Pathway to Japanese Literature

I When the dining section closed at 2:30, the register and room maids would leave for meals after assigning someone to the coat check and exchange counter. No signals rang from the guest rooms, no customers came to the front desk, and aside from a few outsiders remaining in the lounge, the area called the social department stayed quiet until around four o'clock.

When she finished sorting the meal vouchers from eight o’clock until lunch and tossed them into the room-specific sorting shelves, Tsurushiro’s duties for the day were done. She didn’t even feel like taking the train back to her flat to sleep. As she let her mind grow hazy in the wicker chair of the side room, Kawada wandered into the front. What was the occasion? Today he was unusually well-dressed. He wore a gray jacket—said to be evening wear in the American West—paired with tuxedo trousers, a yellow mimosa flower pinned to his lapel.

“Aren’t you going to say ‘welcome’ at least?” “Welcome.” “You’re sitting in a strange spot. Why don’t we go to the lounge?” “Here’s fine, don’t you think? It makes no difference anywhere.” “Forgot to buy cigarettes. Mind sparing me one?” “There should be leftover Arcadia around here somewhere.” “Around where exactly? Just get up for a second.” “Maybe it was in the desk drawer. I don’t recall. If it’s your smokes, you should look yourself.”

“This is a nervous breakdown. Your mother was reluctant to move too, but she wasn’t like this.”

Kawada entered the front desk, found the Arcadia can, and sat in the adjacent chair to begin puffing on his pipe. The skin of his throat had sagged with age, and whether from alcohol burn or sunburn, his neck was red as if painted with suō dye—making that area resemble a turkey’s wattle. When Kawada wore his sturdy high-collared work uniform, standing at the bow of the harbor department’s boiler with red-and-white pilot flags raised, drenched head to toe in spray as he headed out to sea, he was the very image of a straightforward old salt. But when properly dressed up, a gambling den yakuza air seeped into his bearing, transforming him into an entirely different sort of man.

“Since there are three shifts today, you’ve got some free time on your hands, huh?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m about to go back to sleep.” “Sleeping at your flat on such a fine day? Can’t help it if you’re being so drab. Isn’t there some man who’d dress you in a stylish frock and take you out to the American Club? What happened to that good-looking, bewildered fellow who looked like a chicken forced to walk around plucked?” “What happened to him? I don’t know.” “Yuu’s mother never did anything like falling in love either. With that dignified face of hers—like an ancient ceremonial doll—she was so serious she made everyone around her fret endlessly. You’re just the same. I sometimes marvel at how you resemble her in both face and temperament.”

“I’ve never once thought about wanting to resemble Mother.” “It can’t be helped—I’m just this sort of girl.”

“That may be so—” “A great Western person said it—that things like love and ambition wear down your vitality and shorten your life. If you want longevity, you mustn’t indulge desires.”

“Human life’s just like money—it holds together through balances of all sorts—so isn’t it downright foolish to try hoarding life by itself?” “First off, that’s not something a girl your age ought to be spouting.” “That’s talk for someone who’s licked every last speck of love’s grime.” “Either way, you’re one difficult customer.” “Can’t make heads or tails of what girls these days are thinking.” “With your mother, at least there were threads to follow—but...”

At the age of fourteen, Tsurushiro was summoned by her mother and went to America. She had grown up at her grandmother’s place in the countryside, and it was at the immigration bureau’s cafeteria that she first saw the face of the person called her mother.

At that time, Kawada Junpei ran a Japanese restaurant called Mikasa in Kuwan’s Japantown, and until their departure day for New York, the two of them had relied on him. Along both sides of the narrow town stretched nothing but food shops to an astonishing degree—sushi, soba, tempura restaurants, oden—while a line of automobiles spanning the town’s width flowed without pause like a black current from morning till midnight, blaring klaxons and whistles. The local Japanese spoke in a careless mix of Japanese laced with English as if perpetually quarreling, with no trace of calm to be found anywhere. That such a wretched town could exist—Tsurushiro had detested life in America from that moment onward.

