Pathway to Japanese Literature

I The reason I decided to live in Kyoto was not because the city held any particular significance. It was simply that I could no longer bear being in Tokyo. Having grown weary of staying in my familiar boarding house room, I took my unfinished novel to Udono Shin’ichi’s house and continued working there. The moment I decided to go to Kyoto was when, at Udono’s house, I paused my work and became lost in thought.

“When are you leaving?” “Right now, this minute.” Udono searched out the trunk. It was a small trunk, but with only about a thousand sheets of manuscript paper as luggage, it ended up being excessively large. I said I didn’t need it, but he insisted I take it, arguing that when money got tight, I could sell it for some amount.

Once the unfinished novel was completed, it was scheduled to be published by Takemura Shobō, so I called to inform them of my departure for Kyoto, but no one was there. That night, I stayed at Ozaki Shiro’s house. The next day, Oe from Takemura Shobō also came there, and so it was decided we would hold a farewell banquet—Mr. and Mrs. Ozaki guided Oe and me to a house near Ryogokubashi that served wild boar.

When the car passed in front of Tokyo Station, the military police on guard were imposing. "By the time you return from Kyoto, the scenery around here will have completely changed," Mr. Ozaki Shiro remarked with feeling in early spring of Showa 12 (1937). It was amidst the collapse of the Ugaki Cabinet.

It was the first time I had eaten wild boar. For Ozaki Shiro too, it was his second time; he had first eaten it two or three days prior and, finding himself unable to forget the taste, had brought us there. There was a slight smell, but not enough to be particularly bothersome. It was surprisingly light, and no matter how much one ate, it never sat heavy—or so the commentary went.

In the display window hung three large wild boars. Next to them dangled a monkey too, its face twisted with resentment and an expression that seemed to proclaim it had died in profound sorrow—I couldn't bring myself to eat it. The boars were a carefree bunch. They simply sat plump and perfectly round, now lost in dreams where they appeared to be dancing a step dance with headbands tied around their brows. With pigs or cows, things would never turn out like this. Cows—even their living eyes seemed nervous. Wild boars—even if you guzzled down their corpses right before their eyes, you'd never have to worry about being haunted by vengeful spirits. I ate endlessly. I'm fine.

"It won’t sit heavy," Ozaki Shiro urged. We left there before eight o’clock. Since there was still time before the last train, Oe and I went to bid the woman a brief farewell. Oe said it might be better to leave without a word, but I thought it would be better to make a clean break. Oe and the woman came to see me off at Tokyo Station. It was as if we had already broken up by then, but some emotional connection still remained between us.

“You’d do better not to see me off,” I said to the woman. “There’s no time more unbearable than waiting on the platform for the train to depart.” However, the woman came to see me off.

“I’d meant to casually say a quick goodbye, but as Oe said, it would’ve been better if we hadn’t met at all.” “It’s the end anyway.” “Since we were never supposed to meet again, we should’ve kept those gloomy moments as brief as possible.” “I know.” “I don’t think we’ll ever meet again, and I don’t intend for us to, but at least when we part, say one sweet thing to me.” “Arrange another meeting and just say one thing to me.” I couldn’t respond to that.

“You ought to go travel to some unknown place too.” “You must go entirely alone.” “Do that, and everyone will change.” “People all lock away their unhappiness along with themselves inside their rooms.” “Though there should come a day when someone like me means nothing to you, if you don’t strive to create that day, then your way of living itself is flawed.” “True happiness may not exist in this world, but there must be some measure of it.” “But here and now, none exists.” “Especially seeing someone off on the platform as they depart—isn’t that simply unbearable?”

However, the woman did not leave. She stood rigidly on the platform, not addressing Oe either, just silently staring at my face. Her eyes appeared not merely angry but positively glaring. When the train began moving, she chased it for two or three steps and shouted "Take care of yourself!" with her whole body concentrated into those words. Against my will, tears flowed. Oe saw me off as far as Shinagawa.

II

Oki Waichi's villa was in Saga. At that villa, Oki's sister was recuperating from an illness, making it unsuitable for my stay; he found me a room in Fushimi. On the second floor of a licensed accountant's office, it cost seven yen for an eight-tatami room and a four-and-a-half-tatami room. I had thought it was especially cheap because it stood before an explosives storage, but Fushimi proved to be a place where everything came inexpensive. However, I did not remain long on that second floor. And thus, there remained nothing to tell.

On the evening we moved, Oki and I went out to look for lunchbox shops while having a meal. Near Fushimi Inari, there were plenty of lunchbox shops. However, they were all slightly grimy, making it hard to settle on one. Outside Inari Station on the Keihan Electric Railway, a sign for a lunchbox shop hung. Following where the hand pointed, we entered the alley and found ourselves descending stone steps where gutters perpetually overflowed and dark houses that never saw sunlight crowded together. The alley was a dead end; upon reaching the end and turning, lunchbox shops and questionable inns lined the path that itself terminated in a cul-de-sac. Would customers ever come to such a dirty, dark alley? The house felt somewhat tilted, its walls crumbling, clapboard peeling away, the interior pitch-dark. It wasn’t just customers. It was a place where even a single person wandering in seemed impossible.

