Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

When the cafeteria closed at 2:30, leaving staff stationed at the coat check and exchange counter, the cashiers and room maids went for their meals. There were no signals sounding from the guest rooms, no guests approaching the front desk, and except for two or three outsiders remaining in the lounge, what they called the social department stayed quiet until about four o'clock. After separating the bills from eight through lunchtime and throwing them into the compartmentalized shelves, Tsuruyo's duties for the day ended. She didn't feel like taking the train back to sleep at her flat. As she sat in the side room's wicker chair letting her mind go fuzzy, Kawada drifted into the front desk area.

What was the occasion? Today he was uncharacteristically well-dressed. He wore a gray jacket—said to pass for evening wear in the American West—paired with tuxedo trousers, a yellow mimosa blossom pinned to his lapel. “Aren’t you going to at least say ‘welcome’?” “Welcome.” “You’re sitting in such a strange spot. Why don’t we go to the lounge or something?”

“Here’s fine.” “It’s all the same wherever we go.”

“I forgot to buy cigarettes. Mind if I bum one off you?” “There should be some leftover Arcadia around there.” “Around there? Where’s ‘there’? Come on, stand up a bit.” “Was it in the desk drawer? I don’t remember. If it’s something you smoke, you should look for it yourself.” “This here’s neurasthenia. Your mother didn’t want to move either, but she wasn’t like this.”

Kawada entered the front desk, found the Arcadia can, then sat in the neighboring chair and began puffing on his pipe.

The skin of his throat sagged with age, and whether from liquor burns or saltwater weathering, his neck turned red as if painted with dark dye—the whole area resembling a turkey’s wattle. When Kawada stood at the bow of the harbor bureau’s boiler ship wearing his sturdy high-collared work clothes, hoisting red-and-white pilot flags while seawater spray drenched him head to toe as he headed out to sea, he was a straightforward, decent old man—but when he dressed up properly, that gambler’s yakuza-like swagger surfaced, transforming him into an entirely different person.

“Since today’s a three-shift day, you’ve got some free time on your hands, huh?”

“Yes. I’m about to head back to sleep.” “Going back to your flat to sleep in this nice weather? There’s no helping you when you mope like this. Isn’t there some man who’ll put you in a stylish dress and parade you at the American Club? What became of that dumbstruck pretty boy who strutted around like a plucked chicken?” “I wonder what happened to him. I don’t know.” “Your mother never went in for romance either. With that face like an antique doll—too proper by half—she made everyone around her fret endlessly. You’re just the same, Yuu. Both your looks and temperament—it’s uncanny how much you take after her.”

“I’ve never once wanted to be like Mother, but…” “It can’t be helped—I’m just this kind of girl.”

“That may be so.” “A prominent Western thinker said, you know—things like love and ambition drain your vitality and shorten your life. So if you want to live long, they say you shouldn’t indulge in desires.” “Human life’s like money—exists through all sorts of balances. Hoarding just life itself’s plain foolishness.” “First off, that ain’t something a girl your age should be spouting.” “That’s talk for someone who’s licked clean the grime of romance.” “Either way, must be one complicated fella.” “Can’t make heads or tails of what girls these days are thinking.” “With Yuu’s mother, at least there were some clues to work with, but…”

When Tsuruyo was fourteen, she was summoned by her mother and went to America. She had grown up at her grandmother’s house in the countryside and had first seen the face of the person called her mother in the Immigration Bureau’s cafeteria.

At that time, Kawada Jumpei ran a Japanese restaurant called “Mikasa” in Kuwana’s Japantown, and until the day they departed for New York, the two of them relied on it. Along both sides of the narrow street stood eateries in absurd density—sushi, soba, parlor-style tempura, oden—while cars packed bumper-to-bumper across the street’s width honked Klaxons and blew whistles, moving ceaselessly like a black river from morning until midnight. The local Japanese spoke in Japanese carelessly mixed with English as if perpetually arguing, with no trace of calmness anywhere. To think such a wretched town existed—from that moment on, Tsuruyo came to dislike life in America.

