Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

There was a term called "death flower."
It was one of those beautiful Japanese words.
Denzō himself said this.
And it was around when Denzō started talking about blooming a death flower that Nami-ko's marriage negotiations began.

Since he hadn't yet passed fifty by many years, it was still too early for a death flower.
But Denzō loved such theatrical expressions - his whole life had been built on such theatrics - so if you carelessly took it as a joke, you never knew when he might actually do something.
But Nami-ko thought it was absurd.
If you're going to do it, just shut up and get on with it already, she thought.

Mother too seemed to find it absurd, admonishing Father with a bitter smile.
Yet Mother would soon wear a face verging on tears, let out a stifled laugh, or go completely expressionless.
At this, Denzō’s voice would turn angry.
The first to fall silent was always Mother.

Watching them, Nami-ko felt no pity for her mother—instead finding herself sympathizing with Father.
“Stop dousing everything with cold water, old man.”
“If you tarnish our family name or squander what’s left of the fortune now, think how pitiable that would make Nami-ko and the others,” Mother would inevitably say by the end.
Hearing this never failed to anger Nami-ko. What happens to me is none of your concern, she’d mutter inwardly.

“What does it mean to bloom a death flower?”
She tried asking her mother.
“It means getting involved in speculation,” Mother said.
“Sometimes he also says he wants to become a Diet member.”
“He also said he wanted to buy a dilapidated mine.”
In short, even Mother couldn’t grasp its true nature.

Denzō, in his prime working years, had been timid and never undertook anything major, so he avoided any significant failures; however, he occasionally dabbled in small speculations, political ventures, and business endeavors, and when tallied up, these had considerably eroded the ancestral family fortune.
He engaged in womanizing, and even in such matters, he was generally extorted for severance payments, further diminishing the ancestral family fortune.

It was seven years prior that he had lost his eldest son in an accident in the Northern Alps, and at that time, his life had undergone a complete transformation.

He had quit speculation.
He had quit politics.
He had quit womanizing.
Even his alcohol intake had decreased markedly, leaving him visibly aged.

He immersed himself in reading works like Manyōshū poetry collections, Tsurezuregusa essays,and Bashō’s haiku—abruptly adopting a retired lifestyle while becoming obsessed with autumn foliage viewing,temple pilgrimages,and sightseeing.Nami-ko occasionally accompanied him on these excursions.
There were even times when he took his wife and children around Japan sampling regional cuisines.
When discussing expenses,Nami-ko heard her mother remark,“For twenty-five years since our marriage,I’ve finally felt secure”—now that his spending focused solely on art and antiques.

"There was a poem that read 'To my child lost in the mountains,' appearing at the very beginning of the volume:

Having eaten saury and grown accustomed to brooding—autumn has deepened.
May my weeping voice move these mountains.

This was the sort of verse he composed.

Nami-ko had long known the famous poem declaring 'Let mountains crumble and seas run dry,' but this business of eating saury and weeping to shift peaks struck her as downright indolent—he seemed to lack even the visceral conviction needed to rustle a single withered branch on a hillside.
Even Father’s attempts at aesthetic refinement amounted to mere theatrical posturing—this too struck Nami-ko as utterly absurd."

II

After he began talking about blooming a death flower, the crowd that had kept their distance for a time started visiting with increasing frequency.
Denzō too began going out frequently and returning home drunk.

Speaking of old friends, they were mostly provincial samurai retainers from his hometown or those clinging by their fingernails to their ancestral fortunes before fleeing to Tokyo as refugees, along with members of political pressure groups, men who constantly walked around carrying briefcases, fellows who spent years traveling through mountain after mountain searching for gold and silver, appraisers of Chinese ceramics, and what might be called party jesters.
A bizarre and motley crew came and went in a constant stream.

However, since these people visited others year-round without any real business, they seemed to take the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with the daughter as well; though appearing uncouth at first glance, they were remarkably adaptable, and while Nami-ko inwardly scorned them, speaking with them proved not at all disagreeable.

Among them was a middle-aged man named Kusumoto—a dilettante in Noh chanting who dabbled in brokerage. True to his status as a Noh amateur, he had an imposing presence with dignified bearing and stature. Kusumoto too reportedly had a daughter of marriageable age and possessed curiously detailed knowledge about matters like the Takarazuka Revue and Western films. Whenever he visited, he would invariably make an appearance in Nami-ko’s room to pay his respects during a brief visit.

“How about it...”
“I’ve been thinkin’ I oughta take you to Takarazuka one of these days.”
Kusumoto was born in Kansai.
“How about ‘Prison Without Bars’?
That one’s got a solemn accompaniment—really quite good.”

Kusumoto would invariably praise Nami-ko’s outfits, styling, and makeup all at once, occasionally brushing against her kimono or grasping her hand.
At first, Nami-ko thought nothing of it, but as his touches grew more frequent and his hand clasps lingered longer, she suddenly felt repulsed.
Once she noticed this, Kusumoto’s lecherous gaze became unbearable.
From then on, whenever she sensed such behavior might start, she made sure to quickly flee the room.
Yet Kusumoto remained unruffled, remarking things like “Scampered off all red-faced” as he spoke.
Nami-ko once grew furious, locked her door, and went out walking.
When she returned an hour later, Kusumoto still lounged leisurely in her room—having taken advantage of the locked door to inspect notebooks and letters on her desk.
He’d even secretly rifled through the drawers.
She only realized a photo was missing much later.

