, dragging one leg as she started walking. “But when it comes to this, being lame’s better off, ain’t it.”

I forgot the pain in my eye and couldn’t help but let out a stifled laugh. Oshin made me sit back on the bench, holding a lantern aloft in one hand, and paying no heed to my resisting attempts to refuse, she peeled open both my right eyelids upward and downward with two fingertips, dampened a corner of her handkerchief with saliva, and wiped repeatedly as if scrubbing. But it had no effect at all. Whatever had gotten in—the pain felt as if a thorn had pierced my eyeball—yet somehow I even began to think that Oshin herself might have driven it deeper instead.

“What got in there, I wonder—it’s clinging something fierce.” “What’s to be done?” “Should I try licking it with my tongue?” And Oshin seemed on the verge of doing just that. “That’s enough now—really, it’s fine.” I panicked and made as if to push Oshin away at her chest.

“This is a real bother—ain’t no knowing what’s to be done.” Oshin fretted frantically until something seemed to strike her—she muttered “Ah! That’ll do” to herself—then suddenly clambered onto my lap as if straddling it, forcing my face upward before I could react. What followed happened beyond my sight’s reach, but in the next instant—before I could even gasp—a faintly sweet scent of woman’s skin enveloped me, and I felt Oshin’s soft breast pressing against my face as I realized her nipple lay firmly against my blinking eyelid.

“It’s unclean, but bear with it a moment.” I was in no position to refuse. It all happened in mere seconds with startling speed, yet there was something in Oshin’s manner—so urgent and earnest—that made refusal or resistance unthinkable. This felt less like saving a drowning person than like witnessing someone’s instinctive struggle against drowning themselves—a frantic thrashing born of primal panic. I remained paralyzed beneath that force, incapable of movement.

Thus came the breast milk eye treatment. How long this lasted—it might have been mere seconds yet felt like eternity itself. Through it all I remained breathless and rigid, teeth clenched till my jaw ached, every fiber of strength channeled into hands gripping the bench's wooden slats, fighting desperately against my own body. Had I relented even slightly, my mouth might have found Oshin's breast at any moment, my arms might have wound themselves about her waist without warning.

“That’s enough now. Much obliged.”

Eventually having said that, I turned my face away. And at last as though waking from a dream, I stood up with a great sigh of relief and opened my eyes for the first time. “Did it heal?” “Oh, much obliged.” “That’s a relief, ain’t it. Now you can wipe your face.” Oshin lent me her handkerchief. And she too seemed to relax as she offered a gentle smile. Yet she made no move to immediately cover herself. While I wiped my face and kept blinking my eyes, she held it exposed as if asking whether this sufficed now, watching me intently.

“You felt grossed out, didn’t you? But I can’t go sayin’ such things. This ain’t like some scraped knee—it’s your precious eye we’re talkin’ about. Can’t be lollygaggin’ over this, I thought.” “Much obliged!” I repeated my heartfelt thanks once more. At that moment, my chest tightened so suddenly I nearly choked back a sob. It was more than mere goodwill or kindness—something beyond that, an innate human tenderness, a genuine caring that felt raw and true—radiating from Oshin’s breast with such burning warmth.

“Thanks to you, I’ve been saved some trouble too,” Oshin smiled again. “My milk’s been swelling something fierce since earlier—it was driving me crazy.” “Take a look at this—see how it is.” The milk, having once found release, had swelled within her chest so dramatically—forming a round, plump mound like a small hill—that it now dripped steadily from the tip of her pure white breast, each drop falling unchecked. Oshin briefly squeezed it. Then, as if from a sprayer, it shot through the pale glow of the paper lantern’s flame in a forceful arc, scattering into mist like a fleeting rainbow. With this one’s stimulation making the other begin to flow too, Oshin further loosened her kimono and brought out its counterpart. And then, working both together in quick circular motions with her fingertips kneading the nipples while,

“They’re so heavy it’s downright exhausting.” With a vexed expression, she heaved a deep sigh from her shoulders. Yet somehow she seemed relieved. I could no longer endure looking directly at them. As if struck by a searchlight’s dazzling beam splitting the darkness, my vision blurred completely. Oshin still didn’t seem to recognize me as someone of the opposite sex. But in that moment, I dimly became aware of myself—this self that was beginning to awaken to it.

“Baby—who knows how it’s cryin’ its little heart out for it.” Then, having said that, Oshin tucked both breasts back into her chest.