The Japanese associations in New York were divided into three circles: one representing diplomats and banking affiliates, another comprising shop clerks and petty merchants, and a third centered around boarding houses, religious organizations, and student clubs—but beyond these, there existed a group referred to as the Third Street faction, whose names did not appear on the registry of resident Japanese nationals. It was a large circle formed solely by those who had drifted from the West through the Midwest to the East—gamblers, brawlers, itinerant toughs, deserting sailors, illegal immigrants, smuggling merchants—people who no longer even dreamed of Japan; nearly all lived on Third Street and absolutely never showed their faces at Japanese clubs.

Tsuruyo’s mother’s shop was also right in the middle of Third Street. In Kohara Tojo’s territory, the third-floor hall had been converted into a gambling den where seven or eight professional gamblers—their fingernails conspicuously absent—always waited for customers. When Tsuruyo first arrived in America, she had stared at Kawada’s nail-less hands with puzzlement, but upon hearing that gamblers removed their nails to sharpen their fingertips for handling cards—and realizing that even those called moneylenders or bosses like Kohara and Ishine did the same—she had ultimately concluded that Kawada too was a gambler.

Three years later, when her mother died, Tsuruyo’s ties to America were severed, and as she was preparing to return to Japan, there was someone who offered to pay her college tuition. There had been moments when she imagined herself in a black gown on the campus of Wellesley College—where elm and maple groves framed castle-like buildings—and felt her heart leap with excitement; but sensing something irreconcilable about life in this country, she ultimately declined the generous offer and returned to Japan.

In November, just before the outbreak of war, Kawada nonchalantly sold off the five-story *Mikasa* building—including its elevator, all dishes, furniture, and fixtures—for a mere $2,500, then promptly returned to Japan aboard the final voyage of the *Tatsuta Maru*. During the war, he served as operations chief of the Akatsuki Corps; after its end, he became a harbor pilot for the occupation forces, receiving a small flat and a jeep. Beyond sneaking into the hotel’s employee cafeteria through the back entrance for evening meals, he spent his entire days either on lunch duty or aboard incoming ships. His days as a gambler must have been arduous, but when he started the *Mikasa*, he completely quit that line of work—never so much as touching a card again—and his face took on the comical look of a pumpkin-faced old man, leaving nothing to remind anyone of his past. Neither of them had ever mentioned America or brought up Tsuruyo’s mother before, but today Kawada was different from his usual self.

“When was it that Yuu came to San Francisco with your mother?” “It was an interesting time, if you could call it that.” Staring intently at Kawada’s profile, Tsuruyo thought: the recent rumors of high-stakes poker matches at Honmoku nightclubs and salon studios aboard docked ships—perhaps Kawada himself was mediating them unexpectedly; gamblers dressing meticulously was proof of professional involvement, and after all, hadn’t he failed to fully abandon his old ways, already beginning to show threads of his former fabric?

“Mr. Kawada, Yuu’s mother keeps coming up today, doesn’t she? What’s the matter?” “What’s this ‘what’s the matter’ about?” “Growing nostalgic for the past is a dangerous sign. You’re not getting back into it, are you?” “You’re talking nonsense.” “Just where do you plan on dragging me all dressed up like this? Throw away that mimosa flower already.” “I don’t mind tossing it, but let’s keep it a bit longer—the little office girl pinned it on me for Easter celebrations.”

So today was Easter after all. The buyers from White Congo, Egypt, Greece, and other places—for whom Japan was still a novelty—had taken their Easter holiday and departed for Kyoto sightseeing yesterday. For years she hadn’t thought of it, but now the Easter commotion of New York rose before her eyes. Even the Japanese of Third Street were buoyantly wearing lilac and mimosa flowers. “Today was Easter, wasn’t it? Instead of moping around here, you should hurry to the party.”

“If such a thing exists, I’d head straight there.” “So you dressed up and came all the way here for me?” “I thought we’d have a cocktail or something while looking at your face in the lounge. There’s no obligation to celebrate Easter properly, but…” “What a dreary thing to say, Mr. Kawada. Then shall we go out somewhere?” “Oh! So that’s it. I wanted to suggest that myself, but Yuu’s a complicated one.”