Every time this man came to Nami-ko’s room, without fail, he would bring up the topic: “So, you must have four or five prospective grooms in mind, eh?”

It wasn’t only to Nami-ko that he said this.
He had said it to Father too, and to Mother.
In households with marriageable daughters, such conversations were as commonplace as seasonal greetings—Nami-ko had heard them until she was sick of it, so she paid no attention; moreover, she had no desire to even glance at the groom candidates brought in by that repulsive Mr. Kusumoto. Yet Kusumoto had in fact begun earnestly persuading Denzō.

It was from this time onward that Nami-ko’s marriage prospects rapidly became the family’s central topic.

III

The candidate brought in by a distant relative of Denzō’s family was a thirty-year-old engineer from their hometown named Tōyama.

The reason her mother Yōko had immediately taken an interest in this proposal was that Kusumoto’s entreaties had grown unbearably persistent around this time, with Denzō’s state of mind becoming impossible to predict—there being also a sense of countering Kusumoto’s influence.

Yōko considered nothing more detestable than Denzō’s death flower.
The very term “death flower” made her shudder, while the rabble flocking around this death flower struck her as supremely loathsome beings.
That even her daughter had become entangled with this crowd—it proved unbearable.
With the Tōyama proposal arising just then, she promptly grew enthusiastic and somehow secured Denzō’s consent for courtship.
Denzō too had begun displaying marked enthusiasm for this scheme.

That a man straight out of an ethics textbook’s “Good Child” story could exist in reality was something Nami-ko had never even dreamed of.
However, here he was—such a man had now appeared.
Moreover, when it reached the point that he was to become her own husband-to-be, she found herself considerably flustered.
Indeed, Tōyama was a once-in-a-generation paragon of austerity—a man who abstained from alcohol and tobacco, attended moving pictures or plays only once every three years out of social obligation, and had never so much as glanced at a girl.

By their parents’ orders, the two occasionally went on walks together, but there was absolutely no conversation to speak of.
Tōyama had no interest in music or sports. That said, since she couldn’t very well bring up diesel engines, she had no choice but to reluctantly mention things like the Waseda-Keio rivalry.
To this he merely replied, “Is that so? It seems our company has baseball and football teams.”
One time when they went to see a movie together, Tōyama—disregarding the serpentine queue and utterly failing to realize these were people waiting to buy tickets—reached out from the side and got himself scolded.
Putting aside the reprimand—that endless winding line existed just for moviegoers?!
His astonishment ran deep.
When later asked for his thoughts about the film, he simply answered that it had been exhausting work trying to read the side captions while hurriedly looking back at the pictures.
If this was all they could discuss after watching a movie together, she thought bleakly, there truly was no hope.

Tōyama was a saint rare in modern times—this Nami-ko firmly concluded. However, she simply did not have the courage to live with him. “I’d sooner become a nun with Confucius’s photo on my wall than marry Tōyama,” she told her mother, and was scolded for it.

Originally, Nami-ko had never wanted to marry. She was twenty-one, but had thought she wanted to spend her time seeing movies and revues, going out with friends until twenty-three or four before considering marriage. Since it was a union she’d have to endure anyway, she wanted to savor her freedom to the fullest until then.

Whenever the topic of marriage came up, Nami-ko would candidly express this thought to parents.
However, Yōko did not take such thoughts into account.
She declared it to be nothing but trivial fashionable ideas.

“Since you never know when something might go wrong, I want you to settle this quickly.”

she declared bluntly.

At such times, there was nothing as beautiful as a mother who utterly ignored her daughter’s words and coldly pressed her own opinion.
Nami-ko found herself gazing in admiration—despite being forty-five, she looked thirty-five or thirty-six, even younger, with translucent pale skin and exquisitely refined features.
The full lips, like a young girl’s, retained an innocent softness.
It was irritatingly beautiful, she thought.

The people who frequented this household were more often struck by Yōko’s beauty than they were to call Nami-ko pretty.
Her elegant features retained an indefinable childlike innocence, exuding a pure sensuality.
A man who styled himself a Chinese ceramics appraiser would habitually say when drunk, “I revere Madam’s beauty,” and went so far as to declare her “the most beautiful woman in the Orient.”

Whenever Nami-ko grew angry at her mother, she would invariably find herself first confronted by her mother’s beauty—a realization she detested. Vividly—and undeniably—she was jealous.

Even when her mother fell silent after arguing with her father, she remained an especially beautiful mother. Whenever Nami-ko saw her in this state of particular beauty, jealousy would inevitably rise within her. Even when her mother—having argued with Father, lost, and fallen silent—stood there especially beautiful, Nami-ko would invariably feel jealous. And so, without a trace of pity for her mother, she found her father—with his talk of blooming a death flower—endearing yet pitiable.

Speaking purely of the term "death flower," it was nothing but sheer absurdity. With his theatrical posturing—performing unconvincing acts for a mere four or five family members and at most a hundred acquaintances—Father had frittered away his counterfeit life. Even now, he still brought up this "death flower" nonsense and lost himself in it. The absurdity overwhelmed her—yet when she glimpsed the small clenched fist resting on his plump knee, moments would come when Father suddenly seemed dear to her. This ordinary, timid, weak-willed man grew so pitiable that at times she wished she could let him bloom his death flower in one grand gesture.

