Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was twenty years ago, when I was thirteen, that I relied on my uncle and drifted alone from a remote Noto village to Kyoto. My father was born in Kyoto, where he had two older brothers and one older sister. The eldest brother had inherited the main family line and was running a Buddhist altar shop on Mannendōri Street; the second brother was operating both an inn and a pharmacy by Shijō Bridge; and my sister managed an inn in front of the Honganji Temple in Rokujō. And my sister had gone to Kyoto three years prior at the age of thirteen and become an apprentice at our Rokujō aunt’s house. I went to my Shijō uncle’s place.

Shijō Uncle visited Noto for the first time in the early summer of that year. Having come to Kaga’s Yamanaka Hot Spring with his concubine for recuperation after his illness, he had stopped by his younger brother’s—my father’s—place on the way. For someone of my uncle’s temperament—spoiled, self-indulgent, and irritable from being Kyoto-born and bred—this dirty, inconvenient, desolate fishing village must have seemed utterly unbearable; yet whether due to the fresh air or the abundance of fresh fish, Uncle ended up staying there for about a month. Speaking his selfish demands without restraint, indulging in every luxury the countryside permitted—

At that time, I was ill and lying in bed. The joint in my left knee hurt, the muscles stiffened so that I couldn’t straighten my leg, leaving me unable to walk. Every five to seven days, my father would carry me on his back to a doctor in a certain village about two and a half miles away, where the physician would diagnose it as arthritis and apply iodine tincture or some such treatment. “This country quack ain’t no good. When you’re feeling a bit better, you come on up to Kyoto. Uncle’ll put you in the hospital and get ya healed up proper.”

Once, these words Uncle had spoken clung strangely to my mind. After Uncle had left and gone back, I kept thinking about this matter and found joy in it. It was not solely to have my illness cured; there were other reasons as well. I thought Uncle must be quite wealthy. I had heard such rumors before from my father and others, and it was also imaginable from the extravagant lifestyle in Kyoto that Uncle himself would boastfully recount with pride. He had told me how his house stood in Kyoto's most prominent location—a three-story grand building where he ran a thriving business employing nearly ten servants; how he entrusted shop management to his clerk while daily taking his wife and concubines sightseeing; how even for brief outings he would wear accessories worth nearly a thousand yen; how there was none in Kyoto who didn't know him as Master of Naniwatei; along with various other matters of similar nature. Stories of how, while staying at Yamanaka Hot Spring, he had craved watermelon and specially ordered large first-harvest Shinden watermelons from Kyoto; how upon visiting the village, he had presented manjū sweets as gifts to all over a hundred elementary school students; how he had suddenly wanted to ride a horse and declared he’d pay any amount to have one bought, causing my father great trouble (as my fishing village didn’t keep a single horse)—such foolishly extravagant behavior made my young self marvel without understanding why: “How grand!” And relying on this Uncle, I came to believe that he would send me to middle school—a desire I had reluctantly abandoned yet still yearned for, made utterly impossible by my family’s poverty.

Moreover, I had lost my mother in the year I was born and was soon raised by my stepmother, but she already had three children of her own by then, and our relationship was never quite harmonious. Because I was there, the house was always gloomy and damp, and I could never know what secret worries even Father bore in his heart. Even with a child’s heart, I felt this, and spent my days dreary and lonely. This became all the more pronounced after my sister—my sole ally, with whom I had shared mutual pity over our unfortunate circumstances—had gone to Kyoto. Though parting from my father’s side filled me with unbearable sorrow, the thought that “if only I weren’t here” persisted constantly. I should go to Kyoto too; I thought that would be better for both Father and myself. At that very moment, Uncle arrived and ignited a fire in my heart as he left. And in a certain sense, it was as if he had given me a guarantee for my future. I had secretly resolved that once my illness healed, I would immediately run away.

That was around noon on the fifteenth day of the Bon festival under the old calendar. While Father and Stepmother were away visiting the temple, I clutched a single small furoshiki bundle and settled into a corner of the little fishing boat bound for Kaga's Kanazawa with its load of dried fish. Without any expectation of ever seeing them again, I bid farewell to my hometown's mountains and rivers.

Only Father knew of this. After Uncle had returned home, my illness soon improved as well, so I quietly expressed my wish to Father. “Well then... you should go see for yourself?”

After letting out a deep sigh, Father—wearing an expression of troubled contemplation—deliberately avoided my gaze and spoke while glancing around as if wary of their surroundings.

I nodded. "If'n ya wanna go see, then go see. Yer sister’s there, so ya ain’t gonna be lonely, I reckon."

Father spoke as though bestowing his final consent, but his voice grew thick and tears welled up in his eyes. Rather than parting with me, Father must have sensed the resolve in my heart to go to Kyoto and been overcome with pity; he covered his face with those large, veined, gnarled hands of his. Due to various circumstances, having conspired in advance with Father, we arranged matters before Stepmother so that—as was common among village youths at the time—it would appear I had run away in complete secrecy from everyone.

“There now, we won’t be meetin’ again after this!” That morning, while Stepmother was away fetching her temple-visit kimono from the main family’s storehouse where she normally kept it stored, Father called me into the dim Buddhist altar room and said while taking out a paper packet containing travel money from his pocket. He gestured with his eyes toward the Buddhist altar. I realized what Father meant by that, sat properly before the Buddhist altar, and reverently paid my farewell respects to my deceased mother’s memorial tablet. “Then stay healthy now, y’hear? Don’t go catchin’ ill.” (Meaning: Don’t get sick.)

Father whispered in a hoarse voice, as if someone were in the next room.

“Ah—” I muttered this under my breath and lay down. It was a feeling neither of sadness nor loneliness—something utterly beyond description. “I’ve already made proper arrangements with the boatmen, so…” When he was about to say more—sensing Stepmother’s return—he gestured with his eyes toward the money packet and whispered, “Quick now, put that away.” Then repeating “We won’t meet again after this!” once more under his breath, he grabbed a hand broom lying nearby as if to mask his embarrassment and strode purposefully toward the entrance. I deliberately sat down at the sutra desk there and opened a book.

After my father and mother had gone out, I once again paid my respects at the Buddhist altar, and then left the house. And then I headed toward the beach. For both lunch and dinner, it had been arranged that the boatman would specially prepare my portion as well.

The boat left the shore, exited the inlet, and gradually grew distant from the village. The sea lay calm, while the lingering midsummer sunlight around noon burned hot against my back. When I looked back, there in a hollow along the steep slope that rose like a sheer cliff from the coast—surrounded by groves of trees—clustered fewer than a hundred houses, as if someone had scooped up pebbles and scattered them there. Sunlight fell directly upon it, making the white walls here and there glisten. It resembled a neat, compact midday tableau.

My eyes first came to rest on my own house. I visualized the inside of that empty home where no one remained. Every room appeared before me in vivid detail down to the last corner. I could even make out a kitten sleeping atop the summer-shuttered hearth lid in the main hall. The Buddhist altar in the inner room seemed to stand watch over this hushed, vacant dwelling. I saw how its doors had been left open. Through the blue gauze of the middle panels came into view Amida Buddha's image on the deepest hanging scroll, the rice offerings before it, a vase, a candlestand with a crane perched atop a turtle, and a ring-shaped lantern. All those brass ritual implements—which I'd polished just two or three days earlier for Obon—glinted brightly—

I thought numerous living spirits dwelled within this Buddhist altar. Taking advantage of the empty house, they seemed to emerge into the main hall, storage rooms, and kitchen dressed like imps from fairy tales, hopping about as they advanced. The scene appeared vividly before my eyes. I also saw the tall roof of a temple's main hall standing conspicuously among the small houses. The sermon there should have begun by now. Men and women of all ages packed the hall completely, listening intently to the teaching. Among them was my father wearing an iron-gray ceremonial vestment. He was probably not hearing a word of the sermon. He must have kept turning to gaze out at sea instead, imagining me in this small boat sailing farther across the sunlit calm waters... I wondered if Father had slipped out of the hall to stand on the veranda, watching this boat's sail diminish on the horizon.

“Oh, they’re off now. Still, this calm’s been a mercy.”

He muttered this while looking up at the sky. When I focused my eyes, I felt as though I could see his figure. To Kanazawa, it was over twenty ri by sea (approximately seventy-nine kilometers). I set foot on the sandy ground there in the early hours of the next day. The village of my hometown appeared in the distance amidst clouds and mist, faintly transformed into a single stroke of an ink-painted cape. The Fuji-shaped mountain towering half-submerged in the sea at the cape’s tip was Mount ××, located three ri (approximately twelve kilometers) inland from the village.

I was accompanied by the boatman and went to Kanazawa by horsecar. The boatman brought me all the way to the station. And he bought a ticket and put me on the train. At that time, the Hokuriku Line steam trains only ran as far as Kanazawa.

I was finally alone. No thoughts of my father or the village came to mind anymore. Only anxieties about the present and future came and went through my heart. The steam train was supposed to arrive in Kyoto around midnight that day. I huddled small in a corner of the carriage. Though the train wasn't particularly crowded, everyone kept staring at me with puzzled looks. An inexplicable trembling seized my heart. I thought they were all pickpockets. "Don't let pickpockets steal your money." Father's words came back to me like this. He would go to Kyoto every year or two. Whenever he returned and told us stories of the capital, they were always about pickpockets. We eagerly asked him for those tales too. Father likely repeated others' stories word for word to amuse us, but I believed them completely. To me, both the train and Kyoto's streets seemed infested with thieves. When boarding, the boatman had entrusted me to a man in his forties sitting nearby, who occasionally asked questions and kindly looked after me—yet I feared him all the more. At seven, when I'd gotten lost in Kyoto with my country uncle, I remembered someone who'd offered to take me to an inn, dragged me through streets, then stripped off my haori jacket and fled. Suspecting this man might be the same sort, I barely spoke a word. My hand kept slipping into my inner pocket to touch the money pouch.

II

I arrived at Kyoto Station near midnight. However, knowing that my aunt's house where my sister stayed was an inn that kept late hours, I remained relatively composed. Though my memories of visiting at age seven were vague, I had a general sense of the house's proximity to the station and its approximate location—yet I took a rickshaw exactly as my father had advised. I even knew how to hire one.

As might be expected at such a late hour, only two or three inns before the station remained open, leaving the town dark and desolate. The rickshaws carrying people who had just disembarked from the steam train rattled back and forth (they didn't have rubber tires in those days), though this was no stranger's street they traversed. Since my aunt's house was a rather high-class inn even among those near Honganji Temple, when I mentioned the name Kagiya, the rickshaw driver immediately understood. The vehicle ran along the streetcar tracks for just a brief moment before branching onto rails curving rightward and continuing straight ahead. Or rather, it lumbered along at walking pace. Being a child and country bumpkin, I felt smoldering resentment inside, convinced the driver was mocking me.

As we approached Honganji, the rickshaw driver slowed his pace even more. From his seat, he asked me where I was from. I probably should have answered truthfully, but I thought if I said I was from Noto, he would mock me even more for being a country bumpkin. "I'm from Kanazawa City," I said, putting particular emphasis on "City" in a crafty attempt to impress upon him that I was a city dweller. "Even if we go to Kagiya, they ain't up no more. How 'bout I take ya to some other nice inn?" he asked. "Wouldn't it be better if ya went first thing tomorrow mornin'?"

After proceeding a short distance, the rickshaw driver came to a stop, looked back at the carriage seat, and spoke. I suspected the rickshaw driver was saying these things to deceive me. I had heard from Father and others about the kickback system established between station rickshaw drivers and nearby inns, when suddenly that matter crossed my mind. I grew wary. “Well now, my family goes there all the time, so I know it perfectly well,” I said in my most grown-up voice.

“Even if we go now, they ain’t gonna get up for us no more, I tell ya.” I grew increasingly suspicious of the rickshaw driver’s intentions. And though I kept insisting stubbornly, the truth was that while this was indeed an inn district, not a single house showed any lights, leaving me more than a little apprehensive. “Well then, I’ll go try waking them. If they don’t get up for us, I’ll take you somewhere else.” The rickshaw driver spoke as if he had independently made up his mind. I was now trembling all over with anxiety.

When we arrived at Kagiya, sure enough, the front door was tightly shut. The rickshaw driver, without even letting me get down from the carriage, supported the shaft with one hand and with the other began banging on the door - as if to declare he'd known from the start this would be futile. But no reply came readily. “Told ya so. No matter how you knock, it won’t open.” The rickshaw driver said while glancing at me as if to declare “See how it is?” I was beside myself with anxiety and pleaded with him to knock harder. The rickshaw driver knocked with even greater force.

“Who is it?” came a woman’s hoarse voice from within. I felt relieved for an instant. “A customer from Kanazawa here, open up if you please,” the rickshaw driver shouted.

I realized with a start, but it was already too late to take back. After some time had passed, “We must decline,” came a voice more loudly and clearly than before. Upon hearing this, the rickshaw driver showed signs of trying to pull me back. I hurriedly stopped the rickshaw and jumped down. And, “I’m from Noto. Asajirou.” “Asajirou!” I called out my father’s name in a loud voice.

“What? Noto’s Asa-san?!” said the voice from inside the house in a tone of startled disbelief. I thought that was Aunt. At last, I could breathe a sigh of relief.

“No, I’m Asajirou’s son!” I corrected myself with desperate earnestness, though my voice quavered. The rickshaw driver stood dumbfounded, muttering something under his breath. He must have thought it strange that I had lied about being from Kanazawa. At last, the front door opened with a heavy creak, and a shaft of light suddenly streamed out from within. I involuntarily took a step or two back. And there I saw my aunt in her nightclothes. I lowered my head and stood vacantly.

Whether she hadn't heard my earlier correction or remained convinced I was my father, my aunt—expecting her brother but instead finding this small child standing there like a beggar or something—said in a puzzled tone, “Well now, it’s you?!”

“Hmph,” I answered under my breath while trying to edge closer, but Aunt turned back into the house again, “Okiyo! Okiyo!” she called out to rouse my sister. Then she reappeared and ushered me inside. I timidly trailed after her into the building. “Oh! Yasushi!”

My sister Okiyo came rushing out in disheveled nightclothes, her eyes wide as if she'd forgotten her sleepiness, and cried out in a sudden high-pitched voice. “How come you’ve come n’eh? Didja run away ‘n’ come here?” I just smiled sheepishly in embarrassment. “Still, well... Managed to come all by yourself, that’s mighty impressive.” My sister said this in rapid succession. And with a nostalgic air, smiling gently all the while, she gazed intently into my face. She had now completely become a refined young woman.

“Well now, you’ve come all this way, haven’t ya,” Aunt chimed in, then explained to my sister: “The rickshaw driver said it was a customer from Kanazawa, so I told him we had to decline. Then this child here started saying he was Asajirou from Noto—peculiar business, that was.” “He said that, did he?”

There I briefly explained the circumstances. “Even so, my, ain’t you sharp for such a little thing,” Aunt said with affected admiration. “He’s a proper boy through ‘n’ through,” my sister added with evident pleasure. “This child’s had his wits about him since he was knee-high, y’see.”

Just then, a night-soba vendor happened to pass by, so Aunt called him in and served soba noodles to me and my sister.

While eating that, I spoke briefly about my hometown, my reasons for coming to the capital, and what had happened along the way as I was asked. And that night, I entered the mosquito net where the maids and others were sleeping and slept in my sister's arms.

The next day, I was taken by my sister and went out sightseeing to the Higashiyama area from morning. Starting from nearby Daibutsu and Sanjūsangen-dō, we walked in order to Kiyomizu, Kōdai-ji, Gion, Maruyama, Chion-in, Taikyoku-den, and then all the way to the canal area.

My sister Okiyo was genuinely delighted that I had come. With all the sisterly affection one could expect, she guided me around—caring for me, comforting me, shielding me—all with the seasoned maturity of someone long accustomed to such duties. Yet what we found most joyful wasn't visiting famous landmarks, but walking side by side through these unfamiliar streets while sharing our life stories. Like orphaned siblings adrift in some foreign land— The tales flowed endlessly. Father and Stepmother, our childhood days together in the countryside—village acquaintances we'd talked about through nearly sleepless nights—we retold them all once more. However many times we repeated these stories, they never lost their power to kindle fresh fascination and deepen our longing for what had been.

“Father must be so lonely.” I couldn’t count how many times my sister had said such things. When I told her about parting from Father, she cried, saying she could see his lonely figure. Then she stopped by the roadside and hugged me tightly. “Even if we went back to Noto, Mother’s gone. We should become Kyoto people now.” My sister said this too. On our return, we detoured through Kyōgoku, saw a sideshow, ate zenzai, and came back to the Rokujō house at dusk. After dinner, when my sister was free, I was taken to Uncle Shijō’s house.