“There’s a place that looks fun enough to enjoy.” “Well, how about that place over there? Last night, the President Line’s *Wilson* entered port on its return voyage. There’s a proper beauty salon and even something like a department store. They mentioned 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 quay to beside the vehicle barrier, sedans and jeeps stood lined up in rows, their bright lights streaming from both portholes and tandem cabin windows to create a bustling scene reminiscent of a theater’s grand entrance. Tsuruyo had stopped minding the borrowed frock; layering another party dress of matching pale cream over her three-tiered taffeta petticoat, she let the ankle-length hem sway languidly as Kawada took her arm and guided her up the gangway—a climb that felt thoroughly enjoyable.

The bar room extended into a spacious ballroom, its periphery and mezzanine—resembling theater boxes—adorned with small tables bearing colored candleholders arranged at random in casual sophistication. To the languid strains of a waltz motif that might have been hummed by a drunkard, some twenty couples were dancing. Pairs of men and women, like marionettes suspended by strings from the ceiling, staggered drunkenly to the lifeless melody; no sooner had they collapsed onto the floor in tangled heaps than they rose again to resume their sluggish pacing. It was a demented dance—soulless hollow shells of humans strolling about as if on a casual walk.

“What kind of dance is this?” “It’s Somubii.” “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 business.” With Kawada holding her arm, they went to the neighboring bar room under a red neon sign, where a man around fifty—dressed impeccably in a well-tailored cutaway—leaned against the standing counter, quietly sipping from his glass while presenting a refined profile like something carved from cheese. His movements were so calculatedly elegant that the gracefulness of his glass-holding hand verged on absurdity.

Kawada stopped at the bar entrance, then leaned close to Tsuruyo and whispered.

“Tojo’s here.” “Kohara Tojo.” “Yuu should know.”

Tsuruyo’s chest tightened, and she drew a deep breath.

Nestled in the eastern slums, third house from the corner where Second Street crossed 60th, stood a shabby three-story building with a tin sign. A lace curtain smudged with handprints hung over its glass entrance door; inside began abruptly with a Japanese-style Western room where several tables draped in soy sauce-stained cloths were arranged. A folding screen embroidered with Mt. Fuji hid the dumbwaiter hole; on the wall above the mantelpiece hung a lithograph of Ōkyo’s hawk; there was an export-quality Kutani ware vase in gaudy colors; and horse orchids inserted into a thin vase had accumulated white dust—all of which remained sharply imprinted in her memory. Amidst such desolate scenery, seven or eight professional gamblers—well-dressed yet idle—leaned their chins on tables, waiting for customers with an air of boredom. Kohara Tojo was also among them.

When she entered the hall with her mother pushing her shoulder, Kohara smoothly rose from his chair and— “Oh, you came.”

As he said this, he extended a hand so beautiful it was chilling. There had been many times she’d held hands with friends, but a handshake—this was her first. For the twelve-year-old girl who had grown up near a marsh teeming with grebes, the hands of others were not something she could grasp with such casual ease or familiarity. Kohara’s hand was too beautiful, and it was far whiter than Tsuruyo’s. The offered hand hovered in midair, continuing to wait interminably for Tsuruyo’s hand. Since she had no choice but to grasp it, Tsuruyo took the warm, slender hand with a feeling that made her head spin.

Kohara, as if realizing *Ah, so this is how a handshake is done*, firmly shook her hand once or twice in a heartfelt manner that even a country-bred girl could immediately comprehend—

“You came all this way. Must’ve been quite the ordeal.” “What can one expect at my age?”

he said in a raspy naniwa-bushi tone. Tsuruyo kept staring at Kohara’s face and did not respond. Tsuruyo had naturally expected that talk of her father would arise during the train ride to New York, but whether her mother had forgotten or not, she ultimately never broached the subject. It later became a laughing matter, but there had been a time when she was firmly convinced that man named Kohara—the only one among the bored-looking gamblers sitting idly who had stood up and shaken her hand—was her father. Even after realizing he wasn’t her father, the impression of Kohara—the first man with whom she had ever shaken hands—never faded and remained long in her heart.

In those days, Kohara was a mysterious man who wielded refined English under the repute of having graduated from Princeton University. His slightly elongated, finely shaped face suited the neatly groomed mustache that tapered elegantly downward. Dressed in a well-pressed cutaway and gray top hat, carrying a Morocco cane as he entered, he cut a figure one might mistake for a university professor—a dignified bearing that held an enigmatic beauty even in his slightest gestures.