“This is too much.”

Oki laughed. I managed a laugh too, but even this sufficed. Rather, I even thought this was precisely suitable. Just to sustain life—that sufficed. Though dirty, it differed in character from ordinary lunchbox shops. It wasn't dirty as a lunchbox shop per se. A dead-end alley with overflowing gutters. A house seemingly devoid of daylight even at noon. Windows perpetually shut, walls crumbling, the structure tilting. Whether from the gutters or elsewhere, a foul stench permeated—filth and darkness so profound it felt fundamentally unfit for human habitation, a place already at its terminus. If mere survival was the aim, this suited me better. I must carry my own light... With this thought, I tried opening the door to enter—but it merely creaked without yielding, showing no sign of occupants. Leaving lunchbox arrangements to our lodgings' caretakers, we emerged onto Inari Street, drank sake, and parted ways.

However, the lunchbox shop that the lodging accountant had requested was this house—and more than that, when after about three months I had to leave these lodgings, the room the accountant found for me instead was a single room on the second floor of this very lunchbox shop. Thus I came to dwell in life's final Dead-End Alley. I don't say this with affectation. This was the same alley where Oki and I had first wandered into that dead end, where we both felt this truth simultaneously and burst into laughter without knowing why.

The vicinity of Fushimi Inari was the cheapest area in all of Kyoto. Fushimi Inari being the head shrine of all Inari shrines meant there were always considerable visitors even on ordinary days. From Inari Station on the Keihan Electric Railway to the shrine path, shops catering to pilgrims stood in rows—what passed for distinctive features here were Fushimi dolls and chicken restaurants that dominated the scene. Yet this chicken was cheap. Of course it was cheap. They were selling rabbit meat there in semi-open fashion. At these small eateries along the shrine approach, a bottle of sake cost fifteen sen with dishes priced to match.

This area was like Kyoto’s garbage dump—the women who worked in bars around Shinkyogoku, specifically the unremarkable ones, all lived here. Moreover, life’s defeated warriors who clung to hopes of fortune’s turnaround eked out meager livelihoods around Inari, glaring at nothing but omikuji slips; even though the narrow shrine approach never lacked its stream of people, not a single soul among that flow rode its economic current. However, the lunchbox shop where I lived stood out conspicuously even among them. The lunchboxes cost thirteen sen per meal—enough to fill even laborers—while I had two meals a day. A bottle of sake cost twelve sen. Moreover, the actual volume was about one gou, and since each barrel cost forty yen, there was hardly any profit to speak of. I drank as much sake as I wanted every night, ate my fill, and managed to live on about twenty yen.

At this lunchbox shop, I spent a full year. If I were to say I got through that entire year with just the dotera I’d worn when leaving Tokyo and two yukata as undergarments, would it seem strange? It was not the slightest exaggeration. When summer came, I would take off the dotera; in spring, without a yukata, I wore the dotera directly against my skin. A certain amount of heat or cold felt the same no matter what one wore. And so, I would occasionally go out to drink and even visited the tea houses in Gion. In such establishments, I wasn’t particularly disliked either. In other words, Kyoto was full of poor students like me; around two-thirds of a serving sufficed. They were aspiring painters. The people who lived with their disheveled hair left to the wind and faces that seemed to entrust their entire lives to the day’s weather called those fellows “painters” or “teachers”—though they couldn’t be treated as equals of Taikado, at least they were treated like human beings. Even the police detectives were the same. Therefore, I too was called a painter and could lead a life that saved effort—one where not shaving or washing my face for about two months didn’t bother me.

III

The lunchbox shop had a sign that read ※（Maruju）Diner but was also called Ueda Diner. Ueda was the housewife’s surname, while the husband’s surname was Asakawa. Even this made it clear the husband was henpecked. The couple had no children of their own and had adopted the housewife’s sister’s child—Asako, seventeen—forming a family of three with no servants. To believe this couple was genuinely married rather than a joke required working through several doubts. Both were forty-three and looked every year of their age—yet she remained a beauty. Her hair curled red and was tied in a small chignon-like bun; her wild-horse snorts punctuated year-round berating of the old man. The male townsman puppets in Bunraku—hands fluttering, heads shaking, knees slapped at dramatic climaxes—moved with boisterous vigor, yet this housewife mimicked their mannerisms despite being a woman. For all her iron will, she recycled the line “I’m just too soft-hearted, see? Can’t handle things like that” enough to serve five people. That she earnestly believed this made it unnerving. She stood five shaku four sun tall yet retained a slender grace—though her thin chest carried no trace of femininity.