I rode a streetcar for the first time. Every time we came to Yotsuji, an errand boy holding a red signal flag and fire lantern would jump down from the driver's platform to run ahead like a carriage driver's groom, warning pedestrians, which at that time seemed wonderfully novel to me.

I got off at the Shijō-Kobashi tram stop. Uncle's house stood right nearby—the large three-story building at the western corner of Shijō Ōhashi Bridge. Deliberately passing by the front of that familiar pharmacy facing Shijō Street, we went up to the bridge where my sister made me gaze at it from afar. I looked up at the structure with my heart pounding. The massive square edifice, towering conspicuously on all sides with brightly lit second and third floors, appeared to my eyes like a castle. Though this bridge-centered district ranked among Kyoto's most beautiful and bustling streets, neither the luminous splendor of its surroundings nor the vibrant energy could register in my eyes or ears—so thoroughly was my mind thrown into disarray.

“It’s lively here, isn’t it?” When I stayed silent, my sister prompted me like that. She must have thought the capital’s summer nightscape—its beauty and bustle—had left this country boy awestruck. She’d likely brought me all the way up to the bridge specifically to show me that view. No doubt she wanted to bask in my wonder and praise. “Until just recently, they held evening coolings on this riverbank—truly lovely it was. But then this flood came and swept everything away. The nights haven’t felt right since—so lonely now.”

But I did not look back. My heart was filled with vague anxieties and fears—that from tonight onward I would become part of this large house looming before my eyes, that I would live and sleep among so many unfamiliar people. "From now on, I would be entering the world. What fate awaited me?"

Of course, as a child, I didn't have such clear awareness, but when it came down to it, I was filled with precisely those sorts of feelings.

A few minutes later, I entered Uncle's house clinging to my sister from behind as if hiding myself. On one of the pillars of the wide entrance facing Pontochō Alley hung an elegant hanging lantern inscribed "Ryokan Naniwatei" beneath a diagonally drawn gourd. When I stood on the broad, slippery stepping platform that made my soles itch unbearably and saw my own diminutive figure reflected in the large entrance mirror like a withered seed, I felt an icy chill pierce through my body.

Uncle's living room was situated between the inn's front desk and the shop that sold medicinal herbs. In the center of an eight-tatami room spread with Chinese mats lay a futon, upon which Uncle sat cross-legged wearing a flat-sleeved nightgown that exposed his bony, emaciated chest, while having his shoulders massaged by a fair-skinned, beautiful woman appearing around thirty years old with her hair arranged in a marumage style. And beside him sat a woman nearing forty - also with her hair in a marumage style, round-faced, slightly dark-complexioned, and seemingly plain - smoking tobacco through a long pipe.

The fact that I would be coming tonight had been informed by Aunt from Keya during the daytime while we were out sightseeing, so as soon as we entered,

“Is this the young one? Welcome indeed.” “Okiyo-san’s brother, is it?” the middle-aged woman said courteously. “Ah yes, this boy’s come all the way here,” “Please do look after him properly,” my sister replied in her newly acquired grown-up manner.

“Hmph,” the woman nodded to herself. “Still quite small for your age? How old are you?” “Thirteen years old,” my sister answered for me. “Thirteen he may be, ma’am—but this child’s been sickly since birth and never could put on proper weight. Even back when I still lived in Noto country, he was always this pale-faced little thing.”

My sister rattled off this explanation and then, as if suddenly realizing something, “Aren’t you going to greet Uncle and Aunt?” she said, turning to look at me in a scolding manner. And then she added to everyone, “He’s still a country bumpkin who doesn’t know anything, so please scold him and put him to work.” I lowered my head in silence. “He’ll get used to it quick enough, won’t he? Such a fine apprentice he is.”

At this moment, the woman who had been massaging his shoulders interjected. Perhaps Uncle was in a bad mood; from the very start he wore a stern, bitter expression, forcefully tapping the tobacco tray with his thick silver pipe while glaring my way from time to time. Though he had just passed forty, his teeth—both upper and lower—were completely gone, leaving his cheeks sunken into deep hollows. His face, with its sagging skin drained of fat and darkened in tone, bore a fearsome countenance as two large eyes glared intensely. He asked me only one question—"Has your illness improved?"—and didn't even say "Welcome." It was an utterly cold, stern attitude as if he were reprimanding a wayward son. Based on how Uncle had been when he visited the countryside, I had imagined a much warmer, kinder uncle and had come seeking his protection, but now faced with this cold severity of his attitude, I felt not a little disappointed and disheartened.

“How is your uncle in Noto doing? The other day when our master went there, he must have caused you such trouble,” continued the woman who had been massaging his shoulders with polite courtesy. I thought this woman must be Uncle’s mistress. That she wasn’t his lawful wife was something I simply assumed without particular reason. She appeared much younger and more beautiful than the other woman, her manner and features refined—an oval face with a sharply defined nose and glossy cheeks. Yet compared to the older woman, she seemed to me at that moment to lack kindness.

After such formal introductions were completed, I was taken by my sister again to view the night's bustle in the direction of Kyōgoku, not far from there.

The fatigue from the journey, the lack of sleep, and having walked around since morning left me utterly exhausted. The unusual mental strain and nervous tension of recent days had barely kept me upright, yet even in crowded places I found myself swaying as if about to collapse. I craved rest and peaceful sleep, but these were denied me. Uncle, the women nearby, and even my sister all urged me to go sightseeing. This kindness sprang from their goodwill. Rather than suggesting I retire early from exhaustion, they told me in that manner of theirs: "You've come from the countryside to see the sights—we'll give you just this evening off. Go enjoy yourself." I refused this offer, lacking the familiarity with these people to voice selfish desires—like wanting to sleep alone in some corner—and act entirely as I wished. With the bitter resignation of one ordered to perform an unpleasant task, I went out with my sister.

“I’m sleepy and tired, so I’m going to bed.” If I were to say something like this, “Go on then, sleep, sleep.” I desperately wanted someone who would let me be spoiled like this. Sister seemed utterly oblivious to such matters. She appeared driven both by wanting to show me Kyoto’s lively beauty and by her own desire to savor this night of freedom. Thus displeased with how I trudged reluctantly behind her, she would occasionally snap in a scolding tone, “Will you hurry up already!”

The evening streets of Kyōgoku were churned by waves of people. The bright, dazzling lamplight proved so intensely stimulating that keeping my weary eyes open became unbearable. My eyelids stung as if being pricked by needles, my body swayed unsteadily, and I kept colliding with passersby. I found it unbearably irritating how my sister kept pausing before the decorated shop windows on either side or standing absorbed in examining theater billboards. Yet even when I tried urging her to return, there remained nowhere to go back to. When I finally could endure no more and said we should go back, my sister frowned and—

“Even if we go back, you won’t be able to sleep anyway. Mr. Naniwatei stays up late, you see—the shop doesn’t close till midnight,” she said in an irritated tone.

I was perplexed. The thought of returning now and having to sit properly on that painful Chinese-style mat in front of Uncle and the others, battling idleness, felt unbearable—like being subjected to a terrifying punishment. “Ah, I’m done for!” I sighed, on the verge of tears. “If that’s how it is, let’s do this.” “Let’s go into the vaudeville hall—I’ll be listening to rakugo, so you can sleep there while I do.” “If you thrash about, I’ll wake you,” Sister said in a tone suggesting she’d hit upon a brilliant idea.

I complied.

It was a little past eleven o'clock when my sister escorted me back to Uncle’s house again. “I’ll treat you as a guest just for tonight, but from tomorrow you’re an apprentice.” Being told this by Uncle, I was soon led to the second-floor guest room. My sister laid out bedding for me like a maid of the house would, sat by my pillow for a while like a nurse tending to a patient, and eventually left. He repeatedly admonished me about rising early in the morning and working diligently as instructed by the household members. He then told me that the middle-aged woman was Ofumi-san—Uncle’s legal wife—though they were living apart for certain reasons, and that the woman who had been massaging his shoulders was, as I had surmised, Uncle’s concubine Oyuki-san, who now managed this household as its mistress.

While I couldn't help harboring doubts about Uncle's relationship with those two women, what weighed heavier on me was how everyone from Uncle down to my sister Okiyo hadn't asked a single question about my true purpose in coming to Kyoto or my future aspirations. It seemed they'd arbitrarily decided from the very start that I'd come solely to serve as an apprentice. And now that matters had reached this point, I found it excruciatingly frustrating that I possessed neither the means nor opportunity to convey my genuine feelings.

Before long, a maid came and laid out another bedding beside me before leaving. As I lay there uneasily wondering who would come next, it turned out to be Aunt Ofumi who entered. I thought it strange that this woman, who was Uncle’s lawful wife, had come here instead of sleeping by her husband’s side. And I wondered if that concubine Oyuki was sleeping beside Uncle.

“Can you sleep? — You there, why do they call you Yasushi?” Aunt Ofumi said as she changed into her nightclothes. I muttered “Hn” under my breath. “Take your time resting now.” “You must be worn out, I expect?” “Did Okiyo-san show you around the sights?” “That’s well enough then?” “Was it all bustling-like?” “Sleep well.”

She rattled off these words and slipped into bed. Then, after mumbling two or three Buddhist invocations, she was already snoring. Outside, the streets still teemed with people. The rumble and clatter of carriage wheels crossing the bridge—now near, now far—sent constant vibrations through my pillow as if shaking it endlessly. The arc lamp at the bridgehead cast its light through the veranda's glass doors, bathing the darkened room where they'd turned off the electric lights in a bluish glow like moonlight, until the two futons appeared to float within it like small boats.

I suddenly became wide awake and couldn't fall asleep at all. Father came to mind. After returning from the temple and noticing my absence, I wondered how Father and Stepmother were discussing it. I imagined that my fleeing from home had become the talk of the entire village. Because of this, with Stepmother being brought up in all sorts of conversations, I could picture her going around to relatives and neighbors to offer various explanations on her own behalf.

However, more than any of that, the life awaiting me tomorrow weighed even heavier on my mind. "From tomorrow, you're an apprentice." Those words from Uncle occupied nearly every corner of my thoughts at that moment. It felt somehow terrifying, yet at the same time, I couldn't deny a certain thrill. My chest heaved violently. All through the night, the sound of carts crossing the bridge never left my ears. As if rocked by a train's motion while half-listening to its heavy rumble somewhere in the distance, I spent an anxious night suspended between dreams and wakefulness.

From the very next day, I became an apprentice at Naniwadō Pharmacy (the drugstore went by that name). Everything was a first experience for me. First under the direction of Aunt Oyuki—the concubine—I opened the shop doors and hung various medicinal signs in front of the store. Among them were some large, heavy ones that required all my strength just to lift. Then after sweeping about half of the street section before the shop, I began cleaning inside. It was then I first learned how to handle a feather duster. This proved no easy task. When dusting the glass doors of medicine cabinets and display cases, I couldn't properly control the duster's frayed end—sometimes accidentally striking the glass with the nail tips securing it.

“Haven’t you ever used a duster before?” “You’ll break the glass.” Aunt Oyuki said in a tone that wasn’t quite scolding. My clumsiness must have irritated her short-tempered nature, but given that I had just arrived from the countryside and was moreover Uncle’s relative, I thought she must have refrained from scolding me outright. “Here, give it here.” Aunt Oyuki took the duster from me and demonstrated its use with remarkable dexterity. However, without explaining the technique, she handed it back saying, “Now, let’s see you dust.” I could only fumble awkwardly.

Using a palm fiber broom with a long bamboo handle was also my first experience. I had been instructed to apply force not at the broom's tip but at its handle and sweep lightly outward, but this operated completely differently from the straw brooms and millet-stalk hand brooms I'd grown accustomed to in the countryside. The tip felt strangely unresponsive, and try as I might, I couldn't wield it properly. Then came complaints that this way no dust was being swept up and that I was bending the broom's tip. The broom had its palm fiber bristles exposed by about an inch, with the rest covered by a chintz bag. It somehow resembled dressing a monkey in clothes—a sight that struck me as peculiar.

It took many days before I had completely committed to memory the names of countless medicines and their locations. Yet that proved not too difficult. What truly challenged me was interacting with customers. Of course I couldn't clearly make out their words, but neither could I bring myself to utter the required greetings. This simple phrase—"Goodbye"—I simply couldn't force past my lips. For the first two or three days, while still unfamiliar with shop customs, Aunt Oyuki would come out front whenever customers arrived. Following her lead, I would respond in ways that shamed even myself, muttering the phrases under my breath. But when left alone at last, such embarrassment and discomfort overwhelmed me that the words refused to come out at all.

III After four or five days, I had completely—both in clothing and hairstyle—taken on the full appearance of a merchant’s apprentice. Clad in a striped unlined kimono with a black Hakata silk obi fastened tightly about me, my head now bore the shaven sides of an infant’s, leaving only a rigid dome of hair at the crown. It looked exactly as if a bowl lid had been perched on my head. However, since I had previously kept my head completely shaven, the remaining hair was so short that, unlike the other apprentices whose locks would flutter handsomely with each step, mine looked so unsightly I felt ashamed even of myself. It proved beyond doubt that I was a green, wet-behind-the-ears apprentice. This was because Uncle himself had taken me to the barber to have it done.

“What a fine young apprentice you’ve become, haven’t you?” At that moment, Aunt Oyuki spoke. Uncle was silently laughing. In this way, I forever lost the opportunity to voice my hopes. I remained at the shop from early morning until late at night in such a state. The shop had a wide frontage, with glass-door cabinets occupying the upper half of part of the front and both side walls, while medicine shelves bearing numerous small drawers lined the lower halves along the walls. At a central position midway through the space, as if to cinch the expansive shopfront taut, black-lacquered lathe-work display stands were arranged symmetrically—one on the left and one on the right. I sat listlessly in front of the accounting desk behind the left-side shelf, half-hidden in its shadow. And aside from meticulously recording the names of sold items and their prices one by one in a horizontally-bound ledger, there was no real work to speak of.

My body felt truly at ease compared to my countryside days when I'd return from school and rush to help with fishing, work in the fields, or fetch water from distant valleys—there was simply no comparison. Yet this physical comfort brought me no joy whatsoever. Before long, tedium and confinement began gnawing at me. Though spacious and well-located, the shop dealt mainly in medicinal cosmetics that attracted few customers—if anything, we had too much idle time. Still I couldn't stray one step from my post. I had to sit rigidly upright on the stiff Chinese mat, enduring the numbness that crept through my limbs. At first there'd been a cushion before the desk which I'd naturally settled onto without thinking twice—until Aunt Oyuki saw me and remarked with self-amused mockery, “My, how grand we look using cushions,” though when exactly they whisked it away I couldn't say. It implied apprentices had no business with such comforts—a meaning even my child's mind grasped readily enough. For days afterward I watched Aunt Oyuki's face like a criminal awaiting judgment, certain I'd committed some unforgivable transgression.

One time, when my legs hurt too much, I stealthily stretched them out under the desk and was rubbing my shins when, at the worst possible moment, Uncle came out there and— “What’s this posture of yours! What kind of manners are those!” he scolded harshly.

Another time when I was sitting on the raised entrance platform of the shop dangling my legs, Aunt Oyuki noticed and scolded me. Unlike Uncle who would berate me outright, she instead offered veiled insinuations. She remarked that even at such times, if one were to behave in that manner, it would make them appear completely idle and give the shop an air of poor business, which simply wouldn't do. I came to dread Aunt Oyuki's indirect admonishments more than Uncle's direct reprimands.

In this manner, I had to spend entire days minding the shop - without companionship or anyone to talk to, utterly alone. Not only was I unable to relax my posture, but similarly, I couldn't let my guard down for even a moment. This vigilance stemmed less from anticipating customers than from guarding against potential thefts. At that time, beggars would often walk about with bamboo sticks tipped with birdlime, pilfering lightweight goods stacked at the shopfront: bags of tooth powder or bundles of tissue paper. Yet I had never actually witnessed such an incident. I sat pointlessly straining my hollow heart into vigilance as I watched the passersby, scanning the bustling crowd solely for anyone who might stray toward the shopfront—

It was utterly monotonous and tedious. The bustle of the streets no longer held any interest for me. It was nothing but the same kind of people and vehicles in a dizzying bustle. It was always the same thing. Nothing happened. The only thing that somewhat caught my attention was spotting boys dressed as apprentices like myself among the throng of people. They all had the same bowl-cut hairstyle. And they wore similar fine striped garments with black Hakata silk obis fastened about them, clacking along in their black leather-thonged setta sandals as they hurried forward in busy haste. Some carried large cloth bundles. There were also those who were empty-handed. There were also those who pulled box carts bearing shop names from behind men with crew cuts who looked like clerks. They had fully become apprentices in both hairstyle and physical appearance. No one as green as I was could be found. Every time I saw their figures, I found myself involuntarily reflecting on my own situation. And involuntarily, I found myself reaching up to touch my head. They too seemed to look back at me as they passed. I envied them. I thought it would be good if I too could be like that and they would give me errands to run. I even came to think that being cruelly driven around and worked to the bone was preferable to sitting here all day in near idleness and utter silence, devoid of any freedom.

