Pathway to Japanese Literature

The tears of the oppressed flow. And there is none to comfort them. Thus — Ecclesiastes

Chapter One When Ookawa Heiichiro returned late from school, his mother O-Hikari was not home. In the four-and-a-half-mat room at the top of the stairs lay a short note addressed to him on the long brazier—left as she always did when away. “Today I’m going to Fuyuko-neesan’s place. I’ll return by dinner, so please eat alone and watch the house. Mother.” Heiichiro felt a flicker of resentment that his mother had left without waiting for him, but above all else, he was starving. He lifted the white cloth covering the tray and devoured the rice served with braised lotus root before he could stop himself. After wolfing down four or five bowls until his stomach strained against his uniform, memories of what had happened after school today surged back unbidden. It had been Saturday—classes let out at noon. As class leader, he’d rushed through supervising cleanup duty and hurried along the cherry tree-lined path toward the school gate when he heard voices arguing up ahead. Drawing closer, he saw Nagata—the hulking judo first-dan who’d failed twice and acted like he owned the school—looming over Fukai, that delicate-faced boy from the wealthy family. “Be a good little Toshiko-san now,” Nagata was growling.

“Listen here, Fukai,” Nagata said, trying to grab Fukai’s elbow. “What are you doing?!” Fukai shook it off, his cheeks flushing a vivid crimson. “Hey, Fukai—if you don’t listen to me, this won’t end well.” Fukai struck Nagata’s outstretched arm—swollen with brute force—with a sharp crack. And so the grappling began. Of course, Fukai was no match for Nagata. When Heiichiro saw him pinned on the roadside grass, tears seeping from eyes softened by swelling, he couldn’t help but pity the boy’s gallant courage. He flung down his schoolbag and suddenly slammed his fist into Nagata’s cheek from behind.

“Who’s there?!” “It’s me!” When Nagata turned around and saw it was Heiichiro, he seemed to falter slightly. Even those prone to relying on brute strength—Nagata too harbored a heart timid before authority. And because he fully knew that Heiichiro was, at the very least, the class leader. While he flinched, Heiichiro landed another fist strike near his ear. “Let go of Fukai!” “Hmm.” With that, Nagata loosened his grip and stood up.

“Ookawa, huh?” “That’s right.” Heiichiro looked up at Nagata and answered with desperate resolve. “You’ll remember this! “Ookawa!” “I’ll remember this for sure! “How arrogant, trying to make Fukai into Toshiko-san!” As this happened, Fukai—who had been pinned down—rose to his feet, tears welling in his long-lashed eyes as he brushed mud from his clothes. Nagata glared between Heiichiro and Fukai before muttering, “Ookawa, you’re the strange one!” and sauntering off. Heiichiro felt some satisfaction at driving off Nagata—a boy far stronger—while sensing duty-bound to escort Fukai home despite their usual distance. They walked without speaking, an odd emotion swelling between them that bred awkwardness. The trusting glances from those deep eyes occasionally turned upward filled Heiichiro with unbearable beauty and pride. He truly thought things between him and Fukai had grown peculiar. In the lonely old mansion district framed by verdant cedar fences stood Fukai’s house. Heiichiro followed silently behind him, recalling how he’d often wandered this outskirts town near fields. Then Fukai stopped before a black gate and smiled for the first time: “Here it is—my house.” Heiichiro stiffened. And before he could stop himself:

“Isn’t the house next to yours Yoshikura-san’s?” “Yes, that’s Yoshikura-san.”

“Hmm――” Heiichiro felt his blood rush to his face as he asked, “Doesn’t Wakako-san live here?”

“Ah, you mean O-Waka-san next door?” “Yeah.”

“She’s here. Since our gardens are connected, she always comes over to play. Do you know O-Waka-san?” “…” Heiichiro felt suffocated but forced himself to act composed, said “Goodbye,” and turned back toward his house—yet he couldn’t deny the anxiety and jealousy now swelling in his chest. He had been thinking all along the way. He had been a chivalrous tough guy who fought for the sake of his beautiful classmate until just moments ago, but now it seemed he had to accept this very boy as his rival in love. He had not first learned of his classmate Fukai’s beauty through Nagata today. He even thought that he might be the only one who truly knew Fukai’s beauty. The reason he had consciously kept his distance was that Fukai—whose presence had seeped into his fifteen-year-old heart—was a boy from a “good family.” The reason he—despite ordinarily hating Nagata’s brutishness and idiocy—could still harbor a shred of goodwill for him lay in Nagata’s family’s poverty, and in how even that impoverished boy could, within the kingdom of school, domineer through the sheer might of his massive physique. When Heiichiro saw that Nagata was threatening Fukai, he couldn’t remain silent. And so, that outcome led to an unexpected discovery.

“I can’t keep going like this.”

Heiichiro placed the bowls and plates from the finished meal onto a small, worn-out shelf, grabbed the last remaining bunch of bananas from inside it (he loved bananas), and headed toward the desk by the window in the eight-tatami room—the only room in the back of the house.

Through the window stretched the clear blue sky of May, clusters of weightless white clouds drifting past, while trees brimmed with spring’s vital energy at their budding tips. Heiichiro gorged on bananas—their soft yet resilient flesh—but restlessness prickled through him relentlessly. Though he’d never once spoken to Wakako himself, Fukai’s casual “Ah, O-Waka-san? She comes over to play since our gardens are connected” gnawed at him like an open wound. To even consider himself and Fukai as equals felt shameful—a disgrace that tightened his jaw—yet as he stared at that radiant azure expanse, his thoughts spiraled into obsessive comparisons between them anyway. Between me and Fukai—who would Wakako choose? He couldn’t suppress his dread of Fukai’s beauty: that perpetually rosy complexion glowing with vitality; those black eyes shimmering with tender emotion; that slender frame draped in immaculate clothes radiating aristocratic refinement. Such elegant purity made someone like me utterly incomparable, Heiichiro thought—yet he couldn’t stop himself from countering: I have a sun-browned face taut with resolve, thick brows etched sharply above piercing eyes, lips pressed thin—a masculine nose that outshines Fukai’s delicacy if Wakako values manliness at all! He compared their standings at school next: Fukai languished academically, his class rank scraping the bottom—whereas I rank third in grades yet lead as class president and dominate athletics too! In those areas at least—he clenched his fists—I won’t lose to some pretty-faced dilettante.

“Wakako-san is mine!” “No matter what, she’s mine! What’s between me and Wakako-san isn’t some fleeting thing of today or yesterday!”

He could not help trembling before the surging, blazing intensity of his passion. Yet that fervor—the ardor of first love—was smothered by a consciousness descending upon him like a weight: *You have no home, no father—are you not just a poor orphan?* Ah, it was solely for this reason that Heiichiro had kept silent until now. Feeling a desolate, mortal pain before these words that shook his entire being, he looked up at the blue sky. And there, countless unforgettable memories rose vividly to mind.

It was last spring. A discussion meeting for elementary school graduates attending secondary-level schools had once been held in the elementary school’s music room. By the window where golden spring light streamed in, the flat leaves of the poplar tree swayed in the early spring breeze. Fifty or sixty boys and girls listened enraptured to each other’s stories as if in a dream. No story felt trivial at all, no matter how trifling it seemed. Melancholic, tragic, grandiose, or utterly absurd fantasies intoxicated everyone. For some reason, Heiichiro found himself disinclined to engage in weighty debates and instead recounted the tale of *Ali Baba* from *Arabian Nights*.

“And then, his brother’s head fell to the ground, soaked in blood—” As he spoke these words and glanced around the room now quiet as a forest, the rustling poplar leaves outside the window gleamed white through the glass, and an indescribable emotion surged within him. When he suddenly sensed something strange and looked down, he discovered the girl’s eyes—imbued with dignified, profound power. Those eyes that had been fixed on him since earlier faltered momentarily upon perceiving his awareness, then blazed anew to assail him. Ah, those eyes had not met him for the first time in this moment. That was when Heiichiro had still been a sixth-year elementary student.

At the front of the anteroom where morning assemblies were held daily, last year’s graduates had donated a large mirror over ten feet tall; but Heiichiro, being class leader, always stood at the very front of the line during assemblies. One morning, when he suddenly looked up at the mirror’s surface, there reflected in it—clear and unmistakable—were eyes now blazing and assailing him! At first he thought it a hallucination, but since Wakako was also class leader of the sixth-year girls’ group, she should have been standing at the front of their line. It was undoubtedly Wakako. He stared at her dignified and beautiful mirrored figure. Just as her form was visible from where he stood, his own figure must surely be visible from where she was. Thinking this, he gazed at the mirror’s surface. It was a miracle. The reflection of Wakako—who had been maintaining her dignified composure—laughed! Ah, those daily encounters between them mediated by the mirror’s surface! How much childhood joy those mornings of exchanging bright smiles through the mirror must have brought—and now those unforgettable eyes assailed him with renewed force. He felt with his entire being what those eyes conveyed. His whole body seemed to erupt with flames. Moreover, it was unmistakable—her abundant black hair styled into an elegant bun (perhaps some Western coiffure), eyebrows thick and striking like an ancient hero’s, eyes burning with dignity and passion, cheeks plump and resilient, lips noble and resolute—in short, Wakako’s beauty blazed forth. Yet through stubborn pride to preserve his manly bearing, he continued speaking to the end. Throughout his speech—amidst that irrepressible surge of light and waves of joy, that soul-deep exaltation—Heiichiro clung to his resolve to finish. But afterward, when he stepped down from the podium or returned to his seat, it all dissolved into an emerald-and-gold dream steeped in entrancing radiance. Then through this dream-state came the teacher’s voice calling “Miss Yoshikura Wakako,” ringing like a silver bell. What a coincidence—he too had not known Wakako would speak next after him. When he raised his eyes, there she stood atop the podium at the front—a figure of solemn grace—her right hand resting lightly before her wisteria-purple hakama.

The early spring breeze entering through the window teased a few stray strands of her hair into disarray, while her fingers unconsciously stilled the lightly swaying cords of her wisteria-purple hakama. Her dignified, beautiful burning eyes remained fixed upon him, resilient cheeks flushed crimson with ardor. Ah, this eternal moment! Every minute word and phrase of the story Wakako had told that day—her voice rich with power yet faintly trembling—Heiichiro remembered with crystalline clarity.

“My father was stationed at the legation in Korea seven or eight years ago.” “It was a cold winter when little snow fell, yet so bitter that even plants and trees had frozen solid.” “One morning, a Japanese lady of respectable standing—appearing to have urgent business—was walking briskly through a remote part of town.” “Just beyond the town stretched barren red mountains winding like serpents—” The way her voice rose sharply on the za of gozaimashita remains unforgettable. “In those mountain depths dwelled many tigers then, said to prey upon Koreans from time to time.” “When the lady reached the town’s edge, something yellow came shambling toward her from afar.” “The lady remained unaware.” “Then the yellow creature loosed a dreadful roar.” “It was a tiger.” “The tiger had come lumbering into town seeking decent prey.” “The moment the lady noticed coincided exactly with the tiger’s lunge.” “The lady could do nothing.” “At that time she carried a new kimono meant for her daughter—one of her children.” “Though devoured herself, the lady resolved never to soil her child’s new kimono, clutching its wrapped bundle tightly.” “The tiger began eating her starting from the head.” “Yet even while being devoured, she lay pressed against the earth embracing that bundle as if cradling her own child.” “By the time townspeople arrived with guns, she lay dead in blood—yet her child’s new kimono alone remained at her breast, warmed there as though it were the child itself—”

“That child—” Heiichiro startled and intuited. And that intuition reached Wakako on the podium as well. A natural smile appeared on Wakako’s face—solemn, more dignified than lovely. Ah, that moment!

“Father always tells me that I was that lady’s child.”

That evening, Heiichiro encountered her waiting for him at the school gate. Wakako smiled. It was a smile that spilled forth naturally. When he tried to say something, she began walking briskly. "I should just go home. This is pointless. For some girl’s sake…" he thought, stopping in his tracks—whereupon Wakako too halted and fixedly waited for him as if urging him on. And when Wakako turned around as if to say something and stopped, this time he felt overpowering hesitation rendering him unable to approach. Repeating such frustration, Heiichiro found himself dragged all the way to the estate-lined district framed by lonely cedar fences. There before a house near the town’s edge—where fields stretched beyond (none other than Fukai’s neighboring home!)—Wakako stopped. The intensity in her eyes when she turned! Heiichiro stood terrified, unable to draw near. Yet though they had indeed shared laughter… As Wakako seemed to vanish within the hedge gate’s shadow, he steeled himself and approached the house’s front. Then she hid herself at the entranceway and waited.

“Here it is—my house.” Her face turning crimson, she nodded several times with a dip of her chin, opened the door—its bell jingling—to step inside, then nodded once more and shut it tight.

Ah, the loneliness and frustration that followed—none could understand them save those who had ever loved and "felt it themselves."

In the forest-deep dusk, not a single sound stirred. He stood before the houses until their lamps were lit, yet no voice of the longed-for Wakako came to him.

That night, he wandered through the fields on the outskirts before returning home—but from that day onward, the girl named Wakako became an unforgettable presence occupying the very center of his consciousness. And so, the long-forgotten memories of Wakako from their elementary school days came surging back with irrepressible vitality. Eyes blazing with passion in their depths, eyebrows like those of an ancient hero, cheeks swelling with resilience, a supple, agile, yet dignified way of moving her body—in the corner of the waiting room during the ten-minute break; beside the corridor curtains swaying in the breeze; under the shade of leafed cherry trees in the playground; at the quiet doorway of the second-floor sewing room after school; among a group of four or five girls fidgeting with the white ivory keys of the organ—everywhere, at every moment, Wakako’s beauty would resurrect itself within him and overwhelm him. What particularly compelled Heiichiro to believe that his love with Wakako must be profoundly deep were these memories: in the mornings before the school bell rang, when he was a sixth-grade elementary student, he would pass the empty hours grappling or wrestling with classmates in the waiting room—though Heiichiro would always take on three or four boys at once and subdue them—and through the morning light filtering in during such moments, he recalled Wakako’s eyes brimming with admiration and longing; or when, seated on the playground’s rotating log, everyone sang in unison into the bright, clear autumn sky, there was the girl (Wakako) who listened intently to Heiichiro’s school song—the girl who sang that “Iroha” poem… When singing the forty-eight-character song—*Iroha ni hoheto, chirinuru o, wakayo tare so, tsune naramu…*—the feeling of raising her voice especially high at the “*wakayo*” part… To Heiichiro, it seemed not only he who cherished this memory, but that Wakako must surely be cherishing thoughts of him as well. And yet, even since the time when merely exchanging glances during his comings and goings at school could no longer endure the loneliness—when he had taken to wandering the fields and found some small solace in passing by Wakako’s house with his heart pounding—even that had already spanned a year. For Ookawa Heiichiro, the fact that Fukai was Wakako’s next-door neighbor and addressed her with such familiarity as “Oh, Miss Wakako?” had to be a significant problem.

“What am I to do?” Heiichiro ate his meal and—whether due to the banana he’d eaten—remained propping his cheek on the desk, not so much lost in thought as drifting restlessly through an irritated daydream.

The outside world was a pleasantly warm May spring. Sunlight glistened on the pale branches of the jujube tree in the garden, and the blue sky soaked into the high roof tiles of the storehouse beyond. Heiichiro felt pathetic that he now had to suffer unbearable irritation amidst such a calm and bountiful external world. When he listened closely, the sound of the shamisen came resounding deeply—likely from the brothel district beyond the back storehouse. The sound of the shamisen made Heiichiro think of his mother. The fact that Mother had gone to Sister Fuyuko’s place and still hadn’t returned was becoming unbearably frustrating. And from the depths of that, thoughts of Wakako welled up. He was unbearably agonized. The moment he thought of Wakako, Fukai’s presence would cling to him. Heiichiro, while listening to the deep, resonant sound of what seemed to be a shamisen played by a still-apprentice girl, considered that his current self was after all nothing more than a poor man—a mother and child alone—renting the second floor of someone else’s house. It was a fact he understood all too well—too well, in fact. Moreover, this fact seemed to be stripped of all beauty, freedom, and progress under societal interpretation. Indeed, Fukai was a young master from a good family. And was it not this mere fact of possessing such a mansion that placed him adjacent to Wakako—she who had remained an unapproachable, solemn figure for that year (no, an even longer span of time)—allowing him to casually utter, “Ah, Miss Wakako?” And when he thought further, even Wakako herself had a father who, though now retired, was a splendid diplomat of no less than second rank. He was no match for her at all—and as this thought had always been Heiichiro’s most devastating blow, here too it struck him fatally. Because of the single fact that I am poor, must I remain silent and leave my Wakako to fate? It felt like something indescribably absurd, yet utterly heartrending. He began to feel that there couldn’t be such a reason. I am in love with Wakako!

This fact—that I am in love—must carry far greater weight and authority than the fact of being poor. Even if he were some mansion-raised young master, there wasn’t an ounce of reason for me to yield Wakako to that Fukai—a mere pretty boy with delicate sensibilities—or so Heiichiro had convinced himself. He hadn’t noticed how his heart had been advancing, how it had been burning. He couldn’t help rebelling against society’s assumption that poverty justified trampling all natural, equal demands. That very resistance—this unstoppable force—had been bestowed upon him. Heiichiro had trembled violently through long contemplation, but now felt it was no time for stillness. He resolved to write his true feelings in a letter and send it to Wakako. And if she didn’t reply or responded coldly? Then such a woman meant nothing. He’d even grown earnest about this ruthless resolve: to never mind women again his whole life, but instead become the world’s greatest man. He began writing on notebook paper torn with his pen. Trying “I” as school taught felt wrong; “I” too felt ill-fitting—so he started with “boku” in hiragana.

I am Ookawa Heiichiro. You must surely know. So I will not write anything about that. I know you. I am always thinking of you. I am thinking of you so much it hurts. Yesterday and today, I walked around near your house. It has been nearly a full year. Do you remember that elementary school alumni gathering? I can still recite your story from beginning to end by heart. I can’t help wanting to become closer to you. As things are, I can’t go on like this. What do you think? Do you not wish for us to become closer? I am poor and live with just my mother and me. Do you think it’s shameful to be close with someone like me? If that’s the case, then please say so. However, even if I am poor, I do not intend to remain an ordinary poor person. I will surely become great even if I am poor. Surely. I want to be close to you.

If you become close to me, I will study more. And then I will become great and make you happy. Please send me your reply. Please come and wait at the telegraph pole in front of my house on Sunday morning.

Ookawa Heiichiro Ms. Yoshikura Wakako Afraid to reread what he had written, he immediately placed it in an envelope and wrote in large, careful kaisho script like during calligraphy practice: “Ms. Yoshikura Wakako, Private.” Then came a clarity of mind like setting down a heavy burden to rest—the fortifying self-awareness of a boy taking his first momentous step, though timidity and anxiety at venturing into the unknown inevitably welled up within him too. He began agonizing over how to deliver the letter. If he met Wakako on the road tomorrow morning, he might hand it to her—but would their paths cross? Even if he went to her house tonight, would she appear? Yet he couldn’t remain idle. Changing from his Kokura school uniform into a kasuri-patterned lined kimono and hakama trousers, he folded the letter twice into his shirt pocket and stepped outside with resolve to visit Wakako’s home. Dusk approached, crimson clouds strewn across the sky like scattered brocade. His excitement faltered midway when Fukai’s face haunted him again— I’m wronging Fukai like this. And this sneaky letter delivery feels utterly cowardly and vile— “But—” His heart made a discovery, “I feel friendship for Fukai—a friendship separate from Wakako!” he blurted out involuntarily. A prideful friendship that refused to let him steal toward Wakako like some thieving cur. “What should I do?” He stood paralyzed at the crossroads, thoughts churning. For ten full minutes he lingered there.

The road straight ahead led to the estate district where Wakako’s house stood; the slope descending to the right led to the red-light district where Fuyuko’s Harukarou brothel was located—a place where his mother was likely still working; and the slope to the left connected to the main street. He was seeing off and welcoming the people coming and going. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a delightful thought appeared, accompanied by an emotion that perfectly matched the word “exultation.” It was this: Heiichiro would confess his own feelings to Fukai himself and then have his letter delivered to Wakako through Fukai.

"That’s it… That’s it…"

While heading back home, Heiichiro couldn’t help but feel overjoyed as he reflected on how manly an attitude that was. “That’s it… That’s it… I am in love with Wakako, and I do not want to act despicably toward Fukai either.” “That’s right—this is good. If Wakako chooses Fukai over me, or if she’s already chosen him, then I’ll be disappointed, but—” He couldn’t bring himself to declare “I’ll steel myself” outright. However, there was a sense of ease in knowing I wouldn’t have to do anything despicable.

Even though Heiichiro had returned home, his mother O-Hikari had not yet come back. He cleaned the lamp as he always did when alone, lit the dim three-minute wick, and then began preparing for tomorrow’s algebra. The May night had fallen completely. From behind came a clear and piercing shamisen melody—different from before—resounding through quiet sorrow-laden air while carrying within it artistic discipline’s unyielding strength. For some reason Heiichiro couldn’t help mutter aloud: “Become great… become great… I’ll surely become great.” Loneliness waiting Mother gradually filled boy’s chest.

Even when the night had grown quite late, his mother O-Hikari did not return. And there, under the lamplight waiting for his mother without eating his evening meal, Heiichiro began to feel that loathsome, truly inexpressible, sharp instinctual suspicion he always sensed whenever Mother returned late. He felt ashamed. The loathsome suspicion that would vanish immediately if Mother returned and showed her calm face—and that he considered inexcusable. Those who do not have to harbor such terrible suspicions toward their own mothers in the present are fortunate. Heiichiro, unable to fully suppress doubts as cold and sharp as a blade, could not help but reflect on his “poverty” with bitter anguish.

Poverty, poverty! Oh, how much had poverty suppressed, trampled upon, and yet tempered that innocent sprout striving to grow within him—still a boy of fifteen? It was in early summer when he turned twelve that he first felt his own "poverty" pierce his bones. Until then, he too had possessed a house of his own— a spacious two-story home with walled gardens along the banks of the S River cutting through Kanazawa’s streets. Though their own dwelling consisted of just two rooms on the front second floor, while countless families rented the rear second floor and shop spaces below— it remained undeniably theirs. Until fifth grade, though never wealthy, he had grown up carefree. How he must have cherished those ancient plum and apricot trees in the garden, the coral trees’ gnarled branches, all trembling above the river’s ceaseless rush below! His father’s absence—the man having died when Heiichiro was three—had pressed upon him like stone, yet knowing this house had sheltered his father’s life, that his father had been a respected merchant beloved across town—these truths softened the ache somewhat. The S River’s eternal flow had always harmonized with his heart’s rhythms—this went without saying. But suffering’s hour could not spare even Heiichiro forever. That his mother O-Hikari had clung to her late husband’s house for nearly a decade since his death, sustaining them alone—this was no ordinary trial. Yet human endurance has limits; cross a threshold, and fate must be conceded to. As Heiichiro grew, living expenses swelled, while the looming specter of "tuition fees" demanded advance preparation. O-Hikari sold the "house"—her husband’s sole legacy, inhabited for over a decade— and Heiichiro became "fatherless and houseless"— a boy stripped of both anchor and lineage. He remembered vividly that sorrowful "first day of their decline." The town glistened post-rain in early summer dusk, air crisp and cleansed.

A five-colored rainbow halo hung in the moist sky. When they tried loading their household belongings onto the cart, there proved to be pitifully little. Heiichiro walked behind the third and final moving cart. The sensation of ruinous decline, the desolation of homelessness, the lonely oppression of a world abruptly constricting—these visceral truths filled Heiichiro as he walked beneath that arching rainbow. Even after relocating, he could not grow accustomed to his new dwelling for a long time. The contrast with their former home was too brutal. Where once flowed the ceaseless murmur of the great S River now echoed shamisen strains from behind the brothel quarter. Instead of their spacious residence, they rented two second-floor rooms—eight and four tatami mats—above a family who procured courtesans for brothels. His mother, who had previously sewn only during idle moments, now labored at needlework in earnest. He had once asked her: “Did we become poor so suddenly?” “You must enter middle school,” she had replied, “then high school, then university—you must become someone great.” “That requires money.” “Which is why we must economize now.” She had also explained their move near the brothel district—better pay for seamstresses there—impressing upon him that he must study diligently despite their surroundings. Heiichiro became convinced he truly had to achieve greatness. This resolve had made him graduate elementary school at the top of his class; this resolve spared him from becoming merely an honor student—that byword for cowardice; this resolve now drove him to manfully confess his feelings to Wakako. Whence came this resolve? From his deceased father’s will? His mother O-Hikari’s devotion? Or his own awareness of destitution? All these, unquestionably. Yet none could trace its primal source—known only to the cosmic force that birthed the Heiichiro within Heiichiro.

And that is something that cannot be expressed in human words.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Mother O-Hikari returned home. She said she had been delayed going around to various clients to express her gratitude and gather work, explaining she had bought some manju that looked too sweet on the way back; then she unwrapped the egg-shaped buns and began eating them herself first. When Heiichiro saw his mother’s calm demeanor, he could not help but feel ashamed and afraid of having harbored such loathsome suspicions until now. He grew happy, and as he thought of his mother walking late at night to gather work for his sake, he was filled with both guilt and joy. He was on the verge of confessing about Wakako while eating the manju. So great was his joy.

“It’s possible we may end up going to Harukarou, where Fuyuko-san is.” “There’s a vacant detached room there—you can use that as your study or bedroom.” “And what will you do, Mom?”

“I may end up taking on all the work (sewing) for that house by myself.”

O-Hikari spoke to Heiichiro in this way at bedtime. Then came a peaceful and healthy sleep.

The downstairs of the house Heiichiro and his mother rented was occupied by someone whose business involved introducing geisha and courtesans. In the backstreets of the brothel district, amidst rows of decaying garbage-smelling shops—tobacco stores, penny candy stores, sundry-and-cosmetics shops, liquor vendors—hung a sign before an aged vermilion lattice: "Geisha and Courtesan Introductions: Nakamura Taihei." Nakamura Taihei had been born with a powerful physique—they said he’d been a local sumo champion in his youth. But by thirty, he’d squandered what little wealth he had on women, drink, gambling, and brawling, until his current wife took a fancy to him and they set up household together. Now past fifty, he was but a prematurely withered old man. The geisha introduction work too was handled solely by the mistress, herself a former geisha. This mistress had once told O-Hikari that had her husband not been a man she’d chosen herself; had abandoning him not shamed her before peers and clients she’d once made envious; had she not felt some responsibility for the illness that stole his massive muscles, ruined his hearing, and clouded his eyes—she’d have left him long ago to forge a new life. For this mistress—three or four years O-Hikari’s junior—the husband who bellowed daily as if still in his prime seemed indeed a burden.

Though it had been by chance, O-Hikari often regretted settling into such a house; yet it was only later that she came to realize how renting its second floor would come to make both her and Heiichiro sense fate's truly momentous force in their lives. It was a coincidental fact that had connected Fuyuko with O-Hikari and her son.

It was the first October autumn since O-Hikari and her son had moved into the second floor of the geisha and courtesan introduction house.

O-Hikari had finished dinner and was washing dishes in the dimly lit kitchen. Downstairs in the parlor, since that afternoon, the mistress had still been loudly talking with a hoarse-voiced man—continuing whatever discussion they’d been engaged in. Though less than five months had passed since coming to this house, they’d made a dark-skinned country girl—who seemed to have been lured there—sit waiting. “I can’t offer more than five hundred yen for ninety-six months.” “Now this gem’s top-tier—you wouldn’t lose out even paying eight hundred.”

“—You must be joking.” “Asking eight hundred yen for this gem—that’s downright impossible.” “Then I’ll lower it to seven hundred seventy yen.”

“Why?!” “Five hundred yen’s my absolute limit, I tell ya.” “It’s not like you went through the trouble of raising the kid yourself—what’s with the hesitation?” “You’re just tossin’ out the dregs after suckin’ dry all the first pickings!” “You must be joking.” “Well then... six hundred yen—” “Well, I suppose there’s no help for it. Let’s settle at fifty ryo.” Having been confronted time and again with the harsh reality of a woman being sold off for five hundred fifty yen, she tried not to listen to what was likely another such story, even as it pained her heart. They not only dragged down young women who had left their rural homes with no prospects and nowhere else to go—plunging them back into an abyss from which there was no hope of resurfacing—but also, when the women living in that abyss gave birth to cursed children of unknown parentage through careless moments, unexpected surges of passion, or nature’s cruel ironies, they would take in those unfortunate children for a pittance and slowly let them starve to death. Most infants died of tuberculosis or syphilis. If they didn’t die [from disease], they would wither away and perish, left to fade without even being given milk.—Even as O-Hikari tried not to listen, the voices reached her. For her, who was acutely aware of her own powerlessness, the very sympathy that made her want to help only deepened the pain.

“I already have everything well in hand—there’s no oversight in such matters.” “Well, that’s you we’re talking about, Shufu-san. But even so, they say you can’t be too careful.” “Hah! Ha ha ha ha!”

Even after finishing washing the dishes, O-Hikari stood for a while in the dim gloom of the earthen floor, hesitant to encounter the sorrowful, loathsome people—but the voices had completely ceased. She resolutely stepped into the parlor. Then she saw Shufu-san, a forty-year-old man with a vulgar face, and a woman, illuminated by the dim red light of the electric lamp. Her slender figure—clad in a whitish silk-crepe unlined kimono and an obi of wool damask interwoven with yuzen-dyed wisteria purple and crimson—made O-Hikari realize she was not of lowly status. As O-Hikari wiped her water-dampened hands on her apron and began to ascend from a corner of the earthen floor, a woman’s sky-blue Western-style umbrella had been placed in the corner. As he passed by her side, the man said, “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” and slightly bent his back. At that moment, the woman quietly lifted her face and bowed in silent acknowledgment. She could not be said to be extremely beautiful. Her slightly bluish-tinged face bore an aloof spiritual refinement, a naive purity, and a lonely, nervous gloom that suggested she had endured hardships. The woman had seemed to bow casually in silent greeting, but upon unexpectedly discovering O-Hikari there, she appeared to freeze in surprise. She seemed more the type to turn pale and withdraw than to blush. O-Hikari went upstairs, and thinking that yet another woman was falling into the abyss left her with no peace of mind. And she resented her own powerlessness. She who could not even devote her full strength to the single task of raising Heiichiro alone into a splendid human being now sorrowfully thought of herself, forced to stand by and watch as many others descended into decay. She felt that the world’s wealth and intellect ought to be used more to help such people. After Heiichiro had gone to bed early, worn out from the day’s exhaustion, she found herself unable to work and went to sleep. The fatigue was sufficient to grant her a deep sleep.

“You disgraceful wretch!” A voice woke O-Hikari from a dream where she writhed under a suffocating nightmare. Raising her head to check if it had been a dream, she saw the waning moon shining coldly through the glass-paned door. “Acting like a fool at your age! How dare you pull such stunts in your condition!” It was unmistakably Shufu-san’s voice from downstairs. “Hmph—what’s it to you?” “Whether you know or not means nothing! That woman finally resolved to go willingly—if you meddle with her tonight like this, who knows what chaos you’ll unleash? No matter how dutifully I feed you every day, I can’t run a proper business with your lecherous antics! If you want a woman, take fifty sen to the lower shop—Miss here mustn’t take offense—it can’t be helped!”

“Shut up!” “You think you can treat me like a senile old fool, you bastard?” The landlord seemed to stand up. Shufu-san’s shrill voice was heard. A woman’s voice—still retaining a trace of restraint in its “Ah, what are you—”—erupted into what seemed like a full-throated scream, and soon after, footsteps clattered noisily up the stairs. The woman from earlier, still in her thin obi, approached O-Hikari’s side while suppressing her violent palpitations, terror, and anger. O-Hikari sat up in bed. The faint light of the autumn moon was shining in.

“Please come here.” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” The woman sat there dejectedly, trembling, but her anger seemed to outweigh her fear. Everything was a fact all too clearly understood. O-Hikari shifted her own pillow, rolled up a zabuton cushion into the shape of a pillow, cleared the space beside her bedding, and said, “Come over here and go to sleep.” The woman said, “I’m sorry,” in a small voice as she slightly crouched and lay down beside O-Hikari. O-Hikari also lay down. And then she listened intently to the sounds from downstairs. However, downstairs was hushed, and both Shufu-san and the landlord had fallen completely silent. O-Hikari felt the uncontrollable quivering of the woman’s slender shoulders. Though it was accidental, O-Hikari could not help but feel that at this moment, her heart and the woman’s were fusing together perfectly. Ah, pitiful woman! Soon the waves of trembling throbbed violently, turning into stifled sobs. O-Hikari also found herself on the verge of tears. O-Hikari rubbed her shoulders. “I am unhappy, truly, truly…” The woman tried to hold back her tears, murmuring a few words each time, only to weep again.

Yet tears possess the power to soothe sorrow. If one cries until there are no tears left, afterward a clarity like after the rain emerges. O-Hikari knew that from her own experience.

“Now, turn this way and stop your crying.” “Since you won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway, turn this way and let’s talk.”

The woman eventually stopped crying and quietly turned over. O-Hikari saw the woman’s face—pale and refined beneath tear-streaks—with its lonely elegance and spirited eyes. And so they confirmed their mutual understanding at this profound level. The woman was twenty years old. She said her father had died this past summer when her mother was seven. Her family were longtime lacquerware artisans from Wajima in Noto Province—but after her father’s death, her older brother—a man of middling cleverness—conceived the idea of corporatizing Wajima-nuri lacquerware and established a company; however he embezzled stock funds and faced imprisonment unless repaid—thus compelling him to sell her pre-marital self into geishahood to raise restitution. She had learned shamisen and koto during girlhood along with flower arrangement and tea ceremony; particularly regarding drumming she expressed keen interest and confidence while desiring further training. Finally she declared wanting somehow to sustain herself solely through true artistry as a geisha. O-Hikari had discerned from their first meeting that this woman remained truly virginal. Her composure derived from innate grace and cultivated refinement—not from worldly experience with men. Nor did world-weariness explain it. This resolve—to fund her brother through self-sale while aspiring toward geisha life sustained purely by art—contained solemn dignity yet also unworldly naivety. O-Hikari could not suppress a deep sigh. The woman then revealed her name as Fuyuko and confessed she would enter Harukarou brothel behind them starting tomorrow.

“Fuyuko-san,” O-Hikari couldn’t help but say. “Right now, my heart aches at the thought of having you enter that kind of work, but there’s nothing to be done about it. Your resolve to make your way through your art alone—I think that’s truly admirable. Please don’t abandon that determination. Even if you should find yourself unable to live by your art alone—so long as you keep your heart steadfast—though oh, there’ll be hardships enough to kill you—nothing but hardships, I’m certain. I’ve endured struggles since I was your age too, but what matters most is that holding fast to such resolve becomes your greatest strength—”

O-Hikari spoke of Heiichiro, herself, and her earnest prayers for Heiichiro’s growth. And since Fuyuko’s home was nearby—though she couldn’t be a true aunt by blood—she urged her to think of her as a well-meaning auntie and visit whenever needed, vowing to help however she could. The two talked through the night until near dawn beneath the cold waning moon shrouded in dense mist, and come morning, Fuyuko departed for Harukarou “to become a geisha.”

Three years had passed since that night. Three years’ time had passed over all things in existence. The same force that had made Heiichiro, now a third-year middle school student, aware of love’s anguish had also made Fuyuko stand as one of the renowned geishas in the brothel district. The cultivated refinement she had honed in her youth and the dignified presence born of her innate grace and quiet melancholy did not allow her to remain merely a victim of base carnal desires. The will to stand through her art alone—to prove herself a geisha of renown—bound her tightly and drew out her true worth. Of course, sustaining herself through “art alone” proved impossible. The time when she had rushed to O-Hikari’s side in disheveled morning clothes, crying “Auntie!”, and prostrated herself at her knees while O-Hikari sewed diligently to lament her first taste of hellish agony had now faded into the distant past. For her, it became not sensual satisfaction but a spur to devotion. Though unskilled at singing, her teacher praised her mastery of shamisen, koto, dance—especially the drum—and she herself held confidence in these. She channeled sorrow after grueling work into solemn cries—*Ha! Oe! Yoo!*— Freeing herself through these cries and the drum’s solemn tones. Meanwhile, O-Hikari had grown accustomed to needlework and familiar with the townspeople. The bond formed between O-Hikari and Fuyuko that night—though not one of blood—had deepened beyond spiritual mother and child. They could not help but share each other’s sufferings and joys. For Heiichiro, these two remarkable women’s love—his mother and Fuyuko—undoubtedly nurtured him. Thus Fuyuko, who three years prior had made O-Hikari’s bed her refuge, now hailed as a “renowned geisha,” became O-Hikari’s trusted confidante in daily matters.

On the afternoon of the day after Heiichiro resolved to have Fukai deliver his letter to Wakako, he returned home with loud footsteps, swelling with a hero’s pride at having accomplished *the deed*. Why were his footsteps so loud? Because he had carried out *the deed*. That morning on the grassy school playground where he met Fukai, Fukai had offered him a gentle smile of gratitude but seemed unable to muster the courage to speak. He too had kept silent, clutching the letter in his pocket all the while. Throughout first-period Japanese class, he berated himself relentlessly for his cowardice—and then startled at finding “Yoshikura Wakako” scrawled over fifty times in his notebook.

The opportunity finally arrived during fourth-period gym class. He called out “Fukai-kun!” to one of the crowd rushing toward the school building as the bell rang. “Huh?” Fukai flushed, his cheeks burning. “I have something I’d like to discuss with you.” Even he couldn’t help but feel his heart pound. He crossed the athletic field and came to the lawn beside the dormitory, adjacent to a thick bamboo grove. And there, sitting down on the wooden horse, he plucked up the courage to say.

“You—you said you know Yoshikura Wakako-san, right?” “Ee——” Fukai responded with a doubtful look, his eyes taking on a protective gaze as though guarding the Wakako within him. “Here.” Heiichiro took out a letter folded in two from his pocket and placed it on the wooden horse’s back. “Could you pass this to Wakako-san?” Fukai stared at the letter on the rain-bleached wooden horse’s back. After a moment, his ears flushed crimson to the roots. When Heiichiro noticed this, he felt it had become a matter of victory or defeat.

“I’ve wanted to become close with Wakako-san for some time now. Hey, will you deliver it to her?” “I didn’t know your house was next to Wakako-san’s.” “Please—won’t you deliver it for me?” “Or else—” He shuddered despite himself. A prayer-like emotion throbbed within him.

“Are you close with Wakako-san?” “No,” Fukai said firmly, his eyes shining. “I’ll pass it.”

“You can count on it!” “Yes!”

“Thank you!” Heiichiro grasped Fukai’s hand, and his joy compelled him to say, “I want to become good friends with you from now on too!” A beautiful fire burned in Fukai’s eyes. It was the beauty of life’s torch—once gone, never to return. Ah, what joy! Had he not captured his beloved! Had he not captured both Wakako and Fukai!

He returned home with loud footsteps.

At home, O-Hikari and Fuyuko were waiting. A gentle sun shone down on the two of them from the clear blue sky of late spring.

“As I thought, it was Heiichiro-san.” With her right hand that had been resting there, Fuyuko gently swept back her smooth, abundant sideburns and looked up at O-Hikari, who was diligently plying her needle to attach a purplish collar to the scarlet crepe underrobe. The peaceful silence was broken by O-Hikari and Fuyuko’s smiles.

“I’m home!” he called out, flung down his bag, changed into his everyday clothes, and as usual found himself rushing to the low dining table. The cooled tofu soup tasted good to him. He gazed at Fuyuko’s slightly tanned, taut face in profile and her glossy Shimada chignon—thinking she must have returned from having her hair done—then found himself drawn to the beautiful curves from her collarbone to shoulders, feeling proud that such a woman was close to him like a sister, though this was a sentiment he always carried.

“You’re late today, aren’t you?” O-Hikari said, keeping her needle in place. “There was a natural history club meeting today,” he lied, and it was only his guilt that made him think of Wakako. And he asked Fuyuko, “Is your dance rehearsal still going on?” “It’s the 28th of this month. This time I’ll be performing, so please come.” As Heiichiro gobbled down his rice with a “Yeah,” O-Hikari said to Fuyuko, “It’s funny how he likes dances and songs so much.” And so, the conversation shifted back to O-Hikari and Fuyuko.

“After all, it’s better if I avoid drinking as much as possible, isn’t it?” “But when I’m at the banquet rooms and feel like living isn’t good at all—like living is truly unbearable, even harmful—if I gulp down a full cup of sake… then my chest feels a little lighter.” “Otherwise, I suppose I could go out to the veranda and practice my drum, but…”

“That’s certainly true.” “I’ve had moments like that more times than I can count—but well, having Heiichiro helped me manage somehow…” “Even so, I feel Auntie is far better off than someone like me.” “Do you think so?” “But I think Auntie has worked so hard yourself.” “Twelve years—right, Auntie? A nursing baby has grown into a middle schooler who struts about.” “But from now on, Auntie—the fruits of your efforts will show.” “I’m truly envious.”

“Well…” O-Hikari smiled with lonely grace. “I don’t know if it’s poverty or what—but I keep feeling I might not live to see Heiichiro stand tall as a man.” “Auntie!” Fuyuko spoke with grave sincerity. “If all I ever show you is this wretched version of myself—why, I couldn’t bear to face you either!”

O-Hikari smiled warmly, as though unable to fully conceal the joy in her heart, “Even as things are now, I’m perfectly content.” “Truly, even since then, three years have already passed, haven’t they?” “You’ve truly become such a fine woman.” “Fuyuko-san.” “You mustn’t, Auntie—don’t tease me like that.” Fuyuko’s face clouded as if holding something bitter, her long-lashed eyes turning toward the blue sky. “What a blue sky… Auntie still hasn’t gone to see the cherry blossoms, has she?”

“Yes, I’ve been kept from it by work and haven’t gone yet.”