On the other hand, the old man—not even reaching five shaku in height—already had a bent back. Though said to be sixty, he looked no younger than seventy or seventy-four. Within the wrinkles was a small, dark-red face, from which two or three large remaining teeth protruded like fangs. When walking, his back wasn’t bent, but when taking a rest, he would shrink like a shrimp. When he sat exhausted in his room, times like needing to fetch something—tobacco or a pipe—from within the same room were particularly severe; he never stood up to walk there. He would always crawl there. Crawling along, he groaned “Uu… uu… uu…” as he went. After picking up the item, he would then crawl back to his original spot with his rear end leading the way, still groaning “Uu… uu… uu…” to keep rhythm as he returned. He perpetually wore his obi carelessly; at the train crossing, he’d tighten the sagging obi, rub his trachoma-ridden eyes, and then wipe his nose with his sleeve.

It was not an ordinary marriage. If theirs was not an ordinary marriage, then how had these two come to be united? Without some measure of romantic feeling, how could that woman have ended up with him? Yet regarding their marriage, I knew almost nothing. I had never even tried to ask. From what I’d casually overheard, the housewife had once worked as a shopgirl at some stall, and that the old man had become infatuated with her and talked her into it. I had never asked how old she’d been during her shopgirl days either—"I was tricked," the housewife would say. The old man had been a notorious playboy in his day—it was claimed he’d been sweet-talked into it—but what truly happened remained unclear. But the old man had been a child of Seigoin Yatsuhashi. Among Kyoto’s many famous products, Yatsuhashi stood as grand champion. Seigoin Yatsuhashi was the undisputed originator, but the old man was its eldest son—albeit born to a concubine. Therefore, by marrying this woman, he had voluntarily left home—meaning he would cede succession rights to the legal wife’s child. It had been a splendid lineage indeed. Yet now, not a trace of that semblance remained; to any observer’s eyes, he could only be seen as the wretched end result of his family’s own ill-bred failure.

The old man drank one bottle of sake with each meal. That alone appeared to be his reason for living. Next came his fondness for Go. Now, there’s a proverb—“what one loves, one excels at”—but there’s also “clumsy obsession.” Yet to be this enamored while remaining this inept defied all reason. He barely grasped the basic principles of life and death. From the outset, improvement seemed impossible. I too had some interest in Go—though I’d later grow engrossed and improve, at this stage I remained indifferent—being roughly at the level where I’d give a nine-stone handicap to a rural first-dan player. But against the old man, even with a nine-stone handicap and a hundred points of komi, I’d still win outright. His stones would be annihilated wholesale. Though absurd enough to deter repetition, I—finding no appeal in other diversions—discovered perverse enjoyment in these games purely as mental distraction. I indulged the old man’s pleas to play along.

The old man’s skills were too divergent; he must have grown self-conscious about it. Before long, he began inviting a man named Seki as a guest. Mr. Seki was forty-three—the same age as our housewife here. He had once run a liquor store in Fushimi but failed spectacularly and now smoldered away in a single room of an Inari apartment. He had been an old acquaintance of the old man’s from liquor dealings years prior. In Go, he occupied a middling position between me and Asakawa—his skill level required me to give him a six- or seven-stone handicap—yet even so, he defeated Asakawa hundreds of times more often.

Because Mr. Seki was unemployed, he came eagerly every night. The lunch shop closed at two o’clock, and Mr. Seki’s Go games would persist until then. Mr. Seki was a man of utmost simplicity—utterly consumed by his own desires and completely lacking in consideration—so he would far rather play against me than against the inept old man. I was utterly perplexed, and the old man sulked. I too had grown weary and devised a plan here. This was an absolutely brilliant plan at the time, but it later transformed into a disastrous scheme—a self-imposed trap where we ended up digging our own graves.

I persuaded the old man and decided to have him open a Go club. Fortunately, the second-floor hall of the lunch shop had been left vacant, and since this was a separate building from my own second-floor room, even if a large number of customers came, it wouldn’t be noisy. In a Go club, beginners will inevitably appear, so the old man was perfectly suited to be their opponent. Next, I would make Mr. Seki the caretaker of the Go club. The Go space simultaneously became Mr. Seki’s bedroom, and though there was no salary, meals were provided. Since Mr. Seki’s wife was a housekeeper for Hayashi Chōjiro and provided him with food, clothing, and shelter from her meager salary, it was just right. Next was me—with just a ten-second walk, I could play Go whenever I wanted, at my convenience. It was a triple win-win-win.

The Go Club didn’t even require police permission. Mr. Seki’s fervor knew no bounds. I too got swept up in the excitement and was about to paint the signboard with my clumsy lettering when even the notoriously stingy old man forcibly stayed my hand and went out himself to commission a sign painter—such was the zeal of our endeavor. Whether out of artistic flair or perverse inspiration, this sign painter created a board for our Go parlor—a tilting den at the alley’s deepest pit where monsters might materialize—rendered in white ground with crimson characters in such florid script it could’ve been mistaken for an art society’s placard. The old man hung it triumphantly at the dead-end alley’s mouth; alight from the tram stop and it seized every eye.