One time, I secretly slipped away to a bookstore just a few houses down the street and bought a boys' magazine that I had loved reading since my days in the countryside, even occasionally submitting writings to it. And I was leaning against the desk, reading intently.

“What do you think you’re doing?!”

Suddenly, Uncle’s loud angry voice bellowed from behind. I was startled, hurriedly threw the magazine under the desk, and sprang up like a released spring. “Are you stupid?!” Uncle’s eyes sharply pierced mine. I stood frozen there as if nailed in place.

“What’s that?……” “Who told you to read such rubbish! What would you do if customers were to come?”

“……” “When did you go and buy such a thing?”

“Earlier…”

I finally managed to say just that. Then Uncle scolded me even more harshly, saying that during that time I had left the shop unattended. And in the course of scolding me, he even insinuated I might have bought it with the shop’s earnings. I explained that I had bought it with the pocket money I had received from my father. “If you have money on you, you’ll end up buying snacks and such—that won’t do. Hand it over to me.” Uncle said this in a somewhat gentle tone. And not only were my magazines taken, but even the meager pocket money I had received from my father was confiscated. Later, Aunt Oyuki came out and consoled me in all sorts of ways, but I suspected without reason that she might have tattled to Uncle.

At first, this wasn't the case, but as I gradually grew accustomed to living there—perhaps because some laxity developed in my mind—I began dozing off from time to time. When night deepened and it came time to close the shop, my eyes would grow perversely alert, but during the first hour or two of evening, I felt unbearably sleepy. The liveliness of the shopfront no longer captured my attention at all; the clamorous noises of the bustling street sounded like something from a distant, far-off dream world, and no matter how wide I opened my eyes, I saw nothing—my mind grew muddled and soft, sinking slowly into some profound depth. No matter how vigilant I tried to be, I would find myself hidden behind the display shelf, lying facedown on the desk or stretched out before it before I knew it. And I was often scolded. There's no telling how many times Uncle struck my head with a sharp slap or kicked me awake with his foot. I would often have my face smeared with ink, be tied to the desk with a string attached to my obi, or have an abacus fastened to me. And then I would be suddenly awakened, startled, and made to panic, becoming the target of everyone's uproarious laughter.

One time, Aunt Oyuki gently shook me awake, “Uncle is calling for you. Go quickly now,” she said softly in a low voice.

I hurriedly rubbed my eyes, straightened my appearance, and went to Uncle’s room with a composed expression. Uncle was billowing smoke from his tobacco in heavy puffs, but when he saw my face, he abruptly— “What’s with that face!” he bellowed—then, trembling violently as if his anger had become unbearable, he thwacked my head with the thick silver pipe he’d been holding. Agh, ah, ah! I screamed soundlessly through clenched teeth and clutched my head. My head rang with a dull throbbing, and my vision swam.

“You idiot!” Uncle roared.

I couldn't utter a sound, clenched my teeth, and held my breath. If someone had come to protect me, or if Uncle had shown a kinder face, I might have let out a loud cry. But knowing that crying would only invite harsher beatings, I endured in silence. Pearl-like tears fell drop by drop onto the straw mat with audible plops. I couldn’t understand why I had been struck. I was trembling all over yet didn’t try to flee, remaining on guard for the next blow. At that moment, if I had cried out loudly and run away, such childlike behavior might have softened Uncle’s anger, but I lacked even the courage to flee. I lacked innocence. In this situation, a petty cunning—that fleeing would be wrong—was at work within me. I remained there still clutching my head, frozen in place.

“What are you doing? Still don’t get it?” “You idiot!” Uncle continued shouting in an even more enraged tone.

“That’s enough now, Uncle. Please show some mercy,” Aunt Oyuki said as she entered the room at that moment. Then she told me, “Go quickly and wash your face and come back.”

It was only then that I realized. My face had been smeared pitch-black with ink. "You nap too much, so from now on, keep your wits about you."

Afterward, Aunt Oyuki came out to the shop and said, “You see, ever since Uncle fell ill, he’s become short-tempered—that’s why he scolds everyone so harshly. “But he’s a good person at heart—so don’t take it badly and endure. “It’s all for your sake, you see. Auntie’s been putting in a good word for you like this,” she added protectively. But at that moment, I didn’t believe Aunt Oyuki. I feared her. She had smeared ink on my face and deliberately sent me to Uncle’s room. Yet because Uncle’s scolding had turned harsher than she’d anticipated, she now felt uneasy toward me. Guilty over her own actions, she was making excuses like this to justify herself. That’s how I saw it.

Uncle’s smile was rarely seen.

I didn’t know what was wrong with him, but he always appeared utterly exhausted in a languid manner—reclining against an armrest on his sickbed, his face contorted in a bitter, terrifying expression as he stared fixedly in one direction. In the dimly lit room enclosed by three walls, I would shrink back whenever I encountered those glaring, terrifying eyes of his. Even when sitting in the shop, I felt as though that sharp gaze might shoot through the wall from the neighboring room. I could feel it on my back. Occasionally, thick sighs leaked through the wall. Every time this happened, I startled.

Uncle’s ill humor seemed to stem primarily from the state of his body. And there were occasionally times when his mood was good—at such times, “Kyō-kun, I’ll take you to Gion,” he would say, bringing me along as his walking companion. Mostly in the early mornings, Uncle would wear light hemp-soled shoes and stroll leisurely with a cane in hand. Sometimes we went from Gion to around Kiyomizu, other times visited Kitano Tenjin Shrine by streetcar, and occasionally he took me to places like Tō-ji Temple’s morning market. And while showing me the bustle of the temple fair,

“So, Kyō-kun, which is livelier—this or the Tomari Market?” he teased. The “Tomari Market” was a festival market held for about one week during autumn celebrations in Tomari Town, located approximately four kilometers from my home village. That summer when Uncle visited, I had boasted to him about its bustling scene. Uncle was forty-four or forty-five—an age when most men would still be in their prime, vigorous and active. Yet by this point, he already appeared nearly sixty at first glance, haggard in a way that suggested the extraordinary squandering of vitality since his youth. Even among his tall siblings, Uncle was the tallest, but he had become so emaciated that he appeared as thin as possible, leaving him with a frail and gaunt demeanor. His hair had thinned and turned salt-and-pepper, while especially since all his teeth—upper and lower—had fallen out without exception, these features combined to make him appear all the more aged. His cheeks were deeply sunken, eyes hollowed, cheekbones protruding unnaturally high. When he inserted the full dentures he normally kept removed—clamping his lips tight in that peculiar way of denture-wearers to expose teeth during meals—the unnervingly white, youthfully aligned dentures disrupted all harmony with his overall visage, making him look as ghastly as a fleshless skeleton.

IV

It was something I had gradually come to understand later - Uncle had been so unruly since childhood that his parents couldn’t control him. Stubborn, selfish, obstinate, vain, and quarrelsome - his timid mother had apparently been deeply concerned and fearful about his future prospects, worrying whether he might become some sort of terrifying villain who would commit robberies or murders.

He ran away to Osaka at sixteen. What kind of life he led after that remained mostly unknown, as there had been no further word from him. It was said he had become an udon shop delivery boy; it was said he had become a box carrier at a geisha house in Shinmachi; and there were even rumors he had joined a gang of ruffians.

Seven or eight years later, he unexpectedly returned to Kyoto. And he stayed temporarily at his sister’s house—Rokujō’s Key House—where she had married before his departure. On his parents’ side, they had ostensibly disowned him, so they did not take him in. When he returned to Kyoto, he had a modest sum of money tucked in his pocket. He never told anyone how he had obtained it, but before long he used that capital to start an udon shop in front of the station.

It was surprisingly successful. Within a few years, he separately started a cattle shop in Gojō. From then on, his success snowballed. In this manner—establishing a brothel in Shichijō Shinchi; a poultry shop near Sanjō; a banquet restaurant in Nishiishigaki; and a geisha house in Pontochō—he kept taking new mistresses one after another, each time setting up a new shop for every woman he acquired. And finally, at this Shijō Bridge approach, he had his newest and most favored mistress, Aunt Oyuki, start an inn.

However, when I came to Kyoto, only this Shijō house remained. Even though he had managed such expansive business ventures, I never learned why he had shut them all down. Many of the women too seemed to have drifted away. Apart from Aunt Fumi - his legal wife who had run the restaurant in Nishiishigaki - among what were said to be seven or eight mistresses in total, only the present Aunt Oyuki remained.

Aunt Fumi, as the legal wife, was registered in the family registry but lived separately in Miyagawachō with an adopted daughter named Ofuku. She would occasionally come around to the Shijō shop, but it was rare for her to stay over.

The adopted daughter named Ofuku also came around from time to time. She was a beautiful, slender, oval-faced woman of twenty-two or twenty-three. She had long, beautiful eyes, a sharply defined nose, and a face with a certain steely quality. In contrast to Aunt Fumi’s round face and gentle, amiable appearance, she had a sharply defined, reliable demeanor. In that respect, she resembled Aunt Oyuki. She had apparently been a fairly well-known geisha in Gion, but now she had retired and was being kept by a certain patron. She called Uncle ‘Papa,’ but referred to Aunt Oyuki as ‘Sis.’

Uncle had no biological children of his own but had adopted several. In addition to Ofuku-san, he had taken a girl named Otaka-san as an adopted daughter and placed her at a geisha house in Pontochō. When I arrived, Otaka-san was working as a geisha in Fukuchiyama, Tamba, and was not in Kyoto. This too I learned later - Uncle had doted tremendously on this Otaka-san, intending eventually to marry her to Kōsaburō, an adopted son of the household. But when Otaka-san herself insisted on becoming a geisha, he couldn't very well send her away from the area outright, so they say he placed her at an acquaintance's geisha house in Fukuchiyama instead.

Kōsaburō-san was Aunt Oyuki of Shijō’s adopted son, the child of a geisha house in Shinmachi, Osaka, who had been conscripted into the Fushimi Regiment at that time. Kōsaburō-san would return home on leave every Sunday; he was always a fine, charming man with a constant grin. Before my arrival, he had apparently worked at the pharmacy, but upon returning home, he would change into a kimono and sit at the shop counter wearing an apron like a head clerk. A kind and gentle soul, he would say, “Yasushi, ya ain’t lonely now? Don’tcha wanna go home? Heard from your pa?” “Even if it’s rough, ya gotta tough it out,” he’d console me in that gentle woman-like tone.

I was the child of his foster father’s younger brother and thus his cousin through adoption—a relationship that likely contributed to my being treated somewhat differently from an ordinary apprentice. “Brother will mind the shop, so why don’t you go have some fun for a bit? Why don’t you go to Kyōgoku or somewhere? Don’t you worry. I’ll explain it properly to your father,” he would say, sometimes sending me out to play. He would often have me buy sweets, then take just one or two pieces for himself and leave the rest for me.

I cherished Kōsaburō-san as if he were my real brother. I could hardly wait for Sundays to arrive. There was another woman named Oshin-san who had also been adopted as a child of Aunt Oyuki of Shijō. She had apparently been overseeing the maids at the inn until just before my arrival. But by the time I came, she was no longer at the house.

It was not long after I had come.

One day, I was sent on an errand. With a one-tan furoshiki cloth bearing a four-eyed crest at its center and "Naniwatei" starkly dyed white at one end, I hoisted onto my back a bulky bundle—bedding or something similar wrapped to tower over my frame—then trudged haltingly westward as instructed, checking the neighborhood nameplates affixed to telegraph poles at every intersection. That was my first experience of being sent on an errand. And at a small modest house deep within a narrow alleyway of a neighborhood near the edge of Shijō Avenue, I set down that enormous bundle. I did not go up into the house, but even as I stood in the earthen entryway, I caught sight of a young woman who seemed to have given birth and was lying down in the back. It was only later that I realized that had been Oshin-san.

Oshin-san was the child of beggars. This too was something I learned later on. It was said that she had lived with her parents under a bridge in the riverbed right before the house, coming to the back entrance twice daily to receive leftover food from customers, and that Uncle had taken pity on her and brought her in. That was when she was twelve or thirteen years old. On cold winter nights, Uncle would secretly bring her into the house without the neighbors knowing, let her bathe, and dress her in Ofuku-san’s old padded kimono—but she was apparently covered in lice bites, her entire body swollen.

Her parents disappeared from the riverbank from that day onward. And after that, they never showed their faces again. As three, then five years passed, Oshin-san transformed into a remarkably fine young woman. Her complexion grew fairer, and her hair became long and black. Her nose was slightly upturned, but her round face with its large dark eyes had a charming quality. From around sixteen or seventeen, she began mingling with the maids and appearing before customers, but her status as the family’s adopted daughter and her petite, charming figure made her immensely popular with the guests.

Amidst all this, she became involved with a man named Morimoto—a telegraph technician who had been dispatched from Tokyo and stayed for over half a year—and became pregnant with his child. And from around the time her pregnancy began to show, she was sent to live at the home of Aunt Oyuki’s sister. The time I was sent on that errand coincided exactly with when the child had just been born, and I had brought along items like the infant’s swaddling clothes and bedding. The fact that Oshin-san had become involved with a man named Morimoto—that Aunt Oyuki had cleverly orchestrated this affair to cover up her own misconduct—was something I only came to understand later, when I overheard people gossiping about Aunt Oyuki’s various indiscretions. At first, it had been Aunt Oyuki who was involved with Morimoto, but when rumors of this began reaching Uncle's ears, she cleverly maneuvered Oshin into a relationship with Morimoto instead. And thus, she sought to substantiate the household’s prior mistaken belief that Morimoto had been involved not with her, but with Oshin-san. Aunt Oyuki’s scheme succeeded brilliantly. Oshin-san had unfortunately become pregnant—a development most fortunate for Aunt Oyuki. And everyone came to think their earlier belief that Morimoto and Aunt Oyuki were involved had been mistaken. But those in the know knew.

I often heard these kinds of rumors about Aunt Oyuki's infidelity later on, when she came under criticism from relatives due to certain circumstances—that she had maintained relations with a man from before joining Uncle's household; that during frequent burglaries when they first opened the inn, police detectives had constantly visited and she'd become involved with one; that she'd also entangled herself with a man named Ikeda, Uncle's friend who worked at an insurance company; and furthermore, with Kōsaburō's adoptive father—

The departure of numerous mistresses from Uncle had also occurred after Aunt Oyuki came into the household. Until then, they had interacted as friends and relatives, coming and going amicably. But after Aunt Oyuki entered the household, they gradually distanced themselves from Uncle as if by prior agreement. It was said that this occurred because Aunt Oyuki, basking in Uncle’s special favor, behaved with undue arrogance toward them despite being a newcomer, prompting them to form an alliance out of shared resentment. As for why Uncle silently allowed the mistresses to rebel against him and leave as they pleased—it was said that this was because he had been completely ensnared by Aunt Oyuki and was now entirely under her control; it was also said that Uncle himself had grown physically frail and no longer possessed the strong attachment, passion, or energy required to try to stop them from leaving him.

However, I knew nothing of such matters at that time. Regarding Aunt Oyuki's personal circumstances or the intricate relationships between Uncle and those around him, I naturally had no knowledge whatsoever. The sole thing I found puzzling was why Aunt Fumi - who was supposed to be the legal wife - didn't live together with Uncle but remained separately.

Five

About three months had passed. My hair grew quite long. The unsightliness that would make people turn around when I walked outside now disappeared. I would walk while deliberately shaking my head, trying to sense how my hair fluttered and spread across my scalp. Using Kyoto dialect no longer felt particularly awkward. My complexion, which had been darkened by salty winds, became somewhat fairer. "It really must be Kamo River water! When you arrived, your face looked like hallway floorboards - now it's turned quite pale."

Neither entirely sincere nor teasingly playful, there came a time when Oyuki Aunt made such remarks.

And so, I had now completely become an apprentice. “You’ve become quite the fine apprentice, haven’t you.”