“I didn’t want to go this year either, so I didn’t—what a truly blue sky.” Then Fuyuko suddenly said. “Even someone like me—if I were to wish for a child—could I be granted one?” “—?” O-Hikari stared at Fuyuko and remained silent. “Even for those of us who guard against being granted a child as if it were a sin—if we were to wholeheartedly wish for one—could we still be granted one?” “Or is it a punishment that I’ll never bear a child in my lifetime?”

“You’ve become someone who could wholeheartedly wish for that person’s child, haven’t you, Fuyuko-san?” “No, I still haven’t met anyone whose child I’d want to bear no matter what.” “Every person I meet makes me think having their child would be a disaster.” “But I want to meet—at least once in my life—someone for whom I’d pray, ‘Please grant me this person’s child.’” “Even if such a time came, with all the punishments I’ve endured until now, I likely couldn’t be granted a child at all—don’t you think?”

“That’s not something we can know for certain.” “But I feel that if you were to become wholehearted at such a time, you would surely be granted a child.” “—Even someone like me has managed to raise Heiichiro, so if you consider that…”

“Do you think so?” And the two of them fell into a forlorn silence.

Heiichiro finished his meal and sat by the brazier for a while, but when the conversation between his mother and Fuyuko lapsed, he stood up and headed toward the long desk in the four-and-a-half tatami mat room. Then Fuyuko rose as well and said, “Heiichiro-san, come stand by me for a moment.” Heiichiro stood beside her. Though Fuyuko appeared taller due to her upswept hair, there wasn’t an inch of difference between them in reality. “He’ll soon outgrow even my height,” Fuyuko remarked, exchanging a glance with his mother. Heiichiro laughed robustly as though declaring “Exactly!”, while Fuyuko—finding him strikingly handsome himself—turned toward the desk. After the elation of having entrusted his letter to Wakako via Fukai, he now felt an uncanny composure settle over him as he began working on algebra problems. Then the restless anticipation of tomorrow’s Sunday morning welled up inside him like a sudden chill. And what shamed him was how this dread—that she might not reply at all—would intermittently surface despite his efforts to suppress it.

In the evening, Fuyuko said goodbye with a lonely air and left. She went on talking to her mother, O-Hikari, about how the current seamstress at the Harukarou where she worked would be leaving after Obon, and how O-Hikari might come as her replacement. And while whispering something with her mother, she said things like, “Yes, that would be good.” Heiichiro, who for some reason would adopt an arrogant attitude toward Fuyuko, always felt a loneliness as though he had lost something indispensable after she left. On this day too, in the dim, sorrowful twilight of evening, just as he was beginning to feel a yearning to cling childishly to his mother, a voice called out from downstairs: “Heiichiro-san!” It wasn’t unusual for the landlady downstairs to call out. Heiichiro, wondering if she had something unusual to give him or if there was mail, went downstairs. Then the landlady,

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said. Heiichiro opened the door without any expectation and stepped outside to find Fukai standing at the entrance. “Why, it’s Fukai! Please come in.” Fukai stood silently, staring at him with tear-filled eyes. And then, as if indicating the outside, he glanced back quietly. That had to serve as a silent introduction. The next instant, Heiichiro caught sight of a girl standing with her back against the telegraph pole in front of the house. It was Wakako. Everything became clear. He looked at Fukai.

“It’s Wakako-san, isn’t it?” he said to Fukai in the loudest voice he could muster.

His entire body quaked with joy, surprise, fear, and shame. He ran to the telegraph pole but stopped dead about three feet away. Wakako, who had been leaning against the pole, straightened her body, gently took out a light blue envelope from her bosom (ah, the translucence and beauty of her fingertips), showed it to Heiichiro, and smiled radiantly. What was he to do? Across the three-foot gap, Heiichiro simply could not bring himself to close the distance. Her radiant smile dammed up his passion. Passion swirled within him, and his entire body trembled abnormally. Then Fukai came before him, lightly removed his hat, and said, “I must take my leave.” And showing a bashful face toward Wakako, he left at a trot. Heiichiro felt he couldn’t bear his own inadequacy. And he keenly felt just how much his entire being was occupied for Wakako’s sake. In any case, he acknowledged the shrinking of his own strength. Then he could not stop the passion coursing through his entire body from transforming into a delightful shame that rose to his face.

“I couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” Wakako said, her face turning crimson. And then they laughed together—simultaneously. That laughter melted the frozen “congealment.” Ookawa Heiichiro felt liberated. “Come along!” he said brusquely, striding forward. The late spring dusk still lingered brightly outdoors, the evening glow painting profound beauty across the sky. He meant to turn right at the narrow crossroads toward open fields. For a full year he’d wandered those familiar plains yearning for her; now he wanted those fields to witness them together on this first day. They passed brothels with vermilion lattices before reaching riverside streets. When he glanced back—startled by her vivid presence close behind—oppressive turmoil stirred within him. The road unfurled quietly along streams through expansive farmland. He halted. Wakako drew near enough that he sensed her breath. Already they shared an intimacy like twins born joined.

“Shall we go to Fukiya Hill?” “Yes!” Ah, once again welling up—a soul-stirring smile. The current flowed along the road, creating endless undulations. To the right stretched fields where rice planting had ended, extending to the far reaches of the vast wilderness; the forests of villages darkened under the sun’s shadow, and the sun itself burned crimson, larger than usual. The road climbed a gentle slope toward a grassy hill. That hill was the remnant of failure—a merchant friend of Heiichiro’s father had tried to start a cast iron business during the post-Russo-Japanese War entrepreneurial fervor. Amid overgrown weeds lay stones, rotten posts, and rusted metal fragments—seeds of lonesome daydreams for Heiichiro. Spring, summer, fall, winter—since he could no longer forget Wakako, how often had he stood on this hill mourning his own solitude? How many times had he stood there drenched in tears, shouting, “I’ll become great!”? Oak trees crowded the riverbank as a shrike trilled. Heiichiro climbed the hill and settled onto the grass. Wakako sat beside him, both steeped in the blissful evening air. The eternal murmur of gently flowing water; motionless white clouds in the vast sky; twilight’s approach deepening the wilderness’s rich earthen tones; ah, supple meadow grasses forming their bed; the tram horn’s blare through oak groves and town outskirts— And now—just as it began sinking beyond the horizon—the blazing crimson sun of late spring wavered—oh! Wakako quietly drew out the light blue envelope.

“Today, when I returned from school, Fukai-kun gave me your letter.” (“Fukai’s young master”) That very phrase—“young master”—alone felt jarring in their present world, Heiichiro thought. He took the light blue envelope. His hand shook. “Please read it later.” “Yes.” He slipped it into his pocket as told. “Your letter said ‘tomorrow morning,’ but I couldn’t wait—so I had Fukai-kun tell me where you live.”

Heiichiro felt such a strange sensation he could hardly bear it. Wakako—beautiful, noble, dignified, the daughter of a good family—the very Wakako he had worried he might never even have the chance to speak to in his entire life: could he truly believe she was speaking to him? "Heiichiro-san," she said, her voice growing passionately excited. "Do you remember that time at last year's alumni gathering? I've gone back to school now and then since then to look at the graduation commemorative photo hanging in the staff room, you know."

(Wakako remembered it too.) The thought made Heiichiro unbearably happy. He too grew excited as though pouring out his passion. “Well then—do you remember that mirror from elementary school? The mirror?” “I remember! Truly, whenever that principal would drone on blocking the mirror, I’d be furious! Beyond that—truly—when it comes to anything about you, I remember every tiny detail.”

“I do too...” he muttered, holding back the hot tears welling in his eyes.

“I heard you helped Fukai-kun yesterday.” “Me? Oh, did Fukai-kun tell you about it?” “Yes—I’ve been hearing about your school life from Fukai-kun for quite some time now.” “Even about me?” “Yes, about you as well.” “But please don’t act that way.” “About you being class leader, giving a speech at the debate meeting, participating in the class baseball game and ending up losing—” And then she laughed passionately, as though unable to contain herself, brushing back the strands of hair cascading over her cheeks as she turned her face away and shook her head vigorously. That solemn and profound beauty.

“I love Fukai-kun as well.” Thus he declared. “I love you too,” she said. Beyond the oak grove, the rumble revealed an emaciated horse pulling a yellow carriage. The setting sun bled through the carriage window like blood. To them, the pitiful little carriage seemed both tragic and absurd. “Ah, thou relic of a bygone era—O carriage!” Heiichiro’s sudden oratorical tone struck even himself as ridiculous, and they laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks.

“Is it just you and your mother?” “Me? “I only have my mother. “I don’t have a home or any money.” “But having your mother is enough. “I don’t have a mother, you know.” “Ah, that’s right—I heard she was eaten by a tiger and died!”

When the sun had set, the two descended the hill and returned to town along the country road. On the road, when Heiichiro recalled Wakako’s envelope, took it from his pocket, and said, “Shall I open it?”—the chill of her hair brushing against him as she tried desperately to stop him from opening it, crying, “No, Heiichiro-san, you mustn’t!”—was unforgettable. “I’ll bring a reply tomorrow.” “Yes, you can count on it.”

The two parted at the crossroads atop the slope they had climbed. Heiichiro felt as though he had not said a single one of the important things he needed to say. When he reflected on what that had been, his mind was utterly empty. It was “the emptiness of chaotic fullness.”

At night, he spread books across his desk, placed the pale blue envelope atop them, and—steeling himself against his reluctance—sliced it open. Today after returning from school, I went out to the garden and thought of you. What unsettled me so today was how unbearable it felt that we didn’t happen to meet on our way home from school. Then Fukai-kun from next door called out to me. I know everything. I truly am sorry. But you see—I simply didn’t know what I ought to do. Truly—I am yours. Now I’m so happy I can hardly sit still. I want us to grow close. But will you truly let me become that close?

My thoughts are too hurried—I can’t write what I want to say. Mother (she’s not my real mother, you know) will soon come peeking to see what I’m doing. Mr. Heiichiro—I’ve reached a point where I can no longer bear not seeing you this very moment. Tonight I surely won’t sleep at all—I know it. Even before this, whenever sleep eluded me, you were always in my thoughts. You may not realize it, but I’ve often received news of you through Fukai-kun. What in heaven’s name should I do now?

Yoshikura Wakako

My dearest

Mr. Ookawa Heiichiro

Chapter Two

Spring had already passed, and the cloudy sky of the rainy season hung low over the northern town. The fifteen-year-old Ookawa Heiichiro grew as vigorously as a sapling stretching toward sunlight. Having matured within his mother’s devoted love and the noble affection of Fuyuko, he had now grown enough to earn the love of Wakako and Fukai alike. Though exceptionally inept at manual disciplines like calligraphy and drawing, he revealed budding talent in theoretical and emotionally attuned subjects.

His wild imagination during foreign geography class brought the entire Earth into harmony through his will and burned at the thought of how splendid it would be if Wakako were his queen and he her emperor. In history class, when comparing the rise and fall of eras and the lives of eminent figures to his own circumstances, he found himself unable to suppress a shudder. The "poverty" and "homelessness" that constantly plunged him into such desolate loneliness—the pitiable state of being "parentless"—even emboldened him as a sign that nature had bestowed a mission upon him. "I am poor." "But because of that, I will not bend my true spirit’s growth even a fraction!"

He didn’t have a massive physique, so he was no athlete, but he did play baseball and practice judo and kendo. Yet O-Hikari and her son were still to face countless trials. Sadly, O-Hikari could no longer cover the living expenses for two and Heiichiro’s tuition on her own. The money from selling the house—her late husband’s only memento—had dwindled to nearly nothing. She had to do something. To resign herself to awaiting the looming misfortune, despite seeing it clearly, would have meant placing too little faith in Heiichiro’s future—a future she cherished too deeply, blessed, and held in the highest regard. She confided in Fuyuko. Fuyuko suggested that since the seamstress at Harukarou had left, she should come work there. The mother and son ate together as she mentioned a monthly stipend of five yen. O-Hikari could not help but agonize over what to do. Even moving near the red-light district seemed ill-advised for Heiichiro’s sake, let alone taking up residence in one of its brothels—a move certain to bring no good influence. But continuing as they were would only deplete their meager savings all the sooner. She saw no alternative. Reflecting on her life’s hardships, she reasoned that if living in a brothel’s shadow caused Heiichiro’s resolve to falter, then he would never become someone dependable.

It was a gamble. But she resolved to take up residence there after all. “If it turns out badly, we’ll manage somehow—at least it’s better than waiting for ruin as things are,” she resolved. And so, life’s struggles and worry for her only child made her forget her innate instinctive aversion and sympathy toward prostitutes and harlots. It became a solemn existence with no time for idle observation. Having no one else to turn to, she finally confided in Heiichiro.

“I don’t want to! I’m not going!” When Heiichiro was told by O-Hikari about moving houses, he howled like a madman. If I were to live in such a brothel, what would Wakako and Fukai think? They’ll surely stop paying any attention to me! he thought in that instant. O-Hikari too had initially been perplexed by how justified Heiichiro’s vehement opposition seemed. But the matter had already been decided. Without resorting to numbers, O-Hikari quietly explained to Heiichiro how dire their circumstances as mother and child had become. She added that even if they lived in such a brothel, they wouldn’t be among the women—and as long as he focused on his studies, it made no difference where they resided. Heiichiro listened to his mother’s words but could not endure the oppressive weight of “poverty” pressing through them. Yet ah—the very strength he possessed drove him, sorrowfully, to resolve to spend his days beneath a brothel’s eaves.

(I’ll tell Wakako and Fukai everything truthfully—that poverty forced me to move, but no matter where I live, my spirit stays strong and unchanged! That I love them all, and they love me too!)

“Fuyuko-san… What an incredible bond this is. What a truly mysterious bond this is,” O-Hikari said to Fuyuko with tearful emotion, unlike her usual self, when Heiichiro had reluctantly agreed and the discussion had been settled on both sides.

“Auntie, it’s me who should be saying that.” “If you hadn’t been here, Auntie, what would have become of me?” “I surely would have turned out far worse than I am now—even as things stand, I’m always feeling I’ve wronged you, Auntie,” Fuyuko said.

From early morning on a Sunday in mid-June, O-Hikari managed to finish packing and cleaning with the help of Fuyuko and a hired man. As she watched the hired men load the last remaining black-lacquered chest and long trunk onto a cart, tears began to well up in her eyes for no discernible reason. A bitter sorrow of nomadic hardship—perhaps that’s what one might call it. After Fuyuko accompanied the final moving cart, the sight of the stripped, desolate room finally made her cry. It was an indescribable helplessness. After the death of her husband Shuntaro, it was the profound loneliness and desolation of life that seeped into her as a widow. As she thought, “Truly, we are born alone and die alone,” tears welled up in her eyes. Just then, Fuyuko—wearing a pale blue flannel summer kimono with a hand towel tied sash-like across her chest and her hair in an older-sister style—hurried in urging that now was the perfect time to go since the master of Harukarou was awake while the house geishas still slept. To O-Hikari, this arrival brought relief. Though lonely, the two of them felt a new excitement as they turned right at the crossroads and descended a gentle slope. Even in this suburban red-light district, Harukarou was a first-class establishment. Amid a row of grand yet antiquated houses, adjoining the precincts of a Hachiman Shrine crowned by a dense cedar forest, soared a three-story ancient-style gabled structure. When O-Hikari stood before the red-lacquered lattice door of the house, she felt her entire body tense up as if for the first time. Inside the middle door fitted with colored glass, high-end geta clogs, ashida pattens, and setta sandals lay in complete disarray—overturned, lying sideways, or kicked about.

The master was a man in his fifties with a balding reddish scalp sparsely dotted with elegant white hairs and an oily complexion. Sitting on a side seat by the three-foot-square hearth while sipping heated egg sake, he said she could ask his wife about details once she woke up later—to make herself at home with peace of mind, to become a confidant for his wife too—that she seemed to have a son, and since there was an empty detached room behind the storehouse, it would be better to use that as a study. To O-Hikari, his words—suggesting he was more of a man acquainted with hardship than she had imagined—came as a relief. The morning sun quietly streaming in from the neighboring shrine grounds was another thing that brought her joy.

“Well then, Auntie, let’s go to the detached room.” “The luggage has already been completely put away.”

The wide kitchen’s wooden floor; the long corridor passing through the garden’s grove of trees; turning at the front of the storehouse, the dimness of the side passage along the white wall grew faint. “Auntie, that’s the bathhouse.”

Onto the narrow wooden floor beside the red, purple, and orange colored glass, a faint light filtered in. Sunlight streamed from the garden adorned with azalea and nandina thickets, and facing the garden stood the detached room. “It’s here, Auntie!”

O-Hikari surveyed the brazier, shelves, and Heiichiro’s desk—all placed discordantly in the ten-mat room with blue walls—and could not help but feel a profound loneliness, unease, and gratitude.

“From now on, I’m so happy I’ll always be able to live with you, Auntie,” Fuyuko said. “When I first truly came to know you, Auntie, did I ever imagine we’d end up living together like this?”

“It truly is a mysterious bond,” O-Hikari said, feeling as though she had touched some eternal force. And she gazed up at the future of life—eternal, unknowable, the wellspring of all joy and all sorrow. The sun shone brightly. “I’ve gotten sleepy. Auntie, excuse me, but I’m going to take a quick nap,” Fuyuko said with a laugh as she left. It was 8 a.m., a time that should still have been midnight for Harukarou.

The large clock hanging in the front of Harukarou’s tea room resounded with the booming toll of ten o’clock. A chaotic, murky sleep enveloped the entire house in gloom. The master, who had woken up midway and downed a cup of egg sake, clung to the landlady—who had fallen into a deep sleep late last night—and drifted off again, his pleasant morning drunkenness undisturbed. The electric lights had gone out, leaving the entire house dim and silent. The night’s splendor that had thrived beneath the lamps was nowhere to be found. Through the fine lattice-patterned glass of the front windows, sunlight—nearing midsummer in its relentless and intensifying strength—streamed into the shop’s room where the electric lights had gone out, illuminating everything. The women lay asleep, their forms seemingly floating in the morning light. Eight futons lined up across the room; dressing tables arranged on the wooden floor near the pillows; four paulownia-wood chests along the walls; above them, two hanging shelves—where what appeared to be frayed everyday obis hung down alongside red undergarments. Layers of kimonos lay discarded, their red linings turned inside out; collars of black raw silk, stained with neck grime and powder, shone dully as they were stuffed into the shelf. The white light reflected by the surface of a mirror that had been forgotten to be covered remained perfectly still on that single plane. It was quiet. Soft, rhythmic breaths rose and fell. Occasionally, some would let out a low groan.

It was rare for there to be as many as eight futons laid out as there were this morning. On any given night, only three or four—or at most four or five—of them ever slept in their own futons. It was an all-too-clear fact in what places, with what people, and through what kind of nights they would spend their time. Awakened by the ten o’clock chime, Fuyuko could not help but gaze from her futon at the unusually orderly sight of her companions sleeping, illuminated by the light. Lying by the wall, properly draped in a light blue summer futon covering half her body, facing the wall on her left pillow and sleeping peacefully was O-Sachi, two years younger than Fuyuko. The sun shone on her lustrous Shimada chignon—never neglecting her sleeping makeup—as small, rhythmic breaths faintly stirred the roots of her hair. Though her height was somewhat short and her frame petite, O-Sachi possessed firm, rounded contours and skin of pristine translucence, its texture finely detailed. O-Sachi was born in Tokyo. Her mother had been a geisha renowned even in Tokyo’s Yanagibashi district, but after turning thirty, her luck had turned bad. When the politician who had been her sole patron died, continuing her geisha trade as she had during her prime was no longer feasible—her willfulness had created far too many enemies. When O-Sachi’s mother began to feel her fading beauty and the waning youth of her flesh, she came to the city of Kanazawa determined to make a living through her art (dance), which was said to be just one step away from mastery. At that time, O-Sachi was a fifteen-year-old girl, but her mother’s wit, the dance skills instilled in her since childhood, and the allure of her petite yet firm physique did not allow her to grow up as a teacher’s daughter. O-Sachi’s mother, while living near the red-light district, naturally became acquainted with Harukarou’s master. To O-Sachi’s mother, who had a discerning eye for men, he alone appeared somewhat like a genuine man of hardship. With the support of Harukarou’s master—the overseer of the red-light district—O-Sachi’s mother was able to secure a respectable position in this town as a Fujima School dance instructor; due to this connection, O-Sachi too began appearing in Harukarou’s parlors as one of its geisha from around the age of seventeen. Petite as she was, even when sitting quietly among a crowd in full regalia, she never stood out in the slightest. Yet when facing men one by one, beneath her crisp, lively gestures shimmered a bewitching force that seemed to ensnare their souls. “I start by discerning the customer’s feelings, demeanor, and spending habits.” “You can’t afford to let your guard down around students and shopkeepers.” “The first priority is to set your sights on respectable men in their thirties or forties who have money,” she once told Fuyuko. O-Sachi seemed to take a devilish pleasure in leading men astray and dragging them into her grasp.

Even when she herself was being dragged along against her will, once matters reached a certain point, she would twist away like a nimble kitten and coolly watch the abandoned man depart—a siren-like, cruel pleasure she had come to know. Yet it wasn’t as though she had never known passionate love, however erotic those encounters might have been. When she was still eighteen that New Year, Saburo-san—the son of the town’s foremost kimono merchant and a high school student—began ardently pursuing her. Saburo-san’s boyish charm, brimming with youthful vigor, made her fall helplessly in love. Only when meeting Saburo-san did she cast aside all artifice and rise up with single-minded passion. How brilliantly love’s power had made her—this enchantress—shine was something only Saburo-san could know. For O-Sachi, precisely because this turmoil of fleshly desire ran so deep, she found herself unable to part from Saburo-san for even a moment throughout the day. Saburo-san skipped school; O-Sachi stopped attending parlors. Day and night, they remained shut away together in a single room like fever patients. But after Saburo-san’s family clerk took him away and spent the entire day negotiating over the phone—even disconnecting it temporarily—O-Sachi’s passion gradually subsided.

“I’ll never forget Saburo-san, no matter how much time passes!” she declared—but that was her first and last instance of “losing herself.” It had been both love and pleasure. Even amidst those whirlpools of intense pleasure and passion, that dreadful training to maintain shrewd calculation had now been perfected; as an ideal “good woman,” she lay quietly sleeping, her small measured breaths rising and falling in tranquil repose. Next to O-Sachi lay Tokiko at twenty years old, her entire body arched as she drew slightly labored breaths through flared nostrils. Her sleeping form—with the quilt bunched between her legs and both hands flung out onto the tatami—transcended mere roughness. The harsh light fell upon her slender face with its sharp aquiline nose and extended throat where an Adam’s apple protruded. Flaking white makeup mottled with bluish skin showed through; from her gaping nightgown collar emerged an emaciated chest stained black with oil—unhealthy yet undeniably possessing a delicate beauty. She was a woman who had spent all twenty years of her life growing up in the red-light district during memorable times. She claimed to only recall having been carried along steep mountain paths by someone long ago. Until thirteen or fourteen, she’d been forced into ceaseless errand-running. Each morning she rose earliest to clean ash from thirty braziers before hauling ash containers to a distant stream for washing—work that continued even through snow-laden winter dawns. After this came cleaning assistance. Finally finishing breakfast meant attending dance and shamisen lessons at her instructor’s—an ordeal bringing no joy whatsoever. She desperately wished to grow up quickly—to wear fine kimonos like senior geishas, drink sake, feast on delicacies, and revel with men. Precocious, by fourteen springs she’d effectively ceased being a girl. When first appearing in parlor rooms as a maiko—face whitened, lips rouged, clad in crepe-silk kimono—uttering “Good evening, Master,” she felt she’d achieved grand success. Men’s praises—“Toki-chan’s my good girl” or “What an adorable thing”—filled her with irrepressible delight.

She was consumed. All the desires that had been suppressed were finally liberated. She ate and drank, made noise, and voraciously consumed even that bitter thing forced upon her. As a lively, accommodating young woman who readily fulfilled their desires, she came to be fawned over by students and youths starved of sexual gratification—and found satisfaction in it. The sight of Tokiko sleeping in disarray this morning, clutching her exhausted body, a soul in turmoil, and base satisfaction, stirred in Fuyuko both wretched pity and sorrowful introspection.

Shigeko, who had returned from a client’s house late last night—or rather, past two in the morning—and tearfully pleaded with Fuyuko about fleeing the habutae merchant who had summoned her that evening, now lay sleeping beside Fuyuko, next to Tokiko. Fuyuko had come to feel a certain fondness for this gloomy Shigeko. Even though Shigeko had begged her mother through tears, insisting she absolutely did not want to become a geisha, it had been impossible to overturn her stepmother’s will—decided from the moment she was received as an infant. “If I hadn’t raised you, you’d have become bones in some mountain stream,” her stepmother had said—words Shigeko could never forget. She had become a geisha against her will. After surrendering herself to lewd acts, her spirit grew abnormally agitated, leaving her sleepless through the night. On those sleepless nights she would imagine herself wasting away to skin and bones; she would envision a hell where every night her essence was wrung dry like sap from pressed wood; she would see death’s jet-black hand reaching out to seize her. Last night too she had asked Fuyuko, “What becomes of us when we die?” and lamented, “Some vile sickness seems to course through my veins,” before falling asleep with lonely finality. Her face and cheeks twitched spasmodically— The storefront light now carried midday heat, and Fuyuko began feeling suffocated. She turned over and gazed at the women lined up to her right. Unaware of the golden sunlight spilling in broad streams around them, all seemed asleep—worn out from the night.

At the collar of a small Benkei-striped quilt, two peach-parted hairstyles lay neatly side by side, their faces hidden beneath the covers—these were Yoneko and Ichiko, the two red-collar girls. Yoneko had turned fourteen this year and become a red-collar apprentice for the first time, but when Ichiko—just a year younger—declared, “If you’re becoming one, then I will too!”, she too ended up joining the red-collar ranks. Yoneko was a slender, quiet girl, but Ichiko was a bit of a tomboy—full of energy and as beautiful as a flower. Ichiko was doted on by many customers, but Yoneko was loved by a select few good clients. However, the two themselves were indifferent to such things. They danced clumsy dances and were delighted when praised. Both were women who had been born and raised as geishas’ children, unable to clearly point to anyone as their father. They knew nothing of life beyond the red-light district. Might they go their entire lives without ever gaining even a proper understanding of occupation, love, morality—?

Next to these two girls lay a single empty bed. On the soiled bedding remained two vermilion-lacquered pillows placed side by side. This was the "shared" bed of the close friends Kikuryu and Tomie. It was their bed. Since they were rarely together, the two shared one bed. On the rare occasions they were together, they would crawl into one bed and talk of lovers' gossip until dawn paled the night, then fall asleep—this being their custom. Last night, they had likely either stayed out somewhere or perhaps been in a room on the second floor.

Away from the empty bed, across the threshold where the sliding doors had been removed, the licensed prostitutes of this house slept. Coarse yellow, black, and maroon vertical-striped quilts bunched around her frame, plump snow-white arms flung wide, rounded fleshy profile exposed with mouth agape in deep slumber—this was Tsuruko, a woman nearing thirty. From girlhood through youth, she had labored as a factory girl at a village weaving mill and a worker at the town’s Tobacco Monopoly Bureau. Her plump, near-bursting flesh and smooth skin formed an innate repository of insatiable desire. She became a prostitute at twenty-three—an occupation that provided bread and a fount of pleasure both. Never did she tire from this profession. Though the vivid crimson had faded from her blood, pale blue veins rippled quietly across her corpulent flesh. “Mornings alone make me unbearably gloomy,” she once told Fuyuko with a chuckle.

One could not overlook the small, emaciated woman sleeping in the shadow of Tsuruko’s large frame. In her sunken-cheeked face, where the flesh had fallen away and withered small, she clenched a stray lock of disheveled hair between her lips, each breath causing her slender nose to quiver faintly. The sun was shining on that oppressed and utterly gloomy face. Each deep wrinkle on her forehead stood out clearly, expressing the woman’s hardships. Kozuma was an unfortunate woman. Even Fuyuko, who believed herself unfortunate, considered her a woman so wretched as to be truly unfortunate. Kozuma was the only one among the many women born in this town, the daughter of a middle-class pharmacy. After finishing elementary school, as was customary for middle-class daughters in this city, she attended daily sewing lessons. She was a shy, unobtrusive, and affable girl. To reach her sewing teacher’s house, she had to walk along the riverbank, but around age sixteen, there was a young man who seemed to be a merchant that she would always meet by the riverside. Kozuma thought he seemed like a kind and manly person. One day on her way home, a sudden rain began to spatter down. Just then, the young man happened to arrive, sheltering her under his umbrella and escorting her home. As they walked, talking shyly along the way, she felt joy upon learning he was the son of a paper merchant whose shop was back-to-back with her house. The two grew close, and the girl appeared to be with child. While she fretted alone over whether she might be pregnant, the parents had gone and arranged a marriage. The destination was the same medicine wholesaler. (“Why didn’t I tell my parents clearly back then? I was just so terrified of being scolded—Fuyuko-san, how naive I was back then!” Kozuma would often say.) The paper merchant’s son, believing she had changed her mind, began to indulge in dissipation. Before long, she could no longer conceal her pregnancy and was cast out.

Timid Kozuma, owing to her timid and weak-hearted nature, fled her home only to meet hardship after hardship, until she found herself among a group of prostitutes. For her—with a timid, weak, guileless soul and a nervous, sensitive body easily wounded—the duties of prostitution became a cruel hell. If she spent a single night working, by morning she would be tormented by a raging fever. And just as the fever’s agony subsided, the terrifying and abominable atrocities of night would descend once more. For Kozuma, who could not fully mechanize herself, it was a terrible, terrible waste of life. No wonder that Kozuma, not yet twenty-five, had become emaciated and taken on a dark, withered appearance. Kozuma spent her days haunted by recollections of vile acts and threats, cursing the oppression wrought by terrible violence. “I always wish I could stay asleep forever,” she murmured, “never waking up.” Ah, the lonely happiness of nights spent sleeping alone— As Fuyuko stared fixedly at her, Kozuma’s sunken eyes fluttered open. The sunlight seemed to suddenly sting her eyes.

“Oh, Lord Sun,” she murmured faintly, then spotted Fuyuko amidst the light and smiled a lonely smile. “Are you awake already?” “Yes, I just woke up a moment ago to the sound of the clock.” “Oh— Ah, I was having such an awful dream. I didn’t groan, did I?” “No—you were sleeping soundly… It’s truly a lovely morning though, isn’t it, Kozuma-san?” “I mustn’t laugh like this—Fuyuko-san. When I suddenly opened my eyes, the light of Lord Sun looked so beautiful that I thought perhaps I had died and come to paradise. Then, when I saw this person’s thick arm beside me”—she pointed at Tsuruko—“I thought: ‘Ah—so I am still in hell after all.’”

At that moment, Fuyuko suddenly wondered how O-Hikari was doing. The room was likely tidy, but she must be feeling lonely all alone. Somehow she wanted to get up and see her face. Fuyuko rose, changed into her everyday clothes, and said to Kozuma, "I just remembered something I need to do—do rest a while longer," before leaving the shop's room. For Fuyuko, talking with Kozuma proved unbearable precisely because it seemed to lay bare the weaker aspects of her own character—traits she had always striven to conquer and unify through sheer effort.

While feeling lonely at Fuyuko’s departure, Kozuma gazed at O-Sachi, Tokiko, Shigeko, Yoneko and Ichiko, and Tsuruko—and could not help but feel an unbearable, instinctive sorrow at the absence of Tomie and Kikuryu. Both had been invited to a certain restaurant last night and had likely stayed somewhere. Both of them had been raised at Harukarou Brothel since early childhood, just like Yoneko and Ichiko were now, and had only become full-fledged last year—still eighteen, the age when ordinary girls would have been innocent. Kozuma could not help but feel deep sorrow when she realized that the age at which she had fallen in love with that paper merchant’s son was exactly the same as Kikuryu and Tomie’s current age. Tears lamenting her own youth that had rushed past—and further still—the plight of these young people who, having placed themselves in such circumstances during their girlhood years without knowing a single pure first love-like romance, let their beautiful bodies rot away through nightly duties. She tried to think that perhaps she had been more fortunate than they were. But that faint emotion resembling dust—accompanying her brief reminiscence—shattered from its very foundation when she felt a cramping pain seize her from waist to lower abdomen. As she observed her own pale torso exposed between grease-stained undergarments bleached by sunlight and a faded red slip—the emaciated flesh of her ribcage, shriveled skin creased with wrinkles, skeletal ribs forming dark folds one by one—she confirmed that her somewhat happier girlhood days had become nothing more than a fact from another distant world. The present her—a violent pain pierced through her body, constricting it relentlessly. She clenched her teeth and endured the pain. Clammy sweat oozed from her emaciated pale withered hands. The malignant disease that seemed to have seeped into her very marrow growled from her body’s depths: “You do not have long now.” She lacked the strength to wipe her sweat-drenched body and found wretchedness in how this sweat resembled that which came with taking clients—the kind that made death seem preferable. And again she rested her head on the pillow, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep. It was already nearly eleven o'clock.

Around the town, doors and rain shutters opened here and there, their sounds echoing. Ah—a loud yawn resounded from somewhere. Kozuma regained her composure, sat up, fastened a thin red cord over her undergarment beneath her breasts, and quietly entered the tearoom. In the hearth, charcoal flames burned vigorously—likely lit early by the brothel keeper. She took an unpleasant drag of her tobacco, savoring the warm sunlight streaming through the window on her skin. In the kitchen, floorboards creaked as if the old maidservant had just risen. Listening to those creaks, footsteps approached from afar across different floorboards. Kozuma listened vacantly. She lacked even the strength to think. Fuyuko appeared. Ordinarily, Kozuma found Fuyuko slightly fearsome yet felt toward her a worshipful love—the kind reserved for those strong enough to actualize their ideals.

“Good morning, Kozuma-san.” Fuyuko bowed formally. “Good morning.” Behind Fuyuko, she noticed a woman in her forties—slightly gaunt from hardship yet dignified and refined—crouching there as if uncertain how to carry herself, the solemnity in her eyes seeming to rebuke her own indecisiveness. “Auntie Ookawa has come to work here this time.”

“Please take care of me,” said O-Hikari. Kozuma felt as though she had seen this person somewhere before. The generous warmth felt nostalgic to her. She thought—though this wasn’t the sort of person who would come to a place like this for work—then abruptly, her present self grew ashamed before this woman. She looked down, “If anything, I should be the one,” she said softly. Fuyuko fell silent. Fuyuko’s cheeks were faintly flushed. Though she always smiled warmly when meeting O-Hikari elsewhere, at Harukarou Brothel she pressed her lips tightly together, maintaining a calm yet somber composure. She spoke little. This unfriendly silence and dignity—unbecoming of a woman in her trade—had refined her into a figure of strangely lonely beauty. As O-Hikari glanced between Kozuma and Fuyuko, she felt she had glimpsed Fuyuko’s true loveliness and was gladdened. When conversing casually, Fuyuko hadn’t seemed particularly remarkable, but now, in her tensed poise—worthy of being called a renowned geisha even within the red-light district—there resonated a stately aura that made O-Hikari feel she was seeing her anew. The three of them sat around the hearth in silence, bathed in morning light. In such moments, only soulless things could speak.

“Toki-chan! Shigeko-chan! Aren’t you getting up? It’s late, Shigeko-chan! Toki-chan!” O-Sachi’s rounded, thick voice echoed from the brothel’s direction. “Yoneko-chan! Ichiko-chan! Exposing your buttocks like this—what if someone steals them away in the night? Get up already, I say!” The sharp *pita-pita* of small buttocks being slapped and groggy forced guffaws burst out simultaneously.

There came sharp slapping sounds against the small prostitutes’ buttocks and a burst of sleepy, forced guffaws in unison. The women of the brothel all opened their eyes. “Toki-chan, you should just put away your own bedding.” “Yes, yes.”

“I kept having such strange dreams last night.” “If it’s Tsuruko-san’s dream, we can pretty much guess what it’s about.”

“Of course—it’s a dream about some handsome man.”

O-Sachi came out wearing her usual spirited unlined kimono with a Hakata underbelt fastened, using a toothpick. Her sharp, lively eyes—always darting with intelligence—paused fixedly on O-Hikari for a moment before turning toward Fuyuko as if demanding an explanation. Fuyuko detested those eyes of O-Sachi's. Those shrewd, calculating eyes—the kind that, once a man was struck by them, would instantly conjure some temptation in his heart—Fuyuko found those eyes utterly detestable. In most cases, Fuyuko remained silent. O-Sachi called Fuyuko arrogant. Had O-Sachi's confidence in her hold over men been weaker, or had her monthly earnings tally fallen below Fuyuko's, her serpentine cunning might have manifested in cruelty toward Fuyuko. But Fuyuko's clientele was limited to a small circle, and she detested overnight stays—a distaste her status allowed her to maintain in most cases. Thus, her earnings never surpassed O-Sachi's. And that was for her own good. But even Fuyuko could not remain silent now if O-Hikari was to get by.

“Good morning, O-Sachi-san.”

“Good morning.” “You know—the one I was always telling you about. Auntie Ookawa. She’s come to work here now. Please look after her properly again.”

“I see.” “Please take care of me.”

O-Sachi glanced briefly at O-Hikari. To her eyes, O-Hikari appeared as a plain woman slightly out of her element—somewhat enigmatic, offering no foothold for conquest. Yet this very wit and intelligence, coupled with her ignorance of women beyond the brothel’s world, eased O-Sachi’s mind. There before her, O-Hikari saw the petite and beautiful O-Sachi—sprightly as a new little fish leaping through water.

“Please take your time, Auntie.” O-Sachi left toward the washroom. “Shigeko-san, you should pick up those paper scraps.” As Shigeko tried to take off her undergarments, change into a summer kimono, and come out to the tearoom, Tokiko called out to her while tightening her narrow obi in swift circles. The offhandedness of that summons stung Shigeko’s heart. “What?” “It’s those paper scraps.” Tokiko pointed at Shigeko’s feet. There lay a crumpled scrap of paper stained with dark blood. Shigeko seemed startled—her eyes darting as if retracing every moment from when she had returned late last night in somber gloom until she collapsed into bed—and with remarkable speed, she said:

“This isn’t mine.” “If they’re not yours, Shigeko, then whose are they?” “How should I know whose they are?” “Hmph—” Tokiko tightened her narrow obi sharply and tapped near her full breasts. The impact sent several identical paper scraps tumbling from the figured silk lining of her sleeve onto the tatami mats. Shigeko’s eyes lit up. But that brightness—as if ashamed of its own spark—sank back into her naturally somber features. Tokiko clenched her jaw against the irritation of this unforeseen exposure. (Last night—at that gathering of young higher school students—the bespectacled man with the vigorous air and faintly bluish beard who’d been so lively—she’d completely forgotten about him!) Tokiko clicked her tongue softly and said:

“You’re so refined, Shigeko.”

Shigeko twisted her face in a pained manner and fell silent. At times like this, she wished Fuyuko were here. For Shigeko, the oppressive feeling of "I hate this, I hate this" was overwhelming—yet she lacked the strength to let that oppression drive her toward resistance and forging her own path. She was too young to possess Kozuma’s resigned composure for detached observation, nor was she blessed with Fuyuko’s innate gift for subduing others through oppressive dignity and silence. Shigeko came out to the tearoom, holding back tears. Tokiko also came out.

“Good morning, Fuyuko-neesan.” Shigeko said. “Good morning—Oh, Shigeko-chan, this is my Auntie.” “She has come to work here now.” Fuyuko also addressed Tokiko, who was silently using a toothpick as if angry. “Toki-chan, please take good care of her too.” “Yes.”

Tokiko and Shigeko left for the kitchen. The way Shigeko lowered herself in a bow to O-Hikari was pitifully touching. “Maybe I should go wash my face too.”

With that, Kozuma rose gingerly, as if nursing her bodily pain, and headed toward the kitchen.

“Ugh, so sleepy! Why’d I have to wake up this early? Can’t stand it!” Tsuruko’s voice boomed like a man’s. Her plump upper body half-naked, she staggered into the tearoom and shrieked shrilly at seeing the clock nearing eleven. Then she pitifully attempted to suck her own sagging nipples. The darkened tips and slack, heavy breasts testified to a child she’d borne in some former existence.

“I may look like this, but I’m still young.” Despite Tsuruko’s large nose, large eyes, and thick lips—her dull upper body lacking luster—O-Hikari felt an unfulfilled sadness. “Go wash your face quickly—Auntie, this person is Tsuruko-san.” Fuyuko now turned to address O-Hikari. “Just some woman you happened to see, Auntie—ahahahaha!” Tsuruko left.

The two girls, Yoneko and Ichiko, took down the heavy bronze brazier from the shelf by the stairs, cleared away cigarette butts and smoothed the ashes, all while stealing occasional glances at O-Hikari. Yoneko had a melon-seed-shaped face with a nose that seemed almost too delicate, even drooping slightly at the tip, but her single-lidded eyes were lovely. Ichiko was a lovely girl with a plump figure, her eyebrows and eyes exuding a gentle kindness, her round-chinned lips slightly parted as if ready to chatter.

“She’s Fuyuko-neesan’s mother.”

“No, she’s Fuyuko-neesan’s aunt.—You know, the Auntie who was working upstairs at Nakata’s place in the back!” “Ah, that Auntie.—Then you mean she’s Heiichiro-san’s mother, the one attending middle school?” “So… you know Heiichiro-san too?”

“I know.” “I know too!”

Yoneko looked slightly displeased. (She had often remembered Heiichiro playing catch on the streets with a bright smile whenever she went out on errands, so she felt displeased that Ichiko knew the same Heiichiro.) Even if raised in the mud, a girl’s innocence does not etch into memory the many men who drank and engaged in lewd antics every night—yet it preserves the fleeting smile of a neighborhood boy! “Will Heiichiro-san be coming here too?” “Fuyuko-neesan!” Just as Ichiko suddenly asked this, before Fuyuko could answer, O-Sachi appeared at that moment and—

“Hurry up and clean the garden.” “What are you dawdling around for?”