The Japanese association in New York was divided into three factions: one representing diplomats and banking affiliates, another comprising shop clerks and small merchants, and a third centered around boarding houses, religious organizations, and student clubs; however, there also existed a group called the Third Street Group whose names never appeared on the Japanese residents registry. A large circle formed solely by those who drifted from the west through the Midwest to the east—gamblers, brawlers, itinerant drifters, deserting sailors, illegal immigrants, and smuggling peddlers; people who didn't even dream of Japan—nearly all lived on Third Street and absolutely never showed their faces at Japanese clubs.

Tsurushiro’s mother’s shop was also located in the middle of Third Street. In Obara Tojo’s territory, the third-floor hall had become a gambling den where seven or eight professional gamblers—their fingernails missing from their hands—were always waiting for customers. When Tsurushiro had first arrived in America, she had gazed with puzzlement at Kawada’s hands with their missing fingernails, but upon hearing that gamblers stripped their nails to sharpen sensitivity in their fingertips for handling cards—and seeing that even those called bosses or moneylenders like Obara and Ishin did the same—she later concluded that Kawada too must be a professional gambler.

Three years later, when her mother died, severing Tsurushiro’s ties to America as she prepared to return to Japan, someone offered to pay her college tuition. There had been moments when envisioning herself in a black gown on Wellesley Women’s College’s campus—its grounds shaded by elm and maple groves, castle-like buildings rising beyond—her heart quickened with excitement. Yet sensing something fundamentally incompatible with life in that country, she ultimately declined the offer and returned to Japan.

In November, just before the outbreak of war, Kawada sold off Mikasa—a five-story building with an elevator—for a mere $2,500, transferring it as-is with fixtures and a full set of tableware and furniture included, then promptly returned to Japan aboard the final voyage of the Tatsuta Maru. During the war, he had served as operations chief for the Akatsuki Corps; after Japan’s surrender, he became a harbor pilot for the Occupation Forces, receiving a small flat and jeep. Beyond slipping through the hotel’s back entrance to eat subsidized dinners in the staff cafeteria, he spent his days either at lunch or aboard incoming ships. His gambling days were apparently grueling, but when he started Mikasa, he quit that line of work completely—not even touching the edge of a playing card—and his face took on a comical look like that of a "pumpkin old man," leaving nothing to remind one of the past. Neither had ever mentioned America or brought up Tsurushiro’s mother before, but today Kawada was different from his usual self.

“What year was it when Yuu came to San Francisco with her mother? If you called it interesting, it was an interesting time.” Tsurushiro scrutinized Kawada’s profile as she thought: the recent talk of high-stakes poker matches at Honmoku nightclubs and salon studios aboard incoming ships—might Kawada himself be brokering these? Gamblers dressing meticulously always signaled their involvement in work. Perhaps he too, unable to fully go straight, had begun showing his true colors.

“Mr. Kawada, you’ve been bringing up Yuu’s mother an awful lot today, you know. What’s the matter?” “What do you mean, ‘What’s the matter?’” “Nostalgia for the past is a dangerous sign. You’re not starting that again, are you?” “You’re talking nonsense.” “Where on earth do you plan to go all dressed up like this? Throw away that mimosa flower.”

“I don’t mind tossing it, but let’s leave it be a while longer—since it’s Easter. A little office girl pinned it on me.”

So today was Easter. The buyers from Belgian Congo, Egypt, Greece, and other countries—for whom Japan remained a novelty—had taken their Easter holidays and departed for Kyoto sightseeing yesterday. She hadn’t recalled it for years, but the Easter commotion of New York rose before her eyes. Even the Japanese residents of Third Street were buoyant with excitement, wearing lilac and mimosa blossoms.

“Today was Easter, wasn’t it? Don’t just mope around here—hurry up and get yourself to the party.” “If there’s such a thing, I’ll head straight there.”

“So you dressed up and came to me—is that it?” “I thought I’d have a cocktail while looking at Yuu’s face in the lounge. There’s no obligation that we absolutely must celebrate Easter, but—”

“What a lonely thing to say, Mr. Kawada.” “Then shall we go somewhere to amuse ourselves?”

“Oh! You mean it? I wanted to say that earlier, but you’re such a difficult person.” “There might be an interesting place to enjoy ourselves.”

“Hmm, how about that place? Last night, the President Line’s Wilson entered port on its return voyage. There’s a good beauty salon and something like a department store. They said there’s an Easter dance party. How about going to the beauty salon, having a meal, and then dancing?”