Even after returning to Japan, there were times when she heard rumors about Kohara in passing. Back then, he had been nothing more than a common gambler preying on Japanese farmers who came to New York from the countryside, but within about ten years he expanded his territory across the entire downtown area and rose to become a figure on par with Ally Dragon. According to Kawada, he owned no fewer than five high-end nightclubs in Manhattan alone, took a set rate per case of smuggled whiskey brought into Third Street, and even his surface assets were said to amount to no less than five million dollars. Though Kawada—who had once rivaled Kohara in the West with bases in San Francisco and Los Angeles—dismissively remarked that he wasn’t much to look at now, the truth seemed to be that Kohara had indeed become a figure whom even ordinary Japanese could scarcely approach, just as his reputation suggested. However, that was only until before the war began; once the war started, he vanished deep into obscurity somewhere, and even when asking repatriated Japanese who returned on exchange or repatriation ships, not a single person knew anything of Kohara’s whereabouts. Kohara had been rumored dead, so this encounter came as a surprise.

Kohara set down his glass, took a sip of water from the tumbler, wiped his lips with an eye-stingingly white handkerchief, and approached with broad, unhurried strides. “Well, what’ll you have?”

Kohara looked at Kawada and nodded coldly, then stopped in his tracks to gaze at Tsuruyo’s face; but gradually, an ineffably profound smile formed on his lips. “Miss Tsuru.” “My, what a surprise.” “It’s been quite a long time, hasn’t it?” In a creaking, hoarse yet courteous voice, he spoke while extending his hand toward Tsuruyo with apparent nostalgia. The passage of time seemed not to have taken effect on Kohara. No matter how conservatively one estimated his age, he should have been at least fifty-six or fifty-seven—yet there wasn’t a single fine wrinkle anywhere. His hair and mustache remained as black and glossy as they had been twenty years prior, and his lips retained a boyish, innocent beauty with blood’s hue showing through. The neatly fitted cutaway was something of a trademark for him, but combined with a pale eggshell double-breasted waistcoat, British-style trousers edged with black ribbon, and a subdued wide collar ornament reminiscent of corah weave, he had crafted an immortal elegance.

Twenty years ago, in the wretched hall on 60th Street where they had shaken hands—realizing this was that very hand from back then—Tsuruyo grasped Kohara’s hand with a shuddering sensation.

“It’s been a while.” “You haven’t changed a bit.” “And yet I’ve ended up such an old maid.” “But to meet you in a place like this… it truly feels like a dream.”

“That was certainly Showa 3.” “So Yuu is thirty-two?” “It’s all just a dream.”

Kohara, as if making his hand speak for him, gripped Tsuruyo’s hand at every pause in his words while—

“When I caught a glimpse of you in the ballroom earlier, I thought you looked familiar—so much so I felt like I was about to leap up.” “I was sitting here taking a sip and thinking—it really did make me nostalgic, you see—I was just about to go looking for you.” “Mii’s heading back to America on this ship tomorrow morning, but meeting Yuu in a place like this—never thought Mii’d get such a shaft (stroke of luck).” “All my relatives and connections have died out, and in the mainland, there’s no one left who could be called breed (blood relatives)—”

Just as he was about to say that much, Kawada—perhaps having grown impatient—

“We’re mid-conversation here, Kohara—Mii and I haven’t even touched our feed yet.” “Cut it off there.” Kohara noticed Tsuruyo’s hand still unreleased in his own and subtly withdrew it while turning a smile toward Kawada.

“If it’s a meal, Mii will join you.” “No, I’ll take my leave. Even if I listened to Yuu’s sob story (‘Tale of Tears’), it’d be pointless anyway.”

Kawada brushed it off in a blunt tone. Kohara’s face rapidly turned crimson up to his hairline. “Are you saying that about Yuu to Mii?” Kawada smiled with feigned innocence.

“Who do you think I’m saying it to? I’m telling Kohara Tojo.” “So what?” When his face turned ashen like before, Kohara forced a bitter smile and— “That may be so.” “Well then, Miss Tsuru.”