Scolded, the two girls descended to the dirt floor and began tidying the cluttered geta one pair at a time. The sound of dusting began echoing through the shop area and tearoom as well. The cleaning had been started by Tsuruko, Shigeko, and Tokiko. (If Kikuryu and Tomie had been there, they would have helped.) Tsuruko worked alone, bellowing as she haphazardly rearranged items. Shigeko swept in silence. Tokiko muttered complaints under her breath while barely attempting to clean. Kikuryu-san and Tomie-san are probably still sleeping in their warm beds by now—how utterly absurd—she thought about calling that clerk from last night tonight. In the kitchen, the old woman—though “old” poorly described her forty-four or forty-five years, her slender frame (bereft of innate gifts and having absorbed nothing from life’s hardships, remaining unaged while laboring like a sturdy horse)—had finally finished preparing watery porridge in a large two-shō pot, wastefully burning gas throughout. At Harukarou Brothel, porridge-sipping remained their year-round breakfast custom.

“Everyone, the meal is ready.”

Between the inner courtyard adjacent to the kitchen and the back parlor—forming a right angle—stood this house’s dining room. In one corner of the dining room lay the entrance to a pit cellar, enclosed by a handrail roughly three shaku square. From that dark maw rose a subterranean chill that seeped piercingly into the room’s air. The old woman sweated as she spread thin straw mats and positioned a large porridge pot at the center. Once more she shouted: “Everyone! The meal is ready.” Even here hierarchies existed—Fuyuko and O-Sachi took facing seats at the head position. Tokiko with Shigeko, Kikuryu with Tomie, Tsuruko with Kozuma—and finally Yoneko with Ichiko—each pair shared a single lacquered tray divided between them. It neared noon now. In a sky scrubbed clean to sapphire brilliance after rains, sunlight’s golden shafts made lingering plum-season humidity quiver. Through windows streamed green-gold radiance that cast subtle shadows across meal trays—their exteriors black-lacquered and interiors vermilion-lacquered—arranged in uniform rows. Silence reigned save for white steam curling from gaps in the soot-blackened pot’s lid—rising soundlessly only to dissolve into cellar-damp air before rising anew. Women who’d been tidying disheveled sidelocks in their rooms came gathering here despite lacking appetite—“by custom.” Fuyuko felt fatigue seeping in now that she’d safely introduced O-Hikari to everyone; perhaps rising early had left her unwell. She began ladling porridge into a small tea bowl sprinkled with sesame salt. O-Sachi, Tokiko, Shigeko—even Kozuma and Tsuruko—all listlessly poked at their steaming gruel as if tasting poison. Only Yoneko and Ichiko slurped hungrily—two girls whose souls remained untainted by this mire still retained nature’s gift of honest appetite.

Nature did not deprive these two girls—overworked yet still protected from having their souls and bodies debased—of their healthy appetites. The two slurped voraciously, making loud slurping noises. Fuyuko watched that scene with pleasure. Tokiko laughed contemptuously, using her eyes to indicate the two girls to O-Sachi. And she scowled, finding it a daunting task to manage even a single bowl of porridge.

“Aren’t Kikuryu-san and Tomie-san running rather late?”

Tokiko glanced sidelong at the empty seat beside her and spoke up. She had been itching to say this since morning. "I suppose." O-Sachi said. "Since it's Mochizuki's turn, it must be Yoshie-chan and Niwa-san, right?" "Yoshie-chan and Niwa-san—with that tenacious one involved, no wonder they're late." "They're probably still clinging on for dear life right now, refusing to let go!" Tsuruko declared loudly before bursting into solitary laughter—"Ahahaha!" Tokiko scowled contemptuously at Tsuruko's interjection. Tsuruko didn't miss that reaction.

“Ahahaha! It’s just whether you pluck the shamisen or not that makes the difference.” “You still don’t understand how much more dignified and splendid I am compared to them, ahahaha!” “An officially licensed courtesan, they say.”

O-Sachi backed up Tokiko, but her shrewdness kept her from getting too entangled in such petty squabbles, and she simply headed back toward the shop. Tokiko also followed after, glancing sidelong at Tsuruko with contempt.

“Ahahaha! Despite having no proper skills to speak of, they still think they’re a cut above me—isn’t that just pitiful? Ahahaha! You don’t even realize your own bodies are rotting away!” No one answered. Kozuma, Shigeko, and Fuyuko, each submerged in their own separate depths of gloom, could not even bring themselves to laugh. (Blessed are those without souls. They can laugh endlessly, so may those lonely souls who know not laughter be blessed!) As Tsuruko was about to return to the tearoom, O-Sachi and Tokiko, carrying their makeup tools, were starting down to the dirt-floored entranceway to go to the bath.

“Even your rotten bodies could use a wash.”

“Tsuruko-san, what did you say? Repeat that.” “Do polish those precious jewels you call bodies.” “That’s none of your concern. I can’t perform such spectacular acts that bring men to tears like a certain someone, you know.” “My, my, how unfortunate for you. Even if I look like this, I’m still quite healthy, you know.”

“Tsuruko, that’s too much.”

O-Sachi chided her. But Tsuruko’s derailed emotions couldn’t be stopped by such reproach. Twisted anger seeped through her bloated body. “So what if it’s too much? I’ve got a mouth—I’ll use it. I can’t dance like you people. What’ll you dance after your little dances? Don’t act smart with that smug mouth of yours.” “Say whatever you want.” “You slut.”

“Well, I’m a slut anyway, aren’t I?” “If you’re a slut, keep quiet!”

“Aren’t you lot the real sluts here?” “You’ve certainly got no shortage of self-importance, I see.” Neither O-Sachi nor Tokiko could match Tsuruko’s eloquence—vehemently delivered with her whole body thrown into it, underpinned by an undercurrent of bizarre anguish. The two left the room in apparent displeasure. Tsuruko watched them leave, then returned to the tearoom, thudded down onto her back, and continued her hollow, mad laughter. A laughter that came from one whose tears had dried up completely, leaving nothing to shed even if she tried to cry. Kozuma and Shigeko tried to say something to Fuyuko, but since Fuyuko maintained a solemn composure, they returned to the shop in silence. Kozuma’s entire body felt languid, her joints had given out, and she couldn’t stay upright. She spread out a futon and lay down, her despairing eyes gleaming as if questioning some dark uncertainty. Shigeko was loosening her hair at the dressing table but eventually left for the bath. In the shop, Tsuruko and Kozuma were left behind.

“Kozuma-san.” When called, Kozuma let out a sigh and did not respond immediately. “How’s your body holding up?” “I’m not well and have grown weak.” “Are you in pain?” “Somehow my whole body’s giving out, and my lower abdomen keeps cramping up now and then, you know.” (Tsuruko had experienced such symptoms firsthand.) (She was inherently strong, so such a state of internal seclusion did not last long and would erupt outward all at once, making it fundamentally easy to cure.) Tsuruko thought that Kozuma would not last much longer.

“Where has everyone gone, I wonder?”

Having finished dinner with the landlord in the inner room, the Madam appeared in the shop. In her youth she must have been splendid and beautiful—the Madam, now a forty-six- or seven-year-old woman with lead-poisoned bluish skin and shaved eyebrows, took care not to let even the courtesans' attention stray.

“Everyone must have gone to the bath, I imagine.” “Haven’t Kikuryu and Tomie come back yet?” “They likely haven’t yet.” “Right. “You should go soak in the bath too. If you warm yourselves properly, your bodies will last longer—Kozuma-san, how are you feeling?” “Oh… thank you.” “If you’re unwell, you must visit Dr. Iida regularly to get treated properly, hmm?”

“Oh, thank you.”

Fuyuko entered there. "Oh, Fuyuko-san, haven't you gone to the bath yet?" "Yes." "And how is that... what's-her-name doing?" She seemed to be referring to O-Hikari.

“Auntie Ookawa is resting in the detached room.” “Has she eaten?” “She must have already eaten breakfast.” “That must be true—mornings here are like the town’s noon, after all. Ohohohoho.” The Madam sat down in the side seat of the tearoom and began methodically reviewing the previous night’s guest ledger. Then, as if suddenly remembering, she called, “Yoneko, Ichiko.” The two girls emerged, stroking their chins where the white makeup was flaking, and said, “What is it?”

“Go to the dance instructor’s place now.”

“Yes.” “And tell the dance instructor to come visit for some fun once she’s free this evening—do you understand?” “Yes.” The two girls, dressed in neatly pressed single-layer furisode kimonos and cinched with crimson crepe silk obis adorned with striking black satin overlays, left while keeping time using their practice fans and saying, “Mother, we’re off now.”

The clock pointed to 1 PM. Before going to the bath, Fuyuko decided to introduce O-Hikari to the Madam and walked down the long, dark corridor to the detached room behind the storehouse. The bluish walls of the room, the modest thicket-filled garden before it, and the weathered wooden fence—bathed broadly in the blue sky—formed there a silent, singular world. O-Hikari spread out her sewing and steadily worked the needle. “Oh, Auntie, you’re working.”

O-Hikari’s gentle tears, so familiar to Fuyuko, were met with a warm smile. "Ah, dear Auntie," she thought. “Auntie, what do you think?” “About what?” “About the state we’re in.” Then, once again, O-Hikari showed a gentle smile. (Auntie has already seen through the foundations of our lives and returned to her usual relaxed kindness,) Fuyuko thought. (Auntie exists on a higher plane than myself—than this self of mine, perpetually straining not to be tainted by the filth around her—) Fuyuko thought. All the various fears and anxieties Fuyuko had been feeling were swept away at this moment. She thought that Auntie possessed a steadfast belief—that even if someone like me didn’t fret, she could remain unshaken when faced with hardship. When she thought this, she saw her emotions melt and flow gently.

“Since the Madam has awakened, wouldn’t it be better for you to meet her now?”

“Yes, that would be better.” “She might be two or three years older than you, Auntie. She’s easy to get along with—not a bad person at all.” “She’s someone who maintains such a large household—it’s not something an ordinary person could do, you know.”

O-Hikari stopped her work and stood up. The Madam was still in the tearoom. “Madam, this is the person—Auntie, who has been so kind to me.” “...and I humbly ask for your continued kindness.” “Who was it... Ah, O-Hikari-san, wasn’t it?” “I’m Tomi.” “Let’s stop with this ‘Madam’ business—from now on, why don’t we, Tomi and O-Hikari-san, show these young folks how it’s done?” “Ohohohoho.” “Oh, it’s nothing—please make yourself at home and relax.” “It’s a bit gloomy behind the storehouse, but since I heard you have a son attending middle school, we thought it best for his studies to settle you there after discussing it with Fuyuko. How does it suit you?”

“Yes, that’s quite alright.” “We’ve set that place up as your son’s study—you may work wherever suits you on the front or back second floor—how old is he?” “He just turned fifteen this year.” “Well now... For someone like me, this trade’s punishment has left me childless to this day.” “Raising a boy to fifteen by a woman’s hands alone—that’s no ordinary hardship, I must say.” “And when did your husband pass away?”

“It’s been about eleven or twelve years now, I suppose.” “How extraordinary!” the Madam exclaimed without flattery, genuinely astonished, and stared intently at O-Hikari, who had lived a life so utterly different from her own. Noticing the calm, lonely smile lingering around O-Hikari’s lips, the Madam brewed fragrant, aromatic jade tea, offering some to her before taking a sip herself.

“Would you keep me company like this again?” “If anyone should say so, it’s me.” The green shade of the neighboring shrine’s cedar grove, filtered through the sun, drowsily swayed over the three women. It was an uncommon stillness, an uncommon beauty.

For a while, the silent beauty continued. Nature was manifesting there the beauty and solemnity of things endowed with individuality.

After a while, the rickshaw’s bell rang at the eaves.

“Madam, they’re here.” “They’re here.”

Kikuryu and Tomie returned. Neither were they beautiful women, nor did they possess exceptional character. But both were young. The preciousness of youth—a mere instant granted by nature. It shines, overflows, and radiates beauty at any time and in any place. Youth bloomed profusely in the two women. What kind of staggering path they themselves were treading—the two likely knew nothing of it. Youth intoxicates even acts that should be suffering, rendering them as pleasure.

“You were quite late, weren’t you?” “Were we really that late?” Kikuryu stood there, gently smoothing her disheveled Shimada updo as if flaunting her youthfulness, the pale pink unlined kimono with its family crest trailing long at her hem. Tomie, similarly adorned in vibrant grass green, hummed a shamisen tune under her breath while exchanging secret smiles with Kikuryu.

“It’s almost two o’clock.” “Hurry up and change out of your kimonos, then go take a bath or something.”

Without responding to that, the two of them presented the flower cards wrapped in a silk cloth before the Madam.

“Who was it?” “It was Yoshi-chan and Mr. Niwa.” “Is that so? If you all get too involved or let them get too involved, there’ll be no turning back.” “We’re fine, Madam.” “Well, if that’s how it is—oh, and since we’ve had this person come to work here this time, you all should make sure to learn at least how to handle needlework in your spare hours, hmm?” “Yes, yes—forgive us about this, Auntie.” The two left for the shop.

“Young people cannot be helped,” the Madam said.

Fuyuko had at some point transformed into a figure of solemn, unassailable dignity. For some reason, O-Hikari found herself thinking about Heiichiro. At the Madam’s words implying “Take a good rest today,” O-Hikari left for the back of the storehouse. Fuyuko went out to bathe.

The Madam withdrew to the inner room and began playing flower cards with the brothel owner. “That won’t do—calling it Aoni is far too greedy.” “Well, I suppose that’s true. Now, Lord New Year belongs over here!” “Unfortunately for you, things don’t always go your way forever, you know.”

“Whoa now—if you take that, I’d be in a bit of a bind.” “A little trouble like that still isn’t enough for you, is it? Well, how about this—if you keep acting so heartless, punishment will find you, you know.” “It’s you who deserves punishment, you lecherous old hag!” “What’s this? You flirtatious old man.”

“It’s because you like that old hag—because you like her, there’s nothing to be done about it.” “Smooth-talking as ever, old man. Falling for someone like you in my youth was the mistake of a lifetime—truly, a mistake.” “A mistake, huh?” “A mistake indeed.” “But here’s the thing—that very mistake is actually a good one, you see.” “A mistake,” she said. “But here’s the thing—that very mistake takes on a life of its own, making it all the stranger.”

“Back then, we were still young with full heads of hair—how peculiar it all was. Oh, you led me astray—what’s this? Led me astray to your heart’s content!” Such words drifted from the inner room. Neither the brothel owner nor the Madam seemed aware of what they were saying. A listless stillness permeated the house. In the shop’s common area, Tsuruko lay sprawled on her back in deep sleep while Kozuma let out intermittent low groans. Above them hung a pallid yellow sunlight.

Facing the two dressing tables lined up at one end of the shopfront, young Kikuryu and Tomie smoothed disheveled sidelocks while discussing something shared between them, their bodies rippling with unceasing laughter.

“Remember this, Kiku-chan: even though I went to wash my hands and changed my kimono, you were still sleeping in the next room—so you’ve no right to talk about others!” “Ahahahaha, lies! When Yoshi-chan and I peeked through the sliding door, there they were—both of them lying there wide awake! You’re the one who went back to sleep even after changing your kimono, Ahahahaha!” “As for me and Yoshi-chan—Ahahahaha! Yoshi-chan is such a fine man, Kiku-chan—your most precious, precious—”

“Tomie, stop it.” “Mr. Niwa’s the bitter one—all about his company job these days, isn’t he?” “And Yoshi-chan’s just a clerk at some Western goods shop.” “Exactly! For a mere shop clerk to buy me a golden ring—now that’s some clerk, isn’t he?” “Tomie!” “Then who was it that bought you that crepe-patterned summer kimono, huh?!” “My, my—you even know about that?” “My, my—you really don’t miss a thing, do you?”

The two doubled over with laughter. July was near. Heat welled up from the earth, and sweat oozed profusely from the depths of people’s bodies.

“Kiku-chan! Tomie-chan! Enjoying yourselves!” “You actually came back today.” “I thought you weren’t coming back at all.” Having slowly warmed their bodies in the large iron sulfur hot spring along the riverbank, applied a single brushstroke of pure white post-bath makeup from collar to cheeks, and maintained the most comfortable feeling they’d had all day, Tokiko and O-Sachi returned. It was Tokiko who had spotted Kikuryu and Tomie and called out to them. She couldn’t rest until she had given voice to every last thing she felt. O-Sachi too watched the two with a sly smile.

“It’s quite hot inside the house, isn’t it?” Tokiko did not reply to O-Sachi’s words and instead spread a wet hand towel from the front to the back of the dressing table’s mirror before sitting down next to Tomie. Having removed her plaster-white makeup, she gazed for a while at her own reflection in the mirror. Her figure was ample; her face bore a faint rosiness; her entire body was white as powdered gypsum—yet there was none of the gently flowing vivid blood hue found in town girls, nor any youthful luster seeping from her skin. Tokiko gently pressed her own small, firm, slightly swollen breast. Delicate veins showed blue and translucent across the surface of her breast. The sensation of the breast beneath her fingertips was cold. The slight tension of flesh from her chest to her abdomen guaranteed her youth.

“Mr. Niwa and Yoshi-chan?” Tokiko lifted her gaze from the mirror’s surface and looked at them with a gentleness that ill-suited her usual demeanor. Though Tomie and Kikuryu—both eighteen—appeared disheveled with tangled hair and swollen eyelids, Tokiko noted how their cheeks pulsed with redness ready to burst, how the plump flesh of their arms reaching to adjust their hair betrayed the fresh vitality coursing through their blood. She burned with envy. By unconsciously measuring the pleasure these two possessed—or could possess—jealousy gripped her. They remained oblivious to this turmoil within Tokiko. After exchanging glances and secretive smiles,

“It was Mr. Niwa and Yoshi-chan,” she said. O-Sachi had discarded her summer kimono as usual and, now clad only in a refreshingly light crimson undersash, was facing the dressing table. Her small, compact body—petite yet fully developed—showed no trace of skeletal structure. A pale crimson hue drifted and emerged beautifully across the smooth, ample surface of her flesh. Sunlight flowed over the rounded swell of flesh. This was neither the beauty of youth overflowing with life nor the final beauty of flesh in decline. It held the flawless, resilient elasticity of mature flesh—as though O-Sachi’s serpentine intelligence had seeped into every nerve ending and taken root. As she steadily restrained her plump, rounded breasts, feelings of self-satisfaction and pride welled up within her.

“That bath really does warm one up, doesn’t it?” O-Sachi said to Tokiko. “That it does.” Tokiko stopped the hand that had been rubbing liquid white makeup into her face after smoothing cream and turned toward O-Sachi.

“Miss O-Sachi,” Tomie called out. “What is it, Tomie-chan?” “So, um, Mr. Niwa and Yoshi-chan send their regards.” “Enough with the lovestruck bragging already—go take your bath quickly and get a nap in before evening, or you’ll doze off again tonight.” “Okay, okay.” Tomie shrank back at O-Sachi’s unexpected words. The laxity of her mind and flesh, pampered by being at a man’s side, had returned to its usual state at O-Sachi’s remark. She quietly looked back at O-Sachi. O-Sachi moistened the white makeup base in her small, supple palm and was patting it all over her face. The gemstone on the ring of her right hand glittered. Even while thinking she was putting on airs as the senior geisha, she still found O-Sachi’s body beautiful. Even with such a small physique, when she stood on stage and danced through even a ferocious lion dance, she appeared like a six-foot-tall, robust man—Tomie also contemplated the artistic power concealed within O-Sachi’s body.

“Kiku-chan, why don’t we go to the bath?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

“We’ll go to the bath.”

“Off you go.”

The two left. After they had gone, Shigeko entered with a gloomy face, silent and sullen. She knew that when she soaked in the bathwater, her nerves—coagulated and stiffened throughout her body—would loosen with an abnormal, melting pain. She couldn’t bring herself to apply makeup or smooth her skin like the other geishas. She got out of the bathtub and, wrapped in steam, let her heart’s pounding subside. When she felt a slight chill, she would get back into the bathtub and close her eyes. As she repeated these actions, both her mind and body settled into a listless, idle slackness. Shigeko always returned home in a daze and, even when facing the mirror, made no attempt to put on makeup. Aware of her features—a dark complexion and slightly upturned eyes—she believed light makeup suited her natural disposition better than applying white makeup. Shigeko’s dressing table stood between O-Sachi’s and Tokiko’s. Tokiko and O-Sachi left Shigeko seated between them and continued talking as they pleased. Shigeko did nothing, sat vacantly, and kept silent.

“What happened to Yoneko and Ichiko-chan?” “Aren’t they at dance practice?” “They’re taking far too long for dance practice.” “Utterly hopeless.” “Dawdling about again.” As Tokiko muttered this while gently patting her skin dry with a fresh towel, Ichiko’s richly textured voice carried from the street before the brothel. “It’s here, Heiichiro-san.” Then Yoneko’s metallic high-pitched tone trembled. “Auntie has been here with Fuyuko-neesan since morning.”

“Thank you.” It was Heiichiro. After school had been dismissed, he absentmindedly returned to his former residence and been laughed at by the landlady downstairs. He knew Harukarou Brothel well but remained unfamiliar with every corner of the red-light district. Moreover, instead of taking his usual slope, he had entered through a different gateway—a broad avenue lined with willow trees—and become disoriented along the way. So thoroughly identical were all the houses—each a two-story structure with vermilion-lacquered lattices. There he rested his weary legs at the town’s crossroads, clad in his summer uniform of white Kokura cloth with gaiters. Then from a narrow alley to the right emerged the familiar figures of Ichiko and Yoneko—wearing peach-divided robes fastened with white hōsho paper cords and carrying dance fans. They smiled upon seeing him, whispered something to each other, and made to slip past. Summoning his resolve, he asked, “Which way was it to Harukarou Brothel?”

“Harukarou Brothel is my home.” The round-faced girl with bushy eyebrows and vivid eyelashes—Ichiko—answered, and the taller girl with a slender face, a high nose, and darting eyes—Yoneko—flushed bright red, “It’s Heiichiro-san, isn’t it?” she said. Heiichiro was happy. He felt as if he’d found a Buddha in hell. The three had grown close. Though their bond was not particularly deep, they each held faith in their impressions of one another within a corner of their pure white hearts. He hadn’t imagined they could grow this close so effortlessly by chance. It was, after all, a glimpse of a subtle, inevitable, and grand twist of fate. In any case, the three of them felt immense joy, and amid that joy, Heiichiro fleetingly recalled Wakako, while Yoneko and Ichiko, in fleeting moments, found both enemies and friends within each other as they made their way there.

“What are you two doing? Why haven’t you come back sooner? What would you have done if something came up?” Tokiko’s voice resounded from inside the house to the outdoors. “Who’s there?” Heiichiro glared into the house and said. “It’s Miss Tokiko.” Heiichiro was not prepared to concretely grasp the emotion conveyed by this whispering girl’s answer. “Hey, could you call my mother here?” “I’ll go get her.” Ichiko ran into the house. Yoneko said to Heiichiro, “Please come in.”

Heiichiro stood before the house but found himself unwilling to enter. To Heiichiro, this was an unknown world. Though he even felt something akin to terror, he forcibly maintained composure in his heart's depths. He began whistling a baseball cheering song but stopped abruptly upon noticing its dissonance with the surroundings. Gripping the iron railing before the latticework, he started gratingly scraping mud from his shoes.

“Isn’t that Heiichiro-san?”

It was Fuyuko, her face flushed from returning after her bath. “Now come in,” she said. “You’ve just returned from school? Come inside.” Heiichiro savored the pleasant fragrance of perfume wafting from Fuyuko. As he followed her into the earthen-floored entryway and undid his gaiter buttons, his mother O-Hikari appeared. “Welcome home, Fuyuko-neesan!” Ichiko greeted Fuyuko brightly. “Auntie—Heiichiro-san is here,” Ichiko informed O-Hikari.

“Oh, thank you.” “Heiichiro, you’re late, aren’t you?” “Mhm.”

"When I came home just now, he was standing there all by himself in front of the house." "Yes—come over here."

“Mhm.” He followed O-Hikari down a long corridor, past the front of the storehouse, past its dark and damp side, and found his old desk in a room behind the storehouse. He felt lonely. In his Western clothes, he lay on his back in the center of the room and let out a deep sigh. To him, life seemed an unbearable pain. (Do I have to go this far just to survive?!) he cried out in his young heart. The oppressive silence and stillness were shattered by fiery, uproarious laughter from the side of the room. The voices seemed to be Yoneko and Ichiko’s—laughter they could no longer bear to hold back. Most likely, they had been stealthily following Heiichiro and hiding themselves, only to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“Who’s there!” Then again, an impassioned laugh—too overwhelming to contain—burst forth, and the sound of scrambling footsteps fleeing through the corridor reverberated. “Damn it, playing tricks on me.” Heiichiro burned with fury, sensing an intrusion into his own domain. The loneliness deepened. As the full weight of his ruinous circumstances dawned on him, he could no longer restrain his tears.

"I'll become someone great!" "I'll become someone great!" From within his tears, only these words came leaping forth.

He sent it to Wakako. My family has moved to Harukarou Brothel in the red-light district starting today. I imagine you will be quite startled by how sudden this is. You must also be wondering why we moved to a place like this. To tell the truth, it’s because we’re poor—if we kept on as we were, I wouldn’t be able to attend school anymore. Fuyuko-neesan of Harukarou Brothel is close with my mother, and this time too, we’ve relied on her help. She is a good person. I want to accomplish something to show you. Moreover, even if I live in the red-light district, I want my spirit to always—always—remain great and true. You probably won’t doubt me just because circumstances forced me to change where I live—but truth be told, I don’t much like it here either.

Heiichiro

Ms. Wakako

Chapter Three

Within a month of O-Hikari and her son putting down roots at Harukarou Brothel, a terrible thing occurred among the women there. It was July—a welcome near-midsummer occurrence for the red-light district, unfolding on a night of deep, verdant darkness. That night, the electric current sent from afar—from the headwaters of the S River flowing through the city—cast a brilliant white light upon Harukarou Brothel’s tearoom. It was a delightful night. A night of pitch-black luster had arrived, with a cool, soft early summer breeze that clung to the skin like a caress. Under the harsh light of day, their emaciated skeletal frames, exposed ribs, lustreless tangled hair, and pallid flesh would have revealed their frailty—but bathed in the electric white glow within the night’s infinite allure, everything took on a lush beauty and dewy freshness. As striking as their jet-black hair was with its jewel-like sheen, so too was the tide-like flush of passionate blood beneath their translucent white skin. What could compare to the beauty of light and shadow cast by their swaying bodies swathed in airy hues of aqua, pale pink, and wisteria purple?—The time was 9 PM. In ordinary households, night would have been deepening—but in this house, in this district, it was only now that “daybreak” approached.

In the tearoom of Harukarou Brothel, white steam rose vigorously from the large ancient bronze kettle, its delicate pleasant sound ringing out. There sat the madam—her hair still tied in the evening-washed chignon, her simple figure clad in an unlined kimono with black satin obi loosely wrapped—exuding refined beauty alongside the faint bluish tinge lingering at her eyebrows. Since the brothel master remained occupied with office matters in the red-light district’s administrative quarters, she reviewed ledgers and recorded in the guest register the names of two patrons who had shared a brief exchange of drinks before departing promptly that evening. Though they had claimed company employment, their demeanor and conversational patterns had made her suspect they were actually educated schoolteachers. She considered their parting words—“See you in September then”—as irrefutable proof of this deduction.

“You know those customers from earlier? They were definitely high school teachers,” the Madam said to the women sitting before her. Bathed in electric light—its every beam seeming to harbor nerves white-hot and crackling with tension—Shigeko, Tokiko, Kikuryu, and O-Sachi sat facing each other in a cross formation at the room’s center. Fuyuko had been invited to a large restaurant along the Okawa riverside since early evening and had yet to return, while the two apprentice geishas—Ichiko and Yoneko—had not been summoned to the room of a man known as a prefectural assemblyman, a wealthy patron, and a habutae merchant who favored boisterous entertainment. Tsuruko had gone out for an appointment that would last until morning. O-Sachi and Tokiko, having seen that the two customers earlier were of fine appearance, refused a booking that had just been requested over the phone and went out—but the customers merely had them pour drinks quietly and left without a single word of courtesy. O-Sachi and Tokiko were displeased and resentful about that.

“I never should’ve taken that banquet job—what a waste,” Tokiko replied. O-Sachi slowly packed tobacco into her slender gold pipe, then exhaled a thread of violet-hued smoke through her shapely, perfectly rounded nostrils. The smoke ascended as though cleansing her animated features. Her voluminous chignon hairstyle—soft yet weighty—lent her face an extraordinary vividness. She occasionally wrinkled the lower edges of her eyes and the bridge of her nose, forming an expression of private amusement. (During these quiet moments, she would recall scenes from her memories—those comical instances where she’d deceived countless men through fleeting affairs, laying bare their foolishness—and inevitably make that ticklish face.) Now and then, she scratched her scalp delicately with gold and silver flat hairpins. As for Tokiko, she appeared to be whiling away her boredom through various lewd and disjointed fantasies. Each twitch of her face made it glow purple under the electric light, while her thickly applied lipstick glistened like a demon’s maw.

“What time is it already?” Tokiko asked Kikurō. Kikurō was troubled by the drowsiness that had come over her. When she sat, her newly styled Shimada chignon felt oppressively heavy, as if a leaden weight had been set at the roots, pressing into the very core of her skull. Then her entire body felt a melting fatigue and pain, and she was being dragged toward unconsciousness. The white light emitted a purple glow that reflected off her habitually bowed neck—its coarse-textured skin roughened by white makeup.

“Kiku-chan, napping like that is so dreary!” “Huh?” Kikurō raised her face,

“It’s still just past nine,” she said. “For some reason, it’s slow tonight.”

“But it’s still early.”

"That earlier thing was utterly ridiculous." "Truly." "But Toki-chan, you're still fine—I haven't been summoned anywhere yet." "Kiku-chan, you've been invited sickeningly often since last time—shouldn't that suffice?" "Ah—you're being cruel again!"

Kikurō clumsily twisted her drowsily rigid facial muscles into a smile. Seeing this, it was Shigeko who made a wretched, disgusted face. She lowered her head and stared at the small red flame in the tobacco tray. (What an irreplaceable blessing—a night like this, so quiet!) For her, stepping into the guest quarters to interact with men was torment. She was one who had to endure that torment to survive. To her, the night was cursed. (Though even daylight brought her no joy.) She had been savoring a moment’s rest and peace under the glaring white light—despite her unease—when Tokiko and Kikurō’s chatter shattered even this fleeting tranquility. Shigeko lifted her face and stole a sidelong glance at Kikurō’s plump features. In that instant, her gaze became a terrifying abyss brimming with a lifetime’s resentment—resentment that could never be wept away before dawn—born of all she had endured: the trampling, oppression, wounds, and clenched-teeth endurance required to survive. Though Shigeko herself was unaware, even the oblivious Kikurō—without realizing it—felt a spine-chilling terror.

“Miss Shigeko.” “What is it?” “What’s with that face of yours just now?” “Have I done something wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, so what’s with that face? You glared at me with that terrifying look. I may be a tomboy, but I don’t recall giving you any reason to resent me. Or if there is one, why don’t you just say so?” “……” Shigeko started. She realized her own face must have appeared truly fearsome. She lowered her gaze. (Oh yes there is—every reason to resent you! You simply don’t know!) Her fury surged upward—but something whispered from the depths (*Not Kikurō… You’re just a scrap… a scrap of an enemy*), pulling her back into gloomy compliance.

“Please forgive me.” Though approached with humility, Kikurō was not so wicked as to hold a grudge over it.

“You really must be more careful, or there will be trouble.” As if reinforcing this, O-Sachi made the golden part of her pipe glint and tapped her tobacco. Tokiko glared at Shigeko for a full five minutes as though she were the most repulsive creature in existence—one whose very presence provoked unbearable hatred. The discontent and weariness welling up within the three women during their idle, clientless hours had found release by funneling their abnormal hatred solely toward Shigeko. They remained oblivious to their own oppressed reality. Yet for a pure girl’s heart and flesh to transform both soul and body into their current state, she must have endured countless pains and worries buried deep within her unconscious. Innate differences in wisdom and folly might exist between individuals. These differences might steer them toward divergent paths—toying with men, finding pleasure in them, being toyed with by them, or despising them—but at their core, beyond conscious thought, lay a coalesced sorrow and hatred too profound to ever drain away. Though this emotion felt small when borne by one person alone, it mirrored the grief shared by all humanity. Groans find their vents in unexpected places.

“There’s nothing worse than people who are miserably gloomy.”

It was Tokiko. "I hate it—people who mope around without even speaking properly, like a certain someone." “She’s putting on airs.” O-Sachi flicked her tobacco pipe against the edge, aiming to give Kikurō a definitive answer. The gesture was deliberate—or perhaps not. A glowing ember snapped loose and landed near Shigeko’s knee. A thin trail of white smoke curled upward. Shigeko wordlessly brushed it away, leaving a scorch mark the size of a red bean on her kimono. “Oh dear—are you hurt? Oh, it burned through! How careless of me.”

“It’s nothing.” “Shigeko-chan, you have to go change your kimono.” Despite knowing that Shigeko—ever unfashionable—possessed no summer kimonos for changing, Tokiko added this remark. A small teardrop plopped onto the scorch mark on Shigeko’s knee. Seeing this, the two women tasted a guilty satisfaction—a pleasure tinged with remorse. That this pleasure resembled pinching one’s own numb limbs was something they would never grasp. —At that very moment came salvation: Tomie, Yoneko, and Ichiko returned with cries of “We’re back! We’re back!”

“Madam, at present—with the outer flowers attached, I have twelve cards, and Yoneko-chan and Ichiko-chan have twenty-four.” “There were thirty-six cards.” The Madam, who had remained silent until the end regarding the geishas’ quarrels and refrained from intervening, had been fiddling with the ledger all this time, but upon taking the flower cards Tomie held out, she finally looked up.

“That was rather early, wasn’t it?” “Midway through, the client got a phone call and went home, you know. Even so, it’s nearly ten already.”

“Is it already that time?” she said vacantly.

Yoneko and Ichiko mirrored their resplendent figures in the mirror and shared a childlike, vain delight. The single glass of sake they’d been forced to drink still lingered within their bodies, its heat pulsing through every limb. The two girls went to the kitchen to drink water.

“For some reason, everyone’s so gloomy tonight.”

When Tomie sat down beside Kikurō, ten o'clock struck. At the same time, the sound of many men's footsteps entering through the entrance echoed, and a voice could be heard shouting, "Here it is! Here!" Everyone's nerves grew taut. Then into the earthen-floored entrance came a crowd of nearly twenty men—some in Western suits, others in yukata—all thoroughly drunk: bearded ones, bespectacled ones, youths still fresh-faced; their faces flushed crimson with alcohol as they stumbled in.

“Is O-Sachi here? O-Sachi!” A man in a milky-colored suit—gold-rimmed glasses framing plump cheeks cleanly shaven, beard trimmed short, around forty years old—came shouting in. “Isn’t that Mr. Kawamura?”

“That’s right, that’s right—it’s that Kawamura! Today I’ve brought all the men from my department—come on up, everyone—hey, Tokiko, why don’t you show them to the great hall?—Oh ho ho! Madam, still in fine health as ever, ahahahaha!” The Madam briskly stood up. Though he couldn’t be called a particularly good client, the Madam—who knew that Kawamura was the director of the prefectural civil engineering department and held an important position—didn’t exactly refuse to welcome him. Tokiko, Kikurō, and Tomie also stood up. Shigeko also had to stand up.

“Please come this way.” Drawn by the four geishas who smoothly adjusted their kimono hems and ascended the stairs with poised stances, even those who had initially balked at entering all filed up to the second floor at once. In the great hall spanning nearly twenty tatami mats, eighteen people stood lined in a row. A blinding electric light cast its white glare, and Harukarou Brothel abruptly stirred to life. In the kitchen, water bubbled over a gas flame as sake began heating. In the tearoom, Kawamura sat cross-legged—his tongue slackened by drink—and commenced a hushed negotiation with O-Sachi.

“You get it, right? In the civil engineering department where I'm section chief—there's two or three bastards opposing me.” “Not that I'm scared of 'em, but we can't get shit done smooth like this, can we?” “So today I threw this department-wide social.” “Where? At T Restaurant—see?” “Why didn't I invite 'em? You're wondering?” “'Cause I planned to swing by here afterward—that's why I kept 'em out.” “Save your bitching till you hear me out.” “Now listen—tonight you dolls'll get the whole crew plastered, then—well—lend me your ear.”

Bringing his alcohol-laden breath close to O-Sachi's thick hair, Kawamura whispered.

“Look—your lot just need to handle every last one of them somehow. Got it?” “But we might not have enough people.” “Then call in more!” “If only it were that simple… How many are there?” “Eighteen—all together.” “Then wouldn’t that be difficult?” “That’s exactly why you’ve got to manage it skillfully—if you’re short-handed, make do with what you’ve got—”

He whispered something again. “Look—they’re too drunk to notice anything. All that matters is—” “All each of them needs to do is remember playing with me here today. Listen—as a reward, I’ll take you all to a hot spring in the mountains later, okay?” And he went up the stairs. On the second floor, the group welcoming him erupted into raucous voices muddied by crowd mentality and drunken applause. O-Sachi sat alone in the tearoom for a while, tilting her head. She understood what Kawamura was asking. That was not an uncommon occurrence in her world. In other words, it was a form of “emasculation strategy.” However, when she thought about having to provide some form of satisfaction to eighteen people all at once, she couldn’t help but feel perplexed. It was not particularly uncommon for four or five people to gather at once, but having nearly twenty people was rather inconvenient. The number of geishas was insufficient. At this peak hour from ten to midnight—the busiest time in the red-light district—there was no way any establishment had geishas to spare. Especially in situations requiring a certain act like this, it was difficult. She counted on her fingers: Tokiko, Shigeko, Kikurō, Tomie, Kozuma. There were only five. Even including herself, there were only six. She stood up, entered the telephone room, and called the houses she could think of. Nowhere had people available. However, recklessly negotiating with second- and third-rate establishments was something the house’s reputation would not allow.

She managed to find three prostitutes. She hurried them to come immediately. This made nine people; she thought they could manage somehow. She came to the tearoom and resolved that she would have to take responsibility for Kawamura alone, but the remaining eight would need to manage seventeen men—even if they paired up two by two, someone would have to handle three men. For licensed prostitutes, taking on three men in a single night may not have been particularly uncommon, but having to handle three men all at once within such a short time was an experience O-Sachi herself had never had. She didn’t know how to assign them. At that moment, the madam, her face flushed as if she’d been made to drink, came downstairs.

“Aren’t you coming up, O-Sachi?” “Madam, this is no time for that!” “What’s this about?” “Those people are all officials from Kawamura-san’s department—and among them are some who oppose him. So tonight, they want to get them thoroughly drunk and then… arrange things so they’ll be left speechless—that’s the plan.” “Hmm—”

“But here’s the problem—even if I handle Kawamura-san myself, and we have Kiku-chan, Toki-chan, Tomie-chan, Shige-chan, and Kozuma-san take care of the remaining seventeen people, we’d still only have five from our own girls.” “I just made some calls—I’ve arranged for three people to come right away: Yanosuke-san from —ya, Momotaro-san from XX House, and Hiyoko-san from OO House—but even then, we’ll only have eight people total.”

“Fine then. If there’s no other way, we’ll draw lots—those who lose will just have to bear it.” “They don’t seem entirely averse to men, now do they? Ohohohoho.” “But no matter how fond of men they are, everyone would dislike this kind of thing, Madam.” “Well then, I’ll prepare the lots right now.” O-Sachi had no choice. Moreover, her selfishness—since she alone only had to handle Kawamura—meant there was no need for deep deliberation. She adjusted her collar in the mirror and went upstairs. After a while, three young but plain-looking prostitutes arrived without shamisen, greeting her with “Good evening, Madam.”

“Thank you for your hard work,” the Madam said, beckoning the three closer. In a faint voice, she explained the situation for tonight over five minutes. All three made unpleasant faces but replied with their mouths, “Yes, ma’am.” They each took the Kanze lottery slips the Madam had produced. All three drew lots assigning them two men each. The three put on faces as if this barely tolerable situation were even a joy.

“Then go on up to the second floor.”

The three went up the stairs. On the second floor, violent, bestial shouts erupted all at once. “Come on, you’ve got to drink.” “You think there’s any way to refuse the cup I’ve poured?!”

The scent of liquor and women overwhelmed and shattered eighteen men’s rationality and ingrained decorum. Amidst the shamisen’s tempestuous dissonance, their turbid bellows—gut-wrenching howls of crude abandon—roared out a mangled popular tune. Through this maelstrom, each geisha slipped downstairs one by one. Then they drew their fateful Kanze lottery slips from the Madam’s hand. When Tokiko took two slips, even she flashed a grin of delight, white teeth gleaming. Kikurō and Tomie heaved deep sighs before trudging upward with resignation. Shigeko refused to descend readily. Remembering Kozuma lying ill in the shop, the Madam called out, “Kozuma-san—Kozuma-san!”

“Yes…,” came a feeble reply.

“Come here for a moment.” “Yes...” Kozuma emerged hunched over, still in her daytime sleepwear and terribly pale, dark shadows clinging to her sunken eyes.

“How are you feeling?” “—” She had meant to say she wasn’t feeling well, but when Kozuma inferred from the Madam’s look what she was trying to get at, she ended up replying, “I’m feeling much better.” She felt as though she had done something irreparable. (In truth, it would later become known that this was indeed an irreparable act.) The Madam meticulously recounted the circumstances she had repeated countless times in a whisper. And she held out the Kanze slips—now reduced to two, each of which would assign three men—those slips of terrible fate. Kozuma could not bring herself to take one. She kept her head bowed. A conflict charged with terrifying emotion raged within her breast. Ah, this weakness of heart! She finally reached out her hand and plucked one of the Kanze slips. The Kanze slip bore an ill-fated knot. “Oh…” she said, her pallid face clouded over with eyes bearing the mark of death as she sank into despair. Shigeko arrived. She had grasped everything. It was an unbearably tragic reality. “It’s fine,” Shigeko said. She had been forced to drink against her will, and now, as if defying the large sake cup, she had poured it to the brim and downed it in one go. She was drunk.