One day when I went on an errand to Rokujō's Keya Inn, Aunt remarked like that. Then my sister Okiyo came rushing out and said with apparent delight—as though it were her own affair—smiling gently: “You really are a fine Mr. Apprentice now! It hasn’t even been that long yet. If Father saw you now, he’d be shocked!” “At this age they change in no time—it’s not about words or anything,” Aunt added. “That’s how it is,” Sister said admiringly. “I wonder if it was like this when I first came here?”

“You?” “Three years have passed, and you’re still such a country bumpkin,” Aunt laughed. Sister giggled.

However, I felt not the slightest bit happy. The more I was praised for becoming a proper apprentice, the lonelier I grew. It felt like this went entirely against my own wishes. As I worked at the pharmacy like this, a vague thought about what would become of me in the end lingered dimly in my heart. No one ever asked about my hopes, and it frustrated me how they'd arbitrarily decided everything as if I'd come here intending from the start to become an apprentice. Having to remain silent and obediently follow others' dictates without being able to utter a single word in response—that was what truly pained me.

However, my life as an apprentice did not continue all that long. From around mid-autumn of that year, Uncle had begun building a new house in the Kiyomizu area. Uncle intended to quietly recuperate his body there—a body wearied by a lifetime of living and now in post-illness convalescence.

On one side of Sannen-zaka - commonly called Three-Year Slope for its legend that those who fall there will die within three years - where a bamboo thicket had stood until then, a stylish villa-like house soon rose after the land was cleared.

We—Uncle, Aunt Oyuki, and I—moved there in early December. The Shijō house had found a good tenant, and the shop was transferred as-is with all its fixtures.

Midway up the slope, atop a high stone wall constructed in castle-like fashion, set slightly back from the edge, stood a house. Fronted by a neatly arranged garden planted with pines, plums, maples, and Higan cherry trees, and backed by a luxuriant Mōsō bamboo thicket, it stood there. And from midway up the stone wall, Z-shaped stone steps wound their way through the garden, guiding one to the entrance. In the hedge before the entrance—which gave the impression of having been hollowed out from the center of the mouse-gray plastered wall—white sasanquas were blooming. On the walls flanking the entrance, small oval windows had been fashioned by spanning two smoke-darkened bamboo poles each, and these windows appeared exactly like the two eyes of this house. In an area where there were only pottery shops and gourd shops, this villa-like structure was indeed standing out conspicuously. All passersby would stop on the slope to look up before continuing on their way.

Although it was now the season when Higashiyama sightseers had dwindled, the sound of people ascending and descending the slope that served as the thoroughfare connecting Kiyomizu to Kōdaiji and Maruyama still continued unabated throughout the day. The peculiar sound of geta—clacking as people walked with deliberate steps on the hard, slippery stones—lingered in the ears throughout the day. Occasionally, rickshaws would go up or down with a loud clatter with each step. Among them were rickshaw drivers who carried their vehicles up and down on their backs.

Across the slope, on the opposite side, there was a shop famous for its specialty gourds. It was said to originate from being a charm to prevent death even if one fell, and while there were numerous gourd shops in that slope-ridden vicinity, the one at Sannen-zaka was particularly large among them. Gourds of various shapes and sizes hung filling the shop. “Step right up! Gourds for sale! Buy one and be on your way!” A plump matron in her forties and her sister—a middle-aged woman with owl-like eyes—took turns coming out to the shop and constantly called out to customers.

Uncle and the others' living quarters were perched as if atop a high cliff, commanding a sweeping view. Directly below my eyes lay a deep valley, with a section of Higashiyama rising imposingly beyond. The roof tiles of Kōshō-ji Betsuin, head temple of the Takada school, glinted amidst dense groves on its mid-slope. In what seemed like the valley floor before us stood the renowned ×× pottery kiln, its smoke drifting along the mountain's hem in evening dusk. When I turned my gaze, Yasaka Pagoda soared high before me against the clear winter sky, beyond which distant glimpses of Shijō's streets stretched into the horizon. At night, lights twinkled like stars through thicket gaps here and there.

We quickly settled into our new residence. And we became acquainted with the neighbors as well. The main ones were the people from the gourd shop across the way, those from the shichimi pepper shop at the top of the slope, the pottery shop folks at the bottom of the slope, and the elderly couple from the rice cracker shop a short distance away. These households had become familiar because Uncle had frequently visited them during the construction period. Above all, we became especially close with the gourd shop, and from immediately after moving in, we developed a relationship as if we were old acquaintances.

The fact that the gourd shop had only the two sisters and their elderly mother with no male presence, combined with both women being married, seemed to make Uncle particularly inclined to become close to them.

“Miss, miss, Miss Gourd Shop! If your husband ain’t comin’ tonight, I’m thinkin’ of stayin’ over. What d’ya say to that?” “Hey there, much obliged, miss.” “Please do come over.” “Lately my husband ain’t comin’ round at all, so I’m just dyin’ of loneliness here, I tell ya.”

In the evenings, when foot traffic dwindled and the gourd shop across the slope began closing, they would exchange such playful banter in loud voices—he from our window and she from her storefront. It was a peaceful, uneventful life—yet monotonous, tedious, and lonely. When daylight faded, pedestrian noise ceased abruptly as if severed, leaving surroundings forest-quiet. Only intermittent sharp clacks of gourd seeds being scooped out at times reached us from across the way. This served only to amplify winter's desolation.

“Yasushi, come here when you’re finished there.” Uncle spoke in a caressing tone and called me to their side. When I finished tidying around the sink area, I would go to Uncle and Aunt’s room and sit wedged between them as if I were their own child, holding my hands over the long brazier.

After moving to Kiyomizu, I was no longer treated as an apprentice. I was caressed more often than I was scolded. For Uncle—who until then had lived at the bustling heart of the city employing many men and women, maintained a tense and hectic lifestyle, and from youth onward continued extraordinary activities while immersed in that vibrant atmosphere tinged with sensual allure—the loneliness of this convalescent existence proved all the more profound. And even someone like me must have been of some use in alleviating Uncle’s ennui and distracting him from his solitude.

Uncle went to bed early every night. Then he would plead with Aunt Oyuki—“Come on Mama, give me my rub-rubs”—in a tone exactly like an infant coaxing its mother. “There’s a good boy, aren’t you sleepy yet? Don’t fuss now, I’ll rub you down proper.” Aunt Oyuki too would speak in that child-coddling manner. And there at their side, I would make it my habit to read aloud from newspaper serials.

At such times, reminiscences from their vigorous prime would often be exchanged between Uncle and Aunt Oyuki. Most concerned women. "I used t'go round three-four houses in a single night back then, an' I was just fine! But these days I can't manage at all no more, Mama—you must find me such a bother now, don'tcha?" Uncle said this while taking deep, contented breaths. Aunt Oyuki smiled and nodded,

“That’s right, you’ve gotten terribly weak.” “Must be my punishment for havin’ too much fun back in the day.” “To think I’ve gotten this weak already at my age.” “That ain’t quite how it is,” laughed Oyuki Aunt. “You’ll be gettin’ better soon enough. “Then you’ll get your strength back proper again, I’m sure. “If you were to recuperate in such a quiet place for a full year,” she comforted him. “It’s quiet enough, sure—but lonely here, ain’t it?” “I wonder if I can keep bearing this.”

“How could there be anything you couldn’t endure? But I’m here with you, aren’t I?” “Mama here must think I’m a nuisance now that I’ve got no strength left.” “Now you’re talking foolishness! I’d never fret over such things.” They carried on these exchanges even with me sitting right there. I lived a life that was neither maid’s nor manservant’s work. There were no proper tasks to speak of, yet no moment’s rest either. While I busied myself sweeping inside and out, cooking rice thrice daily, washing stacks of bowls, hauling water from the well at the slope’s foot, and running errands for side dishes, the brief winter days passed by without reason.

Since I had experience cooking rice from my time in the countryside, I was praised for being skillful at it. I quickly learned to prepare simple side dishes as well. The well was located quite a distance away. It was situated about half a chō along a small stream to the right after descending Sannen-zaka Slope. Called Hamaguri Well, its water had a purplish hue like that of clams—abundant in quantity and excellent in quality—serving as the communal well for the surrounding households. By the wellside stood a large camellia tree, its red petals scattered haphazardly about. I hoisted a bucket too large for my small frame onto my shoulders and drew up water from there countless times a day. When heating the bath, I had to carry five or six loads at once. Amidst Higashiyama sightseers streaming up and down the slope, I gazed with a child’s heart at my own figure trudging laboriously uphill shouldering a water bucket, feeling keenly the pathos of it. Particularly in the evenings when I went to that wellside to cook rice, even I couldn’t help but reflect on my own situation. In one hand I carried a bucket containing rice, and in the other I held a fine-meshed zinc-bottomed rice-washing bucket as I went.

At that hour, the neighborhood housewives would also come to cook rice. At times, two or three of them would gather together. At such times, I would wait until those people had left. After all, I felt terribly self-conscious. “It’s remarkable how young you are, Yasushi. You’re so good at cooking rice.” The housewives from the pottery shop at the foot of the slope and the old woman from the rice cracker shop would often say such things while watching with genuine admiration the timid, gingerly way I went about cooking rice. When told that, I felt even more self-conscious.

As the water chores suddenly increased, my hands became covered in chaps. To say they were covered was by no means an exaggeration. By nature I had sensitive skin, and ever since my days in the countryside, come winter my hands and feet would crack with chaps beyond control. Though I tried various medicines, none had any effect at all. Saying that human fat was good, there was a time when a relative died and Father took me along to the crematory to collect bones; while waiting for the remains to be ready, he dipped a bamboo tip into sizzling oil that dripped from the pyre and applied it to the chaps on my feet. Even after going that far, it still had no effect.

As for my feet, since I wore tabi socks and didn’t get them wet unlike when I lived in the countryside, they weren’t so bad, but my hands were worse than ever. “Ouch, your hands! It’s like being scrubbed with pumice stone!” Whenever my hands happened to touch Aunt Oyuki’s by some chance, she would dramatically exclaim in that manner. “If your hand touches mine, it feels like my skin’s about to peel right off.” Aunt Oyuki’s skin was exceptionally fine-grained, and she took pride in this, always carefully tending to it—her fingertips were as slender and beautiful as whitebait, as soft as velvet—but my hands were so terribly chapped that even her harsh words seemed justified. My fingertips stood up rough as bark, the backs of my hands swelled up, the outer skin alone turning ashen and hardening stiffly, truly resembling pumice stone or a crab’s shell. And on every single finger joint, without exception, deep fissures gaped like open mouths. Sometimes red blood dripped from the knuckles of my little finger. During the day, while occupied with water chores and other tasks, I felt nothing amiss. But come nightfall, after ascending from the kitchen and settling by the brazier for a while, as my hands gradually dried out, my entire hands began burning with a stinging pain as though set aflame. I had made it my habit to hide both hands beneath my apron whenever appearing before Uncle and the others, but they would flush hotly until I could almost hear them crackling as they split open from dryness. If I kept my fingers extended, they would stiffen in that position; if I bent them, they would freeze bent. To move them even slightly, I had to endure the pain with tears streaking my face. Mr. Kōsaburō, who had been stationed at the Fushimi Regiment and served as a nursing orderly there, took great pity on me and often brought medicine. But since I was using water from morning till night and exposing myself to cold winds all day, it had no effect whatsoever.

“I’ve never seen hands get so rough.” “What could be causing this?” “What a nuisance this is.” When I was serving meals, Aunt Oyuki said with an expression too pitiful to behold. I suspected this wasn’t out of sympathy for me, but rather because my dirty hands offended her fastidious nature.

“This one’s mother died soon after birthing him, so she couldn’t give breast milk—that must be why he lacks fat,” said Uncle. “Is that so?” “It’s pitiful to be sure, but there’s naught to be done.” “Though it’s not as if we’re working him so terribly hard.” “With this constitution of his, even if we let him idle about, it won’t mend.” "There’s no truth to that," I denied Uncle’s words inwardly, but giving them voice was of course impossible.

Stitching rags and unraveling old clothes were also among my nightly tasks. “Yasushi, if you’re bored, why don’t you stitch some rags or something?”

It began on an evening four or five days after we had moved to Kiyomizu. As I sat blankly beside Uncle and the others, stifling yawns out of sheer boredom, Aunt Oyuki made that remark. “Even for a man, there’s no harm in learning to handle a needle.”

Uncle also agreed with this opinion. Thus I was first taught how to handle a sewing needle. Threading hemp through a long, thick rag needle of the sort used for stitching geta sandals, I would sew cross-shaped patterns like kasuri weave onto the rags whose edges Aunt Oyuki had prepared for me. At first I couldn't handle the needle properly and my stitches would go crooked, but gradually I improved. Then I was taught how to sew patterns more complex than crosses - shapes resembling stacked stone walls and hexagonal tortoiseshell designs. Furthermore, to use unraveled kimono fabric as lining cloth, she instructed me in edge-stitching techniques and simple methods of threading cords. And I too came to take considerable interest in such work.

“Quite amazing, isn’t it? You’re even better than the girls. At this rate, you’ll soon be sewing your own kimono.” One time, Aunt Oyuki watched my edge-stitching technique and said flatteringly. By then, I already wore a cardboard ring on my right middle finger and had started using a proper needle. “Well, they do say even sewing’s better done by men,” Uncle remarked while observing my handiwork. “How about it, Yasushi? Why not apprentice at a tailor’s shop?”

I did not take Uncle’s words seriously, but at that moment I privately thought that rather than living here doing water chores like a maid, it would be better for my future to do even such work and learn some proper trade.

I had long since abandoned my initial hopes of attending school, but after moving to Kiyomizu, I grew even more anxious about my future. "What good comes of doing these fallen-leaf tasks?" "Why not just return home and learn to be a fisherman instead?" Such thoughts now came and went through me more frequently than ever before. I had once—this was back when we still lived in Shijō—sent a letter to Father in my hometown, laying out my hopes and current circumstances, asking him to persuade Uncle through him to at least let me attend night school. But Father wrote back saying he'd already entrusted all matters of my future to Uncle, that I should stay quiet and endure it for now, adding that Uncle surely wouldn't handle things poorly. I had believed this to some degree. Yet Uncle still hadn't uttered a single word about my future. This left me deeply unsatisfied. At times I'd be gripped by the fear that Uncle thought something like: "Since this nephew came all the way from the sticks, let's just keep him around as a rice-cooker and feed him scraps."

One day I steeled myself, truly steeled myself, and ventured to ask Uncle to let me attend night school. I had naturally expected it wouldn't be permitted, but through this, I aimed to discern what thoughts Uncle harbored regarding my future. It was something I had pondered exhaustively, wringing out every shred of wisdom I possessed at the time.

“What nonsense!” Uncle dismissed me with a bark. He contorted his toothless mouth into a grotesque point, blue veins bulging on his forehead as he glared at me with terrifying eyes. Though I had anticipated this reaction, I shuddered at Uncle’s unexpectedly ferocious display of anger.

“What nonsense you’re spewing, acting all high and mighty!” “I’ll thrash you!”

Uncle continued his scolding. It seemed less that Uncle had been angered by my request itself than by the very fact that I had made such a demand. "You didn't need to spout such insolence! I already had proper plans in mind!" Such an expression appeared vividly upon his face.

I remained silent, trembling. “You shouldn’t say such things.” “You shouldn’t make such a fuss or speak so boldly. Uncle will arrange things properly for you, so just keep quiet.”

Aunt Oyuki interjected from beside us, both admonishing me and trying to placate Uncle's anger. "Please forgive me." I murmured the words and bowed my head.

Uncle said nothing, appearing utterly displeased as he let out sighs and puffed on his tobacco. "I hate folks who go on about wanting to study." After a moment, Uncle spoke in a somewhat softened tone. "Even without book learning, if you're set on making your way in the world, there's no limit to what you can do."

“…………” “Someone like me can’t even write a proper letter, but...” Even he found himself unable to continue. And,

“Did you come to Kyoto intending to study?” he said, changing the subject. “It’s not like that, but…” By now, I could no longer claim that was the case.

A prolonged silence followed.

“If you dislike being here at home like this, then go wherever you please.”

Uncle finally said in a dismissive yet kind manner. Though dismissive in tone, I sensed a current of genuine warmth flowing beneath the surface. Without even understanding his own heart—what a thoughtless fool—Uncle seemed to be both scolding and pitying me inwardly. Even little me understood that. My chest suddenly tightened. I felt inexplicably sad and pathetic, and tears began flowing of their own accord. However hard I struggled, I couldn't suppress the sobs.