He gave a slight nod toward Tsuruyo, passed through the ballroom, and slowly ascended the gangway stairs leading to the tandem cabin.

III

The melancholy after carousing seeped through her body; her limbs grew numb from the cocktails and Gin Fizzes she had kept drinking without reason, and she would occasionally drift into a dreamlike state. The sky turned colorless as dawn approached, but the vast deserted grounds remained pitch-dark, with the sea-dampened wharf catching light spilling from the ship’s portholes and glinting here and there.

Tsuruyo staggered dizzily toward B Deck. The image of the man she had kept in her heart all this time—maintaining its unreal form—turned out ultimately to be that of Kohara. When dawn broke, Kohara would return to America on this ship. If they parted like this, she knew the days ahead would become unbearably painful. As she walked to Kohara’s cabin while thinking this, a soft light seeped faintly from the window—reminiscent of that splendid moment in the ballroom—suggesting he remained awake. Peering inside, she saw Kohara wearing a nightgown as he sat on the edge of his bed, painstakingly mending his cutaway’s lining—now frayed beyond repair like coarse burlap—gathering scraps here and there to stitch them together.

Tsuruyo leaned against the iron bulkhead of the cabin and lowered her eyes. Behind the facade of Kohara’s life too, there must have been hardships unknown to others. If that were true, perhaps he might understand how she felt now. Was it truly impossible to convey her feelings without resorting to words like “I loved you”? Was it truly impossible to connect with the world beyond this door? Was she not permitted to cast herself into this cabin? At that time she had been twelve and Kohara thirty-six. Now she was thirty-two and he fifty-six. There was nothing strange about it. If she just opened this door, she could surrender herself to a happiness unlike any she might find beside any man. Tsuruyo placed her hand on the door knob, but the movement stopped there.

It was a cloudy, cold morning, and the wind lashed her face with sea spray. Everything was but a fleeting dream. Even as the sensation of the cabin door’s knob lingered fresh in Tsuruyo’s palm from that moment, the Wilson was pulling away from the pier, enveloped by seagulls. Tsuruyo still had not awakened from the dream and clung to the hope that Kohara would surely appear on deck at the final moment. If Kohara were to wave from above, she stood ready to shove Kawada aside and dash up the gangway at the last instant—but only the senior harbor pilot waved at Kawada from the high bridge, and nothing resembling Tsuruyo’s expectations came to pass.

The sea between the pier and Wilson was a repulsively filthy expanse floating with debris, gradually widening to sever Tsuruyo’s daydream. Churning white foam, it swung its bow around in a wide arc before advancing leisurely toward the mouth of the inner breakwater, sending ripples back into the basin.

“You drank too much.” “It’ll be tough going out to sea today.” “Yuu, are you okay?” “You’re looking pale, but—”

"My head's just a little fuzzy. It was fun." "But Mr. Kawada, it must've been rough." "Please count it properly." "I'll pay half." "None of that matters." "There—the festival's done." "We need to hurry back and return that dress." "And you're on day shift anyway." Kawada plucked the wilted mimosa blossom from his collar—now shriveled and small—and tossed it into the sea before taking Tsuruyo by the elbow and pushing her into the jeep.

The jeep bounded through the morning town veiled in thin mist. The aviation beacon atop the department store’s tall tower abruptly went out, and the North American passenger flight entered Haneda’s course on schedule.

The festival was over.

She worked at the tourist hotel desk and had been saving dollars bit by bit without any particular reason. Roommaids received more dollars and in-kind payments, so she had even thought about quitting her desk job to become a maid. She had apparently been saving dollars with the intention of going to America where Kohara was. From today onward, she would stop saving any more dollars. She would simply live day by day. Dreams and hopes would vanish, and only hatred would grow. At the hotel, she seemed to be thought of as a proud and difficult person. It was because she had been lost in her own dream. From today onward, she would become exactly the twisted, spiteful old maid everyone had ordered. Tsuruyo absently smoothed down the hem of her party dress that had floated up as she sank into thought.