At that moment, an empty rickshaw came from below. The earlier message had taken effect. “Does this mean you won’t be leaving now?” I started walking while holding Oshin’s hand and casually posed the question. When I thought that Oshin might leave for Shanghai just like this and that we might never meet again, I couldn’t help but feel an inexplicable reluctance to part. Of course, that was solely my own feeling. The fact that I harbored certain feelings toward Oshin was something she remained entirely unaware of. I found it extremely regrettable that she could never come to know it. When I thought that for Oshin, I remained after all nothing more than a mere apprentice at my uncle’s house, and that I must lose her just as I was—this was the loneliest thing of all.

Oshin did not answer my question. So I asked once more.

“So you’re still going to China after all?” Oshin, however, did not give a direct answer to that. Just a single word,

“Stay well now, ya hear?”

With those words, she became a passenger in the rickshaw.

Oshin had indeed gone to Shanghai after all. A little over a month later came such a letter. I read it. My uncle being unlettered and unlearned, I was generally tasked with both reading correspondence aloud and drafting replies on his behalf. Though Oyuki could have written it herself using hentaigana and suchlike characters, she ultimately foisted the duty upon me. Having freshly left a four-year higher elementary school mid-course—writing alone posed challenges enough—deciphering cursive-connected scripts from incoming letters proved near impossible; yet compelled by necessity, I somehow managed these ghostwriting and reading tasks despite my reluctance.

In that letter, Oshin apologized for her recent selfishness and unfilial conduct, then wrote that even as one disowned, she would continue revering Uncle and Oyuki as parents and would surely repay their kindness in due course.

“Smooth talker, ain’t she.”

Uncle said this with a wry smile. After a little over a year had passed, Oshin sent a notice saying she had returned to mainland Japan. Moreover, it came from Tokyo. It stated that she had been slightly ill and had remained lying down on the ship all the way to Yokohama, making it impossible 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. Above all, that time when I had her wash my eyes with breast milk became a kind of bewitching phantom that constantly lingered before me. I would recall Oshin with a feeling that both longed for a mother’s warm embrace and yearned for a lover’s tender bosom.

Amidst all this turmoil, and in the years that followed, all manner of violent upheavals occurred in my surroundings and consequently in my own circumstances.—In the spring marking nearly three years since moving to Shimizu, Uncle returned once more to Shijo and this time opened a Western-style restaurant where the inn had stood. I worked as a footwear attendant and delivery boy among other tasks when, in the autumn of the following year—some eighteen months later—Uncle’s illness flared anew and he suddenly passed away. I had been promised that satisfactory service until age twenty-five would earn me a branch under the shop’s banner—a vow even enshrined in his will—but whether through fortune or misfortune, such pledges soon became worth less than scrap paper to me. For within half a year of Uncle’s death, both Naniwatei Inn and all else had abruptly vanished without trace. The house passed to others’ hands through debts Uncle left behind. Oyuki took up with a new man before mourning rites concluded; as for foster son Eizaburou, driven to reckless despair by her misconduct, he too went off and set up house with some woman—such became our family’s wretched state.

Thus it was that I, still a boy of sixteen, found myself cast alone into the world. From there I became a legal scrivener's apprentice, worked as a lawyer's clerk, went to Osaka to work at a post office—drifting six months here, a year there—until 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 was twenty-one.

One day, I suddenly found myself wanting to visit Oshin. Strangely enough, I knew Oshin’s address in Tokyo. It had been written in the letter she sent to Uncle after returning from Shanghai—something I had kept clearly in my memory even five or six years later. It was Shitaya Ward, Okachimachi 2-chome XX-banchi.

I found a house with an old nameplate reading "Morita Boarding House," the ink now barely legible, on a certain narrow side street. A compact two-story house sandwiched between a joinery shop and a tailor’s, its second-floor bay window lined with two or three omoto pots basking in the pale late-autumn afternoon sun. After walking back and forth in front of the house countless times, I finally resolved to place my hand on the lattice door at the entrance. What was likely Morita’s mother—an old woman with a bent waist—emerged and scrutinized me with apparent suspicion, but upon inquiring, it turned out this was indeed the very house I had been seeking.

However, Oshin was not there. After returning from Shanghai, she had lived for a time in Tottori City, which had been Morita's post, but about two years ago when Morita had died, she was soon divorced, or so I was told.