However, with three amateurs, maintaining the Go parlor proved difficult. So they hired a first-dan player. As it turned out, this first-dan player proved disastrously unpopular. When they tried switching to another first-dan player, this one got panned, that one got panned. Once the regulars’ roster had solidified, they were all even worse than I was, and declared they didn’t need any Sensei—they just wanted to play Go. The regulars held a meeting and unanimously decided to dismiss Sensei. However, one or two strong players would come each day. Because all the regulars were hacks, they ended up never coming again. In Kyoto, someone of my appearance was considered a painter—that is, Sensei—and the old man called me Sensei. The old man was a man of poor memory, and even when express letters came to my place, he would say, “Huh? Mr. Sakaguchi? Can’t say I’ve heard that name before.” Therefore, he constantly messed up customers’ names in nonsensical ways, and behind his back, they were referred to by code names. Therefore, in this house, I was a man without a name—always Sensei, merely Sensei, and nothing other than Sensei. In the end, even to the regulars of the Go club, I had become merely Sensei—nameless, and unable to be anything other than Sensei.

Since everyone called me Sensei, strangers naturally assumed I was a Go instructor. Since these unfamiliar customers were generally far stronger than me, I panicked too. Before long, that Go club became known as the Duffer’s Club. Rumors spread that there was some remarkable Sensei at the club, and everyone marveled at how cleverly they’d dubbed it the “Duffer’s Club,” roaring with hollow laughter—but when I came to my senses, I realized it was all about me. With so many regulars gathered, you’d think there’d be at least one halfway decent player among us—we exchanged glances—but when it came down to it, among the regulars, I was both the strongest and the youngest after all. “Sensei, you better count on us,” went the reasoning, so I steeled my resolve and began rigorous training under a second-dan teacher named Shima. Dreams when asleep, illusions when awake—day after day, it was nothing but Go. Go books soon piled up in my room, newspaper clippings lay scattered about, and I’d read Go strategy cards while walking down streets. Since I frequented the Go club, a Tokkō detective I knew tapped my shoulder on Shijō Street and said, “Quite the scholar, aren’t you?” My walks consisted solely of hunting for Go books in used stores—I’d practically bought up every secondhand Go volume in Kyoto. In exchange, after two months passed, I could at least play rural first-dan players with a three-stone handicap. Nearby lived Chinu no Urakoshu, a naniwa-bushi master who was the strongest locally and had first promoted the Duffer’s Club. Before long he started appearing at the Go club again, and I came to play him on equal terms.

The light that had burned in my chest when I abandoned Tokyo was no more. No—even when I first came to live in this dead-end alley's lunchbox shop, there should still have been a glowing thing burning in my chest.

The neighboring second floor was a hostel for waitresses with red kimonos hanging limply; below lay a storage shed with a shattered window, its corner housing a factory where a spinning wheel buzzed relentlessly. The rear opened to a junk dealer's yard cluttered with scrap piles, where a loudspeaker radio crackled incessantly day and night and marital squabbles erupted without end. Yet through the north-facing window stretched the lush Hiei Mountains in verdant clarity. But for me, there remained only a darkened room where no sliver of light could penetrate. Dust settled on manuscript paper atop the desk as I hauled my hollowed frame across the floor, burrowing into chilled bedding. Devoid even of regret, I found that drinking only stoked indiscriminate rage toward all who crossed my path.

Every night at twelve o'clock, they stopped playing Go. The boozers among the regulars would gather downstairs in a circle to drink twelve-sen's worth of sake. Yamaguchi—the villa caretaker who'd left the police force—was an alcoholic; blood continuously seeped from his scalp, which he'd wipe away with paper before gulping cups of sake. Sugimoto Rōjin from Gion Otsu's geisha registry would only interject with bawdy tales before lapsing into folk song hums. The duo peddling bogus brain tonics—one in a stamped happi coat, the other in formal haori and hakama—flinched at every door creak, likely fearing either brawl opponents or detectives. The fortune-teller making his living through Four Pillars Divination at Inari Mountain would indiscriminately cast hexagrams for regulars only to lament how wretched all their fates were—too pitiful to disclose truthfully—and indeed I couldn't help agreeing this was probably so. This diviner wore a brown beard and bore the face of a man in his mid-fifties despite claiming thirty years. The old man renting a teahouse's upper floor to administer dubious light therapy on shrine pilgrims glared like a killer, while the one-eyed ex-sailor masseur told such obscene jokes that even Sugimoto Rōjin averted his gaze. It was a Night Parade of Demons. Yet I commanded this Night Parade of Demons. Mr. Seki would accept cups from everyone—seemingly poised for pleasantries before picking quarrels or making snide remarks—while the old man alone stayed silent, curled shrimp-like in limp resignation. Amidst it all, only the housewife cut through with her gamecock screech—slapping knees, brandishing her pipe-hand like a scepter—chattering no less vigorously than any man present.