Go ahead and do something grand—stake the house, the fortune, the honor, reduce them all to dust.
With a single decisive act... At times, Nami-ko would feel like shouting in such a way.

IV

One time during a meal, they argued again about the death flower. “Isn’t she old enough to have grandchildren by now?”
“Act your age!”
Her mother shouted.
Both Father and Mother fell completely silent and continued with their heavy meal.

Nami-ko alone remained calm, glancing between their faces—yet she was angry at her mother.

A grandchild—as if that would ever happen.
Who would ever marry someone like Tōyama, that blockhead?

That day, after finishing the meal, it was Nami-ko who made her father change into his going-out clothes.
As she helped him change, Nami-ko said to her father.

“What exactly do you plan to do with this ‘death flower’?”

“…”

Father turned to look at Nami-ko, but when he saw the “woman’s” smiling face there, he was flustered.
Denzō’s eyes gleamed terrifyingly.

“It’s fine.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Nami-ko wheedled.
“But, Dad.
“Make up your mind and just do it…”

Nami-ko’s eyes gleamed fiercely without her realizing it.

“As for me, don’t worry about it.
“Even if I end up penniless, I don’t mind.”

“Fool!”

Father scolded her in a hoarse voice without turning toward Nami-ko. Then, in a foul mood, he took it out on mother just before leaving and stormed off.

One reason Denzō had grown angry was his lack of confidence.
From childhood, he had been timid by nature—utterly incapable of decisive choices when faced with major matters.
He would occasionally attempt things beyond ordinary people’s capabilities, yet always lacked conviction.

It was when accumulated failures and regrets had become unbearable that he lost his eldest son in the Northern Alps and completely changed course to begin a life of aesthetic indulgence.
His son’s accident had provided precisely the catalyst needed to save him.
It was time he had to make a clean break somehow.
"It was thanks to you that I was saved"—Denzō would later murmur this to his son’s spirit.

And so began the life of aesthetic indulgence.

For seven years thereafter, it had persisted surprisingly well for him.
By nature fickle, Denzō was not one who could cleanly part ways with greasy, bustling affairs.
Once more, his speculative instincts stirred.
To bloom a single death flower—this he had declared as his intent, yet even while daily disputing it with Yōko, the most anxious and courage-lacking was in truth none other than himself, shackled by innate timidity.
Before even acting, flickers of self-reproach and regret already haunted him.

A life of aesthetic indulgence suited his nature best… Already, Denzō had come to think this with quiet conviction.

That his daughter could be a "woman" like a beautiful little serpent. Denzō felt a needle-like pain in his chest. He had witnessed startling sensuality. "Make up your mind and just do it…" he muttered. "If it’s about me…" Denzō closed his eyes and wished to seek salvation from God. He twisted his breathless body and spewed burning words. They were eyes that glared fiercely—brittle to the point of sharpness, hard. No one could tell when it would collapse, when it would scatter. Should it collapse, it would fall into hell. Denzō reflexively found himself unable to keep his eyes open.

"It would've been far better had I lost that lust in the Northern Alps..." Denzō muttered involuntarily.

Above all else, settling his daughter’s matter was the paramount concern.
It had to be Tōyama the Austere, he thought.
He had steeled his resolve—it must be done regardless of her consent: thrusting that young man upon her.

From that day onward, whenever discussions about the death flower reached their critical juncture, Denzō would fall silent, feigning nonchalance while secretly conjuring Nami-ko’s face in his mind—though not to form any coherent conclusions about her. He merely permitted himself this vague indulgence of thought.
And then,

“My daughter worries about me in all sorts of ways…”
Denzō looked around at the people’s faces with a remarkably refreshing smile.
“She mocks it as ‘the old man’s cold water.’”
“Truly, at the age when grandchildren come along, I’ve gradually come to think it’s rather unbecoming to rush into reckless, youthful courage like some young man…”

He became extremely cheerful and, without regard for others’ opinions, began talking self-centeredly. And then, at the conclusion, he added with a self-satisfied look that while he wouldn’t be surprised if his wife clung to him in tears, he must respond to his daughter’s opinion. He grew even more cheerful and laughed heartily, “Ahahaha!”

Five

When Nami-ko accompanied Denzō along with her mother on their three-person journey of eating their way from Kyoto-Osaka to Chūgoku-Kyushu, she came to feel that this thing called family—no, this central pillar forming what might be called the very foundation of life, or rather of the earth—was unexpectedly built upon unreliable scaffolding like some rickety, cheaply constructed building, and suddenly felt as though she had lost her most crucial conviction.

In life, there exists what you might call weariness.
Such a demon-like presence—until that time, she had not known it.

Nami-ko contemplated family - herself marrying and creating a family someday.
Regarding that prospect, she had felt both anxiety and hope - but the family into which she had been born and raised.
This was something entirely different.
She had thought of it as an immovable matrix - like the Earth's rotation - impossible to consciously perceive or doubt.

As for whether this family was happy - setting that aside - she had considered it ordinary yet peaceful, or rather hadn't even considered it at all, having completely accepted this as simply how things were without ever questioning.

When she thought about it, this family had scarcely ever experienced anything resembling a leisurely family outing. Whether picnics or theater outings, they scarcely ever went out together as a family of three.