II

From the edge of the wharf to the buffer stop fence, sedans and jeeps stood lined up in rows, their bright lights spilling from both portholes and tandem cabin windows to create a bustling atmosphere like that of a theater’s grand entrance.

Tsurushiro was no longer bothered by the borrowed frock, having layered another party dress of the same pale cream color over her three-tiered taffeta petticoat, letting the ankle-length hem sway loosely as she ascended the gangway with her arm in Kawada’s, and found it thoroughly enjoyable. The bar room continued into a spacious ballroom where small tables bearing candleholders with colored tapers were scattered with studied nonchalance around its perimeter and on the bleacher-like mezzanine. To the languid melody of a waltz motif—the sort a drunkard might hum—about twenty couples swayed in dance.

Pairs of men and women staggered about like marionettes suspended by threads from the ceiling, lurching to a lifeless melody; they would collapse onto the floor in tangled heaps only to rise again and resume their sluggish shuffle. It was a demented dance—like soulless human shells strolling about. “What on earth do you call this dance?” “It’s Somvie.” “A new style of waltz that was popular in America before the war, but who cares about that sort of thing.” “We’ve got our own way here.”

With her arm in Kawada’s, they entered the neighboring bar room adorned with a red neon sign, where a man around fifty years old—dressed impeccably in a well-tailored cutaway—leaned against the standing counter, his refined profile turned toward them as if chiseled from cheese as he quietly sipped from his glass. With movements so elegant they seemed almost conspiratorial, the refined manner in which he held his glass bordered on the absurd.

Kawada stopped at the bar entrance, then leaned his face close to Tsurushiro and whispered. “Tojo is here.” “Obara Tojo, you know.” “You should know, Yuu.”

Tsurushiro felt a tightness in her chest and drew in a deep breath.

It had slid into the eastern slums—the third building from the corner where Second Street crossed Sixtieth Block—a shabby three-story structure with a tin signboard. A lace curtain grimed with hand oils hung over its glass entrance door. Upon entering, one immediately found oneself in a Japanese-style Western room where several tables draped with soy sauce-stained cloths stood arranged. A folding screen embroidered with Mount Fuji concealed the dumbwaiter shaft; above the mantelpiece hung a lithographed reproduction of Ōkyo’s eagle painting; there stood an export-quality Kutani ware vase in garish colors; white dust had accumulated on the irises placed in the slender-necked vessel—all these details remained sharply etched in memory. Within such desolate surroundings sat seven or eight well-dressed professional gamblers, cheeks propped on hands as they listlessly waited for customers at tables. Obara Tojo too had been among them.

When she entered the hall with her mother’s hand on her shoulder, Obara rose smoothly from his chair and— “Well, you’ve come.” As he spoke, he extended an unnervingly beautiful hand. Though she had clasped hands with friends many times before, this was her first handshake. For the twelve-year-old girl raised near a swamp teeming with tiny fish, others’ hands weren’t things to be grasped with casual ease. Obara’s hand was too exquisite, far paler than Tsurushiro’s own. The proffered hand hung suspended in midair, waiting interminably for hers. Having no choice but to accept it, Tsurushiro took the warm, slender hand with vertiginous unease.

Obara, with a heartfelt manner that even a country-raised girl could immediately comprehend—as if realizing Ah, so this is how a handshake is done—firmly grasped her hand once or twice, then— “You made it. Must’ve been rough.” “After all, at my age.” he said in a raspy naniwa-bushi ballad voice. Tsurushiro kept staring at Obara’s face and did not reply. On the train to New York, Tsurushiro had naturally expected the conversation to turn to her father, but whether her mother had forgotten or chosen not to mention it, she never did broach the subject. It later became a laughing matter, but there had been a time when she firmly believed that man Obara—the sole figure who rose from among the bored-looking gamblers sitting idly about to shake her hand—was in fact her father. Even after she realized he wasn’t her father, the impression of Obara—with whom she had first experienced a handshake—remained vividly etched in her heart for a long time.

At that time, Obara had been a mysterious man who wielded refined English under the pretense of having graduated from Princeton University. His somewhat elongated, finely shaped narrow face complemented the mustache that extended sleekly downward; dressed in a sharply pressed cutaway and gray top hat, he would enter carrying a Morocco cane—presenting such a scholarly bearing one might have mistaken him for a university professor. Even his slightest gestures carried an enigmatic beauty.