They drank their fill, slept their fill, and managed to live on about twenty yen. If only one could stop thinking—what hollow peace that would be. And I—I feared thinking more than anything else, drinking instead of thinking. To put it another way: they sold their souls to this twenty-yen existence, and whenever they came into extra money, would choose one demon from their hundred-strong horde to lead off in search of women. The sole redeeming quality of this crowd was that at least they’d never tried to seduce the housewife.

“Hey, Auntie.” “Why don’t you just die already?” “I’ll take care of the rest once you’re gone.” I heard this kind of blunt joke at least once a day. Someone would always be the one to bring it up. The old man bared his teeth and laughed, “Heh-heh-heh.” He wasn’t necessarily angry. No—he had simply given up. But could he ever truly give up completely?! That said, these days, this joke had become something like a seasonal greeting for the lunchbox shop. “Even with one foot in the coffin, what a tenacious bastard he is.” “Now, now, don’t hold your breath.” This joke passed as humor, and they were laughing themselves silly. This was certainly a joke. However, it was also certainly not a joke. Because—how fiercely had the housewife been wishing for her husband’s death? Was her prayer not directed solely toward that end?

There was a yakuza boss who would come to inspect Inari Mountain and then drop by here afterward. Then the housewife would begin applying makeup, and the boss would plant himself in the back tearoom to start drinking. When the boss grew drunk, his underlings would all leave. Then the old man too, dismissed by the housewife’s glance, would crawl into the second-floor Go area as usual, groaning “Uuu, uuu, uuu” all the while. With veins throbbing on his forehead, he began playing Go in silence at a frantic pace. Ah—another peculiar visitor has arrived, I thought. People grasped this immediately, but how many had ever spared sympathy for the old man? Not one soul harbored a shred of pity, nor even furrowed a brow. No—rather, people had persuaded themselves such a destiny was inevitable.

Though not a Go regular, this somewhat portly man in his mid-fifties who operated a stonemasonry business in Fushimi had developed a fixed routine of coming to drink once a month and staying for fifteen or sixteen hours straight—it seemed he came to verify that the old man still hadn’t died.

IV

The Four Pillars diviner cast a fortune at Mr. Seki’s request. He came to me, but with Mr. Seki’s fortune, there was nowhere to grasp hold of it and offer him comfort. He declared him a natural-born defeated remnant who would only sink further into decline from here on out. What could possibly lie beyond this downward spiral? But I, too, could not help but believe it was true.

Looking around at all the regulars of the Go club, Mr. Seki alone stood out as an innocent man. But in rock-bottom existence, the innocent ones were the least likely to be saved. Mr. Seki had become the target of criticism among the Go club's regulars. Among them was a yuzen dyeing craftsman named Soma—a man who had carried a red flag at the forefront of Yamamoto Senji's funeral procession. Driven by a hot-blooded sense of justice, he would occasionally pick defiant brawls, yet remained a thoroughly unmalicious fellow. In innocence, he was no different from Mr. Seki and generally understood what I said, but he simply couldn't get along with Mr. Seki.

Mr. Seki prioritized his own enjoyment over business. When customers came, he would be overjoyed, serving tea half-heartedly as he challenged them to a game. He would immediately become engrossed. When defeated, he resented it profusely—getting worked up about how “this loss was just bad luck” and “I’m actually stronger”—but when victorious, he’d instantly cheer up and boast loudly, “You’re terrible at this!” Everything about him was blunt and abrasive. What’s more, he was so engrossed in the matches that even when customers crowded in afterward, he wouldn’t pour tea or even bring out cushions. The regulars managed on their own somehow, but unfamiliar customers sat blankly by themselves no matter how long they waited. This was because Mr. Seki did not bother to find suitable opponents for them. Inevitably, the number of regulars did not increase.

The seat fee was ten sen per day, and membership was one yen per month. If you called it cheap, it was dirt cheap—but in the Inari neighborhood, absolutely everything was cheap. In the end, their only income was the regulars’ membership fees, which apparently brought in just twenty-four or twenty-five yen a month. Because their income wasn’t increasing, the old man and the housewife were griping nonstop. When Mr. Seki served himself a third helping of rice, they glared at him sideways; when only about two helpings’ worth remained in the rice tub, he would mutter incessantly about how “this line of work doesn’t even require moving your body” or some such complaint. Then the regulars responded in unison: “The service is terrible! Whether we win or lose, your attitude stinks!” It became as noisy as a gossip session at the wellside. At rock bottom, there’s no room for patience or compassion. Selfish, self-centered—the service of a single cup of tea became a matter that reflected one’s very character.

Mr. Seki promptly sulked and began devoting himself solely to laying out cushions and pouring tea, initiating a one-man strike where he absolutely refused to play Go. Even when opponentless customers pleaded, “Mr. Seki, how about a game?” he would answer, “No, I can’t do that.” “Gotta keep pourin’ tea, see?” “This here’s my duty now.” He responded in this manner. And there he sat, veins throbbing at his temples, sulking. The customers’ opinion of him deteriorated further. “I tried enduring things like Sensei told me to...” Mr. Seki came to me declaring he couldn’t take it anymore—he’d find another job. Twice he actually secured employment and disappeared. Yet both times, by the fourth day, he’d already returned.