Nami-ko found going to see movies with friends, visiting theaters, and eating out just by herself perfectly enjoyable, so even when she saw or heard about other families going out together for picnics or plays, she never felt the slightest envy.
However, she never doubted that such outings should be enjoyable in their own way.

It was the spring following Nami-ko’s graduation from girls’ school—and looking back now, though this marked Denzō’s final farewell to his life of aesthetic indulgence—when suddenly the three of them embarked on a culinary tour of Kansai.

Past the train window, early spring fields streamed by, a verdant sea spread out, and the wind blew.
Nami-ko looked at it all—though she always found beautiful scenery beautiful—but what she had watched most clearly throughout this journey was simply the relentlessly blowing wind.
It blew not only against the train window—when one closed their eyes, it parted the space between one gaze and another, between one thought and another, between one sorrow and another, blowing endlessly on.
It was neither a wind from the west nor a wind from the south.
Just wind.

Father, Mother, and the house where she was born—to Nami-ko, these had never been distinct entities. Always, the three formed a single being. And this alone stood opposed to all other worlds. It wasn't that she had actively conceived this notion—from time immemorial, it had simply existed as truth.

However, having left the house where she was born and boarded the train, Nami-ko abruptly awakened to a strange reality.
Her father was not there.
There were only a man she didn’t know called Father and a woman she didn’t know called Mother.

What Father was thinking now, Mother did not know.
What Mother was thinking now, Father did not know... Such things began to be contemplated with a seeping poignancy that defied explanation.
Strangers of unknown origin had lived together for decades now—an undeniable fact.
And then someday, a child called herself would be born, and this would be nothing more than another stranger labeled a child.
Didn’t these two strangers remain unaware that she was even thinking this way now?
...The train was traveling through fields.
Children waved at the train and shouted.
Nami-ko suddenly stood up, opened the window, threw a net bag of oranges to the children, and waved her hand with a “Banzai!”
The magazine resting on her lap fell, and the tea overturned.

“Like a madwoman.”
“You’re disgraceful…”

The woman she called Mother—a stranger—chided her.
Nami-ko burst out laughing.
Outside the window hung a spring sky thick with blossoms, heavy and overcast.
When she closed her eyes, the wind pierced through them, blowing desolately.
And then Nami-ko saw the wind.
She saw a dark, languid wind that connected strangers' hearts.
The wind blew endlessly without limit.
As if hearts bound by that wind would never form bonds.

When they visited Jakkō-in Temple in Ōhara—it was early April—though Gion was already adorned for cherry blossom viewing, snow began fluttering down.

Since they had heard that raising one’s hand would signal any bus to stop and pick them up, they walked along the clear stream path back to Yase.
Even as snow flurried about, Denzō clung to his contrived aestheticism.
The Hiei mountains lay half-veiled beneath brooding clouds.

Where the mountain stream curved, there stood a teahouse with a simple wooden sign that read: “Why not rest a spell before moving on?”
Just then, from within the thicket along the mountain stream, a bush warbler sang out in a voice as clear as seeping water.
Thick, hanging clouds; chillingly flowing mountain air; and snow falling into the mountain stream.
Yet, surpassing even those sharp coldness, it was an even colder, piercingly clear, and startlingly sharp cry.

Denzō stopped and tilted his head.

“Hey, wait a moment…”

Denzō tilted his head again.

He was now trying to recall a famous phrase in response to "Why not rest a spell before moving on?"
Sliding into the teahouse while preparing to deliver that famous phrase, he intended to liven up both his family and the teahouse.
Unfortunately, it just wouldn’t come to him.

In the snow-blanketed mountains, he couldn’t very well keep tilting his head like that.
Giving up,

“Let’s rest a bit before we go on.”

With that, he went inside.

The two who had been wondering what he was tilting his head about burst out laughing at “Let’s go,” but compared to that one cry of the bush warbler, Nami-ko was struck by the overwhelming poverty of human words.

“Because Papa tells such clumsy jokes, even the bush warbler won’t sing anymore.”

“Ahhaha.”
“Won’t you make that bush warbler sing?”

The snow suddenly grew fierce.
They could no longer walk.
At the teahouse, waiting for the bus, Denzō looked up at the thick clouds enveloping the mountains, then eventually opened his mouth and began dozing off.
Yōko bought shiba pickles—a local specialty—wrapped them in a furoshiki, then recalled an acquaintance who might appreciate such pickles and turned toward the back to place an additional order.
She repacked it in the furoshiki and was searching for the name of another acquaintance.

“How many people are in Mr. Shida’s family, I wonder.”
“You…”

Yōko suddenly addressed Denzō.
Denzō, startled, woke up.

“What? Huh? Hasn’t the bus come?”

“No.”
“If you nap in this cold, you’ll catch a chill.”
“How many people are in Mr. Shida’s family?”
“Do they have four or five children?”

“Well. As for Mr. Shida’s children—”
“About five, I suppose.”
“What of it?”

Yōko did not even attempt to answer that.
As if declaring this matter more important, she repacked the furoshiki cloth once more.
It had merely occurred to her to ask—nothing more.
Denzō too made no attempt to press further.

"Oh.
"The snow's piling up now, isn't it?
"Look—the bamboo grass leaves have turned pure white."

Denzō shouted.