Six

My illness recurred not long after that. It came on entirely suddenly. And all the symptoms were the same as when I had been in the countryside that summer. The muscles in my left leg twitched and spasmed, and I felt intense pain in my hip and knee joints. However, since it was said to be a busy time with New Year just five or six days away, I kept silent and continued working, enduring as much as I could endure. I went to fetch water while hobbling along. I even went shopping. When I went outside the house, I grimaced and let out a muffled whimper through clenched teeth. I could no longer endure it at all and complained to Aunt Oyuki.

“You’ve caught a chill, I expect. I’ll have them put out the kotatsu tonight—sleep snug.” “Then you’ll be cured.”

Aunt Oyuki said offhandedly. I could no longer stand on my legs as I was. I lay in bed the entire next day, but the pain only grew increasingly intense.

That evening, in the inner room separated by just a single karakami-paper door, Uncle and Aunt Oyuki were having the following conversation. “When I went to Noto, he was lying about like that too—no mistaking it’s the same illness." “Won’t be healing sudden-like.” “That’s how ’tis sure enough—right troublesome business.” “’Tis near New Year’s—ill-boding for auspiciousness having a patient about.” “Naught to be done. “Shall we have him hospitaled?” “What say we tell Noto? Then get Asahan here." “Then either Asahan takes him back or they hospital him—hard telling which way ’twill go.”

“Hmm.” Uncle let out a deep sigh. “I can’t do something so heartless. We must at least send word to them, but that’ll have to wait until after he’s admitted to the hospital. We’ve got to do what needs doing and see it through properly.”

And so, the next day, I was taken by my uncle to the prefectural hospital located in the capital district. The doctor said I had to be hospitalized immediately and undergo surgery. I was carried to the hospital room just as I was.

It was the surgical third-class ward, where five white hospital beds were arranged in two rows facing each other. I lay on one of the end beds for more than seventy days after that. On the morning of the day after being admitted, I was taken to the operating room. The surgery, which I had been dreading while shuddering violently, ended up being relatively simple and quick. They merely made a hole large enough for an index finger near the lymph glands at my left hip joint and drained pus through it. However, the pus appeared to be located quite deep, so they inserted a rubber tube about four to five sun (approximately 12-15 cm) long and used it to drain it out. The diagnosis was not disclosed to me, but the source of the illness appeared to lie in either my lower back bone or spinal cord. So if only this pus would stop, that would be good—but it was said that at least two months would be required until then.

That afternoon, my sister Okiyo came to visit and said: “What will you do? There’s no telling how much Father must be worrying!” The moment my sister arrived, she suddenly said such things in a tone as though I had committed some crime and she were accusing me of it. “We need a whole lot of money, you know. Father doesn’t have that kind of money. Since he hasn’t been here that long yet, there’s no telling if Uncle will pay up for us. Since Uncle Shijō’s clever, even if he fronts the money for us now, he’ll surely make Father repay every last penny later.”

My sister seemed most concerned about the hospitalization costs above all else. But there was nothing I could do about it. I was far too young to worry about such things. But more than that, what disgusted me most was how my sister said such things without regard for the numerous patients and attendants around us.

The three months I spent in the hospital were, for me, unexpectedly dear. Apart from my sister Okiyo occasionally coming to visit me, I had no other visitors, but I never felt lonely or anxious in the slightest. That was because my life up until then had been even lonelier and colder than the one in this hospital where no one knew me. Coming to the hospital, I was able to taste a warm human kindness I had never known before. I had come to prefer being in the hospital, if anything.

Every bed was occupied by injured patients unable to walk freely. Yet those who appeared seriously ill were few. In one corner of the ward lay two patients admitted around my time: a full-body burn victim opposite another whose entire head except the eyes was swathed in bandages, breathing through a hole in his throat. These two alone occasionally groaned in pain, while most others—whether missing a leg or recovering from lanced back abscesses—though still physically restricted, had moved past acute suffering into convalescence. They had all become close friends. They would sit up on their beds and chat cheerfully with neighbors or those across from them, sharing mundane stories and experiences unrelated to illness while laughing together. Listening to their manner of speaking showed no trace of patient-like demeanor. Though boredom and lethargy existed, there seemed no glimpse of life's hardships or sorrows. There flowed only bright, carefree conversations. The ward that should have been most dismal and filled with pain instead appeared as the most joyful world, brimming with warm, luminous air.

They would customarily gather in groups of five or six at certain times of day, such as after dinner, to converse. In the middle of the passageway sat a large brazier, from which steam rose vigorously from a big copper kettle; two or three of the more mobile patients would make a point of coming out there to enliven their cheerful conversations around it. At night, they would sometimes call the nurses together and enjoy playing karuta with some of them joining in. The young patient who had his right leg amputated from the knee always served as the reader.

My presence as a young patient among them seemed to offer new interest to those who had grown weary of their monotonous, tedious days. During the first four or five days after my hospitalization, conversations primarily centered around me. They asked about my illness. They inquired about my hometown. They questioned me about my parents, siblings, and current circumstances. I told them my life story as they pressed. Everyone showed me sympathy. And they comforted me in various ways. They gave me sweets and fruits. I quickly grew close to them.

The nurses’ kind words, rich in sympathy, and their gentle treatment made me intensely happy. Groups of four or five nurses took charge of the ward in daily shifts, all of them kind and gentle. It even seemed they might be doing this especially for me alone. Their tender kindness—whether called motherly love or womanly affection in general—made me, starved and parched for such warm tenderness (no—I who had never known such warmth), behave like an infant clinging to its mother. Even I—warped, twisted, stubborn—could strip myself bare and leap into their arms. And I bathed in their warm compassion.

Among them all, the nurse called Fujimoto treated me with the greatest kindness. She was still young, around eighteen or nineteen years old. She was a petite woman with dark skin. Though not beautiful—with pimples here and there—she was an unassuming, honest woman who put people at ease. I preferred having her take my pulse and check my temperature over anyone else. For help with bowel movements or any other unpleasant task, I could ask her without hesitation. When she entered the ward smiling, my heart would race. And when she wasn't there, I felt somehow incomplete. Day by day, these feelings grew stronger.

I would wake up early in the morning, usually around three or four o'clock, and then lie awake unable to fall back asleep. Winter nights were slow to dawn. How I must have longed for daybreak and the nurse's arrival. At such times, when she—Nurse Fujimoto—came to check on the ward around dawn during her night shift, I would feel so overjoyed I could have soared. She would enter on tiptoe, careful not to rouse the sleeping patients. “Are you awake already?” she whispered in a small voice, peering into my face.

“Oh, ages ago—” I nodded while gazing at her with longing eyes.

“I’ve been so eager for you to come.” She must have read those words in my eyes. “Would you like to wash your face now? I’ll bring you some warm water.” Soon she entered carrying a washbasin on a small stand, white steam puffing up from it, and wrung out a warm towel for me. At such times I hoped the other patients wouldn’t wake. That she was tending to me alone without anyone knowing filled me with special joy. I desperately wanted to believe her heart was devoted solely to me. Secretly I hoped she too harbored such hidden feelings toward me. These love-like emotions had begun sprouting in my heart. Were anyone ever to ask about my first experience of love, I would tell of those guileless feelings I held for her then.

It had been about two weeks.

One day, completely unexpectedly, my father arrived, brought by my sister Okiyo.

“Oh, Kyōzō! Poor thing!—” When my father saw my face, he said in a voice that was almost a sob. And tears streamed down. I was moved to tears. And I couldn't say anything. “I’ve been worried sick about you. “Because they said you’d been hospitalized, I’ve been wonderin’ just how bad it was.”

Father said while stroking my face. And he went on. “I heard they cut somewhere around your hip?” “Does it hurt? Have you gotten much better already?” “You’ve gotten so thin, poor dear.” “Ah!” “Even so, I was relieved just seeing your face.” “I thought I might never see your healthy face again—so worried, so worried—”

Father had become completely relieved after seeing my condition. In the evening, along with my sister, the three of us—parent and children—ate the hospital meal together. Father had Okiyo secretly buy a two-gō bottle of Masamune and, facing the wall under my bed, drank it cold straight from a rice bowl while pretending it was tea. “Ah, how happy I am! Now I can rest easy.” Father, as if his heart had truly found rest, let out a deep sigh of relief and repeated once more the same things he had said over and over again. The two children who had grown up in obscurity—and who therefore stirred an even deeper affection in his heart—meeting in such a place filled Father with boundless joy. The fact that this occurred within the hospital—rather than at Uncle’s house, Aunt’s house, or any other location—allowed him to experience a harmony more profound than anywhere else, a satisfaction that filled his heart completely. Father, unperturbed by anyone, could completely freely envelop us two children within the warm wings of his love. Even though I was lying there ill, Father in that situation seemed to be happiness itself. He became blissfully tipsy and talked about various matters from our hometown. He spoke of how my running away at barely thirteen had greatly surprised the villagers; how Mother—bound by social propriety as a stepmother—had been terribly afraid people might think her responsible for my flight; how she complained this must surely have been Father secretly conspiring with me; how she went around apologizing to everyone she met; how this caused temporary discord between Father and Mother; and even how resentment fell upon the boatman who had carried me away. Hearing this, my sister Okiyo vehemently berated Mother, but I couldn’t help feeling somehow responsible.

From that evening onward, my father stayed at the hospital for about a week under the nominal reason of being an attendant. He spread a thin mat under my bed and lay curled up on top of a meager futon there, and on late nights when I awoke, gazing down from my bed at Father’s ruddy face illuminated by the bright electric light, I would find my pillow dampened by nostalgia and gratitude before I knew it.

The progress had been unexpectedly favorable even to the doctors; by the time Father arrived, I was already nearing readiness for discharge. The pus had nearly stopped discharging, and the wound was mostly beginning to close. The rubber tube inserted into the wound grew thinner and shorter each day, and by the day after Father arrived, there was no longer any need for the tube. Father became completely relieved and, citing preparations for spring fishing season, abruptly decided to return home without waiting for my discharge now just two or three days away.

I was reluctant to part. Father too, true to form, seemed reluctant to leave and found it difficult to rise. “Shall I wait till you’re discharged?”

Having finally decided to return home, even when the time to part was imminent, Father still said this and deliberated. “Please go back. “There’s no need.” “Please don’t worry about me,” I said in a mature tone. “In that case, I’ll be off then.” “It ain’t that I don’t care, but I’m busy myself, see.” “Even after you’re discharged, make sure to take good care of yourself now.” “I’ve already properly asked Uncle, so don’t feel obliged and focus on your recuperation.” "You don’t need to worry even a bit about money or anything like that." "I’ve already properly talked to Uncle and got everything settled, see.—So even if you’re lonely, just bear it and work hard." “Even if you went back home, there’d be no use in it, see.” “Even being a lowly fisherman won’t get you anywhere.” “I don’t want to make you a fisherman, see.” “When you said you wanted to go to Kyoto, I thought that was such a good thing you’d said, see.” “If you stay in Kyoto—since you’ve got both Aunt and Uncle there—in the end nothin’ bad’ll happen, see.”

Even as the time to leave approached, Father once again earnestly repeated the things he had said before. “Well then, I’ll be off now,” he finally said, standing up. Father then politely bade farewell to each of the nurses and patients in the room, one by one, and entrusted them with my care. And then he came back to my side again, “Well then, this is goodbye for now—you stay healthy now,” he said as he left the room, but then came back once more and added: “Send a letter right after you’re discharged—I’ll be waiting—and make sure to tell your mother properly too.” “Don’t forget,” he cautioned, and then—lingering reluctantly—finally exited through the door, looking back again and again with tear-filled eyes.

Seven

It was two days after Father had left. The wound had closed, and I was scheduled to be discharged in a day or two. But that morning, when I tried to get up to go to the bathroom, I felt an unusual pain in the joint between my left knee and thigh, making it excruciatingly painful to walk. I immediately informed Nurse Fujimoto about it. The nurse tilted her head slightly and said, “That’s strange,” then massaged my thigh herself before joking, “Perhaps someone’s trying to keep you from being discharged.” With a final “In any case, I’ll inform the doctor,” she left.

During the afternoon rounds, the Surgical Deputy Director came and conducted a thorough examination. He kept massaging the same spot Nurse Fujimoto had worked on, then abruptly thrust something like a hypodermic needle into the area. When I let out a small cry and grimaced, the Surgical Deputy Director had already withdrawn the needle and was holding up to the light a slender glass tube containing drawn blood, when he muttered "Hmm..." with an extraordinary expression and said, "This requires immediate surgery. "I did think the recovery was progressing too quickly." With that, he left.

I shuddered in that moment as though cold water had been poured over my entire body. After some time had passed, the internal medicine doctor came to examine me. And after particularly thoroughly examining my chest, he left without saying a word. Soon, Nurse Fujimoto returned, “As expected, it seems they’ll be performing the surgery tomorrow—but it’ll be quick,” she said, then immediately left as though dreading being asked about various things by me. That evening, I was not given a meal. Not only that, but I was even administered a laxative.

Everything about the situation felt abnormal. For some reason, I trembled in fear at the thought that I might undergo some major surgery. I kept feeling desolate, wishing Father had stayed instead of leaving.

I spent an anxious, sleepless night. “Now then, let’s get you moving.” In the afternoon, an elderly nurse named Inoue came and said those words. I was placed on a stretcher. Then came the rumbling sound as I was pulled down the long corridor. I kept my eyes tightly shut throughout. When I entered a room and opened my eyes, it turned out not to be an operating room but a bathing chamber. A boat-shaped tub stood filled to the brim with crystal-clear water. First they put me into the bath. Afterward, I was led to a small adjacent room that seemed partitioned off from the corridor. There, two nurses shaved me from waist to lower abdomen and from groin down the left leg, disinfected the area, then wrapped the entire region in bandages. Just as one door opened, a nurse appeared halfway through it and gestured. Then I was guided in that direction.

That was the operating room. However, this operating room was entirely different from the previous one in both structure and equipment. Partitioned by three pale gray walls and dimmed by dull light filtering through a high frosted glass-paneled ceiling, the cavernous room—resembling both a large box and the bottom of a deep pit—stood empty save for two surgical tables at its center. These narrow cutting board-like platforms, covered with black tung oil paper, sat abandoned like discarded camp stools in the vast space. I was first overwhelmed by the room’s oppressive atmosphere. My heart had turned to stone, and even when placed on the hard, cold operating table, I felt almost no emotion.

Against the wall behind my head, there was a constant hissing sound like boiling water—perhaps they were sterilizing instruments. Beside them, three doctors were disinfecting their hands while whispering in hushed tones. Occasionally, the loud clatter of nurses’ wooden clogs walking across the freshly washed whitewashed floor reverberated in my ears. I lay on my back atop the hard wooden pillow, sometimes staring at the glass ceiling and sometimes closing my eyes. Soon, the doctor approached my side. Three or four nurses surrounded me. Soon, I was completely wrapped from my forehead to my head with a white cloth. Next, the bandages covering from my left knee to thigh began to be cut. The cold back of the scissors touched the skin of my thigh. And in that instant, my shoulders down to my arms and both legs were being pressed down so forcefully that I couldn’t move a muscle.

The surgery was performed under local anesthesia, with an incision of about three sun [approximately nine centimeters] made in the thick flesh between my knee and thigh. How horrific it was—I cannot describe that scene. At that moment, time felt dreadfully long to me. It seemed to have taken over an hour. And during that time, I continued crying and screaming. “There was a big wolf in the operating room.” After returning to the ward, I was mocked by the elderly ward nurse who had been waiting outside the operating room. I had cried and screamed so violently. Yet despite all this, during the surgery—through some psychological mechanism I cannot name—an intense desire to witness that very scene arose within me. Desperately fighting against indescribably violent pain, I screamed, “Let me see! Let me see!” And within the wrapped surgical cloth, I shook my head from side to side, struggling to push away the nurses’ hands pressing down from above.

“No! No!” The nurse pressed down even harder.

“I can’t breathe—it’s hot—I’m dying—dying!” I became like madness itself and screamed without cease. There was absolutely no intent behind it; those words had simply spilled out on their own. Then, perhaps having obtained the doctor’s permission, the nurse removed the surgical drape from my face. Trembling between fear and curiosity, I tried to lift my head and gazed down at my leg. Blood! A whole expanse of blood! The entire area was filled with red blood. And at that moment, I thought. The three doctors, their arms red up to their wrists, continued their work almost indifferently to my screams, whispering something in hushed tones. The Deputy Director in charge, as if trying to grasp something, would thrust his arm deep into the wound up to his wrist and rake it out with a tool resembling a garden rake. From time to time, I felt coursing through my entire body an uncanny, indescribably violent pain—as though they were grabbing a tendon and yanking it out with brute force. Each time, I let out a scream: “Gah!”