“Fine then! “I’ll take Kozuma-san’s share too.” “Kozuma-san, you rest now.” “Fine—I’ll take it all on.” “Let them come—five men, ten men, whatever they can throw at me!” “Let them come—dozens! Hundreds! Let them line up and come at me all at once—until I’m dead, until my last breath is gone!”

“Shigeko-san, you’ve been drinking again.” “It’s fine. Whatever becomes of me is fine.” Kozuma’s withered face glistened with tears. “Miss Kozuma, Miss Shigeko—please come here!”

That was Yoneko and Ichiko. Shaking off whoever had chased them as far as the stairs, the two girls still serving drinks somehow managed to flee downstairs. “I’m coming now!”

Shigeko was cornered. Like a fierce tiger leaping at enemies in a death-defying frenzy, she charged up the stairs. Pitiable Kozuma—Kozuma, who could barely walk—no matter how much Shigeko tried to stop her, only grew weaker in resolve with each attempt at restraint, until she had to trudge into the second floor’s darkness with death flickering before her eyes. What followed defies recounting.

In the dim light of four in the morning, O-Sachi, Tokiko, Kikurō, and Tomie had sunk into a deep slumber as thick and murky as mud in Harukarou Brothel’s main room. Fuyuko and the two girls slept soundly. The fatigue that had tormented their flesh to its limits and drained every drop of their vitality left them looking as though dead. Yet those who could still sleep after such exhaustion had to be called fortunate. What could be done for those who tried to sleep but could not—their torment like being scorched by flames? Shigeko could not sleep. Without a robust constitution, she had gulped down nearly one sho of alcohol and endured abuse; now the aberrant liquor seeking to burst outward contracted into her deranged nerves, seeping through every organ until it congealed—giving rise to indescribable agony that made her writhe. Nerves sharp as white blades; alcohol’s madness writhing within her flesh; vexing—oh so vexing—a humiliation that would not vanish even in death or life. Amidst this pain, she suddenly thought she heard groans—*“Ugh… ugh…”*—rising from nowhere. But straining her ears revealed nothing. Then again came the groans: “Ugh… ugh…”. When she glanced sideways, Kozuma’s bed lay empty. Her entire body shuddered violently. A Shigeko greater than herself seeped through every inch of her being. Shigeko drew herself upright. Like a giant she plodded forward with heavy steps—pausing to listen intently to the groans—then continued her lumbering stride with deliberate purpose. The groans came from the corridor. Since it was summer, the storm shutters in the inner courtyard remained open. In the dim corridor’s center crouched something groaning “Ugh… ugh…”. Shigeko approached.

Is that Kozuma? she wondered. Shigeko placed her hands on the shoulders and tried to lift her up. Ah—in that moment—Kozuma’s deathly visage twisted in agony fixed its terrifying gaze upon Shigeko. “Ugh!” Teeth clenched with every ounce of strength. Her whole body drenched in clammy sweat oozing like oil. The thin pale arm trembled violently with its last remaining strength. Then—her hand jerked up whitely into empty air—before collapsing back exactly as she had lain. Shigeko stood frozen. Then came the clammy warmth beneath her feet. In the dim light—unrecognizable at first. As she stared—Shigeko screamed—“Oh!” That “Oh!”—Shigeko’s scream—defied description: A searing cry fusing despair—resentment—terror—awe—curse— The warmth was blood. The terrible foul blood that Kozuma—poor Kozuma—had trickled away as life’s final remnant! Ah—the moment she recognized blood—through cold dim air— Shigeko felt tolling bells resonating solemnly between heaven-earth— Their sound pressed infinitely upon her hearing— A terrifyingly loud sound— She clamped both hands over ears—launched herself forward— Began fleeing through house—desperate to escape—

*Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang…*……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… Shigeko shouted with all her strength at tremendous speed, wielding inhuman power to smash through sliding doors and rampage through the house—driven by her desperate resolve to escape the tolling bell’s sound that pressed in from all sides, audible only to her. The great commotion roused every last person in the house from their languid, exhausted dreams. A white-hot excitement momentarily illuminated the people from within.

That morning, Shigeko—her body like a withered tree scorched by inner flames—was bound with coarse rope, loaded into a dark and narrow transport carriage, and taken to the insane asylum on the outskirts to be severed from the life that had endured over twenty years of hardship. On that same morning, Kozuma’s corpse—her entire body ravaged by a vile illness—was placed in a small coffin and sent from Harukarou Brothel’s back entrance to the crematorium. On the final night of her wretched thirty-year life, she had endured horrific, detestable brutality—violence so extreme it seemed inconceivable that such acts could exist upon this earth—and in its wake, all that cursed foul blood had gushed out at once, leaving her to die drenched in gore. Heiichiro and O-Hikari, too, mingled among the prostitutes trembling in the dark predawn, their eyes brimming with tears at this eternal farewell.

Chapter Four

Shigeko’s descent into madness and Kozuma’s death, occurring within a single night, were a major incident for Harukarou Brothel. It was as terrifying as a deep, bottomless abyss yawning open upon the earth. However, the madam, who understood the psychology of public perception, commanded the women to maintain absolute silence. The women, even without being ordered to keep silent, were too terrified to speak. And then—for reasons unclear even to themselves—after this incident, whenever O-Hikari worked in a room on the second floor, Tokiko, O-Sachi, Tomie, and Kikuryu began approaching her side with anxious faces that seemed to plead for solace. O-Hikari could not help but interact with the women with her usual peaceful feelings, her quiet, gentle tears welling up. Fuyuko, too, came quietly. From the window of the workroom, the verdant leaves of cedars in the neighboring shrine’s grounds shimmered in the sunlight, and the two of them would sometimes watch in silence for a long time. Had it not been for the demise of Emperor Meiji—which followed closely after Shigeko’s madness and Kozuma’s death and was being heavily reported in the newspapers—the people of Harukarou Brothel might have become “cursed” and strange.

In July 1911, the representative of the era that had made Japan great on the global stage—the Emperor—passed away. Kozuma’s death was known only to those at Harukarou Brothel, but the Emperor’s demise moved not just the entire nation—to the extent that Japan had become deeply entrenched in their lives—but people across the world. The women of Harukarou Brothel, too, found themselves able to distract their minds from the uncanny terror born of Kozuma’s death and Shigeko’s madness through this imperial passing.

“You’re right—there’s nothing as uncertain as a human lifespan,” said the Madam. The reality that even His Majesty upon his august throne could not overcome nature’s ordained fate seeped unmistakably into people’s hearts. Even an Emperor, when their appointed time comes, has no choice but to die. The truth that humans are mortal beings—so utterly self-evident—now reverberated through hearts long accustomed to forgetting it, as though it were some newfound revelation. They could not help but think: when death’s hour truly arrives, we humans have no recourse but to succumb. Yet ours was a nation robbed of the ability to give true and original voice to such pure sentiments, or to deepen contemplation rooted in them. Still, when one saw national flags hung with black mourning bands from every household’s eaves, when those dark emblems adorned the chests and arms of passersby, people could not help but grieve. That even he who held supreme dignity as the nation’s highest authority stood utterly powerless before death—this stirred sorrowful emotions. A national melancholy—and beneath it lay no doubt the undigested stench of Western civilization, swallowed too rapidly in less than half a century, now erupting as materialistic decay.

In a short span of time, Harukarou Brothel became desolate. Along the wide street lined with grand houses, national flags shrouded in mourning bands hung motionless, dull and murky. The sounds of shamisen and percussion instruments could not be heard. Only the intense midsummer sunlight scorched relentlessly, imparting an oppressive weight as though quietly looking down upon human frailty. Harukarou Brothel too had grown markedly desolate. Even the Madam would often come lie down without particular reason in O-Hikari's six-tatami room—where she worked diligently—on those summer days when one's body felt utterly unmanageable. Sheltered by cedar-leaf shade making it the house's coolest spot, O-Hikari's room may have suited afternoon naps well enough—yet there lingered something beyond mere comfort. Through her decade-long life here, O-Hikari felt quiet sorrow regarding the imperial demise yet no shred of need to feign fresh surprise. Had unconscious preparation for death taken root within her? From her heart's depths rose the thought: How pitiful it all was. Without weariness she kept moving her sewing needle earnestly. Midsummer's dense greenery and blazing sun pressed upon her—yet her tranquil heart bore this weight with silent grace.

“This summer truly has been nothing but one unpleasant thing after another.” The Madam, her face marked by prominent blue eyebrow traces, would often say to O-Hikari with dramatic emphasis. O-Hikari possessed a gentle warmth that somehow made everyone want to lean on her.

“Truly… what will become of things?” O-Hikari said this and quietly applied the finishing iron. If only Harukarou Brothel’s decline had arrived four or five days earlier—then perhaps Shigeko and Kozuma might have been saved. Had Shigeko and Kozuma survived without meeting such cruel deaths, who could say how they might have relished this lull in their unprofitable trade? The two who would have found joy were already dead. “Too late—it’s all too late,” O-Hikari thought, her eyes brimming with tears.

However, for O-Sachi, Tokiko, Kikuryu, Tomie, and Tsuruko, nights that were dark and lacking in liveliness, nights without losing themselves in drink, and nights spent unsleeping in the warmth of men's skin became a form of torment. Like alcoholics who feel half-dead when deprived of liquor's presence, they suffered from a hazy exhaustion laced with pain.

“How utterly dull this is.” “Instead of making us sit around listlessly like this for three whole nights, they’re really treating us like fools.” “Toki-chan, why don’t you call up Mr. XX and invite him over?” “I think I’ll invite —-chan too, don’t you think, Tomie?” That could only be called a good plan. They each invited their own regulars. The invited men came, considering it an “honor” to be able to play without paying. And then, at times, they would secretly engage in unobtrusive amusement in the back rooms. Once the appeal of these discreet, hidden amusements became known to people, within a short time, customers began coming and going through the brothels as usual—though no music or revelry echoed within them.

“Oh, stop it! I mean it, stop it right now!”

In the back room, as Kikuryu let out an exaggerated coquettish voice, O-Sachi admonished her: “Kiku-chan, your voice is far too loud.” People had, before they knew it, completely forgotten that momentary solemnity toward death they once felt. At the very moment when superficial expressions of grief were finally gaining momentum—in this way, while the Emperor’s passing had brought favorable outcomes for Harukarou Brothel, this same fact rippled through the fates of Fuyuko and O-Hikari and her son like undulating waves, a matter of grave significance.

On a certain night in mid-August, as usual, the women of Harukarou Brothel were gathered in the tearoom, adorned under the glow of electric lights. The summer night breeze flowed in softly through the wide-open window.

“Well, we’ll be off then,” said Tokiko, Kikuryu, and Tomie—who had been adjusting their obis before the mirror—to Fuyuko and O-Sachi, who sat there unusually quiet. After they left for the outer rooms, the space fell into stillness. O-Sachi was beautiful tonight as well. The charm born from her small, taut body and the splendor of her skillful makeup seemed several degrees superior to Fuyuko’s understated elegance—with her light makeup and modest taste, more pretty than beautiful in her refined manner. Yet when the two faced each other, O-Sachi felt oppressed. Fuyuko’s composed beauty—unassuming in its muted hues, quietly austere—seemed to press down upon her. O-Sachi avoided speaking with Fuyuko.

“Ichiko-chan, Yoneko-chan—are you in the shop? Won’t you come here for your lesson?” “Coming!” With their blazing crimson obi sashes trailing behind them and flower hairpins glittering so splendidly they themselves found it overwhelming, Yoneko and Ichiko emerged. “Me?” Ichiko’s eyes shone as she tilted her head. “What?” That was adorable. O-Sachi saw a promising future for the “geisha,” while Fuyuko detected a poignant “loneliness.”

“Let us do Yatsu-san, Big Sister O-Sachi!” “Yatsu-san? My, you certainly seem fond of Yatsu-san. Now then—are you ready—” As O-Sachi’s low chant began, Ichiko started earnestly performing each movement, though she couldn’t yet grasp the emotional depth behind them. Then the telephone bell shrilled from its room. When O-Sachi called “Yoneko-chan,” the Madam—already emerging from the back—answered with “Ah, who is it?” and so the dance resumed. The call dragged on interminably, remaining connected even after the dance had ended.

“Oh, understood.” “I shall ensure there are no oversights on my part as well.” “In that case, please wait a moment.” “I’ll give you an answer right away.” The Madam, adjusting her hair, came into the tearoom and looked hesitantly between Fuyuko and O-Sachi. “Koryutei is asking if one of you can prepare to come stay there starting now.” “Apparently he’s a prominent industrialist from Tokyo—if anything were to go awry, it would tarnish the dignity of Kanazawa itself.”

“Madam, I will go.” Why had this response emerged? Even after speaking it, Fuyuko herself couldn’t grasp its origin. It had simply been fate. Precisely because Fuyuko never normally vied for assignments, even O-Sachi found herself unable to object. “Well then, Fuyuko-san—you go on ahead first. I’ll have your kimono and other things sent over afterward.” “By all accounts, he appears to be an exceptionally distinguished gentleman—do bear that in mind.”

“Yes.” When Fuyuko stood up, she felt a faint shudder pass through her body. Beneath a night sky of unknowable depth where stars blazed with cold brilliance, Fuyuko had her rickshaw driven through the darkness. Upon reaching Koryutei Pavilion, a maid familiar from past visits guided her to a private chamber. There stood the mayor of this provincial city—a man she’d occasionally shared banquet tables with, his towering crimson nose having earned him the folk nickname *Tengu*. “Your efforts are appreciated,” he began. “To come directly to the point—tonight’s guest ranks among Japan’s foremost luminaries. Our reasons for this discreet summons run deep.” Mayor *Tengu* launched into his explanation: “In Kanazawa—this backwater where commerce stagnates—our sole major industry, the ceramics manufacturer, has bled losses for three consecutive fiscal years since encountering various difficulties two or three years back. This June we barely managed five percent dividends by adjusting worker conditions.” “Yet they struck regardless.” “Then came Emperor Meiji’s passing—they’ve resumed work out of deference, but tensions simmer beneath.” “Thus we’ve secretly invited Mr. Amano Eisuke—‘our nation’s preeminent industrialist’—to resolve matters while time remains.”

“Therefore, I want you to fully grasp these circumstances. It won’t be long—just a stay of about three days—so I expect you to ensure his time here remains free from tedium and that he lacks no comforts in his daily necessities.” “You understand, right?”

Fuyuko merely nodded. She could not help but feel sorrow toward the cunning, base Mayor who saw her as a mere tool. But if she were to consider the reasons, given "her current circumstances and the world today," this might rather be considered an "honor." Unaware that she had been swept into one of the infinite phases of life’s ceaseless flow—a phase bearing her own fate and that of O-Hikari and her son—Fuyuko...

“Miss Fuyuko, please come this way.”

The maid went ahead. Through the tatami corridor she had traversed many times, Fuyuko walked with composed calm. The stately, slightly aged architectural details felt deeply familiar. Then came the river wind, carrying with it the murmur of flowing water as it swept gently through. The fine tatami room of this house—backed by a great river—had been positioned close to its banks. Soon the blue night sky emerged beyond the river, stars glittering above crystalline mountain ridges that undulated like transparent waves. To the veranda jutting from a high cliff came the river's whisper, rising as if welling from the silent darkness of forests below. A stream of light spilling from a room cast reflections upon those woods. (What manner of man awaits me there?) Fuyuko found herself pausing despite herself. Ah, let him at least be someone worthy of respect! At least let him be a man I can bow to sincerely! Through years of service, though perpetually betrayed, this remained her unrelenting wish—a woman's wish she could not abandon.

“About that matter we discussed earlier—” the maid whispered. In the room came a faint rustle of movement. Near the threshold sat a Baron she recognized—a local landowner, mine operator, and industrialist—alongside a certain Mr., the prefectural assembly chairman. Fuyuko gave a slight bow, knelt at the threshold, quietly straightened her posture, and surveyed the room with a heart sharp as an unsheathed blade. The electric light glared, but her vision—still adjusting from the dim corridor—struggled to clarify the space. Gradually, as she focused her gaze, the languid form of a reclining man seeped into her awareness. His repose radiated absolute mastery. His six-foot frame—neither lean nor corpulent—stretched effortlessly across the room as though rooted through tatami and floorboards into the earth itself, immovable yet serene. Upon the down quilt at his feet lay a plump right wrist exuding refined vigor; sloping shoulders tapered to a strong neck; his left elbow anchored the weight of a massive skull while torso and limbs settled into seamless stillness. For a suspended moment, Fuyuko stood transfixed by the solemn power emanating from his entire being. A twenty-year hunger for unattained ideals now swelled under this encroaching force. That anchored skull—coiling hair crowning a broad forehead luminous with intellect; thick brows arching over features rare among Japanese men: a nose of crystalline arrogance channeling indomitable will. Rounded cheeks dusted with sun-darkened stubble framed lips neither fully closed nor parted—a paradox of mystery and softness. And his eyes—were they shut in slumber or contemplation? The longer she stared, the more relentlessly his monumental presence pressed upon her. Unconsciously, she lowered her head and stiffened her posture.

“I fear your stay may entail certain inconveniences—though this Fuyuko is a woman of superior quality, unmatched in Kanazawa—” Fuyuko bit her lip as she listened to the baron’s fragmented, “unforgivable” words of introduction. The shame threatened to constrict her entirely. However, the man lying leisurely did not respond. “In that case, we shall take our leave for tonight and return tomorrow.”

“Well then, we leave everything in your hands.”

The two "local representatives" left. Fuyuko sat quietly alone, contending with her abandoned self. The chill-laden river wind crept in alongside the stream's murmuring flow. Rather than unease, Fuyuko felt solemn clarity—that same trance-like absorption she entered when beating the drum. A force—her own inviolable "true strength," dwelling deep beneath habitual falsehoods yet opposing this man's manifest dignity and personal power—had begun drawing her upright. Within the weighted stillness, the man opened his half-lidded eyes as though emerging from a dream.

“Come closer.” “Yes.” “Your name is Fuyuko, I believe?” Ah, that languid yet potent smile. A smile that shook the world’s very foundations. From the faint smile lingering at his lips—a smile that revealed glimpses of an unfathomable sea of power—that force pressed upon Fuyuko. (Ah, such men truly existed in this world!) Then shame surged through her—the shame of realizing how wretchedly insignificant her status, her fate, her true worth appeared before this man who reclined so indifferently, how utterly beyond comparison. Blood rushed to her head. The spring of passion Fuyuko had suppressed and concealed through long years overflowed all at once through her entire being. Solemn dignity—the once-in-a-lifetime beauty of fervor—shone forth from within. She suddenly seemed to have gained active agency. This rare beauty of hers—a solemn radiance burning with youthful fullness—became the miracle of her life. His dreamlike half-closed eyes opened wide, their sharp gaze absorbing without respite the blazing beauty of this woman, Fuyuko. A beauty like the gleaming edge of a famed sword set aflame. There came that sublime moment when human and human mutually recognized each other’s worth. "It is a profound, sincere emotion of infinite nuance," Fuyuko thought, "born between those who endure life’s trials yet overcome them." Among those of the same sex, it becomes kinship; between those of opposite sexes, a love deeper than love itself.

“This is our first meeting.” Fuyuko bowed solemnly. As she was tidying away into a corner the leather futons, small tobacco trays, and tea bowls left by the two local notables, the maid entered—apologizing for her lateness—and carried off the tea utensils. Fuyuko now felt both the wistful longing of one who had touched humanity’s essence and a willingness to embrace urgent sacrifice. She offered him tea. He appeared oblivious to her offering. She couldn’t discern whether he truly didn’t notice or feigned ignorance. Conscious of her maidenly inexperience, she began “That tea—” only to recoil at her own helplessness in that moment, burning with shame.

“Thank you.” He drained his tea as if nothing had happened. And he spoke to her as though they were old acquaintances.

“I only arrived here at seven tonight.” “Is that so?” “What time is it now?” The clock in the corner of the room indicated 10:20. “It is past ten twenty.” “I’ll be in your care for a while—you’re Fuyuko, right?”

“Yes.” At that moment, in this room and the next beyond the lattice door, one could hear the clinking of metal rings from the mosquito net hangers and the rustling of tatami mats. The lattice door was quietly opened, and the maid, placing her hands on the floor, said, “I have prepared the bedding.” The light of the lamp covered with a grass-colored cloth dyed the seamless mosquito net like the seafloor, and the breeze made the cloth sway. Fuyuko looked at the two laid-out futons. An uncanny emotion—not quite coalescing into intellectual conviction—pressed in on her chest.

“I’ve prepared a bath—perhaps you would like to bathe before retiring for the night?” “I’ll go in.” His frame, which had seemed rooted to the ground, heaved itself upright abruptly. “You—”

“I—” “I see. I’ll come in alone.” Guided by the maid, the owner of a six-foot-tall frame—sturdy and solidly built—left the room without letting his footsteps sound. Fuyuko remained seated alone, feeling the swirling heat of passion within. Before her eyes lay two futons inside the mosquito net swaying with the river wind blowing through. What were these futons implying and demanding of her? She would sleep beneath the same mosquito net as that man. Whenever something struck her nerves this way, she had to still her very blood flow and sink deep into thought. (Ah, how agonizing to face that man now as nothing but a traveling geisha!)

“Um, the luggage from Harukarou Brothel has been placed in the next room.” It was the same maid from earlier. Fuyuko said “Right” and did not respond further. This was likely implying she should quickly change clothes in the adjoining room and prepare for bed before his arrival. That... I can’t do. To say her body wasn’t cooperating… she couldn’t force herself to change. (As a geisha—not wanting these rare genuine feelings born within her to be appraised)—with this thought, Fuyuko’s heart swelled.

“Um, Miss Fuyuko, shouldn’t you change your kimono?” the maid said again.

“I shall remain as I am.”

“But—in that case...” “This will do.” She declared firmly. The starry blue sky was gazed upon.

“Has the drum been brought?” “Yes, everything has been brought without exception.” Ah, on this clear night, Fuyuko thought she wanted to beat that exhilarating drum fiercely—to strike it repeatedly until her heart lay bare. What did this inn maid understand? Ah, he was merely a so-called “famous”— Industrialist—transcending all that surrounded her, the sound of that creature-skin instrument resonating through heaven and earth surged up from within her like a torrent. “What a splendid starry sky.” Fuyuko glanced at the maid beside her. Then Amano quietly came to the veranda and stood gazing up at the same vast, profound night sky.

“The stars are out.” Without responding to the maid’s flattery, Amano stared intently at Fuyuko with his large eyes. Fuyuko surrendered herself to a gentle emotion. The sound of the river rapids rose with an eternal resonance.

“Fuyuko.” “Yes.” Fuyuko stood up and approached him.

“What is the name of that mountain range over there?” “The nearer one would be Mount Iōzan.” In the hazy night air, the mountains stood out starkly with their exposed slopes, the entire mass glowing like deep indigo damask. Fuyuko couldn’t discern whether Amano was actually looking at the mountains or merely standing there. Through this uncertainty, a subtle force seeped into her being. “I’ll retire.” He entered the room as though he had forgotten Fuyuko’s presence altogether and began moving toward the adjoining bedroom.

“Please change into that nightwear.” “Yeah.” He had the maid change his clothes and entered the mosquito net.

“Fuyuko.” “Yes.” “If you get sleepy, come sleep in this futon here.” “Yes, thank you.”

Fuyuko thought that in her entire life, she had never heard such strong, warm words overflowing with genuine emotion as those she had just heard. She recalled O-Hikari. When she was beside O-Hikari, she naturally forgot that she was a geisha. In front of him, she thought with all her heart that she did not want to be a geisha. When she was with O-Hikari, she dissolved into tranquil peace; in his presence, she was overwhelmed by an immeasurable force—one that threatened to sweep her away. ("If you get sleepy, come sleep in this futon here.") Within the mosquito net, complete silence had fallen. Fuyuko gazed into the mosquito net. Not even a breath could be heard. She had come to feel strangely awkward and apologetic about herself. Could a geisha invited by a client possibly let him fall asleep first and then leave him unattended? However, that was how it had ended up. She stood up and left for the next room—separated from her own by nothing more than a single wall—that had been designated for her. Under the intense light, the mirror stand, spare kimonos, shamisen case, and other items lay scattered about. The maid gave her a skeptical look. She untied her obi and changed into a lightweight lilac under-robe. She tightly fastened her abdomen with a Hakata thin obi and applied light white powder neatly before the mirror stand.

“Good night.” “Good night.”

“Good night.” Fuyuko quietly entered the mosquito net and laid herself down on one side of the futon.

It was a mysterious night. At first, she had anticipated humiliation and trembled. Yet the room lay silent as a forest, utterly deserted. She opened her eyes to study Amano beside her. She couldn't tell whether he slept or woke. He lay motionless—limbs stretched languidly, head aligned straight upward, not a breath disturbing the stillness. A summer quilt draped his waist; his right hand rested lightly on his abdomen. Only the faint rise and fall from chest to belly betrayed life. Had he truly fallen asleep? Had he drifted off without sparing her a thought? If so, then perhaps to him she amounted to less than a geisha or prostitute—a being of no consequence whatsoever. Or was he lost in meditation? Regardless, the silence felt too solemn, too unnervingly calm. Fuyuko stared wide-eyed into the watery chill that kept sleep at bay. Beneath her pillow, river rapids roared ceaselessly. Her nerves burned white-hot—childhood memories, her father's death, her brother's failures, the night she'd been sold into service, O-Hikari's kindness, years of artistic struggle, desperate efforts to cleanse herself from tainted surroundings—her life's entire ledger surged through her like rapids. Yet with each pause in this torrent, there he remained: silent and still as stone. Gradually, an extraordinary humiliation took root within her—until at last, exhausted by taut nerves, she sank into sleep like mud.

“Fuyuko, Fuyuko.”

The morning light shone. A clear blue sky graced the morning. On the adjacent futon, Amano lay on his stomach, turned his head toward Fuyuko, and called out.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes and sat up on the futon. She considered it an unparalleled blunder in her life that she had fallen asleep until he woke her. “Are you already awake?” “No, that’s not it. If you’re sleepy, go ahead and sleep more—today, you know.” “Yes.” “Since many people will likely come to visit, I’ll have to trouble you to entertain each one.” “Yes, understood.” It seemed he had brought the tobacco tray himself and was savoring a cigar with evident relish.

“You look sleepy.”

“No,” she said, but Fuyuko was perplexed. And then she sat up.

In light of the humiliation she had felt the previous night, this blunder of hers seemed all the more disgraceful. Still, how could she accept this warmth devoid of any bitter edge? (Ah—but what joy to lie beneath a shared mosquito net without being compelled to perform that one act!) She withdrew to her room, simultaneously ashamed and elated. When she had finished her makeup, changed into her kimono, and returned to the parlor bearing fresh morning tea, he was already awake and sitting like an immovable mountain.

Outside the window, a blanket of milky river mist swiftly flowed over the upper layer of the forest.

Before they had even finished breakfast, visiting guests arrived. The mayor, prefectural assembly members, and prominent local industrialists spent the entire day in this villa’s great hall. Fuyuko, while entertaining those people, carefully observed his attitude toward them. As if he were an ascetic who had perfected his conduct, he lay sprawled out the entire day. During lulls between visits, he had the maid massage him from his legs to his waist and quietly meditated with closed eyes. And so the day ended. That night, he ordered the maid to bring beer and quietly exchanged light drinks with Fuyuko. And the night was filled with a death-like silence and stillness, just as it had been the previous night.

(Ah—to think that such a man, such a man, such a man existed in this world!) For years, the passion she had suppressed shattered every restraint and set Fuyuko trembling uncontrollably. She couldn't stay still no matter what. Her hands and feet burned like fire. She was no longer a geisha. "Selling emotions." She was not some itinerant woman. A woman of exceptional caliber—one who had unleashed all her latent potential at once and now burned with the sacred passion of love she felt for the first time.

It was late at night on the third day. Fuyuko clung with all her strength to his motionless body—barely distinguishable between life and death—her entire form quivering under waves of pulsing flame. Dull half-closed eyes opened calmly yet fixedly. “Fuyuko?”

“Please forgive me.” “You weren’t supposed to have parents, were you?” “Y-yes.” Ah, burning life. The woman’s life—burning up from its very foundation—transferred into the composed and tenacious man’s perception. He quietly closed his eyes. The great power had been shaken to its core by the sincere devotion of a woman who offered her entire being. As if to smother and envelop blazing flames, the giant’s power embraced Fuyuko. “Please keep me by your side for my whole life, my entire life.” “I’ll keep you.” “I too would feel empty without you now.”

“Is it true?” “I don’t lie.” “Starting tomorrow, you’re no longer a geisha.” “I’ll set you free.” “Will you come to Tokyo with me?” “—I’ll go.” “Anywhere—anywhere at all—I’ll go—” “—”

“But you already have a splendid wife and a splendid son, don’t you?” “I have a wife and children.” “But you are also necessary.” “...?”

“You’re not a replacement for my wife.” “You are someone apart from my wife.” “You are you, and you’ve become someone indispensable to me.”

The next morning, Fuyuko’s contract buyout was entrusted to the young mistress of Koryutei. A phone call was placed to Harukarou Brothel summoning the landlord to come immediately. The landlord, his eyes bloodshot from alcohol, arrived. Fuyuko listened to the mistress negotiating with the landlord from behind a fusuma screen. “To come straight to the matter, “This is rather sudden, but Mr. Amano—that is, Fuyuko-san’s patron—has decided to arrange for her independence. “Thus if it suits your convenience, he wishes to settle this quickly—even as soon as tomorrow. “What do you think? “That is precisely why we requested your presence today.” “Oh,” said the landlord, sounding surprised. “Well, that’s quite something.”

“Oh,” the Brothel Landlord seemed surprised. “Well, that’s splendid news.” “So then, what exactly are your terms?” “To part with Fuyuko-san for a lifetime—there must be various things on your side as well that need consideration—” “Yes, of course—if Fuyuko were to leave now, I’d actually be in quite a bind—”

“Well, from what I’ve heard from Fuyuko-san as well, she still has about two years left of her service, so I can imagine how that must be—but how much do you intend to set her free for?” (For how many thousands?) Ah, curse those words! Fuyuko thought. “Well—Madam, I can’t let her go for less than two boxes.” “However, wouldn’t that leave Fuyuko-san with too little standing?” “Well, it’s a bargain. Just think about all the effort it took to make her into that kind of woman.”

Two boxes—two thousand yen. All manner of endurance, all manner of humiliation, the piecemeal selling of soul and life—was this not after such long toil? And where could there possibly be any justification for demanding an additional two thousand yen in compensation? It was saddening to be valued at two thousand yen, but the Brothel Landlord’s heart—greedily trying to take that two thousand yen—was hateful. “If we fall short by two boxes, even for someone of Mr. Amano’s stature, wouldn’t that be rather unbecoming?” It was a cold voice, one that grasped firmly onto the crux of profit and refused to let go.

“In that case, that will suffice.” “I shall relay it as such.”

On the way to Amano’s room, the mistress told Fuyuko that the landlord of Harukarou Brothel was “still a reasonable man.” Fuyuko even thought that her contract buyout brought her no joy at all. In any case, the Brothel Landlord left after saying he would “set Fuyuko free for two thousand yen” and to “give his regards to Fuyuko.” That night, two rickshaws arrived at the entrance of Harukarou Brothel. It was Amano and Fuyuko. In the tearoom nearing ten o’clock, there were only Kikuryu, Osachi, and the Madam.

“Madam, they’ve arrived. Mr. Amano has also graciously come with them.” “Well, this is our first meeting. Now, please come this way.” Light-footed in a white yukata, Amano went up to the second floor. As he ascended, he looked toward Fuyuko and nodded as if to ask, “Is this alright?” The Madam had Osachi carry the tobacco tray and followed behind. To Fuyuko, who remained behind, the Brothel Landlord said: “This morning, I was summoned to Koryutei—though I haven’t told the wenches here yet—but things have turned rather urgent, haven’t they?” At that moment, the Madam came downstairs.

“Fuyuko-san, if only you’d called ahead, we could have gathered the other geishas and been prepared—I’m simply beside myself. In any case, please go upstairs.” “Madam, perhaps I—” “Well, let’s save the talk for later,” the Madam interjected. Fuyuko then went to a room on the second floor facing the inner garden.

On the second floor, as Osachi and Kikuryu tried to curry favor with Amano, he responded with a quiet smile.

“How did it go?” He addressed Fuyuko. Fuyuko hesitated. “It’s fine. You should say it.” “Um… I haven’t said anything yet.”

“I see.”

He stood up heavily. He indicated Fuyuko should remain as she was and went downstairs.

On the second floor, Osachi, Kikuryu, and Fuyuko were left behind. Osachi was as glossy and beautiful as ever. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Fuyuko-san?”

“Yes.” “Somehow, it feels like we haven’t met for a month.” Fuyuko smiled. It hadn’t been a month—not even close. I had gained within these three days an experience that would renew my entire life. The loneliness that had long tormented me—this loneliness of having nothing to which I could dedicate my respect and love—had been shattered by a man. In the desolate plain, the sun had appeared. No longer was this a solitary loneliness—I had become one who possessed a sun to revere. For Fuyuko, this was indeed still loneliness—but this “loneliness” differed from what had come before.

“I might have to say goodbye, depending on how things go.” “You?” “Really?” “So—congratulations!”

At that moment, Amano returned. The Madam was behind Amano,

“Fuyuko-san, congratulations! You must thank Mr. Amano properly now, truly!” she exclaimed with tearful cheerfulness, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had long since tasted both the joys and sorrows of such occasions. “Madam, could you summon seven or eight geishas?” “Of course—I’ve already sent word for them to come shortly. Osachi dear, Fuyuko-san has left our profession now!”

“Good evening.” “Good evening.” Six or seven young geishas entered, accompanied by a lively scent, voices, and warmth. And they chorused their congratulations to Fuyuko. It was a clear, deep summer night under the moon. Amidst the beauty of this moonlit summer night’s world, Fuyuko’s fate alone underwent an abrupt transformation. No one truly felt the weight of Fuyuko’s fate in their hearts. As a commonplace habit, they uttered “Congratulations,” doing no more than envying Fuyuko’s good fortune with ordinary feelings.

(Is this what they call freedom?!) Fuyuko muttered to herself. With two thousand yen, from this moment onward, she no longer had to work as a geisha. A strange loneliness washed over her—as though she’d done something irrevocable. Moonlight pierced the clear indigo sky like a white blade. She watched her colleagues’ carefree revelry from afar, her heart already adrift.

“Fuyuko.”

“Yes.” “I hear you’re skilled with the drum.” “Yes.” “It’s a moonlit night. Won’t you let me hear it?” The deep-seated passion for her familiar art form revived within the liberated Fuyuko’s body and mind. Ah, I’ll strike, I’ll strike—I’ll strike this beloved night until I’ve laid everything bare! She declared majestically.

“Osachi-san, please tune the strings.” “Certainly, Fuyuko-san.”

Osachi’s shamisen and Fuyuko’s drum were brought in. Fuyuko, while holding back the pulsing waves of joy from her art surging within her, caressed the beloved large and small drums she had cherished for years. Without any awkwardness, Osachi’s resplendent figure—now earnestly beginning to tune the shamisen’s tones on this night celebrating her colleague’s fortune—overflowed with confidence and passion for their shared artistic path. The gathering fell solemnly silent. In the clear expanse of sky, the moon shone purely like a polished mirror. The entire sky was bathed in a cold white light, while the world below stood majestically transparent as water. In this quietly lucid world, the shamisen’s melody began to resonate slowly and lowly. The tones gradually intensified their serene and peaceful rhythm, and when the plectrum’s sound rang out as if cleaving water, the exceedingly delicate notes of the small drum intertwined with the shamisen’s tune. The shamisen’s tones—swelling and receding like rapids in a torrent as they sought to unleash unrestrained emotion through their undulating crests—were solemnly restrained by the drum’s sound, which alternated between light and heavy pressure, tightening its grip until the music ascended in tragic grandeur. The elegant shamisen notes trembled in the still night air, attempting to lure people into sweet dreams, while the muffled drum resonance—concealing its power—soared high into emptiness. For a long time, the two sounds clashed. As they battled, their subtle tragedy brimmed with inexhaustible force. Soon the music surged like rushing rapids; the two tones contended like torrents until they imperceptibly fused into one—and without warning, the great drum’s roar like crashing waves thundered forth with new authority. The shamisen’s sound gradually faded away.

“Ha! O-eh! Yooooh!” Ah! That grand sound gushing forth beyond all! That majestic music! The shamisen’s sound could no longer be heard. The triumphant fanfare’s great fervor—grand, rich, majestic tones—advanced alone down the path of victory. Ah, it had been a long, long battle of suffering. Now, she had triumphed over it.

The blazing drum music reached O-Hikari as she sat quietly sewing while keeping watch over her sleeping child’s face in the room behind the storehouse. O-Hikari had not seen Fuyuko for three days. O-Hikari hungered for Fuyuko. The fervent music resonated with her starved spirit. O-Hikari stopped her sewing and, following the dark and damp corridor, crouched beneath the back stairs in front of the storehouse to listen intently. Each rhythm of the music seeped into O-Hikari’s heart, and an indescribable emotion surged up from within her like sparks.

Then, abruptly, the sound stopped. A profound silence fell. The music of silence echoed around her as O-Hikari sat enraptured. Then came footsteps descending the ladder. “If you go down here and turn right—” That’s Fuyuko’s voice, O-Hikari thought. “No need—I’ll go alone.” She looked up at the ladder with eyes still burning with emotion. A heavy creak groaned through the wood. In the next moment, a man stepped down before the storehouse. When O-Hikari—wondering what she’d been fumbling for—instinctively rose, she found herself face-to-face with him. Her entire body turned cold as ice with a gasp. It was a face she knew.

“You—could it be Amano—?” “—?” Amano stared at O-Hikari with terrifying intensity but grunted a single “Hmm.” “Kitano’s…⁈” he began in a crushed voice—when from upstairs came Fuyuko’s “Have you found your way?” as she descended. O-Hikari gasped and braced her heart. The full force of the buried past tightened its grip on O-Hikari.

“No, it was a case of mistaken identity. I’m terribly sorry,” O-Hikari managed to regain her outward composure. “Oh! Auntie, is that you?” Fuyuko exclaimed happily, sounding somewhat surprised. Then she said to Amano, as if to smooth things over, “This is someone who has been like a devoted aunt to me.”

Amano silently hid himself in the restroom.

“Auntie, I must take my leave and go to Tokyo.” “——?”

O-Hikari’s entire body turned cold with a terrible shudder. And now, she could not properly comprehend Fuyuko’s words. “That person,” Fuyuko indicated with her eyes. “He’s from Tokyo. “I have come to be under that person’s care.” “It was all so sudden that there was no time to consult with you.”

“Who… what is this person’s name?” O-Hikari asked. “Mr. Amano Eisuke.” “Amano—?” O-Hikari muttered. Her entire being—along with the “buried past” concealed within her forty years of life—screamed: *That bastard!* (Over a decade ago—that devil Amano had snatched my sister Ayako from my deceased husband! And now, was that bastard taking Fuyuko away too?)

“Excuse me,” O-Hikari said with a bow to Fuyuko before stumbling back to the room behind the storehouse. The “buried past” that had lain deep within her consciousness surged forth with fervor. It was excruciating. That Amano was taking Fuyuko away. From what she’d heard, he was one of Japan’s foremost industrialists. That had to be true. The fact that “Amano Ichiro,” the young thinker from over a decade ago, had become “Amano Eisuke,” Japan’s great industrialist—this was undoubtedly true. But had her sister’s declaration—“I will surely destroy him!”—uttered as Amano took her away all those years ago come to nothing? There he stood now—boldly before her very eyes. And now he was taking Fuyuko—with whom she’d shared an inseparable bond these past three years—away forever in just three days? ...And what was she? Nothing but a pitiful seamstress who’d lost both the wealth and status of the Ushino family of old—

The following afternoon, Fuyuko left for Tokyo, accompanied by Amano. Fuyuko left without knowing anything about the profound upheaval that had occurred in O-Hikari's inner life or the past fate between Amano and O-Hikari that had caused such turmoil. *He took Fuyuko too, that bastard!* O-Hikari declared this from the depths of her heart. The facts of the "buried past" of O-Hikari's life—which she could not help but declare from the depths of her heart in this way—would be revealed in the next chapter. People would surely behold the terrifying visage of human destiny there.

Chapter 5: ――The Buried Past――

O-Hikari was born in Ohkawa Village, a seaside settlement at the edge of the plain about twenty kilometers from Kanazawa’s city center. The village was surrounded by towering forests of cedar, fir, and oak—trees that had long protected its people from fierce winter storms and scorching midsummer sunlight. Without ever knowing precisely when she learned it, by age sixteen or seventeen O-Hikari had come to understand both her village’s ancient origins and its connection to her ancestral home. Ohkawa Village had existed in the Kaga Plain since long before her birth, yet remained isolated from neighboring settlements. A thousand years ago or two—when the land lay buried under deep snow—wanderers said to be Heike remnants arrived from the south and, struck by the wilderness’ vastness, cast off their wandering sandals. Virgin soil of unmatched fertility lay before them, earth pregnant with untapped vitality—yet their numbers proved too meager. More people were needed for their group. Humankind had been granted but one method to create itself. With no nearby villages to interact with, the few men and women could only work to birth new clan members through their own efforts. Their long wanderings had left women scarce. Parent and child, brother and sister, uncle and niece—it mattered not. So long as male joined female to spawn new life, all was permitted. "Be fruitful, multiply, fill Ohkawa’s fields," they prayed fervently. Thus multiplied those who tilled the land without respite, while bloodlines tangled in terrifying complexity and grew ever murkier. Hunger for food, hunger for shelter, beastly carnal thirst—children slaughtering parents, wives murdering husbands, friends butchering friends—tainted blood exchanged through slaughterous feuds.

In that manner, time passed on.