……

Yōko did not even attempt to raise her face.
She was pouring tea into Denzō’s bowl.……

How could both Father and Mother remain so composed? …… Nami-ko felt an odd tightness in her chest. She woke the dozing person for no reason at all. The dozing person opened his eyes but showed no sign of anger. Though they were all scattered fragments, how could they remain so composed and utterly secure?

Become husband and wife.
Bear children—being called husband and wife, becoming utterly secure in those titles, surrendering themselves to them.
A man called husband and a woman called wife—strangers.

Everything was scattered every which way.
In the thicket by the mountain stream, a bush warbler was singing.
At the teahouse, there was a signpost.

Clouds hung low, and snow fell across the entire landscape.
All those things—like scattered petals—a man called husband, a woman called wife, a daughter called child—they merely gathered, each utterly scattered.……

Even so, that bush warbler heard by the mountain stream had a cry so beautiful it could awaken one, piercing sharply through even the taut mountain air.
And then, that snow-falling mountain stream—though it was said to lie not far from the capital—had a color tone filled with an eerie aura, as if it had never once reflected human visitation.
But though that bush warbler had not forgotten the beauty of its song, it could no longer be recalled by ear.
And then, the deep color of the mountain stream had already faded in the depths of the heart.

However, what still could not be forgotten even now was that endless wind that had continued blowing throughout the journey. Around the body there was nothing—not a single acquaintance to cling to—only the steadily blowing wind existed. When she closed her eyes, within them that wind became visible. And still it blows now.……

Six

When pressed for a final decision regarding Tōyama’s proposal, Nami-ko firmly refused her parents.

He didn’t drink alcohol or smoke, nor did he care to watch movies.
That he had no particular hobbies outside of work—while it made sense for her mother to recommend this as an exceptional virtue in society—Nami-ko couldn’t believe her father, who had squandered his entire life on indulgences, would genuinely admire and advocate such a thing.

That Father showed enthusiasm for this marriage proposal was merely the superficially proper stance expected of any father with a daughter—but deep down, she had believed him to harbor greater magnanimity, flexibility, and capacity for banter.
I had thought that if I were to say, "That austere saint doesn’t suit my nature one bit," they would simply laugh—"Ah-hah-hah, is that so?"—and let the matter drop.

But Denzō was more persistent than her mother.
When he received Nami-ko’s refusal, he responded with the most reluctant, most indecisive manner.

Concealing beneath the surface a tenacious heart that all but declared “If you hate it now, I’ll keep this up until you don’t,” he would needle at the subject whenever an opportunity arose.
Wrapping an essentially irresolvable core within his gut behind a nonchalant face, he was always waiting for the opportune moment.

Nami-ko suddenly found herself reconsidering her father.
While normally presenting an extremely carefree, enlightened exterior, when actually faced with a situation, he revealed a timid, unrefined core within.
Up until now, in Nami-ko and her father’s relationship, there had been no instance of encountering a matter significant enough to reveal his unrefined core within.
Therefore, she had been pleased with his apparent perceptiveness and convinced this was who Father truly was—but that had been the height of rashness.
Father was timidly cautious, tenacious, and indecisive—Nami-ko realized.

If they disagreed with my opinion, they should just impose their own will.
She couldn’t fathom how much clearer and more relieving that would feel.

Nami-ko thought.
As for me, it's simply a matter of firmly asserting my own will—

Even so, Nami-ko couldn't comprehend why Denzō—who was supposed to find fulfillment in a life of aesthetic pursuits—would speak of that utterly pleasureless young man as if he were a gem among youths.

"A person who can let loose but still knows limits—that's the kind I prefer," Nami-ko clearly told her father.

One day.

It was a day when Mother was absent.
The maid came to call Nami-ko and said, "The master is calling for you."
Nami-ko went to Father’s study.

Denzō took his seat precisely in the center of the study and waited for Nami-ko to arrive.
With fingers clasped around his navel, he maintained a zazen posture.
When Nami-ko appeared and greeted him, he nodded briefly before closing his eyes.
He didn't offer her a seat.
Though his eyes remained shut, his expression held no particular severity.
His loach-like mustache gave the impression of laughter beneath an otherwise ordinary face.

"What do you want?"

Nami-ko, exasperated, asked again.
Leaning against the wall, looking at the garden.

Denzō opened his eyes.
Then, suddenly rising with a fumbling motion while wearing an expression more solemn than ever before,

“Come here for a moment.”

Accompanied by Nami-ko, he passed through several rooms and came to the Buddhist altar room.
Well, well.

This was the act turning serious—Nami-ko half-resigned herself to the fact.

“Sit here for a moment.”

After making Nami-ko sit, Denzō opened the doors of the Buddhist altar, lit the ritual lamp, fingered his prayer beads, assumed a precise seated position, and recited sutras for a time—but when he finished and turned back toward Nami-ko, his expression had transformed into one of utmost gravity.
Denzō first tightened his core and scrutinized his seated posture.

“In the presence of all our ancestors, there is something I must ask of you.”

Denzō spoke.
He strained to maintain an expression befitting the gravity of his words.
The struggle between his impulse to widen his eyes and his determination to restrain them left them frozen in a half-lidded stare.
Yet he appeared wholly intent on pinning Nami-ko with this manufactured intensity.
The inevitable exhaustion of his tactics already hung palpable in the air.
Using honorifics like “you” and “there is”—what elaborate scheme could he possibly be hatching?