Yet even amidst all this, a strange calm settled in my heart. Compared to before witnessing the actual surgery, both my terror and pain had diminished significantly. “It’ll be over soon, soon. We’re halfway there now.” The doctor continued his work meticulously.

For two days, I continued to suffer. I lay on my back, immobilized in a stretched position with weights like counterweights attached to my feet. Though the pain gradually grew more intermittent, I couldn't endure the wound's agony when it attacked—like a drill boring through me.

“It hurts, it hurts, oh it hurts!” I involuntarily shouted. “Does it hurt? It’ll be over soon. Just hold on a little longer, alright? With this, you’ll be completely healed now, alright?” From time to time, the nurses would come and comfort me in that way. But I couldn’t shake this overwhelming loneliness. The fact that Father had left just a day or two earlier even came to seem like some ominous portent.

Moreover, around that time, I noticed that Nurse Fujimoto, whom I liked, was nowhere to be seen. When I asked about her whereabouts with growing unease, I learned she had taken a week-long New Year's leave starting precisely on the day of my surgery, having arranged for a replacement through shift rotation. This made me feel even more lonely, forlorn, and wretched. The patients in the same room too seemed as though they feared speaking to me. As if deeming it improper to comfort someone in such a state, they all maintained silence toward me as though by prior agreement. Even when conversing among themselves, they would whisper furtively as if wary of me. A tense, cold air of solemnity—like that surrounding a deathbed—permeated the hospital ward.

I couldn't cease longing for someone—anyone—to cling to their chest and let me pour out all my suffering as I wished.

However, as my recovery progressed day by day, after a week had passed, the pain in my affected area had almost entirely subsided, and I became able to turn over in bed. Moreover, Nurse Fujimoto's return made me feel happier and more reassured than anything else.

"You've been through such an ordeal, haven't you? Doesn't hurt anymore, does it?" One morning she showed her cheerful smile for the first time in ages and said this while tucking a thermometer under her arm. Then she took my wrist and began counting my pulse. Basking in a sweet feeling, as if a lover held my hand, I gazed at her healthy-looking face while she focused on the small watch dial. I felt the warmth of her fingertips travel from my hand straight to my heart.

“Your temperature and pulse are normal now. “You’ll be better soon.” “Take good care of yourself now.” She fastened my nightgown, lightly spread the quilt over me, and said. “You must be lonely now that your father has gone home, aren’t you?” “Not at all—there’s nothing to feel lonely about—” “My, aren’t you brave?” “…………” I couldn’t bring myself to say it was because Nurse Fujimoto was here. From thin gruel to rice porridge with egg, then to regular meals—my diet progressed step by step, and after two weeks passed, my vigor completely returned.

Having often noticed Nurse Fujimoto leaning against the ward brazier reading books, one day I asked her, “If you have any books, please lend me some.”

Before long, she brought a book.

“This is all I have at the moment, you see. “If you’d like, please go ahead and read it.” “It’s mine, so please take your time reading it.” It was Volume 1 of Kōyō Ozaki’s *Konjiki Yasha*. Despite there being many parts I didn’t understand, I became captivated by the beauty of the prose and the intrigue of the plot, tracing the phonetic guides as I raced through it in one go. “Have you already finished reading?” “My, how impressive!” “If you read too fast, you’ll get a fever—how about that?” “Was it interesting? Poor Kan’ichi-san, isn’t he?” “No matter how many times I read it, it makes me cry, you see.”

Nurse Fujimoto said as she took the book from me. “*Hototogisu*’s tragic too, you see.” “I love it dearly.” “Next time I’ll bring it from home and lend it to you, you see.”

A few days later, she brought Roka Tokutomi's *Hototogisu* and lent it to me. I read that one too. For the first time, I was able to satisfy the thirst for reading that had parched me for so long. And after that, every time the rental book vendor came, I would indiscriminately read whatever was at hand—Bakin’s *Hakkenden*, other Edo-period novels and kōdan books, or even new novels—one after another. Before long, I somehow became able to get to my feet. At first, while clinging to the bed, I tried walking around its vicinity; but after two or three days, my hips had steadied, and now I could even go to the bathroom alone by supporting myself against the corridor walls. Once I entered the recovery phase, being still a boy on the cusp of growth, my healing progressed all the swifter. One month after the surgery, I was already permitted to take walks within the hospital. I would often plead with Nurse Fujimoto to take me walking here and there through the corridors and such for a stroll. Entwining my arm with hers and walking slowly while pressing close to her was my greatest happiness.

In early March, about seventy days after being hospitalized and around forty days since undergoing the second major surgery, I was finally to be discharged.

The day dawned clear from morning, a beautiful day that heralded spring’s arrival. Around noon, Uncle came to settle the accounting and other discharge procedures, and by about two in the afternoon, we departed through the hospital gate with a procession of rickshaws. “Congratulations,” “We’ll miss you dearly—when you come for checkups, do visit us.”

That morning, Nurse Fujimoto and the other nurses came by turns to offer their farewells with those words. "Please let me come visit again - I'll be stopping by every other day, you see."

I said that and bid farewell. It was a strange feeling—something like happiness yet tinged with reluctance to part. “Farewell, do take care of yourself.” At the hospital entrance, the voices of four or five ward nurses standing in a row to bid farewell in unison lingered long in my ears. The over three months of hospital life left me with an oddly vivid impression. After that, I continued going to the hospital every other day for about another month to have my bandages changed. I looked forward to it. About once every three visits, I would stop by that memory-filled ward to check on familiar patients or drop in at the nurses’ station. To tell the truth, I had been looking forward to seeing Nurse Fujimoto. When her figure was nowhere to be seen, I couldn’t bring myself to ask others about her whereabouts, and so I would take my leave here and there while nursing a sense of incompleteness—this became my usual routine.

One day after my bandages had been changed, I stopped by the nurses' station as usual. Nurse Fujimoto happened to be there at that very moment. But she looked different from normal - not wearing her nurse's uniform but dressed in street clothes, talking with the other nurses in an oddly sentimental tone that suggested she was reluctant to part ways. I stood there feeling awkward for some time, but when I finally turned to leave, she said, "Are you heading back? Wait just a moment. "I'll come along with you as well," Nurse Fujimoto announced.

As I waited with a strange feeling, she soon gave her colleagues a farewell that seemed like a prolonged goodbye—polite and heartfelt—then said to me, “Thank you for waiting. Now, let’s go,” and left the place. “I’ve left the hospital, you see.”

When we exited the hospital gate, Nurse Fujimoto suddenly said. “Oh, is that so?” I was taken aback. And in that instant, I realized that the pleasure of going to the hospital from now on would be gone. I was suddenly struck by a sense of desolation. “And what will you do now? Where are you off to?” I asked.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be at home.” “Are you getting married?” “You must be joking! You mustn’t say such awful things!” She glared at me. But she immediately changed her tone and said. “If you come to the hospital, do stop by my place as well. It’s right nearby, you see.”

And then, after walking five or six steps, “What do you say? Why don’t you come by now.” “Yes, thank you kindly.”

Without a single thought, as if being pulled along, I followed her. After walking what seemed like four or five blocks, her house came into view. A woman who appeared to be her mother and a fourteen or fifteen-year-old sister were in the house. I was shown magazines and novels, but merely flipping through the pages in a completely unsettled state of mind, I stayed for over thirty minutes before taking my leave. As I was about to leave, she gave me a bookmark woven with lace thread in a red and white floral pattern, saying it was a memento.

“Please do come again. “I’ll always be at home now.”

She said that and escorted me to the gate. On my way back, I kept taking out the bookmark from my pocket to look at it as I walked home. Yet I never visited her again after that. Nor did we ever meet anywhere else.

VIII

Life after returning to my uncle’s house was no different in the slightest from before. From the day after I was discharged, I did water-related chores like cleaning and cooking rice. To be sure, at first I wasn't made to fetch water, but when I saw Aunt Oyuki - her sleeves tied back with a sash and her delicate hands clutching a brimming bucket as if it weighed a ton - laboring up the slope through streams of sightseers, I couldn't remain idle. And so, after four or five days, I took it upon myself to go fetch water.

“I wonder if it’s too much for you?” said Aunt Oyuki with feigned sympathy, yet in a tone that betrayed her wish for me to continue doing just that. “The doctor said that even after recovery, you shouldn’t carry heavy things or do strenuous work for about a year, but you’re just fine, aren’t you?” “I see... Well then, I guess I have no choice...” Aunt Oyuki made no effort to stop me. Although pus still oozed out little by little, the pain had completely disappeared, and I felt no difficulty walking; however, given my weakened post-illness body, carrying heavy water buckets up the slope was quite painful for me at first. I even suffered severe shortness of breath. But as five days passed, then seven, my strength gradually returned. Because of this, there were no particular complications related to the illness. At least not directly apparent.

Uncle's health had steadily improved since moving to Kiyomizu. Thus being an enterprising man by nature, he couldn't remain idle. Around the time of my discharge from hospital, he had begun constructing a large building on the vacant lot adjacent to our house - land he'd previously purchased with its thicket intact and later cleared when building our residence. His plan was to establish a pottery department store there, having already secured agreements with four or five principal Kiyomizu-yaki ceramics shops. As no such emporium yet existed in Kiyomizu at that time, Uncle naturally anticipated success; yet more than profit margins, he seemed to derive profound satisfaction from pioneering this novel enterprise. To finance this venture, he mortgaged both our Shijō residence and Kiyomizu house.

In early autumn, around the time when tourists from the countryside were gradually increasing in number, the large two-story building was finally completed. Uncle invited local pottery shop owners to a certain restaurant within Kiyomizu Temple's precincts and held a grand opening banquet. At the time of its opening, business was extremely prosperous. Those coming from above the slope and those climbing up from below all streamed in through both entrances and overflowed out again. “It’s going well,” he muttered.

Uncle muttered such words in deep satisfaction. He spent much of his days peering from the entrance window at people streaming up and down those Z-shaped stairs like a procession of ants. However, after a little over a month, something entirely unexpected occurred. The opening of that department store inflicted a significant blow upon the many pottery shops not involved with it. There, they began their discussions. And they schemed to attract customers by giving rickshaw drivers and guides who brought in patrons a significantly larger share than before.

Most were composed of tourists from the countryside, and customers guided by rickshaw drivers and professional guides were gradually drawn in that direction as a result. For instance, when customers would say they wanted to go into the department store to look around, “This place here’s too pricey for ya. Over there's a splendid place with heaps of goods, so you'll want to do your shopping there.” With that, the rickshaw drivers and guides would usher them away. Even if customers came inside, they would have them buy at other shops as much as possible—without making any recommendations—and briskly hurry them through.

In this manner, there was a sudden drop in customers for a time, but within that period they implemented considerable countermeasures on their side, so that within two or three months—though business naturally wasn't as booming as at the start—they came to see a fair degree of prosperity. Though called a department store, it differed from ordinary ones in that it merely had the appearance of such establishments. The exhibitors did not maintain separate shops within the building; instead, each brought their products to be conveniently displayed, making it essentially akin to a large joint-stock pottery store. Therefore, no harmful effects such as business rivalry arose among the exhibitors, and it was managed smoothly. As one of the principal capitalists, Uncle had naturally structured a system where instead of fixed rent for the building, he received a certain percentage of the sales.

Three clerks and four apprentices were working at this department store. I too was one of those four apprentices. It was because I had gone to help as a watchman within the premises during its initial opening that I was then made into a proper apprentice. The store opened at eight every morning, but I would hurriedly finish cleaning the house and kitchen chores before then and head to the department store. And I would only return briefly for lunch, then go back there and stay until the store closed in the evening.

That was a life of rather busy labor. I worked all day at the department store, and even after returning home in the evening, still had to fetch water and cook rice just as before. Yet I welcomed this life. While at the department store, I felt carefree and liberated. Though constantly occupied with tasks like attending to customers and preparing straw packages, my mind remained remarkably unburdened. Instead of enduring constrained feelings in Uncle and Aunt Oyuki's presence, I could play pranks with fellow apprentices, listen to lewd stories among the older clerks, and freely enjoy reading magazines and novels during spare moments—things never permitted at home. Uncle intensely disliked me reading or practicing writing, despite being uneducated himself—or perhaps because of it. He harbored an almost morbid antipathy toward such activities. Before the department store's establishment, I hadn't received even a single rin in pocket money, making magazines unattainable; but with its wage system extending even to apprentices, I began receiving modest earnings. I handed all of it to Uncle, who—though keeping most—gave me a small allowance considering my peers' circumstances. Essentially, what he returned amounted to my wages minus food costs.

“From now on I’ll be giving you an allowance, but you mustn’t go wasting it on snacks or such.”

The first time, Uncle said that and tossed two or three silver coins before me. This was the first money I had earned through my own work. I was happy, yet receiving it felt awkward. Even when legitimate, accepting money from others somehow pricked at one's conscience. I hesitated over whether to take it, unable to reach out as I fidgeted. “Hurry up and take it.” Urged by Aunt Oyuki’s words, I flushed crimson and gathered the silver coins scattered before my knees like a mouse stealthily dragging morsels. Then I went to the kitchen and, smiling in the darkness, repeatedly clenched and unclenched my hand around them.

In that manner, I received a small monthly allowance, from which I would buy one or two volumes of boys' magazines each month. But I never took them home; instead, I hid them away at the department store and read them during my free moments. My body—which until now had borne chronic physical ailments and a heavy psychological oppression, unable to grow taller or fill out, shriveling small like a stunted weed growing in the shade—now that my illness had completely healed and I began working at the department store, found both body and mind liberated more than ever before, causing me to grow with startling rapidity that was visible to the eye. Though still thin and slender, my height alone stretched upward rapidly, like a bamboo shoot.

“You can’t be thought to be just fourteen anymore. If you keep growing like this, your clothes won’t last.” When four or five months had passed since returning from the hospital, Aunt Oyuki remarked such things in apparent surprise. Until then, I had been wearing a sleeveless and too-short kimono, but starting that autumn, I was made to wear a proper adult kimono with full sleeves. Since going to the hospital, I had kept my head closely shaved, so I had grown so adult-looking that I was no longer considered an apprentice.

“So it was because of the illness that you couldn’t put on weight after all,” said Uncle. Not only my body but my mind too had grown along with it. Looking back now, those seventy-odd days in the hospital might have been a transitional period for my precocious self—physically and mentally—as I teetered on the brink between boyhood and adolescence. Perhaps hospital life had hastened this change somewhat beyond the natural course. After returning from the hospital, I came to realize that a new window had opened in my mind’s eye. Toward the opposite sex, tender emotional buds—something like an innocent yearning—had quietly begun to unfurl.

While at the department store, I would listen with particular interest from the shadows to the young clerks' favored conversations about women. When beautiful women customers entered, I would follow after them sooner than anyone else. I would stand by a woman's side, draw near just enough not to be noticed by her companion, and take pleasure in catching whiffs of an elusive fragrance. Sometimes Nurse Fujimoto's visage would float in the air before me. I gazed spellbound at her smile brimming with kindness. More than once or twice did I see her likeness in my dreams.

At night, there were times when I would massage Aunt Oyuki’s shoulders. Even through her kimono, I delighted in touching her supple, full-bodied form and sensing its warmth. I worked my way down enthusiastically from her shoulders to her back, then toward her waist.

“Oh, this feels wonderful!” Aunt Oyuki closed her eyes (this was evident even from behind) and, looking thoroughly pleased, vigorously arched her chest. “You’re so good at this, Yasushi. You’re better than a masseur.” Even while knowing I was being flattered, I willfully painted sweet fantasies in my mind and, while delighting in them, moved my hands all the more earnestly.

Around that time, the smoking urge that had been suppressed for so long since coming to Kyoto came surging back with tremendous force. From early childhood, I had harbored an almost morbid craving for tobacco. I first experienced the taste of tobacco when I was about ten years old. Since my father didn’t smoke, there were neither pipes nor tobacco in our house, but one day an old sailor named Yaichi forgot his tobacco pouch, and I mischievously tried taking two or three puffs—that was how it began.