“Did she have a child?” “What became of that child—the one she kept saying ‘The baby’s so pitiful,’ even abandoning the foster parents who’d raised her for years out of duty?” I asked almost reflexively, without weighing my words. “Yes, there was a child, but it died in Shanghai.” “Another one born there also passed away after a month or two.” “After all, they say the climate—or something about that place—was bad.” “What a terrible shame.” “If even a child had remained…”

The old woman recounted it in that manner. And still continued, “So given those circumstances, when my son passed away, there wasn’t much we could do on our end—though I suppose you could say she stepped back of her own accord…” she said, as if excusing herself. I inquired further about Oshin’s whereabouts, but with no further news after that, her address and all else remained unknown.

Then another three years or so passed.

I was studying at a certain private university around that time when, during that year’s summer vacation as I returned home, I made a detour to Kyoto for the first time in ages and spent about a week there.

One day, after retracing the vestiges of my boyhood life from Shijo to Shimizu—those memory-steeped places—I went to visit Ofuji-san in Miyagawacho. Ofuji-san, as previously recounted, had been one of Uncle’s foster daughters who once taught shamisen in Gion; by that time, she had relocated to nearby Miyagawacho and opened a small tobacco shop. “Been at it ’bout three years now—just me ’n’ the maids got too lonesome-like, see.” “Teachin’ shamisen was dreary work—couldn’t abide it.” “Quit ’em long ago.”

Ofuji-san recounted these subsequent events but had completely failed to recognize me, unable to place who I was at first. The me she had once known—in age, physique, and clothing—now bore no resemblance to this student before her. When I gave my name after she greeted me with a shopkeeper's "What'll it be?" meant for passing customers, she still couldn't bring herself to believe it readily.

Ofuji-san was now nearly forty, and at first glance her beautiful oval face seemed unchanged from before. However, upon closer inspection, small wrinkles had formed, and around her strikingly beautiful wide eyes—once said to be astonishingly lovely—there now lingered faint dark circles like a lingering shadow. I had also heard at the aunt’s house in Rokujo where I was staying that Uncle had changed as well. Foster mother Ofumi-san had long since died. It had been about a year after Uncle’s death when she developed what they called a chanting mania—reciting “Namu Amida Butsu” at every sight and sound, whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down. Back when we lived in Shimizu, we kept two or three Japanese white-eyes. Once when she came over and saw those birds eating feed, bathing water, and singing in high trills, she kept exclaiming “How blessed! All this too by Buddha’s merciful grace,” facing the cage with fervent prayers and chants. While some said Ofumi had grown estranged from Uncle due to this illness, others claimed it stemmed from Oyuki entering the household and usurping Ofumi’s position as legal wife. Ofuji-san naturally numbered among these critics and never spoke kindly of Oyuki. They even insisted that losing the Shijo house and erasing Uncle’s legacy all traced back to Oyuki.

We reminisced about the myriad events and people centered around Uncle, sharing old memories of days gone by, when in the midst of these exchanges Ofuji-san spoke.

“You know Oshin-san, don’t you?” “What d’you suppose that person’s doing now?” “She’s working as a courtesan in Shichijo Shinchi, you know.” “What?!” “A courtesan? Is that true?” My shock was so intense that Ofuji-san, rather than reacting as expected, found this strange and stared at me intently. “Well now, this was half a year back already, so who knows if she’s still there even now—but when the milkman Mr. who comes to our house went visitin’ up at that brothel, why, he says that courtesan lady there was none other than Oshin herself, y’see?”

Ofuji-san recounted it thus. I found myself utterly unable to believe it immediately. I couldn't help concluding it must be that man's error - a straightforward case of mistaken identity. First and foremost, the very idea that this milkman knew Oshin struck me as fundamentally implausible. Hadn't Oshin been absent from Kyoto for over a decade? Yet upon inquiry, it emerged this milkman was a forty-year-old widower who'd regularly visited Naniwatei Inn since olden days and had known Oshin intimately since her girlhood - making any error impossible, they claimed. Whereupon Ofuji-san entertained me by relating how the milkman - more startled than even his supposed quarry - had fled home in disarray.

“My goodness, that’s shocking,” I said. “What on earth happened? Do you know that house?” My voice carried the urgency of someone ready to dash over immediately. “What name is she using there?”

“I don’t remember the details, but Mr. Milkman mentioned something.” “If ya like, I can ask ’round for ya.”