With that, Denzō suddenly planted both hands firmly on the floor.
How astonishing!
He turned to face his daughter and reverently lowered his head.
But that wasn't all.
He pressed his head against the tatami and remained prostrate for nearly a minute.

“Please marry Mr. Tōyama.
This is your father’s lifelong request.”

Father shouted while prostrate.
It was a voice that sounded strained to its limits.
Surely he wasn’t crying.

Nami-ko nearly burst out laughing, but in truth, the joke was too cruel.
If Mother saw this, she would cry, Nami-ko thought.
What on earth am I supposed to do with this?
There was nothing she could do.
Surely Father hadn’t gone mad... could he?

Denzō raised his head.
Nami-ko was flustered.
What expression should I make?
It couldn’t be helped.
She silently stared at her father.
In reality, she stared at her father.
She stared at him endlessly.

Denzō also stared at Nami-ko.
However, it was an effort that had overreached itself.
He finally closed his eyes.

Nami-ko did not know what words to answer.
The matter was not one that ought to be influenced by such a manner of approach.
That much at least, she felt she understood.
Since she couldn't find words to respond with, she resolved to remain silent and keep sitting like this no matter what Denzō said.
She would sit there endlessly until Father declared it sufficient.
If she happened upon suitable words in time, it would merely require voicing them then.

How much time had passed? Faced with such an unprecedented situation, measuring time was utterly beyond reach. Whether five minutes or twenty—she couldn't tell. What expressions must all our dear ancestors be watching this with? Nami-ko was utterly disappointed.

At just the right moment, the maid arrived and announced Kusumoto’s visit.
Indeed, from the direction of the entrance came the sound of a voice grumbling, "So he has arrived, hmm?"

Even after the maid relayed the message, Denzō remained motionless for some time.
This was the crucial moment.
Denzō must have been thinking about that. And then, he prostrated himself again.
He pressed his head against the tatami.
A rather long time passed.
And then, when he stood up, he left without leaving a single word or even a glance behind.

When Father’s footsteps faded away, Nami-ko suddenly felt dizzy.
Every ounce of strength drained away.
Every thought drained away.
And then, a small sadness remained—one solitary thing—at the bottom of her chest.

Nami-ko embraced loneliness and sat there for a long time.
And then，the words to answer Father gradually became clear.
Swearing to all ancestors，she firmly resolved in heart that she would never marry young Mr.Tōyama.

Nami-ko modestly approached the Buddhist altar, pressed her palms together in prayer, lit a lamp, and rang the bell.

Must I marry the austere saint?
I detest the austere saint.
Therefore I will not marry the austere saint.

It was a sleep-inducing kind of weariness.
Nami-ko was sobbing.

Seven

On the day she was told to visit young man Tōyama’s house, she went to see a movie instead.
On mornings when young man Tōyama was supposed to visit, she would slip on the maid’s geta in her everyday clothes and go out through the back door to watch the boat races at Sumida River.

That day, she ate dinner out too and returned when people were settling down to sleep.
Without inviting any friends, she spent the day walking alone before coming back.
It was an aching day.

Wherever she went，there were people．
People．People everywhere．
There was no place without people．
She wanted to go somewhere with not a single person around；thinking this，she tried walking．
However，people were everywhere．

Why did she want to go somewhere with no people？
No one was talking to her or getting in her way．
People made footsteps．
People talked．
Children cried．
They threw a ball．
They played harmonicas．

But even in the deep mountains, birds were singing, and the mountain stream roared with a thunderous rush.
The forests too, filled with wind, roared, and even the sea resounded thunderously.
Why did she have to go somewhere with no people?

She rested on a bench in Sumida Park and gazed at the dirty surface of the water.
Roar.
Roar.
Roar—like a jungle beast, she wanted to scream.
Roar.
Roar.
Roar.

In the jungle, no one answered.
My voice became a forest echo and returned.
She listened to that voice.
The vastness made her feel she might faint.
There was a hollow thought—like a strangely parched throat.
I am all alone now.
What she could clearly grasp was probably only that.
But even on a park bench, a person remained all alone.
She picked up a stone and threw it.
It rolled clattering against a child’s foot before falling into the dirty water.
It wasn’t even amusing.

She went out to Asakusa and blended into the unfamiliar crowd.
She collided with the crowd and threaded through the crowd.
Suddenly, she thought about pickpockets.
If I were a pickpocket...

She watched a revue and a movie, then returned home.

That night, Nami-ko saw her mother’s face shedding tears for her own sake for the first time.

Yōko’s mother—Nami-ko’s grandmother—was an unusually bold woman for her time.
The grandmother loved her granddaughter Nami-ko and often accompanied her to Takarazuka revues she found uninteresting—later becoming quite a fan herself—but this same grandmother would frequently describe Nami-ko as “the girl who never shows tears.”

What did it mean to be a woman who never shows tears?
She wasn't particularly clever, and above all, she was a lazy child who disliked cleaning... In short, according to her grandmother, her only merit was that she never showed tears.
There were indeed times when she cried.
That was something she herself knew well.
Nami-ko laughed at her grandmother's assessment being quite off the mark and never took it deeply to heart.