Once I had experienced that indescribably sweet—or so it seemed to me then—intoxicating taste, I found myself gripped by an irresistible craving for tobacco. In those days, after returning from school, I would regularly go rock fishing with Father. Old Man Yaichi served as the sailor on our family’s boat, coming to our house daily for work. So I’d sometimes beg him to let me smoke in the beach shack or aboard the boat. At first I kept this secret from Father, but one day while working on the shore—after snatching the tobacco pouch from Yaichi’s waist and sneaking off to the shack for a smoke (something I did often)—Father unexpectedly appeared. Flustered, I hid the pipe and tried to wave away the smoke before my eyes, but Father didn’t rebuke me. Instead, he smiled gently and—

“It’s fine—go on and smoke,” he said. After that, I began smoking openly even in front of my father. Father naturally did not encourage it, but neither did he try to forcibly stop me. He never bought me a pipe or tobacco, but he silently allowed me to smoke what I received from Old Man Yaichi and others, even when I did so inside the house. At times, when someone would come visiting and smoke tobacco while talking with Father, I would gaze at them longingly,

“Let our Yasushi have a smoke too—the boy’s so mad for tobacco it’s a trial,” he said to the visitor. “Who could he take after?” “There’s children like that,” the visitor obliged good-naturedly, at least on the surface. “It’s an ailment, sure enough.” Later I bought myself a brass hatchet-shaped pipe and began making pouches from old newspapers and thick paper to carry in my breast pocket. “What do you mean letting him smoke at his age? Insolent brat! Look how pale he’s gone! You go too far—there are limits to what one should let pass without a word!”

One time，the Stepmother scolded Father. Then Father retorted， “Don't you fret none! It ain't him doin' th' smokin'—it's th' worm in his gut! There's young'uns what eat incense sticks or gnaw on walls 'n mud—same thing here! It's an ailment，”he defended me.

After coming to Kyoto, I struggled for a time to suppress that desire. After moving to the Kiyomizu area, being constantly around my tobacco-loving uncle and Okiyo Aunt while perpetually smelling its scent, I sometimes felt an irresistible urge so strong it was unbearable. But I kept suppressing it steadfastly.

However, once I started working at the department store and gained some degree of freedom, I finally succumbed to that desire. One time, after watching a clerk stick a half-smoked cigarette into the brazier, I went there stealthily the moment he left. In a frantic hurry as if committing theft, I lit the cigarette butt and smoked it with voracious intensity. Suddenly my head spun and my vision blurred, yet I couldn't forget that rich, aromatic flavor. After that, I bought my own cigarettes and brought them to the department store, but still wary of others noticing, I smoked while hiding in a corner.

“You’re so insolent!” one of the clerks scolded on one occasion. “The likes of you smoking is what’s making tobacco so damn expensive!” I kept it a secret from Uncle and Aunt Oyuki. At home I did my best to resist, but would sneak off to smoke in kitchen corners or the narrow alley between the main house and the department store. Whenever I went to draw water from the well, I made it my habit to smoke a cigarette at its edge. When I woke in the morning, I absolutely had to have a smoke first; otherwise, my mind wouldn’t settle. I would open the front door and step straight outside to stand in the garden, taking immense pleasure in deeply inhaling the fragrant rolled cigarette along with the crisp morning air. I remained standing outdoors until I had finished smoking it all.

“Master Yasushi! What are you doing? What’s taking so long? Open the rain shutters!” Because I would take a long time to come back inside after opening the front door, Uncle would sometimes call out loudly from his bed. “What’re you always doin’ out there after openin’ up?” At times, I would steal away from Uncle and Aunt Oyuki’s watchful eyes to the long brazier and furtively smoke cut tobacco using Aunt Oyuki’s long pipe. Since I kept it absolutely secret from them, working before them at night became my greatest torment. I had made it my nightly ritual to satisfy my unbearable cravings in the toilet, though this method proved sustainable only once. During desperate moments when Uncle had fallen asleep and Aunt Oyuki conveniently stepped away to relieve herself, I would watch Uncle’s sleeping face like a thief while hastily taking a puff or two from her pipe. At such times, I buried the butt deep in ashes to prevent smoke from rising, replaced the pipe exactly as found, and maintained an innocent facade. When Aunt returned and picked up the pipe, trembling with fear that she might notice the warm bowl or detect disturbances in the meticulously smoothed ashes of the brazier, I scrutinized her eyes and expression.

I began fearing my breath might carry a greasy odor. I maintained constant vigilance with meticulous care to prevent this from reaching Uncle and Aunt. When needing to speak, I took care to keep maximum distance and turn sideways. When unavoidably facing them directly, I strove not to exhale. Moreover, I had to ensure these mannerisms wouldn't be noticed by them, that nothing seemed deliberate.

It was a winter morning. I had made it my usual practice to rise each morning while it was still dim, but at that moment, I was seized by an intense desire to smoke a pipeful of tobacco right there in my bed. The more I tried to control that desire, the stronger it grew, until I found it utterly impossible to suppress. Uncle and the others had already awakened and were rhythmically tapping their bedside pipes. The sounds of matches being struck and tobacco pipes being tapped abnormally stimulated my nerves, further fanning my desire. I took out the cigarettes I had hidden beneath my bedding and contemplated how to light them. Because I had put the kotatsu in, I noticed that there was still some heat remaining in it. I sat up. And I threw back the futon and looked at the brazier. The reddish remnants of charcoal briquettes were piled up in an intact mound. I poked it with the tip of my cigarette. Then it crumbled softly without resistance, revealing a faint glow of fire at its base. With a start like leaping into flight, I continued sifting through the ashes and lit the cigarette. Then I stuck my head into the kotatsu frame, completely covered myself with the futon, and greedily smoked while choking on stifling carbonic fumes. Smoke swelled and filled inside the futon until I felt sharp pain in my eyes and nose, grew short of breath, and was seized by violent coughing fits. I endured the pain and kept smoking.

“Master Yasushi! Aren’t you up yet? What are you doing?” Uncle’s voice called through the sliding door.

Startled and panicked, I thrust the cigarette butt into the brazier and scrambled to my feet. Smoke that had crawled out from gaps in the futon billowed thickly through the room.

Nine

Spring came around again. It was the second spring since coming to Kiyomizu. From the bamboo grove behind the house, the cheerful chirping of small birds could be heard all day long. Along with this, the Japanese white-eyes kept at the house also projected their high-pitched calls.

From the bamboo grove behind the house, across the valley stretching to the plum grove—which marked the shortcut from below Kōshōji Betsuin to Kiyomizu-dera—the blossoms neared their peak. When I stepped out onto the veranda of the inner room, plum-viewing visitors carrying gourds could be seen wandering in small groups through the trees, amidst folding stools draped with red blankets and small red-and-blue banners printed with "BEER" and "CIDER" that flickered among the branches. Higashiyama sightseers increased day by day, and the sound of wooden clogs ascending and descending the front slope along with carriage rumbles could be heard all day long—peaceful yet vibrant. The voices endlessly calling customers at the gourd shop across the way grew lively too, trilling like birdsong. Naturally, customers at my uncle's department store multiplied daily.

I had turned fifteen. It was now entering my third year since coming to Kyoto. From around that time onward, over the span of more than half a year, various incidents occurred one after another both at Uncle’s house and in my own personal circumstances.

Oshin, who had been left in the care of Aunt Oyuki's sister's household and had hardly ever shown her face until then, began gradually coming around to Kiyomizu around that time - what became of the child? She always came alone. And there were times when she stayed for several days. On evenings when she visited, I would always withdraw to the kitchen area. Uncle and the others would always be whispering about something in the inner room. Leaning against the wall, I strained to listen but could only catch fragments like "child" and "Morimoto," never managing to hear clearly. At times, Oshin's stifled sobs would drift through to me. Were they discussing how she should handle her situation? Aunt Oyuki's voice mingled with theirs, saying things like "You mustn't fret" and "I'll see it properly done."

Not long after these events had occurred - whether by coincidence or some prior arrangement - Oshin's lover Morimoto came from Tokyo. He said he had been transferred to something called the Shanghai Submarine Telegraph Office and was en route to his new post. This was my first time seeing him; Morimoto was a fair-complexioned, handsome man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and kept his hair neatly parted. He stayed one night and departed first thing the next morning.

At that time, despite Uncle's refusal, Oshin protested angrily through her tears, declaring she would see him off to the station, and fled out still in her everyday clothes. And after that, she never returned. She hadn't returned to Aunt Oyuki's sister's house either.

Uncle became extremely displeased. He hardly spoke a word all day, doing nothing but emit deep sighs while glaring wildly around with terrifying eyes. That made the house even darker and more gloomy than if he had been shouting loudly. At times he would mutter curses to himself like "Chikushō!" or "Gokudō!" Oyuki Aunt also maintained her silence every night. If she were to say anything to Uncle, she would likely be showered with a rain of pipe blows, so she remained constantly anxious, gauging Uncle’s mood. An aching, hostile silence—the kind that might erupt at any moment—dominated the house for days.

O-Fumi Aunt, Uncle’s legal wife, died less than a month after Oshin had run away from home. After we moved to Kiyomizu, she no longer appeared as frequently as she used to when we lived in Shijō; but starting around when the department store opened, she began coming every four or five days. From that time onward, her behavior grew somewhat strange. She spent her days visiting temples while endlessly chanting Namu Amida Butsu. It became almost habitual—after uttering any word, she would invariably clasp her hands and recite a Buddhist prayer. She fervently preached to Uncle and Oyuki Aunt about the Buddha’s blessings and the value of priests’ sermons. And she urged them to make temple visits too. Uncle would always turn his face away with a bitter smile.

One time, she stood leaning against a veranda pillar and muttered something incoherently, as if talking to herself, toward the Japanese white-eyes in the cage hanging from the eaves; then, clasping her hands together and bowing to the birds, she began repeating "Namu Amida Butsu" over and over. “What are you doing there, Sister?” said Oyuki Aunt with a laugh. "She's worshipping the white-eyes, you know." “Now, Yukiyan, look at this here,” said O-Fumi Aunt, briefly turning toward us before immediately facing the white-eyes again.

“One Mr. White-eye here is eating his mash so diligently, you know, and the other one’s dipping his head into the cup’s water to take a proper bath, I tell you.” The fact that O-Fumi Aunt used polite language toward the Japanese white-eyes as if they were human beings—precisely because she was so earnest—struck those listening as comical. "What does that mean, you know?" “It’s nothing special, you know.” "What strange things you say," said Oyuki Aunt.

“Now isn’t it wondrous, you know. “Namu Amida Butsu.” “What nonsense are you spouting now?!” “Isn’t that so, you know? “Even these tiny birds properly know how to eat and bathe themselves, don’t you see?”

Aunt Oyuki couldn't help letting out a derisive laugh. But O-Fumi Aunt kept speaking with utmost seriousness. "Now, ain't it wondrous? Nobody taught 'em, yet they know so well, you see. "Mysterious indeed—all this must've been taught by Amida-sama himself, no mistake about it."

Having said this, she once again clasped her hands, bowed her head, and continued chanting Namu Amida Butsu. "What a bothersome person!" Oyuki Aunt muttered under her breath scornfully, not even addressing her directly. "Amida-sama's divine virtue is so great, you know. Now Yukiyan, our very living is all thanks to Amida-sama—whether it's Mr. White-eye or Mrs. Canary, they're all the same in this truth. Such a blessed thing it is, don't you agree?" "That's how it is, you know," Oyuki Aunt reluctantly chimed in. Uncle said nothing, made a bitter face, and occasionally let out sighs.

O-Fumi Aunt had become a nenbutsu fanatic. I didn't know what had caused it or whether such a thing as a nenbutsu fanatic truly existed, but everyone was saying so. Whenever she saw someone’s face, she would clasp her hands together and chant a nenbutsu prayer.

“Fukuyan, Amida-sama is passing by now. He’s calling for me to come, so I’ll just go and see him.” Having said this to Fukuyan, her adopted daughter who had come to her bedside, in her usual tone, she apparently drew her last breath peacefully.

It was a warm evening when the night cherry blossoms of Maruyama and the Miyako Odori dances drew the hearts of the capital's people to a corner of Kamogawa East. Uncle and Oyuki Aunt had gone to O-Fumi Aunt’s residence in Miyagawachō from that morning. I had taken the day off from the department store and was keeping watch alone at night as well, but when late at night I heard both the news of O-Fumi Aunt’s death and that Uncle and the others would not be returning, I couldn’t sleep a wink that night due to loneliness and eeriness. The lingering image of O-Fumi Aunt worshipping the Japanese white-eyes kept haunting my vision, and I found it unbearably terrifying. I waited for dawn to break, trembling and shuddering.

O-Fumi Aunt's death appeared to have deeply moved Uncle. The fact that they had lived apart in their later years without sharing marital life seemed to make his emotions all the more poignant. He would occasionally let escape words of remorse like "Poor O-Fumi" or "What a pity she was." "Even gone mad like that, 'twould've been better had she stayed alive. "Can't bear this lonesomeness. "D'you reckon O-Fumi holds a grudge 'gainst me?"

One night, Uncle said to Oyuki Aunt. "That's absurd—such nonsense!" Though Oyuki Aunt dismissed it, she too seemed to harbor some self-reproach, her tone suggesting she was desperately trying to ward off such thoughts. "O-Fumi was weak-willed—that's why she clung to those Buddhist prayers." "I wouldn't think such things!" Oyuki Aunt snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“…………”

Uncle fell silent and let out a deep sigh.

Uncle became even more silent than before. And he constantly wore a clouded expression, absorbed in some thought. However, his heart grew somehow calm and fragile, and even toward someone like me, he showed a kindness never before seen.

“Everyone’s gone now, you know. Mother’s all alone now, you know.”

One night, Uncle said to Aunt Oyuki in a deeply moved tone.

“Are you thinking about such things again, you know?” Aunt Oyuki furrowed her brows. “It’s fine, you know. Those meant to die will die, and those meant to flee will flee—there’s no helping it, you know.”

Uncle fell silent again. He seemed to have something more he wanted to say, yet had the air of being unable to bring it out. And he ended with a deep, gut-wrenching sigh that had become habitual.

Just around that time, while the lease contract period for the house in Shijō had not yet expired, the tenant submitted a request to vacate. The tenant had converted the part that had been a pharmacy into a fruit shop and had also been running an inn on the side, but it had not gone well. “What perfect timing! Should I go back to Shijō and start some new business?” Uncle said without deep thought, merely as if voicing a sudden idea. “That might be so—this way might take your mind off things, you know,” Oyuki Aunt also agreed.

“After all, that way’s better for me—I’m not one to be idling around in a place like this.” These casual tea-time conversations became the catalyst, and suddenly their plans began progressing rapidly. Over four or five days of discussing what business to pursue, they ultimately decided on combining a Western restaurant with a beef house, since they had experience in food service, the economic climate was favorable, and the location suited it perfectly. They even settled on allocating the second floor for sukiyaki by year’s end and the third floor for a Western-style dining hall.

Soon, they began those preparations. I continued working at the department store as before, while Uncle went out to Shijō almost daily to oversee the renovations of the house. For utensils and such as well, since he intended to have them specially made with new designs not used among other competitors in the same trade, merchants from that field were constantly coming and going, and the house took on an air of liveliness. In order to open by the summer’s cool season, they hurried all preparations. Uncle seemed to have regained youthful vigor due to his new expectations.

The renovation work on the Shijō house progressed as planned. Only the ground floor was completely rebuilt, while the second and third floors merely had their ceilings, pillars, eaves, and railings cleaned; yet the grand structure—surrounded by a high fence of thick, dark ship planks encrusted with oysters that reached even up to the second-floor eaves—had entirely transformed its former appearance, standing imposingly to dominate its surroundings. However, the dark hue of those high fence planks, their uneven surfaces, and the elegant entrance—positioned directly opposite the bridge as if hollowed out from the very center of the fence—had been refined with such excessively subdued taste that to some eyes, they felt vaguely gloomy, creating a slight dissonance with the vibrant, cheerful atmosphere of that bustling area.

The interior facilities were nearly complete and the procurement of various tools had proceeded smoothly, so prospects were set for opening as planned by the cool season. And they had already begun making arrangements in those areas for hiring cooks and maids. However, just at that critical moment, an unexpected misfortune struck, bringing an abrupt halt to this new venture. This was because Oyuki Aunt, who was crucial to the venture, had contracted typhoid fever and been admitted to an isolation hospital. Needless to say, Oyuki Aunt was the heroine of this new business venture, and without her, they could by no means open the store.

Uncle looked deflated and disappointed. For Uncle, this misfortune—striking suddenly just before what was likely his final new venture and dashing its auspicious start—loomed like some ill omen, filling him with dread about the future of this new enterprise. “What an ill omen!” Uncle muttered as if reciting a mantra.