Even after returning to Japan, she would occasionally hear rumors about Obara in connection with various matters. Back then he had been nothing more than a common gambling den operator preying on Japanese farmers who came to New York from the countryside, but within about ten years he had expanded his turf throughout the downtown area and risen to become a boss rivaling Ally Dragon in stature. According to Kawada’s account, he owned as many as five high-end nightclubs in Manhattan alone, took a fixed commission per case on the smuggled whiskey brought into Third Street, and was said to possess at least five million dollars in surface assets alone. Though Kawada—who had once competed with Obara in the West through his bases in San Francisco and Los Angeles—dismissed him as being of little real substance despite appearances, the truth remained that Obara had become someone even close Japanese associates could scarcely approach, just as his reputation suggested. Yet this status lasted only until the war began; with hostilities’ outbreak he sank into deep obscurity. Even when they inquired among Japanese repatriated via exchange or evacuation ships, none possessed any knowledge of Obara’s whereabouts. Since Obara had been rumored dead, this encounter came as a surprise.

Obara set down his glass, took a sip of water from the tumbler, wiped his lips with a white handkerchief so stark it stung the eyes, then approached with broad strides at a leisurely pace. “Well, what’ll it be?” Obara nodded coldly at Kawada, stopped in his tracks to gaze at Tsurushiro’s face, then gradually formed an ineffably profound smile. “So it’s you, Ms. Tsuru.” “Well, this is a surprise!” “It’s been an age... Ah.”

In a creakingly hoarse voice, he spoke while extending his hand toward Tsurushiro with apparent nostalgia.

It seemed the passage of time had left no mark on Obara. Even if conservatively estimated to be fifty-six or fifty-seven years old, he bore not a single small wrinkle anywhere—his hair and mustache remained as jet-black and glossy as they had been twenty years prior, his lips maintaining a boyish innocence of beauty with their blood-translucent hue. The impeccably fitted cutaway might as well have been Obara’s trademark, but combined with the pale eggshell double-breasted waistcoat edged in black ribbon, the British-style trousers, and the austere wide collar—likely of kora weave—it all coalesced into an immortal figure.

Twenty years ago, in the wretched hall on Sixtieth Block where they had shaken hands—this being that very hand from back then—Tsurushiro grasped Obara’s hand with a shuddering sensation.

“It’s been a while,” she said. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Even though I’ve ended up such a spinster. But to meet you in a place like this—it truly feels like a dream.” “That was indeed Showa 3,” he replied. “So you’re thirty-two now? Truly like a dream, Ah.” Obara, as if letting his hand do the talking, gripped Tsurushiro’s hand at every pause in his speech while— “When I glimpsed you in the dance hall earlier, I thought you looked familiar—so much so I nearly leapt up right then and there. I was having a drink here thinking—how nostalgic—I’d just resolved to go look for you. I’m returning to America on this ship tomorrow morning, but to meet Yuu in such a cramped place—never imagined such shaft would come my way.” His voice caught slightly. “All my kin and connections have died out—in Japan, those who could be called ‘breed’...”

When Obara had started to say that much, Kawada—perhaps having grown impatient— “We’re in the middle of talking here, Mr. Obara, but we haven’t even had our feed yet.” “Let’s wrap it up there.” Obara, noticing he still hadn’t let go of Tsurushiro’s hand, discreetly withdrew his while turning a smile toward Kawada. “If it’s food, I’ll join you.” “No, we’ll take our leave.” “There’s no point hearing Yuu’s ‘sub-staff’ sob story anyway.”

Kawada rejected it in a flat tone. Obara’s face turned bright red up to his hairline.

“Is Yuu saying that to me?” Kawada smiled with feigned ignorance, “Who do you think I’m saying this to? I’m telling Obara Tojo here.” “So what?”

When his face turned ashen as before, Obara forced a bitter smile and—

“That may be so.” “Well then, Ms. Tsuru.”

He gave a slight nod toward Tsurushiro, then passed through the dance hall and slowly ascended the gangway stairs leading to the tandem cabin.