The housewife came to my room. It was still morning. She shook me awake, mumbling, “Really, Sensei, I’m awful sorry to disturb your rest, but…”—then explained that she’d gone upstairs upon hearing a noise from the second floor, only to find Mr. Seki had returned and was cleaning and wiping down Go boards. “What’s wrong with that?” “If he’s come back, just let him stay.” I pulled the futon over myself. When I got up around noon and went downstairs, Mr. Seki was bustling about with a workman’s sash tied around him, splashing bucket after bucket of water across the kitchen’s earthen floor to wash it down, and even cleaning the toilet while he was at it. Normally, he’d neglect even cleaning the Go boards and would never do something like wiping them down.

Apparently, he had once worked as a head clerk at a kimono shop in Fushimi. Mr. Seki was also prone to exaggeration. It was probably something like a manservant or bathhouse attendant, but I recounted his story as he had told it. Their daughter was a fifth-year student at a girls’ school—somewhat simpleminded but said to be a stunning beauty—who couldn’t stop making eyes at Mr. Seki. If she had been a maid or even a divorced daughter past her prime, it might have been one thing, but for a man of forty-three to carry on with the master’s schoolgirl daughter was something his conscience couldn’t allow. One evening, the daughter entered the bath later than anyone else, and just as Mr. Seki unwittingly opened the bath door, there she stood naked, beckoning him over. He said he had fled here because he could no longer endure the blatant advances.

The second time was at a small Yuzen dyeing workshop owner’s private residence. The owner was a widow around forty—a woman rumored to frequently bring young monks into her home for purposes unrelated to sutras—who gave Mr. Seki a meaningful look telling him to come secretly that night. Just as I thought it couldn’t be true, she began pacing the hallway outside Mr. Seki’s room late at night, though it wasn’t even on the way to the toilet. Though it was only his second day on the job and far too soon by any measure, when he decided not to go that night, the widow’s attitude turned hostile the next day—practically ordering him out—until he found it unbearable and returned, or so he claimed.

Mr. Seki’s stories were all like this. Of course, they held no truth. Yet he would hunt down each and every regular, making them listen to this story one by one. Of course, this included me, the old man, and the housewife. Even when teased with things like “Mr. Seki, you’re quite the ladies’ man again, aren’t ya?” he would just chuckle—“Heh heh heh, oh, not at all”—and seem pleased. If someone were to so much as suggest it was all made up, he would flare up with bulging veins. “No, that ain’t true at all.” Sitting up straight and trembling as he glared at them—“Well then, go on and ask ’em yourself!” “Who’d go traipsing off to some kimono shop just to get asked about your family’s simpleminded daughter…?” It was a fury as though the very foundation of his existence had been doubted and threatened.

However, from the Go club's perspective, even while being so detested and driven away, Mr. Seki ultimately remained indispensable. How could anyone live without pride? Even Mr. Seki possessed pride. Yet every single person methodically crushed that pride. What all these people demanded of him boiled down to one thing: "Don't presume equality with us—become the Go club's slave." The compensation consisted solely of a bedroom and leftovers from thirteen-sen set meals. Though volunteers for caretaker position abounded, none matched Mr.Seki's circumstances. Thus when Mr.Seki first returned, the diner's old man and housewife would adopt sullen expressions while piling side dishes onto his meals and letting him gorge on unlimited rice.

Apart from the Go area, the second floor of this house had two rooms. Not long after I moved into one of those rooms—though I can’t recall exactly when—a young man called Nonbiri-san arrived in the other. He was apparently the third son of the housewife’s sister—a twenty-six-year-old Western-style tailor from Wakayama. Just as I went by the nameless title of Sensei, this man too was known as Nonbiri-san—I never learned his full name at all. He had studied Western-style tailoring in Tokyo but fell ill and returned home, where he drifted about for a year without fully recovering; then his mother and the Maruju housewife exchanged letters and neatly drove him out of his hometown to seek work in Kyoto.

He was called Nonbiri-san, but there was nothing laid-back about him. He was always fidgety, and whenever he started talking, foam gathered at the corners of his mouth while sweat beaded on his face. Perhaps owing to his sedentary work, his legs had grown extremely thin and bowlegged; whether sitting, standing, or walking, he perpetually wore a look of bewilderment. From birth onward, it seemed he had never been liked by others—always treated as a nuisance throughout his upbringing. What sort of arrangement had the two sisters made through their letters? Put another way, even the Maruju housewife appeared to have been hoodwinked in this affair. Naturally, it went without saying that the man himself would pay his lodging fees once employed—there must have been an agreement for his family to cover expenses until then. Yet after shipping him off along with his futon, they became as unresponsive as stones thrown at pear trees—not a single sen ever arrived. Three months passed, then four, with no job prospects materializing.