“Let’s settle this matter before we return to the hotel.” “Five days ago, the Wilson entered Yokohama on its outbound voyage.” “When I was working on the ship, Kohara’s bastard came begging me to let him see Yuu—just blurted it out like that.” “Whether to arrange a meeting or not—since you work at the hotel desk, I told him to go see you on his own.” “Then Kohara’s bastard says he can’t do that himself—so he’s asking for a favor.” “There’s those bastards who did every rotten thing across America, then swagger back home using our defeat in the war as their golden ticket. But I can’t do that.” “I’ve sworn never to set foot on Japanese soil with these two legs.” “When the War started, I cut all those cursed ties—quit everything clean, moved to the sticks, lived honest drinking coffee made from dissolved shaving soap. Thought I’d killed every last worldly desire… But family obsession—that clinging—it’s beyond control. Once I got it in my head to see her, nothing could stop it.” “With that single driving purpose, he came all this way.” “No other motives.” “If he just gets one look at your face—he’ll board this ship straight back to America.” “That’s how it stands—do me this one favor.”

“Mr. Kawada, what do you mean by that?”

“Kohara is Yuu’s father.” And then I said, “Without ever acknowledging you as his child—abandoning you for thirty-some years—and now he wants to see your face? What gives him the right?” “Obsession? Bullshit!” I flatly refused.

Then came yesterday morning—the Wilson entered port from Shanghai on its return voyage. Unfortunately, it was Mii’s shift, and when I went to the ship without any particular business, that bastard Kohara came out again and kept pestering me. When I inquired around on the ship, there were indeed points that seemed convincing. The claim that he’d abandoned his territory and come stripped of everything didn’t seem to be a lie. Had he had even a little money, I saw solid evidence suggesting that dandy would never have resorted to this. The cabin boy said he hadn’t stepped out of his cabin even once during his two days in Yokohama and two days in Shanghai. It seems he really did come solely to see Yuu. He’s not someone I like, but when I consider how far he’s gone to get here, I can’t bring myself to be heartless. Well then, I’ll bring you to meet him. But he’s now free from those ill-fated family bonds and living peacefully, so I can’t have you saying anything that might unsettle him. Proclaiming yourselves as father and daughter was superfluous now. Treat it as if it’s only been a short while since you last met—don’t do anything that would let even a wisp of suspicion arise. If you can promise this much, I’ll go to some trouble.

Kohara had of course agreed this was acceptable. "And another thing... His mother was the same way—once something rubs him wrong, you couldn't move him with a crowbar. Since I took this on, I'll do whatever it takes—but if you say you don't want to board that ship, we'll just have to give up. You good with that?" "That's fine." "Then expect him here by evening. We'll meet in the bar room. Then that bastard Kohara suddenly bolts to the beauty parlor to dye his hair. His beard too. Tried ironing wrinkles out of his face—whole damn spectacle. Even I had to hand it to him."

“Mr. Kawada, if he was Father, why didn’t you tell me even a single word? It nearly became something disastrous.”

“If I’d called him ‘Father,’ there’s no way Yuu would’ve gone.” “Didn’t want to arrange any meeting but ended up doing it—even Mii got flustered.” “But if you’d said one word about not wanting to go back then, I’d have taken a ‘No’ without batting an eye.” “Now don’t go getting mad.” “This time around, even Mii’s landed in one hell of a bind, see?”

An indescribable emotion constricted Tsuruyo’s chest. It was something that existed only in childhood, absent in adulthood—a familiar emotion hidden deep within the past, like a forgotten old habit… That’s how it felt.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kawada.” “You haven’t done anything wrong at all.” “I just keep thinking how much better it would’ve been if I’d known earlier that Mr. Kohara was Father.” “It’s nothing.” “That’s all there is to it.” “Anyway, it was quite the event—for neither of us.”

When she returned to the hotel, it appeared there had been an Easter at-home in the hall here last night as well; a cleaning woman from the dining staff was sweeping up mimosa and lilac blossoms scattered across the floor.

The dream was still continuing. I’ll start diligently saving up dollars again. Tsuruyo changed into her work clothes in the locker room while humming like a cheerful child, then came out to the front desk holding the party dress.

“Please have this dress sent urgently to the Costume Department, and once it’s ready, return it to Room 220.”

After handing the dress to the room maid and entering the front desk, while replying to the room that had signaled, she addressed Kawada: "You're coming for the meal service today, right? Thank you for everything. Well then, see you tonight," she said amiably.