III

The melancholy after revelries seeped through her body; her limbs grew numb from endlessly consumed cocktails and gimlets; she drifted intermittently into dreamlike states. The sky turned colorless as night began lifting to dawn, yet the vast deserted compound stayed pitch-black - sea-dampened quay walls catching light spilling from portholes glimmered sporadically.

Tsurushiro ascended unsteadily toward B Deck. The image of the man she had kept in her heart all this time as an unreal figure turned out ultimately to be Obara’s. When dawn broke, Obara would be returning to America on this ship. If I parted like this, the days ahead would become terribly painful. As she walked to Obara’s cabin while thinking such thoughts, a soft light—reminiscent of that splendid moment in the barroom—appeared faintly through the window, suggesting he remained awake. Peering in, she saw Obara wearing a nightgown as he sat on the edge of the bed, laboriously stitching together the irreparable silk lining of his cutaway that resembled coarse cloth while gathering its frayed edges here and there.

Tsurushiro leaned against the cabin's iron bulkhead and lowered her eyes. Behind Obara's life too, there must lie unseen hardships. If that were true, he might come to understand these present feelings. Was it truly impossible to convey one's heart without resorting to words like "I loved you"? Could there truly be no way to bridge oneself to the world beyond this door? Was there truly no permission granted to cast oneself into this cabin? Back then she had been twelve and Obara thirty-six. Now thirty-two and fifty-six. There was nothing strange about it. If she just opened this door, she could surrender to a happiness unlike any found beside other men. Tsurushiro placed her hand on the door's knob, but the movement halted there.

It was a cloudy, cold morning, and the wind struck her face with sea spray.

Everything had been but a fleeting dream.

Even as the sensation of the cabin door’s knob remained in Tsurushiro’s palm exactly as it had felt then, the Wilson was pulling away from the pier amid swarming seagulls. Tsurushiro still lingered half-dreaming, refusing to abandon hope that Obara would inevitably appear on deck at the final moment. Had Obara waved from the deck, she would have pushed past Kawada and sprinted up the gangway at the last instant—yet all that transpired was the senior harbor pilot waving toward Kawada from the high bridge, and none of what Tsurushiro yearned for came to pass.

The revoltingly filthy seawater between the pier and the Wilson—littered with floating debris—gradually widened its expanse as if slicing through Tsurushiro’s daydreams, then churned up white foam as the ship swung its bow about before easing its way toward the inner breakwater’s mouth, letting return waves lap against the pool. “I drank too much.” “It’ll be rough heading offshore today.” “You all right?” “You’ve gone pale, but...” “My head’s just a bit fuzzy. It was fun.” “But Mr. Kawada, it must’ve been tough.” “Please count it.” “I’ll pay half.”

“That doesn’t matter at all.” “Well, that’s the end of the celebration.” “You need to hurry back and return that dress.” “Besides, Yuu’s on the day shift, right?” Kawada plucked the wilted, shriveled mimosa flower from his lapel and tossed it into the sea, then took Tsurushiro by the arm and pushed her into the jeep. The jeep bounded forward through the morning town veiled in thin mist. The aviation beacon atop the department store’s high tower flashed off, and the North American passenger plane entered Haneda’s course on schedule.

The festival had ended.

She worked at the tourist hotel desk, uneventfully saving dollars little by little. Since roommaids received more dollars and payment in kind, she had even considered quitting her desk job to become a maid. It seemed she had intended to save dollars and go to America where Obara was. From today, I’ll stop saving dollars any more. I’ll just live haphazardly. Dreams and hopes will disappear, and only hatred will grow. At the hotel, she seemed to be thought of as a proud, difficult person. Because she had been immersed in her own dream. From today onward, she would become just the kind of perverse, mean-spirited old miss everyone expected. Tsurushiro absentmindedly smoothed down the fluttering hem of her party dress as she sank into thought.