The sun day after day shone upon the plain from the east, the stars night after night glittered in the sky, and while history was likely being lived by other people upon the same earth, the people of Ohkawa Village had lived on without knowing any world beyond Ohkawa Village. In spring, summer, and autumn, the blessed northern lands offered pleasant labor and pleasurable indulgences that numbed people’s souls—but the terrifying winter, with its heavy ice and snow ceaselessly falling from that gloomy, oppressive December sky day and night, and Siberian tempests lashing down, always threatened them. Humankind—who permitted ye to prosper upon this earth? “Perish, perish, be utterly destroyed,” spoke winter. After three or four months when the colors of the trees could not be seen, when spring circled back again, the number of villagers’ corpses who had frozen to death inside the collapsed houses of the village never fell below fifty each year. However, just as the power to destroy belonged to nature, so too did the power to create and multiply.

The villagers had unfailingly organized themselves into a single society called Ohkawa Village, achieving a unified whole with remarkable finesse. It was precisely as this unification neared completion that the ancestors of the Ushino family—O-Hikari’s birthplace—rose to become central figures in Ohkawa Village. Though unaware of broader history, the villagers lived in an era when a commoner of humble origins unified Japan’s fractured regional powers, bringing closure to the Warring States period. Over generations of intermingled bloodlines, certain traits of character, talent, and physique cycled through the small village’s inhabitants until their finest qualities converged in one child. This individual demonstrated superiority over others through exceptional physical strength, intellect, and relentless effort. He amassed wealth. The impoverished weaklings bowed before him. He resolved to conquer the entire village. For him, this proved effortless. “The Ushino family is Ohkawa’s main house”—from the moment he made this proclamation, all authority in the village passed irrevocably to the Ushinos. For generations, they labored in accordance with ancestral will to cement this status in villagers’ minds. Every Ohkawa resident shared Ushino blood; thus the family’s prosperity became the village’s glory, and the village’s glory reflected theirs. A moral code took root among villagers—that they must desire the Ushinos’ eternal reign and refuse no sacrifice toward this end. The consequence was absolute: all nourishment flowed to the Ushinos alone, leaving the village mired in poverty they came to accept as natural providence. Young O-Hikari often watched farmers return at dusk from fields, their mud-caked clothes and gnawing hunger forgotten as they gazed up at the Ushino estate’s grand white-bricked walls encircling its grounds. Each offered heartfelt courtesies as she stood by the castle-like gate. However destitute their lives grew, villagers found ample recompense in the Ushinos’ wealth and splendor. The true horror lay in how O-Hikari’s own family—the Ushino descendants—forgot their ancestors’ calculated stratagems birthed this order, mistaking it for righteousness. Even O-Hikari failed to grasp its cruel injustice until life’s harsh trials later engulfed her.

However, among the Ushino family’s predecessors, what O-Hikari knew in some detail was from the late years of Denemon, her grandfather. When Denemon was past fifty, it was an era when great reforms were beginning to sweep across Japan. He remained confident that no matter what reforms might arise in Japan, his foundation in Ohkawa Village would stay unshaken. When political authority was restored to the Emperor at fifty-eight, he kept a composed face—yet soon he was no longer Ohkawa Village’s headman. Upon hearing even the headman’s role had been abolished, he could not help but stare at the new government—which had erased his supposedly eternal status with a single decree—with bewildered eyes. His position now seemed precarious. He was sixty. Though his human vitality waned, a certain wisdom had ripened. He surveyed everything as if awakening from a dream. He knew he had to act. The villagers’ extreme poverty shocked him. Poverty itself was tolerable, he reasoned—but they must not lose allegiance to the Ushino family as interactions with other villages increased. Summoning his final strength, he launched a sake brewing venture. His plan succeeded brilliantly, infusing new vigor throughout the village. A grand storehouse rose on vacant land at the village edge; beneath white walls gleaming in sunlight, young men hammered hoops onto barrels—clang, clang, clang—their strikes echoing. A modest flow of money steadied the villagers’ hearts. “It worked,” he declared. “It worked—nothing on earth could ever shake the bedrock of Ushino traditions.” Denemon exulted. And with that joy, in spring of Meiji 5, Denemon died.

Denemon had a son named Yotaro. He was a twenty-six-year-old youth and the son of Denemon’s first wife. Yotaro’s mother was the daughter of a farmer named Aoki from the same village, who bore Yotaro with Denemon but had no other children. When Yotaro was fifteen or sixteen, his mother died after enduring uterine cancer. With the loss of capable female hands, the youngest sister of the Aoki family—Yotaro’s maternal aunt—came to the Ushino household to manage domestic affairs. O-Nobu was a slender woman with an ever-pale face and fragile, lonely demeanor, though on occasion her cheeks would flush beautifully with inner passion. Denemon was not blind to O-Nobu’s beauty but harbored no direct intentions toward her. His wisdom, knowing too well the misfortunes such actions bred, had quietly subdued his desires—yet once he began his sake brewing venture, he found himself needing a devoted helper to entrust his work to. He forced marriage upon O-Nobu. How could she have refused?! Thus did fifty-eight-year-old Denemon and thirty-two-year-old O-Nobu wed! A terrible grief took root through this union. The one who had secretly fallen for his aunt O-Nobu—six years his senior—was none other than Denemon’s sole heir, Yotaro, O-Hikari’s father. The dim chill of the earthen storehouse’s second floor. O-Nobu’s beauty—her pale flesh glowing with inward fervor. The loveliness of that phosphorescent glimmer in her melancholy eyes. For Yotaro, forgetting O-Nobu became impossible. At the very moment when O-Nobu had been soothing Yotaro—a man of violent temperament who despised secrecy and repeatedly verged on confessing everything to Denemon—she found herself bound to marry Denemon, both Yotaro’s father and her own sister’s husband. After O-Nobu became Denemon’s second wife, who could say how many times Yotaro had pinned her down in that dim, damp storehouse? Unable to descend into madness enough to kill O-Nobu or muster the insanity to murder his father, dragged ceaselessly by her flesh, he spent two years staring at his wretched, shameless self—forced to keep the storehouse’s agonizing secret buried.

There was a time when O-Nobu became pregnant and miscarried in less than three months; Yotaro continued to agonize, nearly driven mad, wondering whose child this life—passing from darkness to darkness—had been. “It’s your child, Yotaro-san.” “Yotaro-san.” He shattered O-Nobu’s whisper as if smashing it to pieces. “Punishment! Punishment! How could anyone know whose child it was?” he thought. And imagining O-Nobu saying “Master, I’ve done something pitiful” to his father Denemon with those very same lips became unbearable. Though theirs was a dark, oppressive love, after Denemon died without ever knowing, Yotaro and O-Nobu were left behind with a repugnant physical sensation. Denemon’s death made them acutely feel the horror of having committed a terrible sin. For one, he was their real father; for the other, their real husband—and yet these two, each being aunt and nephew to the other, could not live without loving each other to such an extent.

After Denemon’s death, above all else, the issue of Yotaro’s marriage flared up within the Ushino family. Denemon’s will stated that Yotaro should take O-Sato—the second daughter of the Aoki family, who was both O-Nobu’s brother and the brother of Yotaro’s mother—as his wife. And the foremost proponent of that was none other than O-Nobu herself.

“It would be best for you to marry Miss O-Sato.” “Are you serious? So between me and O-Nobu-san—what do you intend to do about us?”

“We can go on as we have been.” “Don’t be absurd!”

“Why?” “O-Nobu-san—do you mean to meet me in this dim storehouse all your life?” O-Hikari imagined her parents Yotaro and O-Nobu in these scenes and felt as though their anguished hearts were being smothered. “Because otherwise—someday the villagers will discover us. Or no matter how careful we might be, what if I end up pregnant? Then we’d have no path left but death.”

“Then what are you telling me to do?” “Rather than that, after you marry Miss O-Sato and satisfy the villagers, you can simply keep me by your side as your servant.” “I don’t mind at all living in the shadows, slandered by others for the rest of my life.” “Given your status as Yotaro-san, if you were to take care of just me alone after marrying Miss O-Sato, no one would question it.” O-Nobu had wept bitterly as she said this, and O-Hikari felt she would understand that poignancy for the rest of her life.

O-Sato was a plump, cheerful country girl who considered her marriage into the Ushino family a lifelong honor and worked cheerfully all day. She treated O-Nobu with great care, calling her “Auntie, Auntie” as if serving her own mother. However, when O-Nobu could no longer conceal her pregnancy the following year, O-Sato was of such a simple heart that she initially could not comprehend who O-Nobu’s partner was. One night, when her beloved husband Yotaro confessed that he himself was O-Nobu’s partner and pleaded, “Be kind to her, won’t you, O-Sato?”—the sensation of O-Sato’s world erupting as if blown aflame pressed upon O-Hikari even in her old age with a heartrending poignancy that brought unbidden tears. She must have known the bitterness of sorrowful tears. And from the next morning onward, the world must have welcomed her with a new profundity. The country girl’s simple innocence instilled in O-Nobu not hatred but jealousy. Yet when she realized that jealousy was futile, she served O-Nobu with a pitiful demeanor and the obedience of a maidservant. Upon witnessing O-Sato’s heartrending sincerity, the sinful pair had no choice but to let out deep sighs. Moreover, Yotaro could not help but love the faded, pale soul and body of the familiar O-Nobu more than the fresh fruit-like heart and flesh of O-Sato.

The infant that O-Nobu had painfully delivered in her middle-aged first childbirth was said to be a filthy male child—small-bodied with a head swollen blue, his cries a feeble *hihihi*. That was O-Hikari’s brother. O-Hikari liked to imagine a certain moment from before her birth. That had to be precisely around late October in autumn. The peasants—who had to reap their year’s hard-earned rewards on autumn days that darkened early—were working in the fields until late. From the inner room of the Ushino family residence, through gaps in the trees, one could see fields entirely covered in proud golden waves of rice ears undulating across the land.

“O-Nobu-san, how are you feeling?” “I seem to be doing much better now.” O-Nobu wore a lonely, almost apologetic smile on her pale, gaunt cheeks and did not so much as glance toward the infant O-Sato held.

“This child doesn’t feel the least bit like my own.” “That child is yours, isn’t it?” “If you would allow that, I would be happy—what a good child.” O-Sato pressed her own flushed, sagging cheeks against the infant’s bluish-swollen ones. “It’s strange.” “Because I don’t find my own child cute at all—when I get close, doesn’t it somehow smell foul?” “What a terrible mother you are. “I’ll take good care of him.” “Mr. Yoichiro is the most precious heir of the Ushino family, isn’t he?” As O-Sato soothed Yoichiro, she began to feel like crying. O-Nobu was also welling up with tears. The autumn evening sun, filtering through the garden’s trees, cast a lonely light upon the two women.

“Should I really give this child to you, Miss O-Sato?”

“Yes, yes—Yoichiro-san is my child.” Precisely because they could not hate each other, they had no choice but to conceal the deep wounds in their hearts and remain lonely. They were no longer aunt and niece, but woman and woman—two women protecting the same beloved man.

“It seems like you could have had a child of your own, O-Sato-san.” “Yes,” O-Sato bowed her head in shame and frustration, praying in her heart. However, no child was granted to O-Sato. The following year, O-Nobu gave birth again. And that childbirth became the very thing that took O-Nobu’s life. The firmly embraced twin girls—plump and seemingly healthy—had taken far too much blood from their mother to be born. O-Nobu, who had dedicated her life to an ill-fated love, breathed her last with a faint pale phosphorescence flickering in her closed eyes as she uttered “Ah.” Of the twins, one was Ayako, and the other was O-Hikari. For Yotaro, nearing thirty, O-Nobu’s death meant liberation from that cursed love. He was still young. The Ushino family’s hereditary virtues compelled him toward the enterprises his father had left behind. He should have been saved thus. Yet even if he alone found salvation this way, the blood of O-Nobu—who had devoted her life to that young nephew, enduring every sin and secret for his sake—remained in the Ushino family through her three living children: Yoichiro, Ayako, and O-Hikari. Fortunately, O-Sato bore no children. The loneliness of a childless woman led her to nurture all three as her own. Later, O-Hikari would recall how O-Nobu had insisted on bringing O-Sato into the Ushino household and feel an inexpressible complexity.

However, the impression O-Hikari had of her father Yotaro around the time she began to develop awareness was so utilitarian and businesslike that he seemed unlike someone who had lived such a previous life. Yotaro could indeed be said to have been reborn after O-Nobu’s death. Having been liberated from the long-standing influence of strange, gloomy carnal desires and a pallid soul, the suppressed heroic materialism within him came alive. The melancholy had been O-Nobu’s, not his own. O-Hikari clearly remembered his robust physique and features. She could not forget her father’s composed demeanor as he sat facing guests in the vast tearoom—large enough to lay out a hundred tatami mats—where thick beams ran like bridges across the high attic of its ceilingless space, and in one corner’s four-mat hearth, a pure silver kettle hung from a soot-blackened hook. Most guests seemed intimidated by the hushed silence of the vast room and Yotaro’s demeanor, appearing unable to muster even half their usual vigor. “Ahahaha!” If he let out a booming laugh at some provocation, most people would apparently flee back home. Having fully adopted this manner, Yotaro—much like his father Denemon had once been—now burned with business ambition: sake brewing, large-scale fishing, trade with nearby villages and towns. By around the 14th or 15th year of Meiji, his influence resounded through the nearby villages. And it was the pitiful childless woman O-Sato who concluded everything within his household. Whenever O-Hikari recalled her childhood days, she could not help but feel gratitude for O-Sato’s tender life.

O-Hikari’s earliest memories of her siblings and O-Sato were strangely imbued with portents she would never forget throughout her life. In the cold, somber Buddhist altar room deep within the house, she—not yet five years old—was playing house with camellia petals alongside her sister Ayako (though they were twins, O-Hikari had been designated the younger sibling, a role that would last her entire life). The pale sunlight shone faintly red through the shoji screens. For some reason passive toward Ayako, O-Hikari had been arranging the petals one by one exactly as Ayako told her to. Ayako was threading together the petals O-Hikari had aligned with string. Then, from behind, something suddenly struck Ayako. It was her brother Yoichiro who, with his bluish-swollen large head, had shuffled unsteadily forward and struck Ayako, mistaking her for O-Hikari. However, the next instant, Yoichiro discovered it was Ayako, turned pale, and froze in place. Toward O-Hikari, he had been inherently strong; toward Ayako, he was utterly weak. Instead of O-Hikari’s gentle, pleading tears, he was forced to receive Ayako’s terrifying look of contempt. “Yoichiro, you idiot!” That was so terrifying that even in her old age, O-Hikari could not forget it. Needless to say, Yoichiro burst into tears as hard as he could. O-Sato, who had to raise these three children, was also pitiable. O-Hikari often saw O-Sato on the verge of tears, dejectedly sitting in the dimly lit back storeroom. After O-Hikari had grown old, O-Sato once said, “Do you think your father ever truly loved me even once?” “If there had been even once, then surely I should have been able to bear my own child at least once—” “O-Nobu-san was the one who gave birth to them.” “I suppose my role was to raise them.” “Truly, you children were blessed to have two mothers, weren’t you?” she had once said.

And it was indeed true that O-Sato loved O-Hikari most among the three children—so much that she would say such things. O-Hikari also remembered her father Yotaro's lonely figure—how amid his busy work, he would silently watch the frail, selfish, timid Yoichiro crying and fussing, as if thinking: Ah, the Ushino family ends with me. When O-Hikari imagined her father's heart—unable to condemn the inferiority of the child he had fathered—she felt desolate, and could not help sensing an uncanny terror in the blood flowing through her own flesh and heart. Though Father loved O-Hikari too, he found hope in Ayako—spirited, bold as any boy, strong—as she grew into a beautiful, radiant girl.

When the three siblings reached seven or eight years old, an elementary school of sorts was established for the first time in the neighboring village. To this school—which not a single villager planned to send their children—Yotaro made his three attend daily under a servant’s escort. For O-Hikari, sitting on chairs among unfamiliar children from other places while learning difficult classical Chinese texts and arithmetic from an elderly teacher proved utterly unbearable. How desperately O-Hikari must have wished then to avoid attending school by any means. In contrast, Yoichiro and Ayako delighted in going to school. The swift progress of Yoichiro’s studies astonished the schoolteacher. After returning home, he would spend his days alone and silent, occupied with books. Luxuriant black hair, voluptuous curves, almond-shaped eyes with long lashes, a sharply defined nose bridge of hard bone, an elegantly rounded nose tip, full lower lip, gently sloping jawline, earlobes glowing with healthy color—people called O-Hikari and Ayako mirror-image beauties, twin young ladies of striking resemblance. Yet O-Hikari herself could never believe she was as lovely a girl as Ayako. Though O-Hikari hid in classroom corners because speaking to others pained her, Ayako had gathered nearly thirty older students around herself within ten days until all worshipped her as “Ayako-san.” O-Hikari too secretly revered Ayako. But school held no joy for O-Hikari. When spring came, she would lie about forgetting something on her way to school and make it her custom to pass blissful half-days in quiet fields—listening to skylarks sing amid rapeseed blossoms bathed in glorious sunlight.

The three children born from the womb of O-Nobu’s painful love were nurtured through peaceful days under the Ushino family’s influence and O-Sato’s care. What might be called worries or sorrows were but small waves rippling across a tranquil sea. Amid such happiness, O-Hikari and the others had reached their youth. O-Hikari retained no strong memories of her girlhood before this youth arrived. “You and Ayako looked so much alike,” “When I saw your sleeping faces, I couldn’t tell you apart.” “But if I woke one of you, I’d know.” “If it was you, you’d blink drowsily at first, then smile softly when you saw me. But Ayako—she’d flare her eyes like she was furious, then twist her face all stiff,” O-Sato told O-Hikari as she shared their childhood memories.

There was one single fact from her girlhood that O-Hikari could not forget. It was that one of the village’s poor tenant farmers—a short, gloomy man who had remained unmarried his entire life due to poverty—had forced himself on a village girl one summer night. The girl gave birth to a premature male child. The man had no choice but to raise the child. As he grew older, the boy became abnormal compared to ordinary boys, and above all else, he came to detest labor. Even when driven out to the fields, he would lie sprawled in the grassland, gazing at the blue sky as if being absorbed into it, and not pluck a single blade of grass. When he was sixteen, his father, the tenant farmer, died emaciated and blackened “like dried sardines.” After his father died, he shut himself in a small house and refused to work. The villagers would go and offer various opinions, but he would rebuff them with a terrifying face, shouting “Idiot!” and not let them near. According to the villagers’ accounts, conversations like the following were exchanged many times over.

“Why are you being so lazy?” “When your father dies, you’ll have to take over his role and build up this household, eh?” “Your old man was a good worker.” “Aren’t you that man’s child?” “You’ve got to work, grow up, take a wife, and build up your household, haven’t you?”

“Who wants to work?!” “Even if you don’t want to work, poor folks like us have no choice but to work to eat.” “If you’ve resigned yourself to that, what else can you do but work?”

“I refuse!” “Working myself to death like my old man—blackened and shriveled up like dried sardines—is what I refuse!”

“How can you live without working?” “You’re lying!” “Wh-why would we lie?” “Then how does the esteemed Ushino family manage to live in such luxury without working?!” The villagers, upon hearing this, felt a danger as though they had violated some terrifying taboo and tried to grasp the meaning of the words expressed by this single boy, but could not understand. Therefore, they informed Yotaro of this matter and requested his “opinion.”

“I’ll go settle this tonight,” Yotaro said. O-Hikari sat nearby and listened. That evening, she left home with her father. Before a small hut-like house at the village outskirts, her father called out: “Taichi—you there?” “Who’s that?!” “’Tis I.” “Why’s your lamp unlit?” “Ain’t got no oil!” With those words, he slid open the door—a gaunt, grimy boy emerged, eyes blazing with peculiar authority—and O-Hikari would remember him forever as one of life’s indelible figures.

“Master Ushino, is it?” “What business brings you here?” “I’m living off the meager scraps of rice my old man left behind.” “Whether I work or not—it’s none of your concern.” “Go home! Just go home!” “What are you saying?!” “You thief! “You great thief who shriveled up and killed my old man like a dried sardine!” “You trying to parch me into a sardine too?!” “Damn it! You think I’ll swallow that bait?!” “You great thief!” Having said this, he heaved a convulsive sob as though pushed beyond endurance. Yotaro stood dazed for a moment before dimly grasping his meaning. He could no longer abide it. Generations of ancestral blood surged backward through his veins. He struck the weeping boy’s cheek with full force. Then the boy ceased crying at once.

“Ugh... Y-you did it... “This is vengeance! “Brace yourself!” “You impudent wretch!” “Ugh...”

In the dimly lit doorway, a struggle began. After all, Yotaro was strong. He twisted the boy down and bound his hands behind his back with a belt. Then he told O-Hikari to go call the villagers. O-Hikari stiffened at his command. In that moment, she realized she had unconsciously been sympathizing with the boy—had even willed him to win. Guilt toward her father washed over her. Yet it remained true that she had prayed for the boy. She went to summon the villagers. When they arrived, Yotaro declared, “This one seems to have gone mad.” “Open the ash hut behind the house and confine him there.”

It was a night when moonlight poured whitely over the entire village. The villagers confined the boy in one of the ash huts. “Thief! Bloodsucking thief of this village! Ugh... ugh... You idiots! Absolute village idiots! Ugh... ugh... Binding me up like this... ugh... Fools! Thief! Ugh... Just you wait! Just you wait!” The desperate groans howled endlessly through the spring night like a rabid dog baying at the moon. Inside the ash hut—covered in soot until he resembled a charred dried sardine—this pitiful rebel screamed for three days and nights before finally dying.

The villagers would go out to the fields in the dim light before dawn to till the black, damp soil; they would break up the hardened earth, pass through the bustling busyness of rice planting, then immediately face water management, weeding, and pest expulsion—and so it went until the intense autumn harvest—sparing no effort in their labor from sunrise to sunset throughout the year. It was almost a wonder they didn’t die. They appeared robust, but this was merely an illusion created by the direct sunlight and harsh winds; in truth, they were left to manage emaciated bodies with weak resistance, prone to illness. A fatalism that viewed suffering as inescapable, mud-stained debauchery in the dark of night, and poverty. However, those were matters concerning the people of Ohkawa Village. The Ushino family was supposed to have only happiness and peace.

O-Hikari had lived until her twentieth summer without truly knowing misfortune—the real misfortunes of life. However, the time had finally come for her to know the taste of tears. It was an unforgettable event that occurred in the summer when O-Hikari was twenty years old—July of Meiji 25 (1892) by the Japanese era name. That day was one that seemed to scorch and blister from morning onward. It seemed impossible that a day could burn so fervently and brilliantly upon this earth. To O-Hikari, it seemed strange that the objects on the ground did not burst into flames. On this day, Ookawa Shuntaro—the only son of a prominent merchant in Kanazawa’s city district, with whom O-Hikari’s brother Yoichiro had grown close two or three years earlier after Yoichiro began commuting there to study English—was supposed to stop by Ohkawa Village’s beach while navigating his newly built Japanese-style ship back from Hokkaido. Whether it was because Shuntaro and Yoichiro got along well, he would sometimes come to stay over, and Yoichiro would sometimes go to stay at Shuntaro’s house. That he and Ayako were in love was something both her brother and O-Hikari recognized, and it was also a fact that they permitted with goodwill. That Shuntaro, though a twenty-four-year-old youth, would go to the trouble of navigating a ship all the way to Ohkawa Village’s beach was a joyous thing for Yoichiro and his sister. Yoichiro and O-Hikari walked along the scorched village road toward the beach. Ayako had been invited but did not come. And it was precisely in her absence that her love with Shuntaro existed. Yoichiro and O-Hikari were concerned about Ayako’s feelings in this way.

That day, the shining sky above the two of them as they walked quivered piercingly, and the intense smell of young rice steamed by the sun’s heat from the expanse of green fields pressed upon O-Hikari and her brother’s senses. In the middle of the wilderness, the rusted chimney of Mujodo, standing slender, glowed red. O-Hikari and her brother walked in silence, but she knew Yoichiro was closing his eyes as if refusing to see such overwhelming natural splendor. When they crossed the pine forest at the wilderness’ edge, the path rose into dunes of scorching sand. Pale red morning glories bloomed dreamlike across the sand’s surface. And then from the azure sea brimming before those dunes—where solar heat and earth’s warmth mirrored each other—a gentle breeze came wafting over.

“How refreshing!” her brother exclaimed, turning to look at O-Hikari. Standing before the great sea that quietly and unwaveringly brimmed with boundless fullness, O-Hikari, as was ever her way, found herself echoing her brother’s exclamation.

Standing on a deserted beach dune where not a soul could be seen, the two of them gazed for a while at the sea's profound aura—its shifting interplay of light and darkness, the blazing endlessness of sky stretching across the horizon—when Ushino Yoichiro, his disproportionately large head dripping sweat and his frame—slightly shorter than O-Hikari's—heaving with labored breaths, suddenly called out, "O-Hikari." O-Hikari was accustomed to such occurrences, and as she deeply revered her brother as a scholar at that time, she turned her ear attentively.

“The Earth is revolving right now, O-Hikari.” The brother’s face as he said this was one of intense anguish.

“I was just starting to feel good—to grow entranced—but I nearly did something terrible.” “How could this nature—all the nature stretching as far as the eye can see—be a world so filled with grace that it entrances me?” “Copernicus—a Western scholar—taught us that the Earth rotates… but until we know this to be truth, we are merely humans who cannot truly know anything… Nature is never some entrancing, benevolent thing.” “The reason I nearly became entranced just now is that carelessness had arisen in my heart.” “If nature is truly gracious, then first and foremost, how am I to make sense of the abominable ugliness and frailty of this body of mine?” “No matter how I look at it, I cannot help but conclude that nature is cruel.” “Isn’t that right, O-Hikari?” “Of course, you—being beautiful—might disagree with me, but—”

O-Hikari could not bring herself to look directly at her brother, who stood forlornly in the blistering midday sun—his head disproportionately large, his torso short and slender, his legs stubby. Though it was her brother’s lament she had heard countless times, she found herself utterly at a loss for how to comfort him. “For what purpose was I ever born? This bloodless withered skin, these pale slender limbs, this torso where every rib shows through, this frame under five feet—and then, ahahaha, this pumpkin-like head—did they really need to make every single part so uniformly hideous? No matter how I think about it, I’ve been cursed since before I was even born! When Toyotomi Hideyoshi was born, they say his mother dreamed of the sun; when Jesus of the West was born, they say the stars in the sky all shone at once to celebrate—but when I was born, it was probably just toads or earthworms croaking!”

O-Hikari quietly listened to her brother’s stream of words. Listening intently was the only thing she could do. The two of them were sitting in the shade of a dinghy at the water's edge. “Isn’t it the greatest irony that I was born the legitimate heir of the Ushino family? This body that can’t even lift a single heavy stone, this stomach that vomits up even the slightest excess of good fish—isn’t it absurd that these belong to the eldest son of the Ushino family? Indeed, I do love scholarship. The joy of understanding heaven and earth’s workings is one of my few prides. But precisely because I am the eldest son of the Ushino family, I cannot leave home and study to my heart’s content. Moreover, even if I could study—with this cursed body of mine—isn’t it that all I can do is know without being able to act? Ahahaha. In short, I am cursed. I am no good even as a guardian of the Ushino family’s wealth and status, and even if I pursue scholarship, I cannot become a proper scholar—Ahahahaha. The old man really went and brought one hell of a nuisance into this world. The one who sired me might be fine, but isn’t I, who was born into this world, the real calamity?” Brother had closed his eyes for a while, but the usual anguish he had begun to express could not be stopped until he had given full voice to it.

“The old man Yotaro makes sure not to utter a single word to me.” Given how repulsive my own state was—enough to make me loathe myself—I supposed one couldn’t blame him if he felt the same. But that cold gaze of his—the one screaming “Just die already”—how could I reconcile that? Why did you bring into this world such an eyesore as me? Did I ever beg the old man to sire me? Didn’t he create me on a mere whim? What sin had I committed by being born? And now the punishment for all sins piles upon me as curses—isn’t this agony? Hey, O-Hikari—what do you think? It’s true O-Sato isn’t our birth mother—but what exactly is she to us? To the old man she’s a cousin; to me she’s a cousin too; my birth mother was his aunt—making her both my mother and great-aunt—what madness is this?! “Is it my mistake to feel these congealed sins’ punishment burdening my wretched life?”

O-Hikari saw anguished tears welling up in her brother’s pale, swollen face. She desperately wanted to comfort him. Yet she found no words that might bring solace. Had it been Ayako, she might have snapped, “Brother, stop this sniveling—I can’t stand it!” to jolt him from despair—but O-Hikari couldn’t muster such brusque tenderness. All she could do was ache silently for him. When even this silent sympathy grew unbearable, she turned her eyes toward the sea. Sunlight blazed across the placid expanse where white-capped waves tangled endlessly. Then—a Japanese-style ship with sails like bleached bones appeared, racing wind-swollen toward shore. Ah, that moment’s fierce joy would etch itself among O-Hikari’s eternal memories.

“Brother, Mr. Shuntaro’s ship is visible!” “Ah.” “Seems so.” Even Brother finally stood up with apparent joy. O-Hikari, who knew that Shuntaro was her brother’s only close friend—a man who shared profound inner exchanges with him and always encouraged him brightly—was in such moments even happier than her brother. Ah, that dear soul cutting through the boundless ocean like a swan! From between the crimson flags fluttering at the bow, the vigorous movements of the boatman’s naked body became visible, and soon the bow turned to face directly toward the coast. O-Hikari and the others could clearly see Ookawa Shuntaro standing with his arms folded. Brother, unable to contain himself, called out, “Ahoy!”

“Ahoy!” Shuntaro’s resilient voice, carried by the sea breeze, echoed toward them. Before long, the ship’s movement ceased, and a new anchor flashed a bluish light as it was cast into the sea. The sea kept the new ship afloat as lightly as a swan while making the waves undulate gently. A single dinghy that had been lowered onto the sea approached, carrying Shuntaro.

“Hey, thanks!”

The instant Shuntaro and Yoichiro clasped hands with an “Ahoy!”, tears welled up in Yoichiro’s eyes. “I-I didn’t mean to trouble you. Thank you for coming too, O-Hikari-san!” O-Hikari realized that both the simple words—and his clear, dark eyes gazing down at them with genuine nostalgia—revealed a bright affection for the siblings.

“It was so lively there! After seeing how prosperous Matsumae is, this area feels like a dead place in comparison, doesn’t it?” The sun blazed down on Shuntaro’s tightly toned muscles—so defined they made him look slender—making his eyelashes flutter. Yoichiro gazed upward and said, “It’s a good ship—better than I expected.”

“Why’s she so sturdy? When we hit that sudden storm near Sado, she didn’t budge an inch—damn, this heat! Let’s get to the ship. The deck’s cool under the sail’s shadow.”

Yoichiro remained silent. Shuntaro asked O-Hikari as if seeking confirmation, “Has the gloom taken hold of him again?” “Or has he settled into his scholar role properly?” Though he spoke lightly, his eyes betrayed genuine concern and friendship. O-Hikari felt gladdened by this. Soon the three were ferried by dinghy to board the new ship. The scent of fresh timber hung crisp in the air. Shuntaro stamped his foot on the deck and declared, “If troubles arise, come here.” “I’ll take you to Shina or the South Seas—you could read your books here undisturbed.” “The sea air clears one’s spirits completely.” Then he barked toward unseen crewmen: “Oi! Lay a mat here and fetch canned chestnuts with sake!” They settled in the open space around the mainmast. O-Hikari gazed at the boundless ocean—terrifying yet exhilarating in equal measure. Her brother suddenly laughed and said, “Truth be told—I’ve been contemplating how the Earth spins even now.” The boatman brought sake. As she poured for both men, O-Hikari basked in simple contentment. Neither could hold their liquor well.

“It’s no wonder you’re weighed down by gloom.” “But even within gloom, there are gradations of gloom.” “When you think about it, isn’t the world vast?” “If everyone were to recognize your true worth, that itself would be a nuisance.” “Your body is weak.” “Your face is truly ugly.” “But the greatness of your inner soul should be illuminating those very things from within, right?” “(Your body is weak, your face is ugly)”—Shuntaro was the only person who could state this clearly to Brother’s face. In such moments, O-Hikari felt a brotherly love for Shuntaro. And in fact, he was also supposed to become her brother in the future as Ayako’s husband.

“It’s lonely and heartrending. However, that is already an unchangeable natural fate. It’s fine to resent, but it’s foolish to become trapped in resentment and lose sight of the path to freedom—why wouldn’t your father love you? It’s just that finding the father within yourself is painful, so he undoubtedly acts harshly and heartlessly toward you out of fear of himself. But when it comes to my old man, just thinking about him makes tears spill out. He drinks sake, he gambles—ah, ever since I was seven or eight, I’d get up while it was still dark in the morning to cook rice and make miso soup, then go wake Father by saying ‘Your meal is ready,’ and he’d stay in bed until then. Of course, it’s not that the suffering I’ve tasted and the pain you must taste are fundamentally different. Yours—how should I put it? It’s karma from a past life!” O-Hikari’s nerves prickled at this, but Brother, surprisingly calm, ate the canned chestnuts, saying, “Delicious.”

“It’s good, right? I brought these thinking we’d share a drink together here in the offing. When we reached these waters, this big man’s heart was pounding with excitement! By the way—what have you been reading lately? Last time we met, I tried dazzling you with Darwin’s theory of evolution.” “I haven’t read anything these days. My head feels heavy, and this heat wears on my body.” The two men’s cheeks glowed from their slight sake intoxication. O-Hikari too, with a small cup poured for her, felt her blood grow warm throughout. The boatman’s Izumo-bushi song came in fragments,

"If the west darkens, oh it means rain; if the east reddens, oh it means wind—even a ship bearing a thousand koku cannot sail without wind..." The boatman's song drifted on the sea's gentle breeze.

After a while, Shuntaro asked, “Is Ayako-san well?”

“She’s always full of energy and has taken over the entire household.” “And then—” “And then?” “Ahahaha, it’s strange because she only becomes quiet when talking about you.”

“I see,” Shuntaro said, smiling at O-Hikari. She thought she was happy.

“You’re looking quite well yourself, O-Hikari-san. That’s splendid.” O-Hikari had no way to respond except to smile.

“You’re truly fortunate to have such a good sister,” he said. “Well… But I don’t think I need a sister.” “Especially how Ayako completely mocks me!” “If Ayako-san’s such a nuisance, maybe I’ll take her off your hands.” The three of them had come to strain against one another with the full force of their hearts. “That’s enough! “Ayako also becomes special when it comes to you!” “—It would be good if you were to approach my father directly with your proposal.”

“Do you really think so?”

And all three of them were relieved.

After some time had passed, the denma returned O-Hikari and the others to shore. The sight of a new ship hoisting its sails and departing across the sea beneath a burning sunset was beautiful. O-Hikari and her brother walked quietly back along the country path with the lonely summer sunset at their backs.

Along the path, Brother said. “What do you think? Isn’t he a man who wouldn’t bring shame as Ayako’s husband?” “Yes, absolutely!” “You’ll have to endure it a while longer.”

Near the village, insects chirped incessantly. The day's residual heat still lingered, but the wind sweeping across the open fields carried a chill. That O-Hikari, Yoichiro, Shuntarō, and indeed Ayako herself—on this day when they had all been utterly convinced Ayako should become Shuntarō's wife—could not have dreamed that within mere days an unforeseen turn would compel O-Hikari to wed Shuntarō instead remained a truth beyond their comprehension.

At that time in Kanazawa city, there existed an academic youth organization called "Free Society." Originally founded as a political group when Mr. Y—having failed to achieve his ambitions in central politics—retreated to his hometown to quietly build influence while instilling Popular Rights Movement ideals in youth; but when the Constitution was promulgated in Meiji 23 (1890), the National Diet was convened, and Mr. Y became one of its first elected members, he abandoned Free Society. Though Free Society remained after Mr. Y's departure, it had transformed into a purely academic youth organization. Every summer thereafter, it became customary for the society to hold general meetings inviting prominent intellectuals from central academic circles to lecture. Ushino Yoichiro stood as one of the most influential figures among Free Society's young members during this period. For this year's lecture meeting, they had arranged to invite both Dr. O—a renowned university professor and legal scholar—and Amano Ichiro, a young ideologue who published the monthly magazine *Flood* advocating liberation of freedom, power, and passion among select youths while seeking to dismantle established authorities.

It was one morning two days after O-Hikari and Yoichiro had met Shuntaro at the beach of Ōkawa Village (Shuntaro was supposed to go as far as Yonago Port in San’in).

As O-Hikari stood at the gate bathing in the sunlight that streamed through the forest at the village entrance, the postman arrived with a telegram. It was a telegram addressed to her brother.

Her brother’s custom-made study was a new two-story building constructed behind the storehouse. As O-Hikari climbed the creaking stairs with a strange palpitation in her chest, the sunlight streaming through the window became beautifully entangled in the pale yellow threads of the mosquito net. It was quiet. She hoped her brother would be awake. Her brother had his eyes open in bed. “Ayako?” “No, it’s me.”

“O-Hikari?” “Yes.” “I thought it was Ayako. It’s strange because that one becomes oddly feminine when talking about Ookawa.” “A telegram has arrived.”

He received the telegram from O-Hikari. And then O-Hikari sprang up with such vigor that even she herself was surprised. “I’m going to Kanazawa now and will be back. The Free Society’s lecture meeting is today!” Then came the sound of heavy footsteps, and Ayako entered—her thick, glossy black hair tied in a ginkgo-leaf bun, wearing a sarasa-patterned apron with one pale red sash left untied. She was a splendid beauty. She stood slightly taller than O-Hikari, her slender frame stretching upwards, while an overflowing radiance vibrantly animated her entire being.

“We need to put away the meal quickly—it’s getting in the way,” she said. “He says he’s going to Kanazawa now.” O-Hikari spoke because her brother remained silent. “What for?” “To the Free Society’s lecture meeting.” With those words, O-Hikari showed the telegram. Then the three of them descended the stairs, passed through the long veranda corridor, and when they entered the tearoom, they found Yotaro, whose hair had turned white, sitting alone with his eyes closed. The solemn peace of that moment when the father and his three children sat facing each other was something O-Hikari would never forget for the rest of her life. Ayako and O-Hikari saw Yoichiro off as he departed along the scorching country path toward Kanazawa.

The following night was thick with stagnant muggy air. The afterglow spreading across the horizon was swallowed by the dark sky and black-indigo sea as darkness crept across the entire plain. The cloudy dull sky showed only moonlight filtering through layered clouds; the moon itself remained unseen. It was a night filled with an abnormal muggy heat that stirred the blood. O-Hikari stood at the gate gazing outside. She worried about why Ayako had disappeared since evening. Late yesterday evening her brother Yoichiro had returned from Kanazawa like a victorious general. He had indeed brought along Amano Ichiro - one of that day's lecturers - a young thinker. O-Hikari had expected someone at least thirty-four or thirty-five years old yet here stood Amano Ichiro still a youth not yet thirty. And what striking masculine features he possessed - what dignity of demeanor! His imposing composure in stillness; his quiet yet forceful manner of speech; that free leisurely bearing displayed when Yoichiro introduced him to her father Yotaro in the spacious tearoom - bearing that seemed to swallow even her father; that relaxed attitude treating the Ushino family as utterly worthless - these evoked worshipful admiration in her brother instilled terror in O-Hikari and provoked in Ayako resentful hostility: "How dare he!" Recalling how Ayako had glared at him tensed with ferocious hatred envisioning yesterday's events through today O-Hikari couldn't help worrying - for when Ayako vanished around evening he Amano Ichiro too had disappeared.

“How detestable!” Ayako said to O-Hikari that afternoon. “What about that condescending attitude of his?” “Why must brother and father hold him in such high regard?” “Why not just drive him out?!”

From those words, O-Hikari heard Ayako’s irritation and the sorrow of one who had been wounded. At the same time, she had noticed that Amano’s attention was particularly directed toward Ayako. O-Hikari stood at the gate for nearly an hour, waiting without knowing what she waited for. The sun had already set, and it was pitch dark. And in the pitch-dark night, the stars glimmered upon the village trees. Suddenly noticing, she saw the slender, tall figure of a man approaching with long, unhurried strides from the direction of the shrine grove. It was Amano.

“Is that you, O-Hikari-san?” He whispered near her ear as he leisurely passed through the gate. When entering, his deep gaze—staring down as though to devour her—contained a terror beyond human measure. O-Hikari felt relief. Then from that same forest direction appeared a shadow trudging forward. She thought it must be Ayako. It was Ayako.

“Ayako-san.” The complex terror in Ayako’s eyes when their gazes met as she called out. A blade-like intensity that steadily restrained burning flames with solemn coldness pressed in upon her.

“O-Hikari-san.” “——?”

“Do come with me for a moment.” Ayako concealed herself on a secluded path along the side of the estate where people did not pass. O-Hikari suppressed her pounding heart and followed Ayako. “O-Hikari-san, this is my once-in-a-lifetime request to you,” Ayako’s voice trembled slightly, yet beneath it lay a cold solemnity. “I have become someone who must exact revenge.” “I must spend my entire life exacting revenge upon the one who trampled all that I am—the pride, beauty, and purity of my twenty years of existence—” O-Hikari flinched. Ayako continued.

“O-Hikari-san, tomorrow I will elope with that detestable Amano Ichiro and leave this house forever.” “Everyone will say I ran off because I fell for him.” “But O-Hikari-san—you alone must know this: I ran away with the archenemy so that I might never let them escape, so that I might spend my entire life exacting revenge for today’s humiliation.” “And please go to Mr. Ookawa in my place.” “Do you understand?” “Yes, O-Hikari-san—this is my lifelong wish.” Ayako groaned as if looking up at the sky.

“How dare he!” “He’s managed to sway Brother and Father, but that’s not enough—now he tries to conquer me too? ……Even if he conquers this body of mine, what can he possibly do to the real me?!” “The real me will always belong to Mr. Shuntarō!” “He’s detestable! Absolutely detestable!” “Amano Ichiro, you beast!” “Mark this day well!” “I will have my revenge!” “I will spend my entire life exacting revenge!” “O-Hikari-san, I will marry Amano.” “And then I’ll thoroughly intoxicate him with my beautiful body.” “But within ten or twenty years, I will exact today’s revenge and destroy that powerful Amano—you’ll see!” “O-Hikari-san, you must go to Mr. Shuntaro.” “And this must remain your secret alone for the rest of your life, you know.”