With a faint smile playing on her lips, Ofuji teased, “Why don’t you go buy her once, pretending not to know a thing?”

“Ahahaha, that would be terrible.” “Don’t mind it. You might not even be noticed.” “After all, we barely know each other, don’t you think?” “I’ve only seen her face briefly once or twice.” “Then there’s no way you’d know.” “Even I didn’t notice anything about you.” “That’s a fine beauty for you.” “A fair-skinned woman with beautiful skin and deep compassion—men’d take a liking to one like that.” “She must’ve been in demand.”

I was suddenly overcome by an indescribably unpleasant, dark mood. Through Ofuji's way of speaking like that, I felt as if I were being shown before my very eyes the wretched scene of Oshin's beautiful, soft flesh being trampled under filthy mud-stained feet.

“But still, pitiful she may be,” Ofuji-san said earnestly. “She had a baby too—what ever became of that man, I wonder.” “I suppose so.”

I tried to disclose the episode of my visit to Oshin in Tokyo but inexplicably failed to bring it up. This was partly due to how that story had been framed at the time, but I also felt somehow guilty about my deep concern for Oshin being exposed now, of all times.

“As expected, she must’ve been abandoned by a man,” Ofuji speculated. And having affirmed this so arbitrarily, she continued: “Must’ve been just like that. If she’d given the infant to the countryside and cut ties with the man back then, like we’d told her, things would’ve turned out better. If she’d done that, Father would’ve forgiven the disownment—she’d never have met such a fate. Traipsing off to Shanghai, trailing after some man’s backside—what a fool she’d been. A beggar’s child remains a beggar’s child after all.”

she said in a manner that scorned rather than pitied. She also said something like this. "But still, she's better off than beggin', given her roots—might just suit her perfectly."

I thought it was a rather cruel, unsympathetic way of speaking, but I said nothing. And though the direct circumstances leading to Oshin’s descent into such tragic circumstances remained unclear, the path she must have taken to reach that point was vividly and sympathetically imagined. With her child gone and husband dead, she could no longer remain in the Morita household as a widow—that social propriety would have compelled her to withdraw of her own accord was all too easily imagined. But even so, with no other means of living, she had managed to return to her birthplace—yet found herself with nowhere to turn, utterly and literally alone. She had neither acquaintances nor friends, and by now would surely have been unable to approach the old home she herself had abandoned long ago; even if she had wandered there secretly in the dark of night, those who once lived there had already vanished without a trace. And what of her birth parents…? Perhaps Oshin had come to regret having become a foster daughter of Naniwatei Inn at that time, and resented having lost her birth parents because of it.

“Even if parents were beggars… children are still happiest living with their birth parents…”

It was Oshin who, in those days, had been so single-mindedly obsessed—who out of blind love for her own child had abandoned even her foster parents who had shown her kindness. It was a heartrending cry born from her own lived experience—but might she not have once more freshly reconsidered this anguish in her heart? Ofuji had said she was better off than a beggar, but even among those living such rock-bottom existences, there could be no one as lonely as Oshin...

While thinking such thoughts, I soon took my leave from Ofuji-san’s house.

The image of Oshin—who had treated me to ramune, cared for me with sisterly kindness, and above all washed my eyes with milk on that final night of parting—floated dimly before my eyes. The scent of that milk still seemed to linger in my nostrils.

About half an hour later, I was walking along Shichijo Shinchi Street. It was a single narrow street—squalid and cramped—stretching downstream from Gojo Ohashi Bridge along the Kamo River’s edge on its way toward Rokujo’s inn. Identical two-story latticework houses lined the southern side; paper lanterns inscribed with numerous prostitutes’ names hung at every door; already aglow with light as men claiming respite from summer heat began appearing here and there.

“Just a moment, just a moment—do come in.” “Do come in for just a moment.”

Every house followed the same pattern—in the corner of their latticework facades, they had carved out small square windows or rather holes, from which women with pale necks poked out just their faces, calling out insistently like this. Each and every face appeared to me as Oshin’s face; each and every voice seemed to sound like Oshin’s voice. And with my heart pounding between thoughts of what might happen if a miracle let me encounter Oshin and fears that at any moment someone might seize my sleeve to drag me into one of these houses, I walked hurriedly as if on urgent business—pacing back and forth twice from one end of the street to the other.

(June 1940)