However, he had managed to get a job for about three weeks during that time. He was promptly driven out. The way he was driven out this time was again so bizarre that no one else could possibly have managed it this way. The shop had five fellow craftsmen, among whom was one particularly skilled man—not only adept at his work but also having mastered pilfering fabric from the warehouse to sell off for drink and women. When night work ended, the craftsmen would all go out together for drinks or something, with about half covered by that skilled craftsman and the rest taking turns treating each other. Nonbiri-san alone never paid. He would make excuses like, “I was just about to pay when someone else went and did it,” or “I’m not used to these outings—don’t even know how to settle up,” but ultimately he was the sort who’d invite Mr. Seki—who presumably had no money to begin with—out to a café for coffee and invariably make him foot the bill.

When I went out for a walk, he would silently trail behind. After three or four blocks, he'd call out "Sensei" for the first time and fall into step beside me, never leaving my side thereafter. From Inari's mountain through Tōfukuji Temple, past Sanjūsangendō Hall, emerging from Miyagawachō onto Shijō Avenue into Shinkyōgoku—still he clung like a shadow. Even when I said, "I'll take my leave here," he'd protest, "But Sensei, I ain't botherin' ya none," and when I ducked into a bar, he'd slip in right after. He never ordered anything himself, just sat there pressed against my side. With no other recourse, I'd get him something—whereupon he'd whine, "Sensei, leave off now—I never wanted nothin'," then grudgingly eat it like he was doing me a favor.

"Sensei, got somethin’ I wanna ask ya," he said, darting his narrow eyes that seemed neither open nor closed. "So... what’s the trick to grabbin’ a girl’s hand right when ya mean to?" "I’m dyin’ to do it, but I’m such a coward—heart poundin’ like mad, can’t move a muscle..." He kept spoutin’ this kinda talk. He wasn’t the sort you could talk down gentle-like. I flew into a rage and chased him out like some stray dog. Why I’d gotten angry—course he couldn’t fathom that.

There was no reason for him to be loved by his colleagues. He was quickly disliked and subjected to every possible annoyance they could muster within their own lives. He had even his side dishes taken away, and with no other choice, he would gulp down nothing but rice with tea every day. Finally, unable to endure it any longer, he went to report to his employer. He listed the numerous insults he had received and exposed how that skilled craftsman was pilfering fabric from the warehouse to squander on drink and women. However, the employer, who up until then had been humming along, upon hearing this report, suddenly bellowed, “Bastard!” he barked. “I’d known all that already.” “It’s because he has that much skill that I let him do as he pleases.” “What about you?” “I’m firing you right now—get out.” “A craftsman who can’t even socialize with friends is dead weight in this shop.” And so he had been driven out. Startled into pallor and unable to devise a way to retrieve his futon and belongings, he bolted out in a panic—only to return to the diner three weeks later with a blank face around three o'clock in the dead of night. Even he, it was said, had sat down on a park bench and been at a loss.

In short, this man was abnormally sullen and taciturn—incapable of understanding others' sensibilities yet himself nervously fidgety—in no way embodying any semblance of being laid-back. Even nicknames coined by uneducated people generally strike at some essential truth about their bearers, containing elements that compel recognition. Yet with Nonbiri-san alone, there existed nothing that made people nod in comprehension. Considering this, one must conclude that whoever bestowed this nickname had been thoroughly deranged. That is to say, while this epithet too had its legitimate basis—indeed a single overwhelming justification—all other attributes of his character had been utterly erased and inverted by that solitary cause. So powerfully did this lone reason constitute the foundational pillar of those people’s worldview. For the diner’s housewife and old man, this single pillar comprised their entire existence—all other qualities mattered not. And thus if one were to ask how this young man came to be called Nonbiri-san, it stemmed solely from this one fact: his lodging payments were perpetually lagging behind.

However, it couldn’t be helped that Nonbiri-san—who had no income—was falling behind on his payments. He still did not want to work in Kyoto. He had wanted to recuperate from his illness in his hometown a while longer. His mother and aunt had arbitrarily discussed matters via letter and sent him off along with his futon as if he were a piece of luggage. Not only that—how could a woman who styled herself a housewife have anticipated this situation? Needless to say, she must have been scheming for profit. Even relationships like those between sisters or parents should have never considered anything beyond their own calculations. Considering this, her sister must have been an even more cunning performer. The pitiable one was Nonbiri-san—hounded for payment at every meal, met each time the rice tub’s lid was lifted with the housewife’s bloodless face glaring sidelong at him. “I… I’d gone and wanted to kill myself.” And he would mutter such things.