The next day, Amano departed. And that night, Ayako ran away from home. From the train, she sent a letter addressed to her brother and father stating, "To become husband and wife with Amano." She wrote that she had run away and sent it. Everyone ended up believing it. Her father and brother also raged, branding Ayako a faithless woman. Particularly, her father furrowed his brows as if the retribution for his own sins had come. "Do whatever you want!" "Do whatever you want!" he said. When Ookawa Shuntaro came to propose marriage without knowing about Ayako’s circumstances, O-Hikari asked that if he found her acceptable, he take her instead. The matter was not easily settled, but O-Hikari’s sincerity had the power to soften everyone’s varied emotions. When O-Hikari married into the Ookawa household as Shuntaro’s wife, her state of mind was one of tragic resolve.

Yotaro died the year after O-Hikari married into the household. And that same autumn, O-Sato also died. Only Yoichiro remained in the Ushino family, but even he did not live out a natural lifespan in happiness. The time had come for the Ushino family to meet its demise. Yet there was no reason to mourn their destruction. And so O-Hikari later reflected. The Ushino family had originally been one for which having nothing was natural. The existence of grand mansions and treasures had been a mistake. Moreover, that this destruction was carried out through the death and will of Yoichiro himself—the Ushino family’s heir—might rather be something to celebrate for their sake. In May of the third spring after O-Hikari married into the Ookawa household, Yoichiro—who had been suffering from stomach cancer—hanged himself on the second floor of the storehouse (this storehouse being the ruined site of Yotaro and O-Nobu’s love). Moreover, the will stated that the entire fortune was to be returned to Ōkawa Village as a whole.

“Return the entire fortune to Ōkawa Village!” Ah, this single act became Yoichiro’s final offering to life—he who had endlessly agonized over his own weaknesses. People claimed he must have gone mad, yet no traces of madness could be found anywhere. The Ushino family perished. Yet Yoichiro’s spirit would live on eternally. Shuntarō told O-Hikari, “Magnificent, magnificent! You’ve finally accomplished it! Your brother was magnificent!” But it was only after Shuntarō’s death, when she had aged, that O-Hikari came to understand those words had actually originated from one of Shuntarō’s acquaintances.

The year after the Ushino family perished, O-Hikari gave birth to Heiichiro. And then, when Heiichiro was three springs old, Shuntarō died. After Shuntarō’s death, O-Hikari discarded the latter half of her life and lived solely for Heiichiro. Ah, the long hardships of those years.

The great turning point in O-Hikari’s life had been caused by that Amano’s “taking” of Ayako. Had Amano not defiled Ayako, she would have wed her true love Ookawa Shuntaro. That would have brought happiness to both Shuntaro and Ayako. O-Hikari might then have been spared such an arduous fate, and perhaps even the Ushino family need not have perished so wretchedly. All distortions of destiny lay solely with Amano Ichiro of old—now Amano Eisuke! Ah, and that unforgivable archdemon Amano had stolen Fuyuko away too.

O-Hikari clasped her hands in prayer and, with a reverent heart as if in supplication, could not help but watch over the growth of her only child, Heiichiro. (There is none but Heiichiro who can defeat Amano!)

Chapter Six

It was a night of solemn darkness. The mid-autumn midnight cold pierced bitterly through the skin. Dark earthly shapes dissolved into shadow as night dew fell damply. Nearly six hundred boys stood concealed in formation. This was a broad athletic field upon an elevated plateau. Dew-soaked grass lay beneath their shoes. A water-clear darkness enveloped everything. An unearthly stillness permeated six hundred young hearts. Only intermittent sounds remained: shoe leather scraping stone, teachers treading cautiously, whispers dissolving into endless cricket song.

The taut silence was shattered by the resounding boom of a cannon shot echoing across the night sky. In the darkness came a stirring of movement, and at the front of the athletic field two bonfires suddenly erupted into flickering flames. Between the flames of these pyres scattering sparks as they burned, a modest altar stood revealed between light and shadow.

“Attention!” The boy, overawed by the solemn air, straightened his posture from the core and closed his lips into a motionless stance. The flames, blown by the night wind, swayed and rippled. A black shadow quietly offered sakaki to the altar. The teachers offered them one by one. The student representative also offered sakaki. Through the silent night sky, the distant boom of cannons echoed—boom, boom. “Bow low!” In the darkness, six hundred boys performed a long reverent bow. When they raised their heads, the bonfire flames had already gone out, leaving only embers scattered in the darkness. It was desolate and solemn. The group began departing one by one through the dew-dampened grassland from the back gate toward town. Heiichiro was among them. He looked up at the sky many times, but none of his favorite stars were visible. Pushed forward by the crowd into the streets, he saw black mourning curtains hung around houses on both sides, lanterns with black crests dangling from every eave. To reverently bid farewell from afar to the imperial remains of the funeral ceremony conducted at midnight’s stroke, citizens were gathering in the park plaza. Heiichiro grew lonely. He walked among the crowd flooding the streets—no one speaking loudly—thinking of Fuyuko who had left, his own impoverished fate, Wakako, and ultimately how they all must die. The cannons boomed—boom, boom. When he neared the great S River bridge close to home, he spotted a girls’ school student standing at the bridge approach.

Her hairstyle and posture—slightly bent at the waist as she stood—were unmistakably Wakako’s. He felt such overwhelming joy he could scarcely bear it. To meet his beloved Wakako on this night steeped in death’s solemnity, grandeur, and dread—what sublime meaning to life! What rapture!

“Wakako-san!”

“Oh! Heiichiro-san! I knew you’d come—I’ve been waiting.” “Thank you—let’s go along the riverside toward S Bridge.” “Yes.”

The two of them started to descend from the bridge approach along the riverbank lined with weeping willows, following the flow of the stream. No one was passing by. The water current, illuminating black-indigo undulations, flowed onward alongside fifteen-year-old Heiichiro and sixteen-year-old Wakako as they walked. Heiichiro had thrust one hand into his pants pocket and was holding Wakako’s hand with his right hand. A faint warmth—it was precisely that warmth which faintly invigorated them against the autumn midnight's desolation and chill. “We saw the bonfires burning at the athletic field, made our deep bows, and that was all.”

“We did the same—but somehow it’s started feeling so eerie.” “I feel the same way. Just thinking about funerals makes me sick.” “It’s not that you have no choice but to die even if you hate it—” “Well, that can’t be helped. Even if it can’t be helped, Wakako-san, you must hate dying too.” “I hate it! The idea of dying!”

The two clasped each other's hands tightly and gazed at the water current flowing beneath their feet. Heiichiro was recalling his deceased father. Wakako was thinking about her deceased mother, who had been killed by a tiger. The flowing water steadily formed the same rapids as it continued onward. “What are you thinking about?” “Me? I was thinking about my late mother.” “I was just starting to think about my late father too.”

The two of them fell silent once more. This time, Wakako began to speak. “Heiichiro-san,”

“What?” “Do you know what being a married couple is like, Heiichiro-san?” “I know.”

“What’s it like?”

Heiichiro said loudly.

“We’ll definitely become a married couple someday! Right? Wakako-san!” “—” “I’ll become great, you know. I’m poor. But I’ll study hard and become a first-rate politician—I’ll make life in this world better for everyone to see. I’ll make sure there’s no shame when you and I become husband and wife—” “Really?” “Would I lie? Haven’t I always written that in my letters?”

Wakako let out a deep sigh. The girl’s eyes began to shine with passionate intensity. And then, she took Heiichiro’s right hand with both hands, pressed it firmly against her chest, and would not let go.

“Shall we go to Fukiage Hill? Wakako-san.”

“Yes. “Yes, indeed.” The two were happy. They didn’t feel like parting ways like this. Since they had slept during the day, they weren’t sleepy. Crossing the bridge, hurrying through the desolate dark streets, passing through a section of the brothel district draped in black curtains around 2 AM, they emerged into a vast night field. Bounded by the horizon line, the fields were filled entirely with pitch-black darkness, while the sky hung clouded in a faint pale blue. The chorus of insects welled up from the ground. They walked along the road still holding hands. The vastness of the nocturnal natural world was not without its terrors. The grassland of Fukiage Hill lay damp with night dew, leaving no place to sit. They stood motionless, enduring the encroaching night air.

“It was here that we first met, wasn’t it, Wakako-san?” “Yes—I still have that letter of yours memorized, Heiichiro-san.”

“I remember it too!”

Saying that, he sat down there. Wakako crouched down there. She was trembling from the cold. Wakako began to feel slightly worried as she remembered her own home. “I wonder what time it is now.” “It doesn’t matter what time it is. “I’m fine staying here all night if I have to.” “I’m not going to stay a middle school deadbeat forever, I tell you.” Then Wakako began to giggle uncontrollably. It was terribly cold, but Heiichiro endured it.

“What’s so funny?” “The way you say ‘deadbeat’ is funny, don’t you think?” “Yeah, I’m just a deadbeat, you know?” Heiichiro also roared with laughter.

“Tokyo must be quite magnificent, don’t you think?” Wakako asked in an inquisitive tone. “I suppose so,” he replied. “After all, it’s the genuine article...” He had begun speaking when thoughts of Fuyuko welled up within him. “...Someone I know went to Tokyo recently—they must’ve seen the coffin today for certain.” “Who is this person you know?” “A woman called Fuyuko—a friend of my mother’s.” “I see.” Wakako fell silent. After a moment, she said, “Let’s go home now.”

“Why?”

“I’ve suddenly grown bored,” she added. “We can’t stay out—it’s gotten late.” “Then let’s go back.” The two trudged back along the dim country path toward town. When they emerged into brighter surroundings, they forgot everything and laughed together. As they reached the street corner, the shrill bell of an extra edition approached from town. Heiichiro lunged forward and snatched a copy. “Wakako-san!” “What is it?”

“General Nogi committed junshi!” “Ohh!” The two clearly made out the fact in the stark type of the extra edition. “Heiichiro-san!” For those unacquainted with kisses, their overflowing passion could only be expressed through firmly clasping both hands. Their love was sanctified and blessed by a solemn death. General Nogi’s death possessed the power to restrain the weaknesses of an era—those that tended to arise during transitional periods from one age to another—and the moral decay of people’s hearts.

For the boy and the girl, it became the unforgettable backdrop of their first love throughout their lives.

After Fuyuko left, no outward changes occurred in the lives of O-Hikari and Heiichiro. O-Hikari remained the diligent seamstress of Harukarou Brothel, a devoted mother, and an auntie who constantly exuded a gentle peacefulness around her. The sorrow Heiichiro felt at parting with Fuyuko was still too young in his years to immediately manifest in his character. The wound appeared to have vanished without a trace under the force of growth. Or perhaps it lurked deep within his character, waiting for its moment to emerge. However, he had his school, Wakako, and Fukai. The proud joy when Heiichiro noticed the smile Wakako sent him from among nearly a hundred girls at the autumn elementary school gathering. The strange mix of amusement, joy, and triumph he felt upon hearing his oblivious classmates point at Wakako and whisper things like "How beautiful!" And there, Fukai’s gentle, long-lashed eyes—always glistening as if damp with tears—shone perpetually. A heart that loves girls, a heart that loves boys, a heart that rouses itself through being loved and trusted, a heart that cannot rest without shouldering all responsibility—that was his arrogance.

He often went to Mount N at the eastern edge of town with Wakako and Fukai, the three of them together. While breathing in the pine forest's deep verdure, silence, and crystalline chill, the three of them sat upon a grassy hillock, steeped in eternal, untainted joy. “We won’t remain children forever—we’ll surely become someone great before long. I may be poor, but I’ll become a true politician…”

"(Though poor, I will become a true politician)" was Heiichiro's catchphrase. The path connecting poverty and statesmanship was something even he himself likely didn’t comprehend. Moreover, his notion of a "politician" held an entirely different meaning from that of real-world politicians. For him, being tormented by poverty followed an internal logic that would inevitably drive him—as an actual politician—to eradicate the suffering and evils of want for multitudes. To Wakako and Fukai, perpetual audience to Heiichiro’s heated ideals and fancies, nothing seemed more readily achievable than his ascension to first-rate statesmanship.

“When it comes to politics, I’m just a boy who knows nothing. But those are things I’ll understand once I grow up and study. Anyway, I am poor. As long as I am poor, I have a mission to become a politician!” shouted Heiichiro, and while one felt affection for him, the other felt an inexplicable trust and worship. Even in poverty, the boy Heiichiro was happy—living with his devoted mother at home and loving a beautiful, exceptional girl and boy as those he cherished. He spent his fifteenth year in happiness, and in March of his sixteenth, he advanced to the fourth year. He was not the top of his class, but his grades were not bad.

It was the spring of his sixteenth year—a remarkable period when all powers bestowed upon humanity grow and surge forth simultaneously. Heiichiro startled at his own towering height, his tautened build, the terrifying boom of his voice that he’d suddenly notice erupting mid-speech, and the surging passions within him. Even he recognized this as the most promising yet perilous season of his life, though he still lacked the wisdom to restrain himself. His name became a fixture at lecture meetings; his uniformed figure materialized without fail at every baseball game’s periphery. Restlessness consumed him—he yearned to hurl himself into every danger, perform daring feats, prove his mastery over all. While this transformation left Fukai somewhat intimidated, Wakako began discerning not just the endearing boy from six months prior but an oppressive “man” emerging beneath. At seventeen, beneath her short hakama, unadorned chignon, and plain meisen silk sleeveless kimono, she now harbored a fully ripened “maiden.” (Unaware that his own growth caused it, Heiichiro had taken to avoiding her gaze during their morning walks to school—a habit she periodically chastised in letters.) This maturation bred resentment among upperclassmen muttering “Ookawa’s getting impudent,” while teachers’ initial view of him as “promising” curdled into hostile whispers of “that hopeless brat.” For those who’d drawn boundaries around “promise,” his boundary-breaching made their disfavor inevitable. In this world, the exceptional must suffer. Those sheltered by wealth to preserve rare talents remain fortunate indeed—but those forced to bare brilliance amidst poverty? They are this earth’s most wretched souls. He must know blade and battle from birth. His genius was nature’s decree: “Fight!” Born to combat the world itself. Agonizing yet unavoidable—he had to prevail.

He was fated to have his lifelong misfortune redeemed only by the triumphant song of a final brief victory. O unfortunate ones! That was still bearable while he was a boy. As an emperor, he was the ruler of the country of boys, and that could be permitted. However, from around the time adolescence began to awaken within him, he had to finally come to know the pain and battles that were his very character and destiny. O unfortunate ones—Heiichiro too was indeed one of those chosen.

On a day in June when rain fell in a steady drizzle, he was quietly talking with Fukai in a corner of the waiting room as usual. Though he reached out everywhere as he did, when it came to true conversational partners, there remained no one but Fukai. As they spoke intently, laughter erupted from the opposite corner—they had opened an umbrella and were spinning it like a wheel while everyone roared. Some yelled “Whose is it? Whose?”, while others bellowed “Harukarou, Fuyuko! Wahahaha!” Heiichiro approached the crowd to look. It was the umbrella he’d brought that morning. Indeed, “Harukarou, Fuyuko” was written upon it. Anger surged through him toward the jeering group.

“What’s so funny?!” he shouted. The group fell into a hushed silence. Then someone shouted, “Who’s the guy using a geisha’s umbrella?!” “It’s me!” “I’m the one who brought it!” “If anyone’s got a problem, come out here and say it to my face!”

Then from behind came a raucous shout. Heiichiro thought about how utterly spineless they were. Unable to bear it any longer, he began closing the spread umbrella, “This umbrella belongs to my sister! I’m poor—I’m using her hand-me-down! Got it? It’s wrong for you all to laugh at me, I tell you!”

And then, gripping the umbrella in a reverse hold ready to hurl at anyone who dared speak again, he glared around. No one commented anymore on his terrifying demeanor, but the gymnastics teacher led him down the dimly lit corridor toward the armory, saying, “Ookawa, come here.” He stayed silent while gazing at the white bush clover blossoms in the botanical garden visible through the window. If the teacher said anything nonsensical, he resolved to hurl him aside first—then in a death-driven frenzy, hurl every last one of them throughout the entire school.

“What on earth happened?”

“They’re all laughing at the characters written on my umbrella.”

The short, bearded teacher spread open the umbrella and examined it, a vulgar smile spreading across his face, then immediately assumed a solemn “educator’s face.” “You will not bring something like this to school again.” “I have no other umbrella, sir.” “Then buy one.”

"My circumstances are difficult, and I can't buy one right now!" "Don't talk nonsense!" In truth, the teacher thought this was nothing more than Heiichiro's stubbornness. It was also certain that the vigorous youthful energy Heiichiro exuded did not lead one to associate it with the poverty of a household that couldn't afford a single umbrella. "Moreover—this umbrella is a treasured possession to me." "What?"

Heiichiro had no words. He had things to say but had no words.

(Ah, wasn't this the umbrella Fuyuko had left behind?! Wasn't this the very umbrella that beautiful Fuyuko—who had loved me—had used!)

“In any case, I will be keeping this umbrella.”

The teacher took the umbrella and left. That was the last time the umbrella ever returned to Heiichiro's hands. It was unclear what the teacher did with that umbrella. He might have walked around smugly holding it open.

There was a hardened troublemaker named Harada—a bespectacled fifth-year baseball captain—who had repeatedly sent letters to Fukai pressuring him to form a “bond.” Fukai never told Heiichiro and never replied. The letters grew blatantly threatening until Fukai finally confided in Heiichiro. Heiichiro then wrote to Harada himself. Their confrontation occurred beneath a Chinese parasol tree by an old pond near the science lab, past the athletic field. “Do you know about my relationship with Fukai?” Heiichiro demanded. Harada sneered down at the boy three years his junior. “No idea,” he said.

“Don’t lie! Your letter said you wouldn’t tolerate it if someone told Heiichiro-kun, didn’t it?”

“I don’t know what letter you’re talking about.” “Don’t lie! Under this situation, do you think any decent person would obey you all hunting for your precious boys?” “That’s really none of your concern—what did you call me here for now?” “About Fukai. Fukai and I have sworn a brotherly pact—I’m making this clear to you now. So if you’re sending those letters to Fukai knowing that, I’ll have to act; and if you’re doing it unknowingly, then stop.”

“I didn’t know,” “But this isn’t wise.” “What do you mean isn’t wise?” “Even if we call it a brotherly pact, it’s different from the kind you all have.” “You wouldn’t understand anything beyond base matters.” “You’ll pay for this!” “I’ll make sure of it!” The next morning, as Heiichiro spoke with Fukai in a clover-thick corner of the athletic field, a mob of fifth-years descended upon them. “What—?” Heiichiro lashed out violently with hands and feet. When third- and fourth-year students arrived as reinforcements, the fifth-years withdrew.

And that was a clear morning in the early autumn of the second term. From the open classroom windows could be seen a limpid sky and the red and purplish hues of cherry fruits. It was ethics class time. The principal—an old Imperial University graduate with a bachelor’s degree in literature—was overseeing ethics class time. He was a man who seemed to have quietly shrouded his free-spirited ideas in worldly garments for life’s conveniences.

“What do you all aspire to become in the future?” The principal posed this question with a smile and looked down at the approximately forty students. He who had lived suppressing his own gentle qualities now felt boundless melancholy and joy in surveying these nearly forty youths with blushing cheeks before him. The boy named Koshimura—the top student with an exceptionally large head who had maintained first place since his first year—said in a precocious yet extremely clear tone that while his aspirations were not yet fully decided, he wished to enter the law department and become a politician who would manage state affairs in the future. The second-ranked boy—a fresh-faced youth named Takenaka with one crushed eye—said he wanted to become an industrialist because industry must henceforth be developed on a grand scale. The third-ranked boy, named Wataya, also said he wanted to become an industrialist. The fourth-ranked boy—a small-eyed, large-mouthed, anemic youth named Tusawa—said he wanted to study electrical engineering. Heiichiro was at the fifth desk.

“Mr. Ookawa (the principal always appended ‘Mr.’ when addressing him), what are your thoughts?”

Heiichiro had to stand up straight. The first answer he managed to produce through effort was the phrase: “I am poor.” Everyone burst out laughing. He swung his right hand forcefully once and continued recklessly. “Because I’m poor, I’ll become a politician. I will become a first-rate politician. I will do something far more significant than what Koshimura-kun calls managing state affairs. That is poverty. It is the vanquishing of poverty. It is the eradication of poverty from this world. I know that many people are suffering because of poverty. Every time I look at the newspaper, I wonder why current politicians don’t do anything about this. I think politics would be just fine if every single person in the world could rejoice in being born happy. There are plenty of politicians in Japan, but I can’t seem to find anyone who truly understands the suffering of all people and actually tries to eliminate it. My close friend Fukai—”

Since everyone had only caught the part about Fukai, they burst into laughter. To him, everyone's uproarious laughter was nothing.

“My close friend Fukai says he will become an artist in the future. I too would very much like to become such things, but rather than becoming a literary scholar, artist, or thinker and waiting to influence future generations—since I am impatient—I want to become a politician and directly realize what I believe to be truth in this world. Lately, whenever I look at the newspapers, the Prime Minister…”

“Ookawa-san! You must not touch on political matters—that’s enough, that’s enough!” Heiichiro saw the principal restraining him while smiling. A spring of unspoken words surged within him, but he lowered himself into his chair. Everyone turned to look back at him. “How about becoming an economist?” The principal said gently. “But then... I wouldn’t feel assured.”

“—” The principal fell silent. And with that, he ended the day’s questioning and had them open their textbooks to Chapter Eighteen: *The Necessity of Thrift*. The principal’s smile was no longer visible. It was like a fragment of clear blue sky glimpsed through clouds that were beginning to darken. Immediately, the clouds of years of life and habits closed over once more. He listlessly had a student read aloud and continued lecturing on the text as if it were a textbook recitation. He felt no passion or vigor toward *The Necessity of Thrift*. His true life was rather in the household guaranteed by enduring these classroom routines. If one were to record his psychological state at that time, he was thinking about his eldest daughter in her second year of girls’ school and his second daughter in sixth grade of elementary school while lecturing. He had no sons. While thinking that he must somehow have a son before growing old, he continued, “At all times, people must make simplicity their guiding principle…” When he exited the classroom door at the long-awaited toll of the school bell, the sort of favorable regard he had felt toward Heiichiro upon letting slip that smile—a quiet hopefulness gazing up at a promising future—had vanished, leaving behind only the notion of him as a “dangerous one.”

This concerned the next break between classes. The principal went to the faculty room and began discussing holding a strictly internal exhibition of students' academic work this year instead of the sports festival.

The autumn sun streamed a pale white light from the shade of cherry trees onto the shoulders of a group of middle school teachers in their worn-out Western suits. Centered around the principal, there were four teachers. A short, round-faced man with thick, long whiskers splayed across both cheeks—he had the nickname “Cop”—thrust his hands into the pockets of his slightly frayed trousers, spread his short legs into an isosceles triangle, and said, “As the gymnastics teacher, I find it regrettable that we won’t be holding the sports festival.”

“However, you see, since the sports festival is something that can be held every year without fail and isn’t particularly special, having parents view the students’ academic achievements would be a good thing.” The English teacher—with his long neck, sagging yellow skin stretched taut over a prominent Adam’s apple, glasses perched on his nose, perpetually clutching a white handkerchief that he habitually fluttered before others’ eyes when speaking—looked down at the slightly balding head of the gym teacher beneath his chin and waved the handkerchief in his right hand as he spoke.

“It would be beneficial not only for the parents but for the students as well, wouldn’t you agree?”

“However, nothing surpasses holding a sports festival.” “Well, of course there’s nothing better than holding a sports festival. However, this year, due to various budgetary constraints that have arisen—as the principal was saying—ah—”

And the English teacher waved his handkerchief about. He was unaware that he waved his handkerchief about. When he returned home, he was scolded by his wife for always making new handkerchiefs useless in a single day. He couldn't understand why the handkerchiefs became soiled in a single day. He let out a deep sigh and had to ask his wife for yet another new handkerchief. Each time, he was routinely made to hear about the hardships of managing a household of eight on a monthly salary of fifty-three yen with six children—a situation that was by no means easy.

“Mr. M, what sort of post-graduation aspirations do the students in your class have?”

The vice principal, who had been sitting in the chair next to the principal reading a new magazine since earlier, stretched his arms with an “Ah—” and at the same time spoke to the English teacher. His question caused the English teacher to completely forget all his previous opinions. His mind visualized the nearly forty students of Class 5-B under his charge. “Well, compared to last year, there has been a significant increase in those aiming for business and engineering fields.” “That’s right—already seventy percent are aiming for commerce or industry.”

“Hmm, is that really the case?”

The vice principal let out a big yawn.

At that moment, Japanese language teacher K entered. He was a man two or three years past forty. He had been born in this land. In his youth, he had spent his days at Doshisha in Kyoto. His youthful aspiration had been to become a first-rate novelist. However, when his youth was about to depart, he had discovered that his talent was not as blessed as he had once acknowledged and believed it to be. How many bitter tears he must have shed when he read R.K.’s *The Five-Story Pagoda*—a work revered among Japan’s literary youth of that time. His futile anguish had driven him to debauchery. Debauchery had stripped him of his assets. When he returned to his hometown as one of life’s defeated, the qualifications from the school he had at least managed to graduate from allowed him to make a living at this middle school. Even so, when lecturing to his students on texts by literary figures who had once been his rivals—now enshrined as classics in their textbooks—he couldn’t help but feel the long-dried passions of his youth stirring once more.

“When R.K. was still a young man of twenty-one or twenty-two, around the time he first made a name for himself, there was a gathering of literary figures in Tokyo.” At that moment, a man named M effusively praised one of his works, then turned to the disheveled young man in a soiled summer kimono sitting next to him and said, “What do you think?” Then, it’s said that the young man blushed and said, “I am K.” He had sometimes spoken of such things to students who understood nothing of them. He, who had been said to resemble B—a beautiful literary figure who had committed suicide—still retained traces of that likeness in middle age through his deep double eyelids and refined nose.—He twisted his lips bitterly and turned toward his desk. The principal smiled gently in that moment. He laughed at the English teacher’s comically waving handkerchief, but to conceal his smile, he subconsciously called out “Mr. K!” to the Japanese teacher. The Japanese teacher frowned and looked up at the principal with his large double eyelids.

“Heiichiro Ookawa was your charge, wasn’t he?” “Yes, that’s correct, but—” He recalled Heiichiro. Then he realized he loved Heiichiro. Though he never showed it outwardly, K—the “failed literary man” still breathing beneath the skin of “Japanese teacher K”—gazed at the thunderous stirrings beginning to sprout within Heiichiro. Especially upon discovering the pure, boyish sensibilities of Heiichiro’s love for that beautiful youth Fukai, “Literary Scholar K” could not help but smile secretly. He felt some surprise that the principal had specifically singled out Heiichiro. Yet the principal’s lonely smile made him smile in turn.

“He’s a student with an interesting disposition, isn’t he? He declared, ‘Since I’m poor, I’ll become a politician,’ and has now begun attacking this Commission Incident.”

“I see.” “He’s usually a quiet student, but there are moments when he becomes passionately fired up like this.” “He’s remarkably—” He faltered slightly, but the words that had formed could not be stopped. “He’s a student with genius-like qualities.” “Who is it?” interjected the gymnastics teacher. “It’s regarding fourth-year Ookawa.”

“Ah, Ookawa?” “Well—he’s an interesting student.”

The bell signaling class change echoed through the air. The principal rose from his seat. His casual remark had inadvertently exposed all of Heiichiro's "anecdotes" to the faculty. While the teachers maintained a surface-level amusement toward him during placid moments, any latent malice transformed their perception into something that wholly negated his value as an upstanding middle school student. Sixteen-year-old Heiichiro remained oblivious to the ripples of influence he cast around himself. A blind, surging force within him perpetually sought avenues for expression.

Autumn had deepened. Even during sunlit days, the soundless autumn wind pierced to the bone with its cold. At dusk, standing in the fields and gazing across the midday expanse where golden rice once stretched endlessly, only black earth remained—completely harvested, leaving no trace—dampening beneath gloomy shadows. There were moments when the low, gentle foothills of the Hakusan Range pressing against Kaga Plain cast their amethyst-like translucent hues against a sky as delicately sweet as a dream. In that October when people greeted autumn’s lonely winds—harbingers of winter’s terrible northern fury—with trepidation, came the second Saturday: the day of Heiichiro’s school exhibition, a strictly private affair held within the school. Though unclear what value such events held for students themselves, their necessity lay in stirring vitality among teachers mired in stagnation—loosening life’s rigidity that pushed each toward solitary retreat into brittle shells. Particularly in this autumn of gloomy spirits, it proved a worthwhile endeavor. Heiichiro had nothing to do with this exhibition. In an education system where exhibitions meant only manual arts—drawing, calligraphy, penmanship—Heiichiro became an unremarkable boy. In all such subjects, he could only manage below-average scores. Though striving for composure and scorning these disciplines, loneliness lingered. How he’d have rejoiced had this been athletics or lectures! To O-Hikari, he dismissed the event as trivial. Thus he found himself dreading the pain of wasting an autumn Saturday meaninglessly at school. He resolved to meet Wakako. The boy’s adventurous spirit drove him to invite her to this exhibition for satisfaction. He wrote urging her attendance after school that Saturday. “If questioned by teachers,” he instructed, “say you’re my cousin visiting in Mother’s stead.” Adding: “Since I only submitted one poor calligraphy piece—nothing more—keep that in mind.” “I’ll certainly come,” Wakako replied.

The pure excitement of one awaiting a lover transformed an unremarkable Saturday into a joyous, radiant day that would shine throughout their lifetime. That day, Heiichiro must have looked down countless times from his second-floor classroom window at the path leading from the main gate through the cherry tree-lined avenue to the waiting room. Though knowing she wouldn't come in the morning, he couldn't help peering out whenever footsteps sounded. After finishing lunch and switching places with classmates, he no longer felt like staying inside classrooms or school buildings. He invited Fukai and climbed the small hill beside the school building. From the hilltop, the path from the school gate became clearly visible. The two lay on the grassy slope talking while anxiously waiting. Fukai had recently been obsessively telling Heiichiro about Western authors—uncharacteristic topics for a boy—and Japan's rising literary figures. Heiichiro had never felt any fundamental inclination toward literature—toward things called novels. Had these words not come from Fukai's mouth, he might have snapped, "How annoying! I detest this rotten effeminate whining!" Yet he listened to the words spilling from the beloved boy's lips—as beautiful as flower petals.

“In Russia, you see, there’s a man named Maxim Gorky. He was originally the son of a poor laborer and worked as a sailor on ships that sailed up and down the Volga River.” “In his youth, he wrote various works and has now become a world-renowned literary master—this might seem a bit off the mark, but I can’t help feeling, Heiichiro, that you resemble Gorky.”

“So—it’s Maxim Gorky, huh? Is he still alive now?”

“Yes, he’s alive, of course.” “They say he’s even the leader of Russia’s Socialist Party.”

“Oh—” Heiichiro couldn’t fully grasp what sort of person Gorky was or how great he might be, but he found himself drawn to this man who had risen from poverty to eminence. “Are there really so many great people in Russia?” “There are many—people like Kropotkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky—” “Who’s eminent in Japan?” Heiichiro sprawled sideways, propping himself up on an elbow as he asked while thinking to himself, Who could there possibly be?

“×××××——” Heiichiro had never heard of such a person’s name. He stared at Fukai suspiciously. Fukai’s slightly flushed, ruddy complexion glowed with a serious and pure light. “Have you read them?” “Yes.” “Hmm—why have you started immersing yourself in such works lately?” Heiichiro asked. Fukai flushed crimson to the very roots of his ears and, perhaps out of shame, lowered his face. That Heiichiro himself had a deep connection and responsibility regarding the motive was something even Heiichiro had not realized. He stopped pursuing the matter, sat up on the dry grass that felt light and pleasant against his skin, and suddenly looked toward the school gate. A pale pink, gorgeous parasol came into his view.

“It’s Wakako-san!”

Heiichiro worried that Wakako might pass them by without noticing them on the hill. Behind him, Fukai gazed enraptured at Wakako’s figure with the same fervor, his eyes ablaze. Wakako quickly spotted the two on the hill. She smiled. With her light makeup and otaiko-style obi tied, Wakako indeed could only be seen as Heiichiro and the others’ elder sister. “Please do come down.” “Come up here.” “You mustn’t.” “This isn’t school.” “Please come down.” “If a teacher sees us, it wouldn’t be good.”

“Alright!” Heiichiro ran down the slope. He grasped Wakako’s hands as if lunging at her and shook them vigorously. “Oh, that hurts—Fukai-kun is laughing at us!” “We’ve been waiting ages. Right, Fukai-kun?” “Right, Fukai-kun?” Fukai merely nodded. “Sooo—I’ve decided to stop entering the school building.”

“Why?” “Of course we haven’t distributed any of our materials—” “But isn’t this too shamelessly bold?” “And people might see us here—it wouldn’t look proper.”

“So what if they see us!” Heiichiro swung the sleeves of his slightly soiled Kokura-made Western coat—with white cloth fraying at the elbows—two or three times. Even so, he at least made his way to the pond beside the science laboratory. The autumn sun streamed gently down upon the three of them. The flaming vivid red of the celosia leaves in the botanical garden constantly flickered before the three’s eyes.

On the evening of that day, when the gymnastics teacher was conducting his patrol around the school building's perimeter, something white caught on the tip of his shoe. He casually picked it up. "Yoshikura Wakako-sama" was written on the envelope's cover. On the back was "Ookawa Heiichiro." "He should be a fourth-year student—" Driven by biting curiosity, he unfolded the letter inside. Written in crude, oversized characters were words he deemed utterly inexcusable. Heiichiro knew nothing. A terrifying abyss of unfathomable fate had opened its gaping maw and waited to swallow him whole.

The morning after Sunday was the sole new morning at school. The spirit that had relaxed gently on Sunday, having been washed of the grime of displeasure and aversion accumulated during a week of school life, turned into a pleasant complexion, enlivening the teachers' room this morning. On Monday mornings alone, people thought fondly of one another.

On this Monday morning in mid-October, the short, long-bearded gymnastics teacher arrived at school earlier than anyone else with vigorous energy. The old janitor who had been dividing charcoal in the brazier was so startled that he—wearing glossy boots blackened with shoe polish on his short legs—strode down the corridor with echoing footsteps. There he waited for the principal’s early arrival. As the principal—having been seen off at the entrance by his two lovely daughters dragging their hakama hems while repeating “Please go on ahead”—passed through the school gate and began ascending toward the entrance, the gymnastics teacher he disliked approached him with a formal “Good morning.” He replied “Good morning,” and attempted to walk straight past.

“I have a somewhat special matter to discuss.”

“Oh, is that so? Well then, please come to my room.” The principal entered his room and pulled the window curtains tight.

The cherry trees and their trunks shone beautifully in the morning sun. He found it unbearably unpleasant that his cherished morning ritual—sitting in his chair while quietly savoring tobacco in solitary contentment—had been violated by the man now standing before him. "I have discovered this letter—how should we handle it?" "I consider this an exceptionally grave matter." With these words, the teacher deposited a large Western-style envelope smudged with hand grease onto the principal's desk. The principal felt profound distaste. Nevertheless, he mechanically lifted the envelope for inspection. "Yoshikura Wakako-sama / Ookawa Heiichiro" The principal read through it in silence.

I regret there's no sports day, but instead our achievement exhibition will be held. Those petty crafty ones swagger about with pompous airs. I didn't submit anything. I feel rather lonesome. But I want you to come that day. Here I have an invitation addressed to my family - bring this when you come after school. I'll surely be waiting on the hill across from the path by the school gate. Ever since this idea struck me, I've been so giddy with joy I could go mad. We met yesterday morning at K Street's crossroads, didn't we? Why did you walk past pretending not to know me? Next time if you don't smile when we pass, I'll get furious—

The principal tried to smile, but with the gymnastics teacher peering at him maliciously from his front, he had no choice but to put on a solemn face.

“This is outrageous! The day before yesterday, after the closing assembly, when I patrolled around the school building to check for anything unusual, I found it lying there.” “Seeing that it’s been opened, there’s no doubt that Yoshikura woman must have dropped it.” The principal pieced together his memories of Heiichiro. Heiichiro, who had declared “I am poor,” stood vividly recalled. That student might have done something like this—the principal thought. He rang the call bell. Summoned by the janitor, the fourth-year homeroom Japanese language teacher pushed open the door and entered.

“Ookawa Heiichiro is a student in your class, isn’t he?” “Yes, that’s correct.” “Take a look at this.” The Japanese Language Teacher read the letter. He glanced briefly at the gymnastics teacher and exchanged looks with the principal. What a disagreeable person to have found it, the two concurred. “I must say I’m quite shocked,” said the Japanese Language Teacher, though in his heart he wasn’t particularly shocked at all. “In matters such as this, I believe it would be best to summon the individual in question to thoroughly verify the facts, and if they are indeed true, to impose strict disciplinary measures as a warning for the future—”

The two remained silent. The gymnastics teacher perceived a certain resentment in their silence and now burned with unpleasant defiance—no longer directed solely at Heiichiro, but at both of them. “Bringing one’s mistress onto school grounds is an unforgivable act.” “I believe we must impose suspension to discipline him for his future.”

“Well, we must first ascertain the facts by questioning the student himself—whether this Wakako is even involved in such a relationship remains unclear—”

The principal had the janitor summon Heiichiro. Into the silence of the three men, Heiichiro entered with footsteps echoing loudly. He stood rigidly at attention, as if he had run there, panting heavily with his chest heaving. The Japanese Language Teacher, wanting to settle the matter quietly without escalation, deliberately assumed a fearsome expression, “Ookawa,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Do you recognize this letter?” “Yes—this is a letter I gave to Ms. Wakako, but why—” He turned red with the shame of having his soul laid bare. Simultaneously, he recognized the spiteful gymnastics teacher glaring at him—now a vulnerable target—with oppressive intent. He repeated to himself that there was nothing morally shameful in his actions; had he been capable of such shame, he would never have sent her the letter to begin with.

“Is Wakako-san a relative of yours?” The Japanese Language Teacher said. Heiichiro sensed the compassionate escape route laid before him, yet answered against his own volition: “No.” “Then how do you know her?”

“—She’s… she’s my friend.” His voice trembled. “You can’t call her a friend.” “What’s this? Writing such letters to a young girl who isn’t even a relative—that’s improper.” “—”

“What kind of person is Yoshikura Wakako?”

“She’s a fourth-year student at a girls’ high school.” “For what purpose did you send the letter?” “I wanted to meet her.” “What do you mean, ‘wanted to meet’?!” The gymnastics teacher slapped Heiichiro’s cheek. He felt blood surging through his body and pressed a hand to the struck cheek.

“Aren’t you a middle school student? Sending love letters to a girls’ school student—summoning her into school grounds for secret trysts—what absolute depravity! ‘Wanted to meet’—what nonsense!” The principal and Japanese teacher could no longer interject. “You keep spouting insolence about becoming some politician while claiming modern ones are corrupt—look at this disgrace! ‘If you don’t laugh tomorrow morning I’ll be angry’—what vile sentiment! Don’t you see you’re exactly the corrupt student you condemn?!”

“I am not a corrupt student!” “What?!” “Why is it wrong that I gave a letter to Ms. Wakako? We comfort each other and encourage each other while studying together. What bad thing are you saying I did? Have I committed some sin against someone—Ms. Wakako and I have been at the same school since elementary school days—” “Idiot! What do you take this place for?! Hmph! What do you take this place for?!”

The gymnastics teacher tried to press Heiichiro against the wall. Heiichiro’s fury erupted all at once. “What do you think you’re doing?!” “What wrongs have we committed?” “Through exchanging letters, we spend each day with such joy.” “It is precisely because of Wakako-san that I resolve to study hard and become someone great.” “What’s wrong with us encouraging each other and studying together!”

“That’s exactly what’s wrong! You get out now! How dare you answer back to a teacher? Get out!” “I’ll go!” Heiichiro couldn’t hold back his scalding tears. “This is what he’s like. He must absolutely be given a three-week suspension as punishment.”

The faint autumn morning light illuminated Heiichiro holding back overflowing tears with his arm, the gymnastics teacher glaring resentfully, and the silent principal and Japanese language teacher. “Go home now,” the Japanese Language Teacher ordered sternly. “Return home and reflect thoroughly in silence,” said the principal. Heiichiro wiped his tears and exited the principal’s office. As he passed through the school gate, the morning bell resounded through the cold, penetrating air behind him. To his searing, constricted mind in turmoil, the bell’s toll seemed to urge: Think alone—think deeply until the very roots of your heart find solid ground. He moved through the streets without awareness of his own footsteps. The autumn morning air surged against his cheeks in icy waves before receding. Until this sixteenth autumn, he had never examined his life’s foundations. Having lost his father young and been raised solely by his mother O-Hikari, he had come to recognize himself as part of “a poor mother and child” when first awakening to the world’s shape. (Yet I’m no weakling broken by poverty.) His mother’s spring-like inexhaustible love had transmuted what might have bred resentment into fierce resolve—a goad to rise above want. Poor yet truly content. He had been living each burgeoning moment of life with every fiber of flesh and spirit. No longer could he be called a child. Like a young mountain oak that towers over surrounding weeds despite its tender age, sixteen-year-old Heiichiro had thrived through unconscious inner vitality—yet now this sapling must be hindered by society’s constraints. Such was the oak’s ordained path. Within him swelled a majestic sense of awakening—as though roused from dreams to stand upon some unknown plain surveying endless wilderness—a dual surge of aspiration and revelation.