But it could not be helped. In any case, we had to wait until Oyuki Aunt was discharged from the hospital and her health recovered. Uncle kept lonely watch every day with only me for company, his face perpetually troubled. At times, there were days when he would not speak a single word all day.

When night fell, he immediately had me lay out the bedding. "You should go to bed now too."

Having said that, Uncle entered the mosquito net alone with a lonely air. However, it seemed he couldn't fall asleep easily, for when I awoke in the night and glanced toward Uncle, I could see through the mosquito net the glow of his cigarette flickering in the darkness. Even with a child's heart, I sympathized with Uncle's feelings and faithfully took care of him. Uncle, too, seemed to rely on me very much indeed. Even when assigning minor tasks, he would ask with evident care and a hesitant manner rather than issuing commands.

“Since Aunt’s away, you’re having a hard time.” Uncle kept saying such things to me. I was no longer working at the department store. Once the renovations of the Shijō house were completed and its opening was approaching, I also helped with various tasks there.

One day, Uncle had me sit before him and spoke in a penetrating tone.

“I’m telling you this now in advance—when the Shijō store’s ready, don’t think of yourself as a servant. Work like you’re part of the family. “You’re the only kin left in this household now. “As for Kōsaburō—that fellow says he wants to re-enlist, so he won’t be managing the store. That’s why once you’ve gotten used to things, I mean to put you at the accounting desk. “With that in mind, don’t act like some hired hand—work with all your might. “In return—if you just keep working hard till you’re twenty-five, I’ll split off a branch of the business for you. Whether it’s a Western restaurant or beef house, I’ll let you open whichever shop you want.”

I lowered my head and listened in silence. I felt Uncle's kind words—words that seemed both to care for me and to depend on me—seep deep into my being. I resolved to work with genuine devotion. Though I didn't take at face value those promise-like words about being allowed to run a Western restaurant or beef house if I worked faithfully until twenty-five, and though I thought such a distant matter ten years away was unpredictable, they nevertheless never faded from my mind afterward. I neither rejoiced in it nor grieved over it; with a kind of indescribable feeling, I would occasionally recall those words. And as I kept thinking it over and over, I began to feel as though I would eventually become just such a person. It seemed as though my future destiny had already been decided by that. I pictured myself in my mind's eye—a young man in a pale yellow happi coat with the shop's name dyed in white on the collar and back, wearing a white apron over it, cutting beef at the shopfront; and also myself posing as the owner of a grand restaurant, dressed head to toe in resplendent silk garments, strolling about carefree with my beautiful young wife, taking in Gion's night cherry blossoms and Kamo River's summer cool—and smiled to myself. While imagining this transformed self that bore no resemblance whatsoever to my initial hope of pursuing scholarship, I felt not the slightest regret.

"Another ten years..." I sometimes thought such things. Then I remembered that my father too had first established his household at twenty-five, and was struck by an uncanny feeling. My father had been born in Kyoto only to be sent to a remote Noto village. I was born in that remote Noto countryside only to flee to Kyoto, my father's birthplace. That we would both have our own households at twenty-five—this felt like some karmic bond ordained by fate.

Oyuki Aunt was finally discharged from the hospital and returned after about three months. That was the beginning of September. Since her postoperative recovery had been progressing well, when preparations began again to open the store in October, she unfortunately developed an eye disease. As it was of a severe nature, there was a risk that both eyes could be ruined if one was careless. Because of this, they had to postpone the opening once again. Oyuki Aunt urged Uncle to proceed without involving herself, but Uncle refused out of concern for auspicious timing. Since they had already missed their window anyway, he kept saying it would be better to wait until year-end when business picked up. This initial bad omen further demoralized Uncle—particularly damaging for an enterprise requiring good fortune—and by now he seemed to have lost nearly all enthusiasm. Depending on circumstances, he even went so far as to let slip remarks suggesting they might as well abandon the venture altogether.

It was exactly around that time that the aunt from Rokujō's Key House died. She had not yet turned much past fifty when she died, but after losing her husband several years prior, she had become a devout Shin Buddhist believer. Having entrusted the business to her eldest daughter O-Tami, she herself spent her remaining years enjoying a tranquil life—visiting temples, tending to certain lay groups at Honganji temple, and similar activities. It was due to a trivial cold that she developed pneumonia and suddenly passed away.

The death of the Key House Aunt also proved a considerable blow to Uncle, given the timing. Among his siblings—though these consisted only of the Mannendera Uncle who had inherited the main family line and my father, his younger brother—Uncle had respected and trusted the Key House Aunt most deeply. Despite being wealthy, Mannendera Uncle was considered stingy and cold-hearted, giving him the worst reputation among the siblings; indeed, our uncle had hardly interacted with him at all. However, the Key House Aunt—being strong-willed, outdoing men in spirit, chivalrous, and kind with sisterly devotion to her younger brother—shared a mutual understanding of temperament with him. And Uncle held her in high regard in all matters. He was always calling her "Sis, Sis," and had the air of someone who couldn't proceed with anything without her approval. When starting this new Western restaurant venture too, Uncle first consulted his "Sis," obtained her approval, and even acquired a portion of the necessary funds through her arrangements. Indeed, she was Uncle's sole advisor and confidant. Not only that—there was no one besides this blood sister who could wholeheartedly share in his joys and sorrows. Therefore, her sudden death caused Uncle to grieve deeply. He said he had lost all motivation to do anything. He lamented, saying he had wanted to at least open the Shijō store and let her die only after seeing her happy face.

“It’s an ill-omened year.” “We’ll halt the store opening this year.” “We’ll do it with a bang next spring.”

Uncle said one day as if having made up his mind.

“I’m terribly sorry, Uncle. “After all the trouble we went to get it ready, and now all because I fell ill.”

Oyuki Aunt apologized as if it were her own transgression. Her eyes showed no signs of improvement. She donned black spectacles and visited the hospital daily. The condition had neither particularly worsened nor shown any recovery.

A gloomy, heavy silence once again reigned over the house. For several days, the three of them went on in this manner—each probing the others' hearts yet all fearing to broach the subject.

In the plum grove visible from the back room lived a sage-like old man who dwelled there without quite being its caretaker. He was a famous ascetic in that area, guarding a small shrine deep within the plum grove. According to his own account, he was already over ninety years old. His waist bent double like a shrimp’s, and while stroking his long white beard that seemed to reach the ground, he would shuffle feebly through the plum trees, occasionally coming into our view. Every morning before dawn, preceding the temple bells nearby, he would blow his conch shell horn with hoarse, booming blasts. That eerie, ominous sound reverberated through the valley, shattering people’s dawn dreams. And in the evening, he did the same thing.

It was not long after that that Oyuki Aunt began secretly visiting this mysterious ascetic without Uncle’s knowledge. One evening when Uncle was away, the mysterious ascetic from the plum grove came. He walked silently through the house shaking his head from side to side like a stroke patient as he looked around. Small bell-like beads resembling those carried by shrine maidens tinkled in his hand. Before long he decorated the alcove with small ritual paper streamers, offered white rice and salt before them, and prayed silently for some time. Oyuki Aunt sat behind the old man throughout this, her face lowered to the tatami.

“Keep this from Uncle.”

After making me promise to keep quiet like this, Oyuki Aunt went toward the plum grove accompanied by the old man. Before long, with low booming blasts of "wao, wao," the familiar conch shell horn quivered through the desiccated autumn twilight air as its echoes resounded across the surroundings. Later on, Oyuki Aunt confessed this matter to Uncle. According to the old man from the plum grove, their various misfortunes and obstacles stemmed first from the house's poor alignment—the entrance facing due north and the toilet positioned in the inauspicious northeastern direction. Furthermore, when building this house—when clearing the thicket and leveling the ground—they had neglected to perform the ground-breaking ceremony, and this too was enshrined as a cause. If left in this afflicted state, even greater misfortunes—calamities that would directly befall Uncle himself—were sure to occur.

“You fool! You think such a thing matters?!” Uncle said in a mocking tone. “You think there’s an idiot who’d believe the nonsense spouted by that beggar?” But Oyuki Aunt spoke further. She explained that her eye affliction was no ordinary disease, but rather retribution for various past sins, and that no renowned doctor could cure this—it could only be healed through the Plum Grove Ascetic’s prayers and the divine medicine he prescribed.

“Such foolishness...” Uncle dismissed, yet his demeanor and tone at that moment made clear he harbored a certain dread in his heart. Though he was acutely aware of this feeling within himself, he made no effort not to try forcing it away. “If you want prayers done, go ahead and do as you please—but I don’t believe in that nonsense,” Uncle said obstinately. Afterward, Oyuki Aunt summoned that ascetic to perform exorcism-like rituals and began visiting the plum grove herself. Uncle, however, kept silent and feigned ignorance.

Aunt Oyuki came to completely trust that ascetic. She had stopped going to the hospital altogether and was now taking the medicine (?) prescribed by the ascetic and applying it to her eyes. That medicine consisted of drinking a decoction of charred hair and applying rice water to the eyes. This "rice water" referred to the clear, transparent droplets—four or five of them—that would accumulate in the bowl when one placed it beneath the bottom of the rice tub while transferring cooked rice from the pot, then later lifted the tub to look. Even though the back of the rice tub showed no dampness whatsoever nor emitted any steam, Oyuki Aunt declared it mysterious that water droplets should accumulate in the bowl—regarding this phenomenon as though it were a miracle performed by the gods, and consequently believing those droplets to be a divine medicine of unparalleled potency. She would reverently receive it with both hands raised to her forehead, then apply it to her eyes using the tip of her little finger.

After continuing such things for a month, Oyuki Aunt’s eyes had strangely begun to gradually improve (or so she herself claimed). She came to believe in the plum grove ascetic even more. And now she began visiting the plum grove even more frequently than before to have prayers performed for her.

Uncle did not interfere in the slightest and silently permitted Oyuki Aunt’s actions. However, despite Oyuki Aunt’s persistent urging, he did not consent to changing the house’s entrance or the toilet’s position. There was some saving of face involved, but he still remained half-convinced of the ascetic’s claims.

That year too had already drawn near to spring. Oyuki Aunt’s eyes gradually improved, and she became able to walk without glasses. Oyuki Aunt proposed that since things were going well like this, they should open for business within the year, but Uncle remained unperturbed, saying that since this year was inauspicious, it would be better to postpone things accordingly until next spring.

Ten

One day, Uncle went to Rokujō Key House, and when he returned in the evening, he said to me,

“Yasushi, they’re saying at the Rokujō house you should come by once. Go tonight—Okiyo wants to see you too. Take your time there, it’s fine if you stay over.” And Uncle was whispering something with Oyuki Aunt in hushed tones. While feeling uneasy about Uncle’s seemingly meaningful suggestion and recalling that I hadn’t seen my sister Okiyo since the aunt’s funeral, I hurriedly finished tidying the kitchen and set out toward Rokujō.

“You still don’t know yet, do you Yasushi?” After finishing the greetings and sitting at the entrance-side accounting desk, O-Tami of Key House said while smiling at my face. “What do you mean?” I asked suspiciously. “Okiyo’s not at home anymore.” “What?! What’s happened to her?!” O-Tami smiled awkwardly for a moment—

“She’s had a bit of a mishap, you know. Now then, I’ll have someone show you—go on over to Okiyo’s place, go meet her, you hear?” Having said that, O-Tami called one of the maids. I was utterly at a loss about what was going on. I wondered if some terrible misfortune had occurred, my heart pounding all the while. With an anxious heart, I was led by the maid and soon arrived before a certain small inn not far away. It was indeed a regular lodging for Honganji pilgrims, but a dingy, shabby house that couldn’t compare to Key House. At the front entrance’s weathered vermillion-lacquered lattice, a soot-blackened hanging lantern emitted dim light, bearing the inscription: “Designated Lodging for Honganji Temple Pilgrims—XX Branch.”

The room where my sister Okiyo was staying lay inside that lattice. I climbed up from the dim dirt-floored passageway into the room and, upon opening the partition to the next room, found an old two-paneled screen standing there, its soot-blackened back showing patches where the surface had peeled and torn here and there. A kind of foul odor, as if something had gone rancid, struck my nose.

“Please come in here,” came my sister’s weak-sounding voice from within. I hesitantly inserted my face from behind the screen, feeling as if I were peering into some forbidden place. The utterly unexpected scene before me jolted my chest, and I instinctively averted my face. In the dim, hazy light of the Western-style lamp, I discerned her emaciated figure—ghostlike. Her hair lay disheveled like hemp strands, a faded yellow hand towel tied around her head as a makeshift headband. She sat leaning against a stack of futons piled before her, her body tilted slightly to the right with something resembling a round bundle resting on her lap. When she saw me, she curled a creepy smile at the corners of her mouth while—

“Yasushi! Well, you’ve come, haven’t you.” I understood the situation at a glance. Okiyo had given birth to a child. I crouched there without a word. “It was a mistake, you know,” Okiyo said, her face flushing slightly, and she gave another unsettling smile as though trying to hide her shame. Then, as though to conceal her embarrassment, she took out a large breast from her chest and let the infant at her knee suckle.

I could not raise my face. Like a criminal, trembling violently with shame and remorse, I stared fixedly at the weave of the tatami. Tears welled up involuntarily. It was as if black, filthy mud were being forcibly crammed down my throat—I felt only this suffocating, unpleasant bitterness, with no room left in me to think or consider anything. “Here, eat this,” Okiyo said as she placed before me a can that had some biscuits in it. Without uttering a single word, I hurried back to Key House.

“There’s just no helping it. Anyone can make mistakes, you see,” O-Tami said to me, as if both explaining and comforting. I felt a deep shame as if it were my own—no, even deeper than that. “Your sister gave birth to an illegitimate child.” I felt as though I were being despised and shunned by everyone. I found it unbearable to have even my face seen by O-Tami and the others at Key House. I wondered who my sister’s paramour was. However, I couldn’t bring myself to ask O-Tami about that. I was too ashamed to bring myself to say it.

That summer when I first came to serve at this house, I saw Okiyo sitting carelessly at the entrance to the detached room at the end of the dirt-floored passageway, her yukata hem rolled up to her knees, laughing while talking to a young carpenter who was sharpening his plane in front of her—and I wondered if it might have been that very carpenter. That carpenter was someone who frequented Key House, and I had seen his face two or three times before then. He was called Yonekichi—a short man of about twenty-five or six who stammered slightly.

“Yasushi’s hairline—that hairline of yours, isn’t it just…” “A high, rounded hairline like Mount Fuji’s, isn’t it just.” “If only mine were different.” Whenever she saw me recently, Okiyo would often say such things—fretting over her slightly convex forehead or lamenting the scar on her cheek from having a boil lanced in childhood—but when I thought about it, my sister had already taken a paramour by that time...

I recalled my sister's licentious behavior from that time and felt unbearable hatred. I could not help but feel a profound humiliation, as though my own pure existence had been defiled and trampled upon. "Well now, why don't you stay the night? I've already spoken properly to your uncle to get you some time off, so take your leave nice and slow."

Though O-Tami urged me thus, I declined and returned.

The world suddenly became constricting and dark. I walked quietly along the dark night road toward Kiyomizu, deeply hanging my head like a criminal.

Eleven

Aunt Oyuki’s eyes had nearly fully recovered, and it was around late March of the following year when Uncle Shijō’s shop finally reopened—a time when spring in the capital was at last in full bloom, and scattered news of blossoms could be heard. The name was derived from a play on Aunt Oyuki’s “Yuki,” and it was called Yūkitei. The day was pleasantly warm from morning onward, a glorious and clear one. On the south side of the entrance, they stacked straw-wrapped barrels high, and under the eaves of the second and third floors hung red decorative lanterns all around, creating a bustling, festive atmosphere from the morning. The small red and blue decorative flags adorning the stacked barrels also fluttered beautifully in the morning breeze. The sight of the broad entrance paved with ceramic tiles, thoroughly washed and adorned with purifying salt, was refreshing to behold.

Around nine o'clock, after the Tōzaiya group had left boisterously, the house took on an even greater air of excitement and activity. From the cooks to the dishwashers—five men and six maids—all invigorated by celebratory cold sake, their lively voices of calling out and laughing together welled up from the kitchen area. Uncle Shijō and Aunt Oyuki were sitting side by side at the accounting desk. As the footwear attendant, wearing a white apron over my pale blue resist-dyed happi coat, I sat perched on a small stool in the corner of the entrance, waiting for customers.

From around noon, customers began trickling in. And by evening, even the spacious entrance had become nearly full, and I lined up footwear all the way out to the street. “Step right in―!” “Come on up―!” “Take care on your way home―!” I kept raising my voice and calling out incessantly.

(Taishō 7, October and November)