“Let’s settle this talk before we get back to the hotel.” “Five days ago, the Wilson entered Yokohama on its outbound voyage.” “While I was working aboard ship, that bastard Obara came and suddenly asked me to let him see Yuu—that’s what this whole mess is about.” “Whether I permitted a meeting or not—since you work at the hotel desk—I told him he could just go see you himself.” “Then Obara’s bastard says he couldn’t do that—that’s why he was begging me.” “There are those who did every wicked deed across America’s three worlds, then used our wartime defeat as their golden tide to swagger back home—but I won’t soil myself with such filth.” “I swore an oath never to let these feet tread one step on Japanese soil.” “When the war started, he cut through all those cursed entanglements—made a clean break of everything—retreated to the sticks to live humbly drinking coffee made from shaving soap suds, thinking he’d rid himself of every worldly craving. But blood ties—that obsession—can’t be controlled. Once he got it in his head to lay eyes on her, there was no stopping him.” “He came all this way with that single-minded spear thrust.” “No other aims whatsoever.” “Let him catch just one glimpse of your face—he’ll board this ship straight back to America.” “That’s how it stands—I’m asking this one thing of you.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Kawada?”

“Obara is Yuu’s father.” And then I said, “Without even declaring yourselves parent and child—after abandoning her for thirty-some years—it’s pretty damn presumptuous to want to see her face now.” “I flatly refused this obsession or whatever bullshit.”

Then yesterday morning, the Wilson entered port from Shanghai on its return voyage. “Unfortunately, it was my shift—when I went to the ship without any particular reason, Obara’s bastard came out again and kept pestering me. When I made inquiries around the ship, there were indeed parts that seemed convincing. The claim that he’d abandoned his turf and come empty-handed didn’t seem to be a lie. I even saw solid evidence that if he’d had any money left, that dandy wouldn’t have been reduced to this state. The cabin boy said he hadn’t stepped out of his cabin once during the two days in Yokohama and two days in Shanghai. It really did seem he came solely to see Yuu. I can’t stand the bastard, but when I think he went that far, I couldn’t just be cruel. ‘Well then, I’ll bring him over for a meeting.’ ‘But he’s finally free from those damn family entanglements and living quietly now—I can’t have you saying anything that’ll upset him.’ ‘Father-daughter proclamations are pointless at this stage.’ ‘You’ve grown up—keep it at “it’s been a while” and don’t do anything that might give him even a hint.’ ‘If you can promise that, I’ll make it happen.’” Obara had naturally agreed to these terms. “And another thing… Her mother was the same way—stubborn as hell. Once she took something the wrong way, not even a crowbar could move her. Since I took this on, I’ll do whatever it takes—but if you say you don’t want to board that ship, well, we’ll just have to call it off.” “Is that acceptable?” “That’s fine.” “Then expect him here by evening.” “We’ll meet in the Bar Room.”

“Then Obara’s bastard suddenly rushed off to the beauty parlor to dye his hair.” “He dyed his beard.” “He made such a commotion he might’ve even tried ironing out his wrinkles with a flatiron.” “Even I was done in by that.”

“Mr. Kawada, if he was Father, why didn’t you say so even once? It nearly became something disastrous.”

“If I’d said he was your father, Yuu wouldn’t have gone.” “Didn’t want to make you meet yet ended up doing it—even I got flustered.” “But if you’d said just once back then that you didn’t want to go, I would’ve taken a ‘No’ without any guilt.” “Come now, don’t be angry.” “This time around, even I found myself in quite the fix.” An indescribable emotion constricted Tsurushiro’s chest. It was a feeling that belonged solely to childhood, absent in adulthood—like some forgotten old custom, a familiar sentiment buried deep in the past… That’s what it was.

“Forgive me, Mr. Kawada.” “You haven’t done anything wrong.” I kept thinking how much better it would’ve been had I known earlier that Obara was Father. It’s nothing. That was all there was to it. In any case, it was quite the spectacle—for both our sakes.

When she returned to the hotel, it appeared there had been an Easter at-home in the hall here last night as well—the cafeteria cleaning woman was sweeping up scattered mimosa and lilac flowers from the floor. The dream was still continuing. From now on, I’ll steadily save up dollars again.

Tsurushiro changed into work clothes in the locker room while humming cheerfully like a child, then came out to the front desk carrying the party dress.

“Please have this dress rushed to the Costume Department and, if possible, returned to Room 220.”

After handing the dress to the room maid and entering the front desk area while replying to the room that had signaled，she said to Kawada: “You’re coming for lunch today，aren’t you? Thank you for everything．Well then，see you tonight．”

she said amiably.