What’s wrong with that? I have done nothing wrong. Am I not a decent student at school? I may not be called studious, but I’m certainly no slacker. Though I secretly scorned my teachers when they acted rashly or crudely, I never failed to respect them sincerely as our mentors. I loved Wakako. Yes—I loved her! I can say I was in love! But why should falling in love be wrong? Is confessing one’s feelings truly so wicked? That gymnastics teacher insulted me—called my letter some vulgar love note! If by “vulgar” he means what he claims—then no! But if you mean a confession of love—though distasteful—then yes! Let it be called sacred! I have cherished Wakako’s beauty and dignity—never once did I think to tarnish her! Every day I strive to become someone worthy of her radiance! And Fukai—I love him too! I loved him because my heart could not do otherwise! What crime lies in this inevitability? Doesn’t Fukai return my affection? Doesn’t Wakako feel the same? Haven’t we three studied together all this time—finding true joy and purpose?

“Where is there anything wrong with that?”

It was the upper reaches of the S River, away from the city. As the land rose higher, the plains along both banks that had narrowed were now almost nonexistent there. Under the tranquil, clear azure sky, the river formed deep pools and flowed gently. On the water’s surface, wisteria vines trailing down from the cliff face hung, and the flowing water swirled into eddies there. The sandbar thick with withered grass; beyond the embankment, the distant mountains marking the border shone like crystal. Heiichiro lay down in the riverside grass.

"If that's considered wrong, then why don't they quietly explain why it's wrong? Why must they immediately assume something strange about my relationship with her? Isn't it because you're despicable! You should be ashamed!" Never before had he felt so acutely—so piercingly—the reality of being raised by O-Hikari alone, of attending middle school through poverty, of Fukai and Wakako. It was the "natural reckoning" of his sixteen-year life. A developmental stage transitioning from childhood through boyhood into youth.

“How tedious.” Before him materialized images of the principal and his homeroom teacher. He sensed the secret goodwill they harbored. He realized the gymnastics teacher’s attitude toward him wasn’t merely about condemning the letter’s impropriety—he now understood the letter served merely as a convenient pretext. School—that large wooden box reeking of musty antiquity, a warped and insidious arena teeming with petty strife and endless bickering. Every day we had to enter that box. It was utterly intolerable. I can’t afford to linger here. The principal owned this box, while teachers squirmed within it vying for prominence—"How despicable!” “But—” he met a radiant light blazing from within. It was “the luminous wisdom bestowed by nature.”

"But this isn't just about school. Could it be that this life—this Earth itself—is one vast antiquated, warped, insidious sphere ceaselessly snarling? Must I too spend my life in such conflict, like countless humans born only to die and born again to die? I refuse to believe it. No matter what, I can't believe it. Am I not even allowed to resolve that this life—if only for myself—be one vibrant with beautiful joy? It might be impossible. Yet I can't say it's impossible. Might it not be possible? Yes, it is possible. I will surely prove it." He looked up at the deep blue sky and knelt as if praying. "I'll do it even if I die—ah! Please let me do it." The sense of mission burned within him.

Heiichiro returned home around four in the afternoon with an air of composure. He couldn't bring himself to inform his mother about the suspension personally. If it came to light naturally, so be it; if not, he resolved to prevent its disclosure by any means. He didn't know what course to take. Yet something requiring resolution had begun stirring at the foundation of his existence. He slept deeply until evening fell.

“Heiichiro, Heiichiro, someone’s come calling for you outside.” He woke up. Yoneko was laughing as she looked between O-Hikari’s face and his. “Who?” “A Ms. Yoshikura.” Yoneko smiled knowingly. “Really?” “Yes. She’s waiting outside.” “I’ll be right back.”

Heiichiro left the room. As they passed through the long earthen storehouse’s side corridor, Yoneko said, “What a beautiful young lady.”

Outdoors, in the dim and unseasonably cold evening, the electric lights along the eaves were shining.

“Heiichiro-san.” Her voice trembled with unshed tears. He silently watched Wakako as she stood clinging close. For a long time, their gazes remained locked. A torrent of emotions flowed between them. Everything had become clear to them both. In the dim twilight, Wakako’s pale face quivered faintly. “I’ve done something unforgivable.” “—” “Today... I was scolded at school too. Then they summoned my mother and told her everything.”

(Bastards! School teacher bastards! They've gone and treated us like delinquents or something! Bastards! Be ashamed! Be ashamed! Look at us now! Aren't we facing each other with pure, noble hearts like this!) "When Mother asked about you, how it pained me." "I'll meet your mother." "You mustn't! Even now I had to slip away secretly to come here."

“I was struck by the gym teacher today, and on top of that, got suspended.” “—I’m sorry for making your mother worry.” “I haven’t told her yet. I want to avoid telling her if possible, but they’ll probably summon her tomorrow.” When he imagined his mother’s feelings, a dark heaviness settled in him. The streets had already grown dark. The autumn night pressed insistently against them both. In their solitude, they felt the living bond that connected and bound them together. Oh raging storm, blow! Our new life would illuminate the roaring darkness of fate.

“You mustn’t be afraid. I’ll grow up soon too. Even if we’re powerless now, does that mean we’ll stay powerless forever? No matter what happens—I can’t live without you. Do those school bastards understand anything about our hearts?” “Heiichiro-san... Somehow I feel like I’m tempting you—like I’ve wronged your mother.” “Don’t be absurd! If this is temptation, then we tempted each other.”

“I, Heiichiro-san—”

Ah, what a miracle. That the two who until yesterday had not known their beloved’s lips had today—after the persecution and suffering they had endured—come to naturally seek each other’s lips! Love is truly deepened through persecution. The soft touch of lips known for the first time; the thunderous pounding of hearts reverberating through their entire bodies; passion blazing like fire. Even if all people in the world were to deny their love, they remained Heiichiro and Wakako—lovers. “Forever!”

“Truly, forever!” Heiichiro, returning to his mother who fretted over his future while waiting for her only son, was still fortunate. Wakako had to return to the terrible bed of thorns where her unaffectionate stepmother and stepsisters waited, sharpening their fangs in anticipation of her failure. Wakako had stopped at a dark crossroads, overwhelmed by her reluctance to return home. Death appeared before her as an immediate and undeniable reality. “You mustn’t be afraid.” “I’ll grow up soon too—” Heiichiro’s voice rang out resolutely. She began trudging forward as if recognizing within herself the strength to endure all. Father would never believe me to be a woman of indiscretion.

“I’ll grow up soon too—”

Wakako devoted her entire being in prayer to those words and sought to strengthen within herself the conviction to overcome suffering.

It was late at night in October of autumn.

Chapter Seven Even after his suspension period ended, Heiichiro stubbornly insisted he didn’t want to go to school. O-Hikari, who had been made to listen to the reasons for Heiichiro’s suspension at school for nearly half a day, did not utter a single word of reproach to her son. She simply let out a deep sigh. “Sending letters to another household’s young lady—what outrageous behavior!” This was all she said, yet she couldn’t stay silent about Heiichiro’s refusal to attend school. He remained the only child she had raised through all these years. In the end, she even pleaded, “I beg you.” Heiichiro forced down the inexplicable disgust welling within him and reluctantly went to school each day. Every morning upon waking without fail, he would think, “Ah—must I go to school again today?” and feel with piercing clarity the agony of existence. By late November, sleet laden with moisture had already begun pelting this northern town all at once.

For some reason, from that time onward, Heiichiro could no longer catch sight of Wakako. Those gloriously happy encounters on the morning road to school had been stripped from him. He asked Fukai, but even Fukai didn’t know. He visited Fukai’s house too, but through the fence of the neighboring garden where he had once glimpsed her, there remained no trace of Wakako. "Did they hide her?! Are they trying to steal her away from me?!" He dogmatically concluded that Wakako’s disappearance stemmed from her stepmother—the sovereign of her household—based on common gossip. I must discover where Wakako is by any means necessary. I can’t let this go unknown— Every night through sleet-lashed darkness, he prowled around Wakako’s house. Yet instead of the joy of an unexpected reunion, he was met with a tomblike silence from within—relieved laughter as though some nuisance had vanished—leaving him seething alone. He couldn’t muster the courage to send his letter into that den of enemies. Fukai fretted too. Even when Fukai had his family casually inquire, the response was always evaded with "She’s slightly ill and visiting distant relatives—ohohoho." Heiichiro’s last remaining hope became a letter from Wakako. Returning from school, he would bark at O-Hikari: "Has a letter come?" No letter arrived. Restlessness consumed him. Anxiety congealed into a murky black mass that seeped into his spirit’s marrow and festered—inescapable. If vented all at once, it might leave clarity like after a summer downpour; but this accumulating anguish dragged him into prolonged torment, rotting his very humanity. Heiichiro felt the desolation of a stolen lover, rage against lawless authority, and a smoldering fury toward the vulgar societal force—now palpably present—that trampled his happiness and sullied his pride.

And so, this unproven youth who kept his violent emotions smoldering yet failed to achieve independence was forced to confront days of hardship. He no longer exercised nor studied; with all wholesome outlets for his vitality blocked, he was becoming like a corpse. There were days when he glared at even Fukai with white-eyed contempt. "Heiichiro-san, you really shouldn't worry so much. Okay, Heiichiro-san?" Fukai could never keep himself from saying these words.

It was on their way home from school, on the afternoon of the final day of second-term exams, when the thin, dry snow of late December scattered in flurries against their shoe tips. Heiichiro looked wilted. Fukai, though hesitating many times, thought he could not simply leave Heiichiro's gloom and apathy unattended. The pain of unrequited love he had endured for two years now made Heiichiro experience similar suffering, and he had thought many times to persuade him that a shift to literature as a form of "salvation" could help escape that anguish of one-sided love. He timidly began to speak.

“Heiichiro-kun. “Won’t you come to my house tonight?” “I’ll introduce you to the house of someone I know.”

“For what purpose?” “That person is someone I’ve been associating with for nearly a year now.” “I think that you getting along with those people would be good for you—won’t you come?” “I don’t mean you any harm.” “So they’re literary types?” “Yes, that’s right.” “There exists a group of people as free as one could never imagine in places like school, who always seem to hold deep tears in their hearts.” “I cannot tell how much suffering I have escaped thanks to those people.” “Ookawa-kun, please come tonight.” “I will guide you there.”

“You were hiding this from me, weren’t you?” “Please forgive me.” “I too had one—one secret.” “But I’ve now confessed that too.” “As for you, I—I no longer have even that one secret left.” “Please come tonight.” Fukai was proactive and brimming with passion. “I’ll go.” Heiichiro answered and felt tears inexplicably welling in his eyes. Ah, this spineless self. Thinking of his own wretchedness—how the beloved boy had seen through his suffering and taught him salvation—he wept.

A fine powdery snow fell incessantly. From the murky gray sky, white powder scattered down in an eerily soundless shower. The damp ground ceaselessly absorbed the white snowflakes, erasing their existence, while roofs, eaves, and utility poles already bore two or three inches of accumulated snow. In this northern city—now experiencing its fourth snowfall—fierce winds occasionally raged through the streets. Heiichiro and Fukai walked hurriedly through the dusk-darkened streets, their hooded cloaks pulled low and sharing a single umbrella as they traversed this deserted gloom where existence itself felt utterly worthless. They exchanged no words. Occasionally they glanced at each other. With a lonely expression, Fukai cast sidelong looks at Heiichiro’s passionate gaze that seemed to yearn toward some unknown world. Fukai wondered whether he was now playing the demon’s role of tempting Heiichiro. Why had he revealed the secret kept for over half a year? Yet seeing Heiichiro’s joyless face—stripped of all delight—he found himself unable to abandon him. Heiichiro, observing Fukai’s vivid complexion as he occasionally sighed, gazed up with thirsty eyes at the new world this beloved guide might show him. Heiichiro’s soul—having long dwelled within the spirits of four cherished beings: his mother, Fuyuko, Wakako, and Fukai—had been wounded by schoolteachers at times, then robbed of Wakako entirely; now it groaned from these injuries while ceaselessly seeking something more. O-Hikari, Fukai, Wakako lost to unknown whereabouts, Fuyuko departed for distant Tokyo—

“Is there still much farther to go?” “No, just a bit further.” In a narrow street lined with earthen walls of the old samurai quarter, the two stood for a moment. The snow fell incessantly. A restless silence filled the space—as if concealing some terrible upheaval beyond comprehension, like a premonition of the world’s annihilation. They resumed walking. When the earthen walls of the samurai quarter ended, the street turned to the right. The houses in the impoverished, twisted neighborhood already had red lights glowing. The only house still unlit was a two-story building with a glass door spanning about two ken at the storefront, its glass panes pasted with a sign reading “Manila hemp twine work—men and women wanted.” Fukai stopped before the house.

“It’s on the second floor here, Ookawa-kun.”

Heiichiro silently looked up at the second floor. The window there—similarly fitted with glass panes—was too dark to make out clearly, but through the glass he could see a crimson curtain hanging. “Let’s go in,” said Heiichiro. “Mr. Ozawa! Mr. Ozawa!” Fukai’s voice echoed through the stillness. From upstairs came a man’s gravelly reply: “Who’s there?” “It’s me—Fukai.” “Fukai-kun?! Get in here! Just got back from the paper—was lying down. Get in here!”

Suddenly, the light on the second floor was turned on. The crimson curtains dyed the windowpanes with a blazing scarlet hue.

The two opened the side door and ascended immediately from the dark wooden entryway to the second floor. The low-ceilinged pair of slightly grimy rooms had their shoji screens removed to form an open space. At the rear stood a desk, bookshelf, and brazier; against the wall rested a small Western-style wooden bed; and in the crimson light of an electric lamp reflecting off scarlet window curtains sat a twenty-four- or twenty-five-year-old youth—short-statured with a broad forehead, eyes sunken so deeply the pupils seemed invisible, and gaunt cheeks—wearing a thickly padded kimono with cylindrical sleeves.

“Good evening.” Fukai sat close to the man. Heiichiro stood and bowed.

“Who’s there?” The man asked Fukai. “This is my close friend Ookawa.” “Because he said he wanted to meet you—” “Oh, is that so.” “I am Ozawa.” “I’m a nobody.” “Please come over here.” “Thank you.” Heiichiro had never before encountered a youth of this manner; unsure how to judge this darkly alluring young man or determine the proper attitude toward him, yet since Fukai had at last revealed him to be the central figure of their group, he acted with somewhat excessive reserve and deep courtesy. His appearance was so shabby that had one met this Ozawa knowing nothing about him, they might have scorned him outright; an odor and shadow peculiar only to life’s back alleys clung to him. However, in this case, for Heiichiro, it was the foreign port he had ardently longed for, and the crimson curtains and the Western-style wooden bed by the wall forming Ozawa’s backdrop did not give a bad impression. Ozawa stared at Heiichiro with sharp eyes. A boy properly seated with hands on his knees—not particularly large, with darker skin, lips tightly pressed together, and clear, sharp eyes that occasionally revealed blazing torchlight—this is Ookawa? he thought. He suddenly became cheerful.

“Have your exams finished yet?” “We just finished them today,” Fukai answered. “No wonder you hadn’t come for so long—the New Year’s issue of Sokoshio was printed yesterday.” Leaning back, he grabbed one of the thin magazines stacked on the lower shelf and offered it to Fukai and Heiichiro, unconsciously smiling an amiable smile. This was not the opaque laughter of the strong with its deep resonance, but rather the easygoing smile born from the relief of the weak when they realize they need no longer fear what they had feared. Heiichiro felt a comforting ease that seemed somehow relatable. He flipped through the magazine page by page. When he saw Fukai’s name typeset in 4-point type, his heart leaped inexplicably.

“It’s printed well.” “I suppose that’s all there is to it.” Ozawa answered self-deprecatingly. Within that answer lurked a lonely, despondent sentiment—as if to say, Let things turn out however they will!

Ozawa soon picked up a new magazine and began carelessly flipping through its pages. “This time I’ve written a laid-bare autobiography, see? ‘The Letter of a Pitiful, Decrepit Youth’—that’s what it’s called. Shall I read it? Listen well—I’ll read it.” Ozawa looked between Fukai and Heiichiro with an expression blending entreaty and pride, then said: “I think you roughly grasp what manner of man I am. Listen carefully now—I’ll read it.” He began to read.

The Letter of a Pitiful, Worn-Out, Despairing Youth Shizuko, my beloved Shizuko, I wanted to confess to you with my own lips what I am about to write now, but it seems when we are together too long, we burn through emotional sparks too intensely. I finally discovered, after countless attempts, that when I am with you, I cannot honestly and calmly recount my life’s history. Yet we must acknowledge this undeniable fact—our love has deepened beyond the ordinary. But surely we cannot continue like this forever? You might be different. “Even judging from your past words—‘You turned out to be a more boring, ordinary coward than I imagined’—you may already be growing weary of me.” I must admit that even if you’ve lost all patience with me, I have no right to complain. Perhaps you desired a stronger villain. But Shizuko, can there exist a villain who doesn’t know how to hoard money in his pockets? That I am no villain—isn’t that clear at once from my poverty? A grand villain indifferent to gold—such creatures may be rare indeed, but when one lacks money too utterly, even the greatest villain becomes a perfect fool. Even a superhuman fiend who vows to blast apart the Earth, wipe out mankind, and derail the cosmos would find himself helpless without money—forced to do nothing but die in the end. Surely you grasp this. I’ve written rather gold-obsessed things here. If you must misunderstand me, so be it. Shizuko, in this mood where I feel compelled to write you another love letter, let me write a little. I was born in Takaoka, Etchū Province. I do not know my true parents. Why don’t I know? However unbelievable it sounds—this is the truth.

Imagine a wealthy merchant family. There was an only son in that household. When he came of age, he married a wife, but having no children after some time, he divorced her and took a younger bride. By then, the master's parents still lived. A boy was born to the young bride. When the boy had seen two springs, the master died of lung disease. The young bride lacked both the chastity to maintain solitary widowhood with two orphans and any profound maternal love informed by insight. She took in a husband. When her first husband's son turned four years old, she bore a daughter by another man, only to perish the next year from the lung disease her former spouse had left behind. How could this thirty-year-old townsman—left with his own infant and that four-year-old boy who was me—possibly manage alone? He brought home yet another wife. Thus I was raised until age ten by these unrelated parents. Shizuko, though I thought little of it in my youth, looking back now brings frequent tears to my throat. Is it unreasonable to believe no greater misfortune exists than being born parentless? To lack even one parent suffices as proof that a child's fate lies beyond ordinary fulfillment. When I turned thirteen— Whether my second father caught my second mother's lung ailment or not, he too succumbed to diseased lungs. The wretchedness overwhelmed me. I knew then he wasn't my true father. Still, I grieved bitterly.

I wondered if my real father had also died suddenly like that. In other words, it seems I unconsciously mourned my deceased biological father, intertwining that grief with the tangible reality of "death" manifested through my false father’s passing. Though the exact mental path remains unclear, from that moment I found myself inwardly demanding that my surviving false mother remain unmarried. If she didn’t stay single, I couldn’t help feeling some terrifying force that wouldn’t let things stand unchanged. We slept in the inner room—my mother, myself, and my younger sister—our three pillows aligned side by side, until one night I awoke to hushed voices. That darkness’s hue, those whispers in the void—ah, even now the rage that permeated my childish being makes my blood seethe as if boiling through every limb. I won’t forgive you, you harlot! Screaming this in my heart, I kept my trembling body perfectly still. From the next day onward, none could call it unreasonable when I became a boy who refused every one of my mother’s commands, however trivial. Eventually another man came to marry into our family. By then I was already thirteen. In my heart: You shameless adulterers! With such thoughts ceaselessly swirling, I must have appeared to outsiders as a gloomy, eccentric child unlike any ordinary youth. At fourteen that spring, I declared on my own: “I hate middle school—I’ll enter a commercial school instead.” The lewd pair in my household, oblivious to being outmaneuvered, readily agreed with a simple “Yes.” For me, attending middle school would have meant staying in Takaoka, but commercial school required going to N Port—my insistence sprang from wanting to escape home as soon as possible. Apparently I wasn’t so dull-witted; passing the entrance exam, I triumphantly left that detestable house and stepped among strangers for the first time. Shizuko—this was when I was fourteen. At that time I boarded with a Takaoka-born couple running a dried goods shop in town—a household of just the master and his thirty-four- or thirty-five-year-old wife, childless. The innocence still lingering in me then—when I earnestly replied “Of course” to the portly master nearing forty who said, “If only you weren’t the eldest son, Mr. Ozawa, we’d make you our heir”—truly brings tears to my eyes.

However, when I was fifteen in autumn, that robust master who seemed nowhere near death died. The landlady, being of resolute nature, declared she would run the dried goods store herself and did not close the shop. Shizuko, I must confess—the moment I returned from school and heard from the landlady that the master had died, a delusion about some abhorrent relationship numbed my entire body. Ah, I had my fifteen-year-old untried virginity broken by that landlady. I was made into a young old man who had completely exhausted the youth seething within me by that landlady—now well past thirty-five—over a year and a half, then cast aside. I don’t know whether it was bad or good, but around that time I began dabbling in that naturalist literature which had only just started reaching Japan—I could recite Zola’s and Maupassant’s names by heart. And immersing myself in novels depicting animalistic desires became unbearable. At my age then—how should I make sense of having truly taken interest in such things? How should I weep? I can no longer think anything of those past matters in any way. I feel everything was inevitable. The beginning of my life that could not have been better even if worse. Anyway, I confess to you that until around twenty years old, I read obsessively into that era’s Naturalist literature. By then I had already dropped out of school halfway through and come to consider knowing country newspaper reporters’ names and faces my greatest honor. At twenty years old in summer I fled to Tokyo, enrolled in a private school as mere pretense, and went around visiting so-called literary figures who amounted to nothing—such was my state. Shizuko, my exhausted mind and body already feel fatigued from writing this much. Laugh—laugh! For even such a pathetic fool once dreamed of becoming a great literary figure! How pitifully endearing humans are! Laugh—laugh! Shizuko—if only those false parents back home had stayed safe four or five more years. They weren’t villains cruel enough to starve me—but now! The woman has died of lung disease! Then the man squandered tens of thousands through speculation and dissipation before fleeing to Korea!

I wanted to stay longer in Tokyo. Had I remained in Tokyo, there were many things I wished to do. Yet when cast into circumstances requiring self-sufficiency, I proved myself a spineless coward incapable of staying. I fled homeward, became a newspaper reporter I despised, then—after a year passed—gradually ceased that contempt too, dragged along this way to sustain twenty-five years of living. But as I sit alone in my room writing you this letter, a certain sorrowful and absolute pessimism overwhelms me. Shizuko—do you never experience such moments? It signifies we are ultimately nothing but eternal prisoners. The prison called life! The prison called this world! Ah—even were the universe infinite and eternal, with countless stars traversing endless time through boundless space—that infinite prison! Shizuko—can you comprehend this feeling of mine? They say matter is indestructible. If that be truth—what am I to do? What should one such as I—this wretched being—do? Indestructible! Eternal! Ah—if this life proves indestructible and this universe everlasting—what am I to do? Are we not prisoners chained to indestructibility and shackled eternally within infinite cosmos?! It’s unbearable. My wish rather yearns for all existence to become nothingness! May everything vanish into nonbeing when I die and burn! This alone I wish. Shizuko—is this outcry of mine unreasonable?

I desire nothingness over eternity. I want to negate everything utterly. Even nihilists still fill me with unbearable anxiety. If anything were eternal or indestructible, I couldn't kill myself. Let there be only pitch-black void—not even nihilism remains! Shizuko—to speak truthfully—I'm desperate beyond measure to end my life. Yet this doubt plagues me: what if suicide doesn't bring true annihilation? So I drag on living in terrified reluctance. Death or life—to me they feel barely different. Ah! How I yearn to obliterate everything—this world, this self—utterly! But suppose I die—wouldn't some new world come? Some altered self? This fear consumes me. To become stone or plant or beast or man or god—all revolt me. Has anyone proven death brings absolute nothingness? No. Rather—all faiths and philosophies claim death isn't true extinction. This terrifies me. So terrified I can't die—commuting daily to my prison-office, working/eating like a convict, drinking cheap sake, scribbling trash articles—even dallying in love with someone like you. If you must call it something—pessimistic hedonism? Then know this: It's not pessimism at all. Even the word 'pessimism' fills me with loathing.

Shizuko, somehow I've grown sick of writing already. I'll stop here. When I began writing, I started with a somewhat more charming improvisation, but in the end it turned into this. Come here—at least drinking sake and holding you is the least I can do. At least I want all the wealth in the world. And then I would buy off all of humanity, cause a massive explosion across the entire earth to exterminate at least those meddlesome creatures called humans—but even if humanity were gone, some other absurd thing might emerge. Thinking about that makes my chest churn. Shizuko, I'm waiting. I remember the softness of your breasts. Ah, despair. This prison where not even dying brings freedom. This eternal prison called "life," binding together the essence of living and dying.

Farewell.

From an aged youth

Ozawa's face turned ashen like a corpse's when he finished reading. He collapsed sideways, clutching his head and shaking his body helplessly. Though much remained unclear to Heiichiro, he sensed a solemn darkness of spiritual torment. Yet this brought relief to his present heart. Fukai kept his gaze fixed, cheeks burning crimson as he released a deep sigh. To Heiichiro, that demeanor seemed to have comprehended Ozawa's grave suffering. Outside, the pre-storm silence pierced heaven and earth with crystalline clarity.

“Mr. Ozawa, you’re not here?! “Mr. Ozawa!”

“Shizu-chan? Come on up.” Ozawa responded to the woman’s voice while still lying prone. The muggy stench and feverish heat of youth rose to the second floor as a young woman entered the room—her hair carelessly bundled to expose a broad forehead, her plump cheeks rounding a face not quite beautiful.

“Guests?” “Lovely guests—” Heiichiro and Fukai bowed correctly.

“It’s Mr. Fukai, isn’t it? And who is the other person?” “He’s my close friend Ookawa.” “Yes, Mr. Ookawa.” The woman said this and tried to wake Ozawa—who lay sprawled on the floor—by repeatedly calling “You! You!” Ozawa suddenly growled out from his prone position: “Did you read that?”

“I read it.” "But I didn’t really understand the latter part." “It’s quite something.” “But what I write isn’t something ordinary folks can understand.” “But Shizu-chan, I only wrote about ordinary things.” "But it’s something.—But isn’t it okay? “It’s not that there’s still this ‘me’ anymore.” “If this universe is truly inescapable, wouldn’t it be better to live each moment we have here as interestingly as possible?” “If it’s a prison, then isn’t a prison just fine?” “Isn’t embracing each other in our cell just fine?”

“That’d be fine, I guess. If only it could be forgotten. Because I can’t forget it. For me, Shizu-chan—our essence, our life being truly eternal and infinite—I can feel it piercingly and recognize it. However, for me, that eternity isn’t a joy like it is for others. Even if I were the sun, or could become something even more all-powerful, I would loathe it. I don’t want to be anything. We do not want to be this so-called ‘something’. I do not want to be ‘Life’. It seems there are those among us who believe death is nothingness, but I cannot believe death to be nothingness—the end of everything. It must undoubtedly be something. Death too must undoubtedly be life. As long as I am now human—as long as I am this person called Shigeta Ozawa—even when this self dies and is burned, it must undoubtedly become something. Suppose I were to throw myself into a volcano’s crater—even then, I would undoubtedly become something. Even if I were cast into the void beyond Earth, there can be no doubt that I would exist as something—somewhere in this vast universe. For me, that is agony. Shizu-chan, truly—in the true sense—‘nothingness’ is not permitted for us. Therefore, we truly have no ‘freedom’. We are eternal prisoners. Don’t you think so, Shizu-chan?”

“I don’t really understand.” “Stop this talk already. Wouldn’t it be better to at least have some fun with a woman like me?” “Right, Mr. Ozawa?”

Ozawa remained silent. Then he heaved himself up and fixedly gazed at the woman’s smile, then muttered tearfully, “A sad game?”

Heiichiro and Fukai promised the two they would come again and went outside. Ozawa escorted them to the entrance and called out. "My apologies. Do come again." "—Ookawa! Do come again!" The cold moonlight shone white on the snow-wet road. The two bid each other a lonely farewell beneath the willow tree at the street corner.

For Heiichiro, the gathering that night was an unusual experience. Ozawa—an older youth; Shizuko—a young woman likely his lover—completely new people had emerged in Heiichiro’s world. These people were utterly different from his schoolteachers. He felt envious of Ozawa and Shizuko who seemed to love freely without inhibition, yet instinctively detested the filth pervading Ozawa’s room—filth that embodied despair-laden gloom and a purposelessly indolent spirit. Heiichiro thought: No matter how poor we become, how utterly vile everything turns, how agonizing this life grows—still I want to burn with hope. Be that as it may, Heiichiro yearned for their freedom. The more his hatred and anger toward his surroundings—persecution that had intensified over six months—grew, the more his heart was drawn to Ozawa’s circle. Above all, he felt betrayed frustration that Fukai had associated with such people while hiding it from him. He could no longer deny they’d both ceased being pure boys. Heiichiro would sometimes clearly recognize his utterly lonely self enveloped in desolation’s vacuum. The force that should have radiated warmth outwardly had condensed inward—becoming dawn-wisdom’s power striving to grasp truth.

When the next night came, he visited Ozawa's house alone. Through the window curtains, a broad blood-like light streamed across the road. He heard what sounded like voices of numerous people talking. After hesitating several times, he climbed the dark staircase.

“Who’s there?” “Mr. Ookawa?” “Please come in.” Shizuko keenly noticed and stripped away “reserve” from his hesitating consciousness. He smiled and nodded to Ozawa. Centered around a single brazier sat Ozawa, Shizuko, and two unfamiliar young men. One was a ruddy-complexioned man with glossy black hair neatly parted, wearing a lined kimono secured with a stiff obi—his appearance suggesting the head clerk of a large merchant house. The other was a tall, gaunt man clad in a lined kimono of Kurume kasuri indigo-dyed cotton, his angular shoulders accentuating a student-like bearing. Heiichiro bowed to them as well.

“This is Mr. Ookawa.” “He’s a friend of Mr. Fukai’s, I hear.” “He came for the first time last night.”

Shizuko introduced him. The student-like man bowed as if unaware Heiichiro remained a boyish middle schooler. “I am Miyooka,” he said with a dip of his head. “A pleasure.” The merchant-like man stubbed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashes. “Nagai,” he offered. “Likewise.” Heiichiro knelt formally, straining to follow the conversation of this circle he’d joined. “I can’t—simply can’t—let things drift on like this.” “Not for Aiko’s sake either, I imagine.” “If we part, let it be tomorrow; if we unite, let it be now. This purgatory must end.”

Miyooka hurriedly inquired about Nagai’s muttering. “So, do Miss Aiko’s parents know about that?” “I don’t think they know about that. At the very least, I absolutely trust Aiko’s words,” he said, “but for me, even if my relationship with Aiko were to remain a secret from that man and her parents for our entire lives—even if that secrecy were guaranteed—I can no longer find satisfaction in it as I am now. I might be terribly selfish. I may not have the right to say such things. But I’ve come to want Aiko all to myself. These days, there’s hardly a day I don’t meet Aiko. It would be more accurate to say I meet Aiko every single day without fail. But every time we meet, when I think that this dear Aiko might be taken over by that frivolous bastard, I can’t bear it. Every time we meet, I imagine Aiko pretending to be that man’s wife. Then I just end up completely disheartened. I’m ashamed to admit it, but lately, every time we meet, I end up interrogating Aiko—‘Aren’t you married yet?’—and growing so desperate to see the answer in those eyes of hers. It’s just unbearable. It’s almost as if I’m saying what her parents or that man should be saying, but I believe this is my right to say. Even if that man obtained permission to marry Aiko from her impoverished real parents through predatory means, I possess both a heart that truly loves Aiko and a heart that yearns for her. If you ask me, I’m the one trying to reclaim what was stolen by that bastard. Well, they’re parents alright—the kind who’d be dazzled by a bit of cash and promise their own daughter to such a hedonist.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?” said Ozawa. “I told Aiko to confess everything now—to her parents and that man about our relationship.” “But Aiko says that if he were to find out about this, he would surely demand her parents return the money.” “So when I say I’ll take her somewhere and run away, Aiko says you’ll be thrown in jail.” “On kidnapping charges or something.” “Why not take her and run away prepared for jail?” said Miyooka.

“That’s absurd! For us, the very concept of sin holds no meaning! Any fleeting fear or darkness we might feel stems solely from our understanding of how deeply mired they are in misguided beliefs—of what their warped ideology might drive them to do. We are in the right. That man unjustly snatched Aiko away through vile schemes, captivated by nothing but her beauty. Yet merely because his methods were cunning, the law and society legitimize this injustice. To willingly submit to such laws and enter prison would be an affront to fate itself. Retribution would follow.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” “We can’t lift a finger, you see.” “But how can we remain like this?” “And what’s more, Ozawa-kun—Aiko seems to be pregnant!”

“Ha ha ha!” “Hey, Shizu-chan.” “Weren’t you acting a bit suspicious yourself?”

“That’s right,” said Shizuko. “It’s a little strange. Me giving birth to your child… doesn’t that feel absurd? You becoming a father or me becoming a mother—” “Ha ha ha! Nagai-kun,” Ozawa interjected, “you shouldn’t get so worked up. Anyway, isn’t it enough that you can meet her now? If you can keep your relationship with Miss Aiko going undetected, that’s good enough. We’re human, after all. Earthly creatures. There’s no way anything decent could come of this—this world’s nothing but pain anyway. If you want to run away, then run. If by some miracle you two manage to start anew in Hokkaido or Manchuria, splendid. If caught—well, you’ll be killed, jailed, or maybe even allowed to be together openly. Things work out somehow. But rather than such risky ventures, wouldn’t it be better to maneuver skillfully in secret?”

Nagai smiled bitterly as he listened to Ozawa’s words.

“If you think that way, then that settles it—”

“But poor Miss Aiko,” said Shizuko. “Yes, pitiable,” said Nagai.

For a time, the members of the gathering fell silent.

Heiichiro found himself overcome with joy for no apparent reason. Ah—when he realized his suffering wasn't unique, he felt an exhilaration like light welling up inside him. (Ah, now my life has true purpose!)

“Is Aiko-san truly pregnant?”

“Well... it’s still not entirely clear.” “Do you yourself have any real certainty?” "—"

Nagai did not answer. He could not answer. The more one loved, the more it became a terrifying mystery that humans were forbidden to know. Ozawa also fell silent, seemingly regretting his own question a little. “But Miss Aiko has experienced this before.” “If Miss Aiko has firm certainty, then Mr. Nagai’s Yaya-san must be dwelling there without a doubt.” “Can women really intuit that?” Nagai looked up at Shizuko with shining eyes.

"But if it were this person—if it were this person’s child—I wouldn’t mind conceiving. When my heart truly wishes to bear their child, I believe I would sense it." "Is that so?" Nagai wore a lonely expression like one peering into a swirling abyss. Ozawa groaned loudly, as though unable to endure the solemn passage of time. Nagai leaned toward the faint light Shizuko offered. "You mentioned you might be pregnant now?" he asked.

“Yes. That’s what it feels like.” “Then if you’re pregnant—do you remember which day or night it might have been?”

“Well, I can’t say definitively yet, but it’s not impossible.” “Please answer clearly—is there?”

“Yes. There is.” “I see.” Nagai lowered eyes again.

At that moment, Miyaoka, who had been wanting to leave for some time, tried to stand up. Ozawa said, “Leaving already?”

“Yes. I’ll take my leave.” “Since exams are over, there’s no need to rush—I’m going to the café right now, so wait a little longer and come with me.” “I suppose I will.”

“Nagai-kun,” Ozawa said, patting Nagai on the back. “Leave that for later. Rather than that, let’s go to the café tonight and get properly drunk for the first time in ages. Right? Let’s do that. I believe one must either sacrifice oneself directly to one’s true emotional demands or—if lacking that courage—abandon all self-reliance and surrender to fate. Trying to erase suffering is futile anyway. Sleeping’s best. Though even asleep, you might get tormented by nightmares.”

“That’s right. Let’s do that. Let’s drink tonight. Shizuko-san, you should come too, right? Heiichiro, Heiichiro, you come along too.” “Yes,” Heiichiro said, standing up.

The group of five went outside. No snow was falling, but two or three stars shone in the cold indigo-black sky. Miyaoka, the high school student, recited a cherished poem into the still night air as his long mantle draped about him. "I cannot forget the woman who showed a handful of sand like tears streaming down her cheeks." "Ishikawa Takuboku!" "That's good—Takuboku's brilliant!" "To live long or not to live long—ahahaha! Hamlet's a fool! Isn't our very existence right now nothing less than news from the land of death?" "Far from no one returning from death's realm—isn't this whole world itself returning from there?" "Ahahaha! Hamlet remains hopelessly naive!"

The radiance shining through purple, crimson, blue, and golden stained glass tinted the road. The group pushed open the door and entered. “Welcome,” greeted a waitress—her white apron contrasting beautifully with the red obi at her back—as she received this peculiar assembly. Through the thick blue shade of tropical plants in the downstairs dining area, figures of young painters strumming mandolins could be glimpsed.

“Let’s go upstairs. “Hey, can’t you take us to that back area upstairs?” Ozawa took off his black soft hat and black mantle and ascended the stairs. The upstairs had a Japanese-style room prepared. “Nagai! “Sake?” “The cloudy one?” “We’ll take both.—No, make it hot sake.” “Hey! Bring hot sake and good undercooked meat!”

"Yes," said the waitress as she went downstairs. The melody of a strummed mandolin, like the sweet whisper of a spring stream, echoed up from downstairs. That music belonged to a world too far removed from the five of them.

An oppressive solemn silence and a symphony of suffocating screams resounded loudly in an upstairs room. Fresh meat and fragrant wine had come to warm their hearts and bodies. Ozawa began speaking eloquently while taking a drink. “Nagai! Enough! Stop these pointless worries! What do you plan to achieve by running off with Aiko-san? Become a more principled villain! ………………………………………………Isn’t that right? If that person’s very existence as a human were erased, wouldn’t that suffice? Even bees know how to skillfully arrange natural deaths. If only Aiko-san were willing—”

“What method exists?” “There is one.” “However, it’s a method I cannot execute.” “And it’s a method that must never be uttered.”

“Why can’t you say it⁈” Nagai raised his bloodshot eyes swirling with murderous intent. “—Women can do it. Men cannot.” “So it’s something I can do then?” Shizuko blurted out loudly, unable to suppress her drunken physiological excitement.

“You can’t do it.” “Aiko-san could do it.” Having said this, Ozawa sipped the hot liquid overflowing from his cup.

“Let’s stop this conversation now.—Hey, Ozawa-kun, have you read Dostoevsky?” “Which Dostoevsky?” “All of him.” “Do you think yourself some polyglot savant?”

"But there are two or three translations, right—" "I don't read." "I don't know any writer called Dostoevsky." "If you knew, you should've told me."

“Well, I first learned about it when I borrowed an English translation of *The Brothers Karamazov* from a classmate, and then I read as much as I could find in English translations—”

“Hmph.” “In *Crime and Punishment*, there’s this character named Svidrigailov—he tries to possess a woman by threatening her with a pistol, but ultimately can’t go through with it. Conquered by her moral fortitude and sincerity, he ends up wandering alone to the military grounds.” “Then he meets a sentry.” “‘Where are you headed?’ the sentry asks.” “‘To America,’ he replies, presses the pistol to his temple, pulls the trigger, and falls.—This is just one episode, but within my limited reading experience, I’ve never encountered works as profoundly majestic as his.” “Especially his *The Brothers Karamazov*—”

“Let me see that book once.” “I want to encounter a book that makes me forget myself – just once in my lifetime.” “I want to forget being alive altogether.—Shizuko!”

“What is it?” “Come here!”

Then Nagai stood up and said, “Ozawa, let’s call everyone.”

“Call everyone! Let’s make some noise! To pay our respects to Dostoevsky—who I’ve just heard about for the first time—let’s at least all drink together! If someone who left behind such magnificent works... you know, Shizu-chan, he must’ve suffered terribly! Even bunglers like us end up like this!”

Nagai went downstairs. The telephone rang incessantly. After a full twenty minutes had passed, Nagai came back upstairs. “Yamazaki and Kohnishi and Semura are coming!”

Miyaoka displayed an unpleasant expression. He had desired a serene story and so began discussing his favorite author. Ozawa and the others were displeased by this. Not only that, but they were about to launch into their usual drunken revelry. Even for him—having lost his parents young, raised by his brother's hand, brought to this northern city—as a student still dependent on that brother's support, as a scion of at least middle-class standing, there existed an essential realm that remained unshared between Miyaoka and Ozawa's group. To Ozawa, even were it some great Russian writer, such an intrusion into their ongoing life-and-death discussion could only constitute an unforgivable violation of sacred gravity. Though Miyaoka heard Ozawa's words with ears and mind, his soul remained shuttered; toward the raw realities of Nagai and Ozawa's lives, he could only assume the posture of one appreciating a Dostoevsky novel.

“Dostoevsky is crying!” “I’m crying inside my own chest!”

Heiichiro, who had been silently eating slightly undercooked grilled meat, could see small, pearl-like teardrops in Ozawa’s eyes.

Amidst this commotion, a bearded man of thirty-five or thirty-six—a member of the intelligentsia—entered with hurried footsteps. “Brr, it’s cold!” he exclaimed, carelessly tossing his double-layered mantle into a corner. This man was the city’s sole fountain pen wholesaler and remained unmarried. Though normally a diligent head of a merchant household who single-handedly financed the group’s magazine *Sokoshio*, whenever he joined such gatherings, his guileless self would lament his loneliness and weep.

“Mr. Kohnishi, you came after all.” “We have something warm for you.”

“Oh, no need, no need. Tonight I was in such a state that I wanted to kill myself.” “Thank you.” “Thank you for calling me.” “Oh, that’s fine, that’s fine—”

At that moment, Yamazaki and Semura arrived. Yamazaki was a twenty-seven-year-old prodigy from Kumamoto who had graduated from the Imperial University’s science department two years prior; forced into an unwanted marriage, he had come to this city in the spring of that year with his lover and a considerable sum from his father—the bank president—to visit his uncle. He made a living by writing editorials as a guest contributor for a newspaper. Though his passion for astronomy—his former specialization—remained undiminished, his father’s refusal to permit the marriage born of his own resolve compelled him to sacrifice that passion to protect his lover. That year of such living had revealed to him an existence far deeper than being merely the “Big Young Master.” Semura was a twenty-five-year-old assistant teacher at an industrial school. He taught students scarcely younger than himself to mold clay, finding solace in this group to alleviate his disheartened weariness and the helplessness plaguing both mind and body. He was a poor youth forced to sacrifice the nurturing of his genius to support his mother.