Seeing tears in her mother’s eyes, Nami-ko suddenly realized.
A woman who never shows tears.
Tears—
Nami-ko was taken aback by the poverty of tears.
How impoverished that beautiful mother must be because of her tears!
Even that graceful contour had not collapsed because of the tears.
Her childlike innocence, too, remained unmarred.
Even cool eyes never clouded from the tears.
Mother’s poverty!
Even as she cried, mother remained beautiful.
But she was poor and thin.

Nami-ko stared at Mother.

“Where have you been until now?”

The poor woman’s voice was sharp.
Nami-ko did not attempt to answer.
She was staring at the poor woman.
She was staring at that poverty.

“Is there someone you love?!”

The poor woman shouted.

Nami-ko did not answer.

A strange, profound tension had been constricting Nami-ko’s entire body.
The tension grew intensely sharp and focused; an inarticulate scream threatened to burst forth.
Someone I love!
The poor woman said something incomprehensible.
She had definitely said it just now.
Nami-ko tried to grasp something.
However, everything ran away.
Her body tightened like a single whip.
Only her eyes flew wide open.

“Say it!”
“Who is it?”
“Who is the person you love?!”

“Hahahaha!”

Nami-ko started to laugh.
She pressed her hand to her flushed cheeks and stood up.

Mother also stood up.
Her complexion drained all at once.

“You… —It can’t be…”

Mother transformed into a violent beast and assumed a stance to pounce.
She stood frozen and stared at the daughter.
Despair’s chaos raced through the eyes.

“Ahahahahahaha!”

Nami-ko laughed raucously, overcome.
Nami-ko started walking.
She washed her hands and wiped her face with a wet towel.
She threw the towel aside and hurled her body onto the bed.

“Go already.”
“I’m sleepy.”

And then slumped and lay face down.

8

Denzō had finally noticed that his daughter’s refusal was too vehement.
He had come to realize it wasn’t mere caprice or some trendy ideology.
But even if it wasn’t caprice but rather resolve born of deep contemplation—what could a twenty-one-year-old girl possibly understand?
She didn’t understand men’s hearts.
Marriage was—
Family was—
Happiness was—
She didn’t even know how insipid those things truly were.
A twenty-one-year-old daughter couldn’t comprehend what a twenty-two-year-old’s life entailed.
Let alone thirty years of living—fifty years—she couldn’t possibly grasp those.
All she knew were dreams.

Mediocrity.
Denzō considered this.
If there was but one thing in life without aberration, it was mediocrity alone.
All the rest were mad.
It was a beast.
It was no different from madmen.

Therefore, no matter how vehement Nami-ko’s refusal was, he could not bring himself to abandon Mr. Tōyama.
Nami-ko knew nothing.
No matter how resolutely she might dislike Mr. Tōyama, the basis for it had to be fundamentally tenuous.
For Nami-ko’s own future, though dangerous, it offered no benefit.

But if she—pushed to the extreme—were to commit suicide...
Denzō—having thought that far—grew disgusted.
He adopted the mentality of yielding to the stronger force and did think there was no choice but to heed Nami-ko’s will.
However, when he once again considered mediocrity and came to think of Mr. Tōyama’s utterly ordinary appearance itself, he found himself utterly unable to resign.

Denzō's own life had been mediocre.
From the grand perspective of existence, there was no other way to describe it than as a life of pure mediocrity.
However, even that contained many upheavals and countless madmen—by crushing those upheavals and madmen, he had barely managed to remain mediocre.
He kept numerous concubines.
He ventured into stocks and failed.
He was swept into politics, lost elections, and even when elected squandered vast sums.
Not a single venture he touched succeeded—looking back, wherever his footsteps fell, a lone madman invariably lurked.
That he still maintained a household and lived peacefully seemed nothing short of miraculous.

When imagining himself as her prospective husband—first and foremost—he had been a failure. The fact that he hadn’t reduced his wife and children to destitution and could still live like this was nothing but a result of chance. It wasn’t just him. Most lunatics barely managed to make a living. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine out of ten thousand people were nothing but lunatics. They were merely maintaining their livelihoods by chance.

Denzō contemplated the death flower.
This was altogether different.
In the end, madmen had no choice but to remain madmen until their dying day.
When he had been twenty-five, could that youth have imagined his fifty-year-old self getting childishly drunk on sake, indulging in vulgar talk, still clinging to dreams of samurai glory?
Could he have foreseen it?
He would end up living a mediocre life.
About his own existence, he had always felt this way.
It remained mediocre—an old disgrace he could neither cast off nor accept.

O old bones.
Where do you wander? Where do you go?

Denzō was sad.
There was a man who wanted to build a small munitions factory.
The plan was to persuade Denzō into becoming an investor.
He came every three days to expound on the venture’s promise before departing.
The man left.
Then again, a man who claimed to have discovered a promising gold mine would come.
He would abruptly open his trunk, extract ore samples to display, unfurl an analysis chart, and launch into explanations.
He would spread out a 1:50,000-scale map, indicate the area marked with red lines, and vigorously emphasize that there was even a hot spring in the neighboring village as an added benefit.
He declared he earnestly wished to conduct an on-site inspection at least once.