At that time, Mr. Seki showed kindness. The next day, he urged Nonbiri-san to come along and went to apologize to his employer. The following day, he went out alone. When he realized even that was futile, the next day he returned with Nonbiri-san’s belongings loaded onto a cart. “No need to fret—it’s fine.” “It’ll work out.” “I’ll find you proper work for sure.” Mr. Seki steeled himself. And true enough, he went job-hunting for Nonbiri-san about once every ten days—or rather, perhaps once a month. Naturally, these were wasted trips. Had Mr. Seki truly searched for work? He might have simply barged into some retired acquaintance’s home and returned after playing Go.

The Japan-China Incident began. The Kyoto division deployed. The division commander was wounded. As mentioned before, the old man was born into Seigoin Yatsuhashi, but in exchange for relinquishing the family headship, he obtained from his son—not the housewife’s child—the rights to manufacture yatsuhashi and had him produce yatsuhashi with a different mark from Seigoin’s. It was decided that this yatsuhashi would be supplied to the division as military provisions. The son swelled with self-importance. Having abandoned his birth mother and run off with a woman, he treated the old man—now aged in meager circumstances—like a menial servant. Out of veiled spite toward the housewife, the old man rejoiced as if it were his son’s success and, even while being treated like a servant, put on the airs of a consultant. As for why he had come to the old man’s house—a place he’d never once visited—it turned out he was there to demand they pack boxes of yatsuhashi for military delivery. They would pack them into small cardboard boxes to sell for ten or twelve sen each, but this box-packing paid one rin per box—one sen for ten boxes—so after packing a hundred, you’d finally earn ten sen in wages. Enough with the jokes—even an eight-year-old girl these days wouldn’t do such work. Packing a single box was arduous enough with its stubborn corners. Yet the old man agreed without hesitation. Cost meant nothing. Overjoyed at his son’s success and with two idle hands in Nonbiri-san and Mr. Seki, he must have thought even the mere ten sen coming in would bring joy.

The truck was parked at the entrance to the Dead-End Alley, a mountain of yatsuhashi was piled up between the bedroom and tearoom, and both Mr. Seki and Nonbiri-san were conscripted. However, Mr. Seki—after packing twenty boxes—fled upstairs with the excuse that a customer had arrived, while Nonbiri-san, without even finishing five, escaped upstairs as well, claiming he’d felt unwell since morning and was about to have a bout of anemia, then crawled under his futon and went to sleep. Since then, Nonbiri-san hadn’t lifted a finger toward the yatsuhashi, while Mr. Seki—only when persistently nagged by the old man—would do about ten boxes at a time before concocting excuses about customers arriving or having errands today and fleeing. “You’ve only done eighty,” the old man snapped. When told, “It’s just eight sen, isn’t it?” he snapped back, “I don’t need that money—you can keep it.” Having coldly declared this, he went upstairs. Mr. Seki was being quite spiteful. Of course, it was wrong to foist such cheap work on them under the guise of kindness. However, the malice was not in the old man. Lo and behold, his son came roaring up in a car to inspect the work, expecting it to be nearly finished, but in reality, they hadn’t even completed a tenth of it. He bellowed furiously at his own father, and after that, began coming to inspect every night as if it were routine. The old man could no longer handle lunchbox deliveries. Entrusting the shop’s work to the housewife, he devoted himself to packing boxes from morning until midnight, with trembling hands haphazardly crushing yatsuhashi and forcing them into boxes. When things had come to this pass, even the housewife had no choice. She could no longer tend to her oil sales either and began assisting with box-packing instead. Seething with marrow-deep resentment, she ran upstairs. “Aren’t they just the most selfless people?” she sneered. “Those born as nobles aren’t like the rest of us.” “Well now, listen up, y’all,” she crowed in a rooster-like voice to the various regulars.

However, ultimately, the fault lay with the old man who had been forced into this unreasonable task. Who besides the old man would take on such work? Yet to exploit the weak-willed old man—driven by love for his child, working joyfully for his sake without self-interest—and foist upon him this thankless labor… truly, the son was peerless in his cunning. However, whether out of paternal love or sheer stubbornness, the old man refused to the bitter end to believe that he had been cleverly saddled by his son with this unreasonable task for which there were no takers. And so, without even playing his beloved Go, veins bulging as he groaned “Ugh… ugh… ugh,” he finally managed to pack all the boxes. That wasn’t all. Even though he already knew that Mr. Seki and Nonbiri-san’s assistance was unavailable, he accepted a second truckload. And thus, this too had finally been dealt with. Was it from blind love, or from spite? It was a terrifying display of stubbornness.

However, even concerning this matter, there was a superfluous addition. "How in God's name do you call this stubbornness?" "And how exactly do you call this stubbornness?" said the housewife to me. "It’s greed, I tell ya." "Go on and tally it up as five or six thousand." "That’s quite a sum. Once you’ve forgotten that tallying nonsense—will you take care of this?" "That’s right, I tell ya." With that, the old man looked up at me as I drank my sake and let out a wheezing chuckle. It was innocent to a divine extent.

Postscript: Due to lack of time, I have tentatively titled this work *Koto*, but as I am entirely dissatisfied with it, I will change the title when it is published next time.

(Unfinished)