This man left.
Then, the president of a local newspaper came.
He said, “Please lend me money.”
With tales of having eaten mermaids in Southern China and stories of battling wolves in Manchuria, he bamboozled Denzō with grandiose tales and leisurely made his way home.
Then, again—

"I am not made of wood or stone," he thought.
One after another they came and went; surrounded by these hollow-eyed men, listening to their impassioned pitches, he maintained a cheerful facade while keeping pace.
His performance was seamless.
Even he himself had to admit how skillfully he conveyed his refusal.
The hollow-eyed men departed in high spirits nonetheless.

Yōko appeared in the wake of the departing guests.
“What was the conversation about?” she said.
“It was about buying a coal mining area,” Denzō answered.
Yōko’s face changed color as she stole a glance at Denzō’s face.
“Surely you didn’t give them an answer?”
“And without getting bogged down in muttering, I’d like you to settle Nami-ko’s marriage first,” she said.

I was not made of wood or stone.
I should have bought that mining area.
Denzō suddenly thought.
At any rate, he should have at least gone to investigate the site in person.
...But he did not show it in his expression.
However, Yōko knew.
She had probably already resigned herself to it being something like that.
“What a spine-chilling look they have at first glance.”
“They’re certainly not people you can let your guard down around.”
Yōko added such words, making her disapproval clear.

In one decisive act... Denzō would sometimes think.
But he always lacked the courage.
And yet, he always lacked confidence.
Even in the past, he had lacked confidence.
But in the past, he had done all sorts of things.
It was just like a dream.
Now he... even as a madman, had grown utterly aged and decayed.

“At this point, things like business ventures or politics—you should consider your age,” Yōko said.
“If someone were meant to succeed, they should have made their name long ago.”
“I have had enough of being ordinary.”
“At this point, I don’t even dream of hoping for someone to make a name for you or increase our fortune anymore.”
“If we can live peacefully, isn’t that happiness enough?”

Daughter, then—Denzō had suddenly thought of something.
Perhaps his daughter would understand the sorrow of this aged madman.
It was a darkness that merely blew forth an endless, prolonged sorrow—like the spout of a whale—toward the void: Boo, Boo.
An aged madman.
Taking his daughter’s hand, he hid his aged, tear-streaked face against her chest.
His daughter stroked the aged madman’s salt-and-pepper hair.

“There’s no need to cry.”
“Father.”
“Let’s go on a trip somewhere far away.”
“To the southern lands.”
“A sea glowing blue-green.”
“And then let’s walk through shining woods.”

The daughter wiped away the aged madman’s bitter tears with her slender fingers.

And so, the two of them set out on their journey…

Let’s go on a trip with Nami-ko.
Denzō thought.

And so, the two of them set out on their journey.

In the mountain gorge’s stream, they boarded an ayu boat and ate sweetfish endlessly.
Nami-ko was satisfied with five.
They were large, refreshing sweetfish.

They boarded a steamship and crossed the choppy early autumn sea to reach the island.
On that island stood a Catholic church.
In a tiny fishing village with only a handful of households stood an old-fashioned church from the early Meiji period.
A three-hundred-year prohibition.
The descendants of Christians who had preserved their faith through bloodlines still lived on this island, fished, and cultivated modest fields in the mountain valleys.
A three-hundred-year-old cross and a Santa Maria were displayed on the church altar.

In the villages around here, it was said that in ancient times countless Christians had shed their fresh blood for their Lord.
Now the mountains, forests, and sea were all simply a vivid green without distinction, yet Nami-ko felt an inexplicable nostalgia.

The island’s inn was small, like an ordinary house, and aside from the two capricious travelers, there was not a single other guest.
Unfortunately, it was a day without a bath, and the inn’s daughter came to inform them matter-of-factly.
Denzō had to grovel before the innkeeper to have the bath prepared.

That night, Nami-ko spoke to father.

“Hey, Papa.”

On this island of Christians, I’ll have him give the final answer, Nami-ko thought.

“Hey, Papa... As for me... Even if I don’t get married to Mr. Tōyama—it’s all right, isn’t it?”

Denzō instinctively made a sullen face.

“Instead, if it’s someone else, I generally intend to marry whoever Father recommends.”

Denzō did not answer.
He kept flipping through the pages of the book he had picked up.

“Father.”
“Try seeing things from my perspective.”
“Marrying someone that rigid would feel like becoming a human sacrifice.”
“I’m a selfish, foolish woman.”
“Please find someone more like me.”
“Please.”
“Father.”

Denzō remained sullenly silent.

“Let’s decide that matter in Tokyo with your mother—the three of us together.”

After some time had passed, he merely answered that much.

Before long, he noticed Nami-ko sobbing in the corner of the room.

For the first time, it was Nami-ko who showed tears to her father.
Denzō was at a loss, but soon he abruptly became a spiteful adult.
He became the same kind of adult who would receive the phantoms appearing one after another.

With mere tears… he thought.
But with mere tears—a woman’s tears.
This advantageous match couldn’t be abandoned so easily.
A woman’s tears soon dried up.
Women didn’t even remember having cried.
Whether she liked it or not, he had to make her marry.
In his heart, a beast began to rage without discrimination.

In an instant, he narrowed his eyes slightly—brimming with hatred—and pierced Nami-ko without hesitation.

"Tomorrow, I’ll return to Tokyo," he thought.
The island where the Christian daughters were martyred.
But Nami-ko would not die.
That she couldn’t appreciate this advantageous match—what a hateful creature she was—he fumed.