“Some people might find peace of mind by thinking about Rodin or Michelangelo.” “But it’s the opposite.” “Far from calming me, I feel overwhelmed and grow so despondent I can’t even muster the energy to speak.” “I can barely manage my daily life as it is—and yet I still crave money……”

Semura and Yamazaki entered.

“Will you join us?” “No, we just met at the door over there.” “Mr. Yamazaki, Mr. Semura, let’s drink through the night tonight. It’s such a cold, desolate night. How can anyone sit still? Philosophers or what have you can apparently remain perfectly aloof. Such philosophers must be nothing but wooden statues. Come now—let’s drink until dawn.”

Shizuko poured a rich golden liquid into the offered cup. Two adorable girls with peach-split hairstyles mingled among the group, never forgetting to pour drinks. Yamazaki spotted Heiichiro. “Shizuko, who’s this kid?” “This is Mr. Heiichiro.”

“Heiichiro? Isn’t he attending middle school? Hmm—then haven’t you been suspended before? Because they said he gave a letter to someone at the girls’ school.”

“Yes, that’s me—Heiichiro.” He answered seriously. His cheeks were also flushed from drink. “So it’s you, ahaha! Suspension’s quite something, eh?—” Yamazaki suddenly peered through a gap in the glass door to the outside, then cried out involuntarily, “A shooting star!”

The night deeply embraced these depressed spirits that found meager comfort in the youths' futile wine spread through the room. It was a darkness that knew no dawn. Were these anguished minds truly confined to this group in this city? Could it not rather be the helplessness lurking within all living souls across the vast earth? Or was this mental torment unique to Japan's promising youth alone? Might it be society's manifestation of capitalist tyranny - that stone-like burden crushing human existence? If so, the countless souls buried beneath would one day ignite, and wrath's fire would blaze across all lands. Yet this might be but one cause. It could never be the sole cause. The greatest cause was that we were ourselves. Of course, "the agony of being ourselves" could not be equated with "oppression from artificial living." The former was an unstoppable force; the latter held hope for improvement. And improve it we must. The truly unconquerable was cosmic suffering. Cosmic suffering permeated every fiber of existence. We couldn't even subdue earthly human sorrows. Most ended their mortal lives never knowing cosmic suffering.

――Heiichiro returned home past 1 AM that night. For him, Ozawa’s group had now become something necessary for living. At any rate, if he went there, he could encounter living passion, true suffering, and joy. That was young Heiichiro’s only comfort. Heiichiro joined the *Sokocho* group with the intense passion and devotion of his youth. O-Hikari was worried about Heiichiro’s suddenly increased outings and late nights, but she had the prudence not to immediately point it out to him. She recognized that a dangerous mountain pass was approaching on her only child’s path. Forty years of hardship had restrained her from suddenly interfering blindly in her only child’s path. It couldn’t be called either good or bad. That Heiichiro’s awakening masculinity, as he reached physiological maturity, did not have time to lead him into that terrible debauchery and degradation was indeed something that had to be called his good fortune. That Heiichiro, who had concentrated solely on Wakako and found life’s meaning in her alone, did not fall into debauchery when that meaning was stripped away might rather be called a miracle. That his inner spiritual life, cultivated from an early age, had rapidly developed and he found in the Sokocho group an outlet for the energy welling up from within—this was surely preferable to falling into debauchery. O-Hikari’s anguished heart, which refrained from stemming that single-minded torrent of energy, was truly noble.

The seventeenth New Year had arrived, and the bitter winter lingered over the northern town. Heiichiro endured his daily school attendance like grueling labor, visiting Ozawa’s residence immediately after returning each day. Shizuko—who sometimes seemed a progressive woman, at other times a wanton and shameless one, yet still resembled a cherished elder who understood worldly affairs and sympathized with human psychology—was revealed to have graduated from a Christian girls’ school’s advanced course in Tokyo and now worked as a clerk at a large local bank. He found himself unwilling to imagine a future where he and Wakako might exist as Ozawa and Shizuko did now. Moreover, with each interaction he had with Ozawa’s group, he became increasingly aware of an inherent divide growing between them—a criticism and dissatisfaction from the coming generation toward Ozawa’s circle, much like their own discontent toward contemporary power structures. For Heiichiro, the miasma of “despair” and “darkness” clinging to Ozawa’s cohort grew unbearable at times. Perhaps this was because he remained too young still. He might yet adopt their ideologies when he reached their age. But now, even in those fleeting moments when he was swept into their storms of frenzy and rapture—joining their chorus of mournful songs—he felt he could not linger forever in this turbulence, lest it drag him into some distant abyss of endless night. How long must this continue? How long could he wallow in despair to no purpose? The voiceless question echoed within him. Yet this surfaced only as a transient undercurrent. Ozawa, Shizuko, Yamazaki with his Westerner’s blue eyes, Semura, and Nagai—the pure-hearted commercial school graduate serving as head clerk at a grand kimono store—all inspired in him a deferential regard toward his seniors; touching their lives brought him immeasurable solace and joy. When Yamazaki fixed his cerulean gaze upon the heavens to speak of astronomy, the splendor of celestial bodies—their grandeur and mystery—paired with his unsullied passion formed a rare beauty in life’s tapestry. When Semura brought photo albums to discuss Greco-Roman sculptures, Rodin’s works, Michelangelo’s statues, and Renaissance masters, these left deeper imprints on Heiichiro’s soul than four years of middle school ever had. The psychology behind Nagai’s anguished romance eluded Heiichiro’s full comprehension. Yet by measuring it against his own suffering, he could grasp its intensity. He understood there was nothing unnatural about this guileless youth—unversed in worldly ways—engaging in a love society deemed immoral, akin to delinquency. If anything, how much more unnatural must it have felt for Aiko—ostensibly his childhood friend—to belong to a man who had lent money to her late father? Even Nagai and Aiko, whose love should have flourished naturally, found themselves tormented under unjust social constraints—two souls abandoned in a desolate wilderness, adrift in sorrow.

“We live among so many people yet feel like criminals exiled to the wilderness,” said Nagai, his voice trembling. “I can’t believe this is right.” The group members could only watch in silence as tears welled in his eyes. Their hearts swelled with the urge to help, but what could they possibly do? They couldn’t fully separate the two lovers, nor arrange an amicable divorce for Aiko to marry Nagai—the only option left seemed to be kidnapping her and landing in prison. The group members found themselves freshly astonished at their own powerlessness.

“You mustn’t end up like us.” “Well, Heiichiro-kun, we’re ultimately not life’s victors.” “We’re just those fighting bloodied in the streets.” “And what’s more—cowards who’ll likely end up defeated.” “Look—you mustn’t imitate us.” “You must transcend us—and when we who barely pioneered anything die in defeat—climb over our corpses to raise a triumphal song of true victory.” “Well, Heiichiro-kun,” Yamazaki would often say. This shared sentiment among Ozawa and the others was a vast and lonely emotion—one that watched intently over Heiichiro and Fukai, youths of the era following theirs, praying for them while contemplating their own harshly lived half-lives and the darkly perilous future awaiting them. January, February—time flowed by as Heiichiro visited them. Through it all, Wakako’s whereabouts remained utterly unknown.

Chapter Eight

March arrived. In the northern regions, March remained a harsh winter. The snow did not fall deep, but when it fell, it would not melt away. Across the morning's frozen earth - blade-hard and glinting - winter's cold crimson light shimmered brightly.

It was a morning in mid-March. As it was the second day of his term exams—the day for his favorite subjects, history and geometry—Heiichiro had risen in the dim light and was preparing to go to school. In the tea room of Harukarou, a murky reddish-dark electric lamp was lit. He tried to go outside wearing boots that had been hardened to iron by snowflakes since the previous day, careful not to wake those still asleep. When he opened the door, backlit by the bright white March morning, he saw a single envelope lying on the earthen floor. It appeared to have been slipped through the door gap during the first delivery. He took it in hand and looked at it. The letter was in familiar handwriting and addressed to "Mr. Ookawa Heiichiro." It was a letter from Wakako. He somehow felt no joy at all. (Ah, had this letter come too late?!) Though no snow was falling, an inch or two of old snow still lay atop the frozen, hardened ground. He removed his coat’s hood and walked while reading the letter.

...Please forgive me, please forgive me. It is I who am at fault, it is I who am weak. “What are you afraid of? I’ll grow up soon enough,” your words, which you spoke then, continue to resonate in my weak heart even as I write this letter. However, I—Heiichiro-sama, please forgive me—will obey my mother’s words and marry into another household. Please despise me to your heart’s content. Since that incident with the letter last autumn, I received my mother’s severe reprimands and was sent away to Tokyo. The reason I did not send you any letters was simply that I had no desire whatsoever to send them. Please forgive me. ...But Heiichiro-sama, how could I ever forget you? I will live long, most certainly. Mr. Heiichiro, please do not lose your temper and truly become great. And please come to reconsider this pitiful woman who turned her back. ...The person who will become my husband is a Western-style painter a full ten years older than you—

He wondered if there was some mistake and read it over again many times. Yet there had been no need to reread it. Once was all it took for him to realize the facts in this letter were true. Could this hollow sensation he felt be what they called disappointment? At school, even when solving geometry problems, even when describing the British conquest of India in East Asian history, he was thinking of Wakako. He could not understand how she felt. He was merely thinking.

It was an inexpressible hollowness. Forgetting that the question about India's conquest was meant to be a historical exam answer, he wildly attacked British cruelty across three full pages and left the classroom before anyone else. From the waiting room, he went out to the playground. It was a clear blue sky, rare for winter in the northern regions. Winter sunlight glinted on ice that had frozen solid across the entire playground. He took Wakako's letter from his pocket and couldn't help scrutinizing it. Then a single flash of brilliance lit up his mind, and he shouted with his entire being.

“I’ll become great!” He felt not a shred of hatred toward Wakako. As he repeatedly read Wakako’s “I will live long, most certainly,” nostalgia welled up like a spring. Become great, become great—once I become great, how could I not reunite with my beloved Wakako! He wanted to run around the playground. The ice was perfect for smooth sliding. He walked while gliding across the playground’s glossy surface. His entire body grew damp with sweat as fresh vitality overflowed within him.

“Ookawa-kun.” Fukai approached.

“Fukai-kun. Come here!” Fukai approached with a smile. “Look at this.” As Fukai received and read it, Heiichiro watched breathlessly. “Wakako-san has gone to Tokyo to marry.” When he said this, Heiichiro indeed felt the sorrow of a lonely, irreversible outcome. Fukai was reading it over and over. Eventually, the face he raised was pale. Heiichiro received the letter from Fukai and shouted once more, “I’ll become great!”

The winter light bathed the two of them. Beyond the spreading, gleaming plane of ice, the majestic peaks of the E Mountain Range emitted a white light. “Ookawa-kun.”

“What is it?” “There’s not a single word about me!” “Huh?!” Heiichiro saw tears overflowing on Fukai’s pale face. Fukai pressed his Western-style sleeve to his face and wept in convulsive sobs. “Fukai-kun, what’s wrong?” As Heiichiro rubbed his back, a realization—Oh, so that’s how it was—flashed from some unconscious depth. He stopped rubbing Fukai’s back and stood silent. A complex sorrow refused to release him. Tears welled in his own eyes. (He hadn’t been unaware. Fukai, forgive me—I hadn’t been unaware.) He grasped Fukai’s hand and shook it fiercely, begging forgiveness through the motion.

The workings of nature might be endless, without beginning or end, yet the pattern of its cyclical creation was no mere monotonous rhythm. At times it lay utterly dormant—ordinary and uneventful—but at others transformed into a tempestuous force that exhausted all possibilities in an instant. In human fate too, when people reflected on events after their passing, they often found themselves unable to resist believing fate truly moved to that same rhythm. Since learning of Wakako’s departure for Tokyo and marriage, Heiichiro’s thoughts burned with future dreams even as reality trapped him in emptiness and gloom.—If I could be born twice into this world, and if Wakako-san too could be born twice here at the same time, perhaps I might resign myself to things as they are now. Yet I believe this single life I possess now is all I’ll ever have. In my lifetime, no matter what happens, I must seek Wakako-san. I cannot contemplate this world’s fate without binding it to Wakako-san. Ah—I cannot imagine Wakako-san as another man’s wife, a man ten years my senior. To me, Wakako-san would forever remain that passionate girl with flushed cheeks—words Heiichiro had once poured into a letter to Fukai. “The misfortunes and sufferings men must endure”—due to his belated independence, Heiichiro had been forced to taste the agony of having his first love stolen away. It was unbearable.

“Ookawa-kun, I’m suffering too,” Fukai said.

That night, after finishing his exams with the frantic focus of a fever patient, Heiichiro found himself drawn to visit Ozawa’s house. In his mind, matters concerning Wakako, Fukai, and himself churned unresolved like undigested food. On the second floor, Ozawa and Miyooka—a high school student—were fervently engaged in discussion. “But consider how Whitman sings—‘I launch my celebratory chant with joy! With joy for thee, O Death!’—does this not confirm death as a tranquil eternal repose?”

“Miyooka-kun, stop this at once!” Ozawa closed his eyes and silenced Miyooka’s heated words with an air of unbearable distress. Miyooka, his fervor interrupted, glared sharply at Ozawa through his spectacles. “Is something the matter?”

“It doesn’t suit my nature—stop this at once! I don’t think Whitman held such views on death—no, thank you—just stop!” “But why doesn’t it align with you? Just yesterday I read his ‘Leaves of Grass’ at school with friends—we shared such unexpected discoveries—how could it not align?” “Because Whitman was a poet. Because he treated death and life as separate things. What we call death and life are merely labels born from humanity’s flawed perception—that’s what I believe. If this state is life, then so-called death remains part of life. Death isn’t repose—absolutely not. Death is also life. Therefore, death means suffering too.” “To believe we vanish at death is just humans covering their eyes—too terrified to face truth’s horror. How could we—this very us here—ever completely disappear? If disappearance were possible, we wouldn’t manifest here at all. Our mere manifestation proves eternal existence. Call this state ‘life’ if you will—it matters little.” “They say Christ claimed eternal life flows endlessly like a spring when touched—true enough about springs not drying up. But preaching this eternity brings supreme joy? To me, that’s a crimson lie. We exist eternally.”

“No matter how much we wish to disappear, being nothing is not permitted. Even if transformed into an existence called death, it cannot completely disappear. We cannot know the entire universe. However, even if we do not know the entire universe as the entire universe, it is certain that it remains eternally the same existence. It is certain that we eternally exist as part of that entire universe. We die. However, that is by no means the death we imagine. Therefore, suffering is not cast off by dying. Religious teachers preach liberation from suffering, but that liberation is nothing but death to life—a suffering that thinks it has escaped suffering. Isn’t it just replacing the suffering called suffering with the suffering called god or salvation? In short, there’s no way out. Wanting to do something and having done something—these are merely occasionally changing the names, so in essence, it’s nothing more than continuing the same unchanging thing. If humanity perishes, I suppose we’ll have transformed into something else entirely.”

“There you go again with your usual philosophy—what you say may indeed be truth.” “But it’s also true that I find joy in Whitman’s poetry—and can’t we envision an existence beyond ourselves, a divine human or human god?” “For example, even your life—that eternal pain—might not be painful if…”

“Don’t spout such idiocy! How could we comprehend the suffering of divine humans or human gods? Look upon the blazing sun! When that sun crumbles, monsters beyond humanity might emerge from its fragments. The kingdom of God lies in suffering’s absolute extreme.” “—”

Miyooka fell silent. Heiichiro also remained silent. Ozawa’s somber tone alone resounded. The sound that faintly scratched the silence must have been the snow beginning to fall. The charcoal fire in the brazier blazed fiercely, crackling as sparks scattered. It was quiet. The silence lasted a good ten minutes. No one could bring themselves to speak. The act of speaking felt terrifying, as though it would defile this solemn silence. When the sound of snow being brushed off geta came from downstairs, all three of them exchanged looks as if they were saved. Then came the sound of rustling clothes ascending the stairs. It was a winter night so profoundly quiet and deep.

“Ozawa-san, are you here?” Shizuko said in a small voice as she came up. White snowflakes in her bangs were beginning to melt.

“Shizuko?” “Ozawa-san.” She plopped down directly in front of Ozawa. She did not laugh.

“What’s the matter?” “Ozawa-san, won’t you marry me?” “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” “I’ve been forced out of the bank—because of you. It’s already moving sometimes—right here.” “Is that true?” Ozawa asked. He was serious. “It’s true.” “I don’t know.”

Ozawa pronounced coldly, like a judge delivering verdict. At first Shizuko seemed inclined to dismiss it lightly, but Ozawa's icy expression compelled her to take it seriously. For the first time, color drained from her full-cheeked face. Words appeared to lodge in her throat. Then a dry laugh—as if she were possessed by some higher consciousness—contorted her features. "I have nowhere else to go." "Let me stay here tonight!" "I've enough money to idle away six months or so."

With those words, Shizuko spread open her haori and showed Ozawa her abdomen. “It’s already May.” Her abdomen, when looked at closely, was quite swollen. Ozawa was staring coldly.

“Are you claiming it’s my child?” “Yes, it’s your child.” “Ahahahaha… So if there’s a child, you just dump the responsibility on the man? Ahahahaha, so Ozawa’s going to be a father now? Ahahahaha!” Ozawa laughed hollowly.

Heiichiro returned home through the violent blizzard from Ozawa’s house to find his mother O-Hikari had stayed awake waiting for him. Normally she would look at Heiichiro with a lonely face and a sigh, but tonight her face had softened. “Heiichiro, I hear Fuyuko will be returning to Kanazawa at month’s end after all this time.” This brought even Heiichiro an unexpected joy. Nearly two years had passed since Fuyuko left. Though occasional news had reached them during that time—that she lived in a small separate residence with a storehouse along a backstreet of Tokyo’s bustling Nihonbashi district, attended by an elderly maidservant and young girl; that Amano visited every other day while maintaining his immense influence—they had no way of knowing more details about her life. A year and a half might seem brief, yet for Heiichiro and his mother it stretched long, filled with countless changes. He felt an ache akin to shame at the prospect of meeting Fuyuko. O-Hikari for her part reflected on the arduous life she’d led for her only child. Since Fuyuko’s departure, while consumed by daily struggles, the secret of that “buried past” she alone harbored in her heart—never forgotten for a single day—had revived itself with fresh pain and dread. (What wretched souls we are.) Still, seeing Fuyuko again would bring joy to mother and child.

“Is she coming alone? Huh, Mother?” “No,” O-Hikari hesitated. “I hear she’s coming to escort Mr. Amano from her side.” “I see. Then that’s disappointing.” (Wakako had married into Tokyo, and now Fuyuko was coming.) Heiichiro found himself thinking this for no reason and felt unable to face the two of them without feeling ashamed of his own stagnant, lifeless, gloomy present life. Ah, truly, on this same earth there existed both Wakako and Fuyuko. Why shouldn’t he become someone admirable? For him, continuing to go to school as he was had become instinctively painful. He thought about what he should do. The world felt dark. In the sleepless midnight, he shed tears with eyes open.

March 30th was a day when the late winter sun, having grown warmer over just two or three days, reflected in the melting snowwater flowing through the streets. O-Hikari was sleeping in a separate room because she felt chilly.

In the afternoon, as she gazed dreamily at the crimson sun shining through the shoji screen，a person’s shadow appeared on its surface.

“Who is it?” “Auntie, it’s me. It’s Fuyuko.” “Auntie, it’s been some time.” The shoji was opened. Fuyuko kept her head lowered for a long time.

"Oh, do come in." "I felt a chill today, so—" And O-Hikari and Fuyuko met face to face. As if to stop the tears welling up slowly, O-Hikari softened her expression with a smile, "Is this truly not a dream?" "But you haven't changed at all, Ms. Fuyuko," she said. "Auntie, you too—" And then Fuyuko began to sob. Fuyuko had just met with the women of Harukarou Brothel and presented them with heartfelt gifts, but her heart had already filled with sorrow from how they had distanced themselves like foreigners—not even offering proper greetings—when she was moved to tears by O-Hikari's unchanging quiet affection.

“Truly, truly, the only one who never changes is you, Auntie.” (Ah, it’s in O-Hikari’s heart that the old homeland truly remains.) Fuyuko had been speaking sparingly about various matters—that she had arrived at Koryutei Pavilion with Amano the previous night; that she was supposed to stay here for about two days; how eagerly she had looked forward to coming here; yet how saddened she had become when even at Harukarou Brothel everyone had been so cold; how happy she was to meet “Auntie”; how her Tokyo life was never easy, with constant mental strain never ceasing—when suddenly she gazed at O-Hikari’s face and

“Auntie,” she called out. “What is it?” O-Hikari smiled. “Auntie, you look just like Master Amano’s wife!” “Why?” O-Hikari calmly replied, but cast down her eyes. “It wasn’t long after I first settled into my current house in Nihonbashi that His Majesty the Emperor passed away.” “For that Imperial Funeral ceremony—since Master Amano’s company owns land right in front of Hibiya Park, near the Imperial Palace—I had the honor of observing it there alongside company officials.” “At that time, I suffered terribly.” “I had to maintain a composed facade as if I were someone with no relation to Master Amano.” “Late into the night, when the Imperial hearse was about to depart the palace, I happened to glance beside me and saw a woman among the company men in frock coats who looked exactly like you.” “When I wondered if my eyes deceived me and looked closer—though she was stouter than you, with more intense eyes and more dignified features—the resemblance faded gradually. But it was so strange that I quietly asked someone nearby—Auntie—that was Master Amano’s wife.” “The feeling I had then—like being doused in cold water yet filled with guilt, pity and envy—is something I’ll never forget.” “And since she looked so much like you—Auntie—I felt such profound terror that words fail me.”

Fuyuko then spoke of how the true depths of life as a concubine were precarious and lonely; of how even now she lived with ceaseless anxiety that she might be cast aside at any moment; and of how unending persecution and ostracism constantly shadowed her in society. "Somehow it feels nothing like two years apart at all, Auntie. I don't know how to say it—truly it feels like I'm being doted on by my own mother."

O-Hikari could not keep her face from lowering. It was because she had been feeling in her heart an irresistible anxiety, a sense of estrangement, and the loneliness of one who knows everything. (It’s no wonder Amano’s wife resembles me. She is my blood relative after all! And then—is that Amano embracing my sister Ayako one night and holding this Fuyuko the next?!) “Auntie, what about Heiichiro?” “Where he went—he hasn’t been seen since this morning.” “I’m also at a loss about what to do with him lately,” O-Hikari confessed, unable to keep her daily hardships to herself any longer. She confided that since Heiichiro had been suspended from school, he had come to detest it and had grown gloomy and rough-edged.

“I don’t know what to do either. I do think it’s better to leave him as free as possible rather than being meddlesome—it’s better for his temperament—but Ms. Fuyuko, I’m even worried whether the school expenses will last until he graduates middle school.”

O-Hikari spoke with deep concern. Such suffering lightens somewhat when spoken aloud. Fuyuko listened intently to O-Hikari’s words. Then midway through their conversation, her eyes began shining with fervor. “Auntie, what if you were to send Heiichiro-san to Tokyo?” “Oh, please do that—won’t you, Auntie?” “What?” O-Hikari’s eyes widened. The consciousness that had functioned purely as an instinctive mother suddenly expanded—the entirety of O-Hikari, who had quietly endured over forty years of hardship, now discerned the future of her only child implied by Fuyuko’s words. (I must never send Heiichiro to Tokyo!)

“But wouldn’t it be permissible to proceed in that way? Mr. Amano has only one young master. So he says that if there were someone who could accompany the young master and in time become both a cane to lean on and a pillar to rely on, he would like to take such a person under his care. Auntie, if it’s Mr. Heiichiro, I will do whatever it takes to inform Master Amano. Since this is my request, please allow me to look after Mr. Heiichiro.”

(Ah—Amano who stole my sister; Amano who took Fuyuko; Amano who drove my brother mad and killed my husband, who drained every asset that should have secured our future—is that same Amano now coming to steal my only child Heiichiro too?) Along the endless wilderness path of incomprehensible fate, that bastard Amano drew nearer once more, circling back through time's cruel turns. "Auntie, please agree to this." "No—let me make this happen." "If you endure the loneliness awhile longer, Mr. Heiichiro will surely grow into someone remarkable." "Keeping him at that hated school—even I can see how wrong that is." "Wouldn't it be better to enroll him in a Tokyo middle school?" "—Why, within half a year or so, you yourself might come to live in Tokyo too!"

Clearly, Fuyuko grew agitated. (Was this not O-Hikari—the one who had cared for her when she was still a girl with no one else to rely on?) To look after Heiichiro’s future for O-Hikari’s sake was a joy. O-Hikari heard in Fuyuko’s words a passionate, harsh declaration of destiny. Heiichiro’s shattered life showed no signs of returning to normal if left as it was. If he were sent to Tokyo and made to attend one of Tokyo’s liberal schools from a stately residence, perhaps even Heiichiro’s emotional wounds might heal. However, the man in question was "Amano Ichirō"—"Amano Eisuke". Would we be taken care of by our archenemy Amano Eisuke? Could such a thing even be possible? And from Fuyuko’s own hands! From the concubine of my blood relative’s husband—ah, curse that word ‘husband’! (I can’t! I can’t!)

“Auntie, please truly decide to do this.” “Please allow me to have this accomplishment.” “Mr. Heiichiro must be feeling so forlorn too.—And though it’s terribly rude of me to say, doesn’t it seem he has no concrete plans even after graduating middle school?” “Please, let me take care of Mr. Heiichiro—I beg of you, Auntie.”

The resolve—"No matter what, I absolutely will take care of him!"—became visible in Fuyuko. To O-Hikari, it appeared as though Amano were declaring: "No matter what it takes, I will take your only child from you!"

“Let’s ask Heiichiro.” “Ms. Fuyuko, beyond that approach, I myself cannot reach a decision.” “If he should willingly agree to go—Ms. Fuyuko, in that event—then I shall make a formal request,” O-Hikari said conclusively.

(Heiichiro's fate should be left to Heiichiro himself) she thought.

Leaving behind a gift for Heiichiro, Fuyuko departed Harukarou Brothel in the evening. When Heiichiro returned home for dinner, O-Hikari told him that Fuyuko had come while he was out. Heiichiro looked at her with a lonely expression and said nothing. O-Hikari saw that Heiichiro had grown terribly thin of late, as if noticing it for the first time. And in the end, she never brought up the matter of going to Tokyo. The next day past noon, as Heiichiro and O-Hikari were having a meal, Shizuko came to inform them that there had been a call from Fuyuko asking O-Hikari to bring Heiichiro to Koryutei immediately. O-Hikari trembled as if she had collided with something terrifying, while clearly seeing the critical crossroads of fate before her, as though in prayer—

“Heiichiro—if there were someone to look after you, would you have the will to go study in Tokyo alone?” she asked.

“——?” “Ms. Fuyuko said that if you have the inclination to go to Tokyo to study, she was talking about asking someone named Mr. Amano.” “——?” “In other words, you would be placed at Mr. Amano’s residence and have him send you to school, you see.” “——Anyway, I’ll go to Koryutei and see!” “I see.” O-Hikari, disappointed and as if in a daze, took out new hakama trousers, a haori coat, and a lined kimono from the chest of drawers and silently placed them in front of him. And she changed into a kimono and walked the considerable distance along the snowy path to Koryutei.

O-Hikari came to the entrance but did not enter. The maid respectfully guided Heiichiro. As he walked through the tatami corridor, Fuyuko came forward from the opposite direction, smiling in welcome. "My, how you've grown! Mr. Heiichiro is completely an adult now." "You've become quite the adult now." He laughed. And he thought she was still beautiful. "When I told Mr. Amano about you, he said he absolutely wants to meet you." "Now, you must speak clearly and properly." "—And Auntie?"

“She absolutely refuses to come inside—says she can’t bear it.” The ten-mat room’s gold-leafed screen and tapestries blazing with violent hues gave Heiichiro an impression that surged upward like billowing smoke. He saw Amano sprawled at the room’s center, a maid massaging his feet. He pressed his palms to the floor and bowed. “This is the young man in question,” Fuyuko presented.

“What’s your name?” Amano asked calmly. “I am Ookawa Heiichiro.” “Your schooling?” “School—it’s hopeless,” Heiichiro said, adding, “I’ve just finished my fourth year of middle school.” The gas flame in the room’s stove burned blue. Unaccustomed to the heat, Heiichiro felt dizziness rising in him. Within these opulent surroundings where Amano lay sprawled leisurely, Heiichiro stared fixedly at this colossus bearing down on him. This was his first encounter with such a man. An unrelenting pressure kept trying to crush him. Heiichiro sensed a supernatural force within himself resisting this pressure. (I won’t lose!)

“And what do you intend to become?” “I want to become a true politician and rectify this unfortunate world.” “To set the world to rights, it seems money is needed.” “Money—is necessary.” “But money is secondary.” “Even if I’m poor—” “Do you think you can manage even in poverty? “Ha ha ha ha—don’t you have any inclination to come to Tokyo and try studying?” “Ookawa-kun.” “If Mother permits it, I want to go.”

At the beginning of April, when cherry buds were tinged with color, Heiichiro parted from his mother and set off alone for Tokyo. Fuyuko was supposed to meet him at Ueno Station. Goodbye, Mother—take care! I'll never forget being your only child! Ah, truly—take care! No matter what happens, I'll accomplish my ambitions and show you! Ah, truly—take care!—Heiichiro departed for Tokyo.

“At last… I’ve truly become all alone!” O-Hikari whispered. (Her sister taken from her, her brother taken from her, her husband taken from her, Fuyuko taken from her, and now even Heiichiro had been taken.) There was neither hatred nor sorrow. Only loneliness quietly welled up. And, unaware of anything,

"The one who will defeat Amano is Heiichiro," O-Hikari muttered.

Chapter Nine

It was the dead of night in early spring. There was no snow falling, nor was the wind fierce. The deep blue night sky hung serenely clear. Beneath it lay Tokyo. In the tram racing through interplays of brilliant lights and darkness, Heiichiro offered a prayer to the new life and new people now opening before him. An immeasurable surge of human energy—the great metropolis cradling the future—resounded with eternal, thunderous clamor. Through the train window streamed towering buildings; broad stone-paved roads; dense evergreen street trees; mingling red and white glows of electric lamps and gaslights; crowds of citizens flowing past; automobiles brandishing aggressive searchlights and engine roars. What magnificent grandeur! Thinking this, he found himself unable to look away from Fuyuko's profile beside him. While reflecting that Fuyuko alone was his sole acquaintance in this vast city, he swelled with pride at how her dignified beauty remained undiminished among the bustling women. (Even in Tokyo, Fuyuko stays beautiful—and I... merely... Tokyo—) In what seemed the urban center, where buildings lining both sides exuded grandeur and solemn weight, Fuyuko quietly indicated a stately five-story stone structure of deep aquamarine among the rooftops. "Master's company," she told him. Soon came the conductor's call: "M Street 3-chome." Heiichiro and Fuyuko alighted there.

The level main road lay under a warm early spring breeze. Heiichiro walked silently behind Fuyuko. A side street stretched before them where a four-story egg-yellow ceramic brick building housing a precious metals dealer faced a red-brick trade company—along this avenue stood wholesalers in slightly run-down earthen-walled storehouses fitted with lattice doors. From this side street branched yet another narrow alley. Fuyuko stepped onto the gutter planks and entered one of these narrow lanes. To the right rose a high black-plastered wall; to the left, midway along the path, a house with new intricate lattice doors stood with its eaves illuminated by an electric lamp. Fuyuko said, “This is it—my house.”

“Tama? Are you there? Thank you for watching the house.” The seventeen- or eighteen-year-old maid opened the frosted-glass-paned shoji door at the entranceway and responded, “Yes.” “Welcome home,” she said. “I have been eagerly awaiting your return, Mistress.” “Yes, you’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you?” Heiichiro followed Fuyuko inside. The entrance measured three tatami mats, with sliding doors that appeared to conceal a closet. The adjoining room spanned eight tatami mats, similarly outfitted with sliding doors. Heiichiro stood silently in the three-tatami space.

“Tama, go and order four portions of kamonan soba right away.” “Yes.”

“And has Master not arrived yet?” “Yes. Earlier, there was a call from Master saying he might be a little late today.”

“I see.”

Tama went outside.

Heiichiro entered the bright eight-tatami room and looked around, wondering where on earth the "telephone" could be. He saw nothing that resembled a telephone. He recognized that the entire room was polished to excess, its furnishings too elaborate and delicate to give any sense of spaciousness. He found himself sitting face-to-face with Fuyuko before the small gleaming long hibachi, feeling at a loss (pity). That his first impression had been (pity)!

“Is this where you live?” Heiichiro inadvertently asked.

“Here?” “Yes.” “Why?” “It’s quite small.” “Yes, quite small.” Fuyuko smiled. “There’s a larger house behind this one. This is just my sleeping quarters.” She had whispered this, but in the profound silence around them, her voice rang clear. The city’s clamor they had left moments earlier seemed never to have existed here at all—those who knew would know how such quiet spaces lurked within the metropolis’s furious whirlpool. Fuyuko made tea and brought out sweets. Heiichiro ate every last one.

“I’m starving.” Because Heiichiro said this, Fuyuko burst out laughing. And this unexpected laughter became the natural chance for her to finally voice what she’d been determined to make him fully grasp before he ever came to Tokyo.

“Are you hungry? Tama will bring the soba right away. But before that, Heiichiro-san—there’s something I need you to understand beforehand—” Fuyuko began. She lowered her eyes, and at each pause in her words, she looked up at Heiichiro with earnestness. “Though you must already know all this without my saying it—I must constantly think of myself as someone who doesn’t truly exist in this world. I am Master Amano’s hidden mistress—you understand? For someone like me to look after you—that’s impossible. A ‘ghost’ who doesn’t truly exist shouldn’t be able to care for anyone. So officially, it’s been arranged as Mr. Okuyama—from the same province—being your guardian. If you don’t maintain this pretense properly, all of us—myself, you, Master, Mr. Okuyama—will be left helpless. You understand? You must regard Fuyuko as nonexistent.” Heiichiro felt a pang of sadness at her words. “At Master Amano’s residence live the young master, his wife, five maids, and an old manservant. To avoid resentment from those beneath you, you must adapt—resolve to receive lifelong care from the wife and young master too. The young master attends Keio University’s finance department—study amiably with him. You must become Master’s right-hand man without delay. Truly, Master’s efforts are extraordinary.”

I must constantly deny the existence of Fuyuko, whom I rely on. And that Fuyuko was Amano’s beloved woman, while I myself had entered Amano’s residence through Fuyuko’s arrangements and was studying through Amano’s patronage. And I must commit falsehoods toward Amano’s wife and son at the residence by feigning complete ignorance of Fuyuko’s existence, while also resolving to grow close to them with the determination to spend my entire life alongside them. A doubt surged in my heart like a black cloud—could I myself perform such a theatrical act of intertwining complex falsehoods and truth? He looked up at Fuyuko in a perplexed manner. Fuyuko’s eyes were moist and filled with tears. He lowered his head and fell silent. Fuyuko also fell silent. The silence began to feel terrifying to the two of them. I couldn't help but feel we had ventured too far down a dangerous and perilous path. However, it was a fate from which there was no turning back. Whether for good or ill, there is no path for us but to press onward. At this moment, he recalled his mother’s "secret admonition" when leaving Kanazawa.

Mother said. “Your ancestors were the Ushino family—wealthy landowners from Ōkawa Village who left Kanazawa.” “They were destroyed during my brother’s time.” “Your father too passed away when you were young—a man who always wished to work for others, yet died before fulfilling this.” “Raised solely by my hands alone, you are what society calls a ‘mother-raised child’ and ‘pauper’s son.’” “You bear the duty to show the world that the will of our fallen Ushino family, your departed father, and this O-Hikari who has devoted her life to you can overcome poverty and adversity—even for a pauper’s child. And mark this: while keeping these truths rooted in your spirit, you must never reveal at Amano’s household that your mother’s birthplace was the Ushino family of Ōkawa Village.” “All must believe your mother was born in Kanazawa.” “Your father must be said to hail from mountain country.” “Anchor these two deceptions in your heart, study with all your might, and your mother will stake her very life praying you become the ‘true politician’ you always speak of—”

Now layered upon these "mother's admonitions" was "Fuyuko's admonition." I who must bear strata of secrets and strata of "invisible fate's" burden to keep living. Heiichiro couldn't help but sink into gloom. A desolate sensation—as though wandering lost through lightless void—welled up within him. Though to be sure, beneath this very "uncertainty" lay a deep-rooted radiance—

“Master’s efforts are already nothing short of extraordinary.” “Since Master has gone so far as to personally find a school for you, Heiichiro-san, even if you face hardships there, I trust you’ll endure them patiently.” “Those of us not born into proper families must inevitably swallow bitter tears and endure in silence at least once.” “That brings such hardship.” “There are pains worse than death.” “While enduring that silence—Heiichiro-san—isn’t it through such trials that human bones are tempered?” “You see—even for me—though nearly ten years have passed since I first knew sorrow—there still isn’t a night when I don’t weep.” “Truly, I can’t help envying you.” “Isn’t being born male life’s greatest honor?” “Endure this painful trial buried in earth for just a while longer—then when your time comes—couldn’t you live radiantly facing all creation? Now truly—Heiichiro-san—become a great politician and save those who’d otherwise endure lives of bitter poverty like ours.”

Fuyuko’s eyes were brimming with tears. Each word spoken in a low voice was imbued with the sorrow of her lifetime. Heiichiro sensed a sublime beauty in Fuyuko. It was rare for Fuyuko to show this beauty. That is the highest beauty of humanity. Heiichiro accepted the latent passion within Fuyuko with his entire being. The dark doubts were dispelled, and the youth’s pure passion began to overflow, radiating a white light from within. Ah, what is there to fear? Can terrifying things truly exist in this world? I will protect my mother and father’s secret. I hold Fuyuko in the depths of my soul. I will deepen my respect and affection for Mr. Amano. I will interact with Mr. Amano’s wife and children with pure sincerity. And so I will study with all my might. What terrifies me is that even as I study, I might forget to engage in substantial learning. What terrifies me is that after maturing, I might lose the aspiration to become a great politician who truly saves humanity. I cannot help but do so. Ah, no matter what it takes, I must eradicate the unfortunate people from this earth—I want to see the joyful faces of those who exert themselves for my sake, those who love me: Mother, Fuyuko, Wakako, and Fukai. Furthermore, I want to say to myself that it was truly worth being born. It is I who have come this far.

(I will remain pure and honest and give my all wholeheartedly.) Heiichiro resolved silently while thinking.

“Let’s stop this kind of talk now.” “Since you must already understand everything.” “Even if you’re exhausted tonight, please endure it a little longer.” “You ought to meet Master and speak with him.” “After sightseeing here for two or three days, you should have Mr. Okuyama escort you to the Takanawa residence.—What could be keeping Tama?” “She’s terribly late.”

Stillness pressed in on the two who remained silent. This was the first time Heiichiro had been narrated to by Fuyuko in such a profoundly penetrating manner. He felt that the “adult and child” barrier that had existed between him and Fuyuko had completely disappeared. It was neither a feeling toward his mother nor a feeling toward Wakako, but a feeling that combined Wakako and his mother into one.

At that moment, near the three-tatami closet at the entranceway, there came a sound of repeated knocking on the door. “Mistress, I’m terribly sorry, but could you please open this for me?” A voice called out, “Mistress”—Tama’s voice. Fuyuko stood up and, while saying “Did you come from the front?,” pulled open the three-foot door that resembled a closet in the corner of the three-tatami room, whereupon Tama emerged with “My apologies.” “It’s a hidden passage, you see, Heiichiro-san—that leads to Master’s villa,” Fuyuko said with a laugh. Tama, her fair-skinned cheeks taut as apples, heavily set down a large duck soba bowl there. Fuyuko offered a serving to Tama as well, and to Heiichiro too. When Heiichiro finished his second bowl of soba, a well-mannered woman over fifty appeared from the “secret path” between Fuyuko’s hideaway and Amano’s villa. She removed her shoulder sash, properly placed her hands on the floor, and sat down.

“Welcome back, Mistress.” “This is Mr. Heiichiro.” “You’ve come at last.” “Since he’s come from the countryside for the first time, Auntie, please look after him again.” O-Yoshi, a narrow-eyed, kind-hearted true Edokko, had been living in this villa together with Tasuke, who had been an office attendant at the company. The maid Tama was the only daughter born between O-Yoshi and Tasuke. This was something Heiichiro would later learn.

“Hasn’t Master returned yet?” “Yes. Earlier he called to say he might be late tonight, so he told us to prepare the bath. Tasuke had been adjusting the water temperature and waiting since then, but it seems he still hasn’t arrived.” “In that case, Mistress, how would it be if you were to take the first bath?” “I don’t mind, but—” Fuyuko looked at Heiichiro. She thought of letting him go first. But she didn’t say it. Heiichiro understood. The four of them began passing time with idle chatter centered around him. Fuyuko’s covert efforts to make Aunt O-Yoshi think well of Heiichiro; the growing favor of that pure Edo-born aunt with her graceful disposition; Tama’s smiles and coy, fleeting glances acknowledging him as a promising young man—these at times made him feel ashamed, at times pleased him, at times left him ticklish. And beneath it all flowed the unceasing loneliness of being far from home.

Even after ten o'clock passed and it became eleven, Amano did not return. Through this, Heiichiro became aware that Fuyuko had begun to be tormented by an indescribable anxiety. To sense this anxiety of Fuyuko’s was shameful and then "pitiable." Moreover, the kind of sympathy and comfort that O-Yoshi and Tama showed toward Fuyuko felt more painful and humiliating to Heiichiro than hostility.

“Perhaps Master has stopped by somewhere else?”

“I suppose so,” Fuyuko answered quietly. Then she said to O-Yoshi, “The bedding set should be ready.” “Yes, it’s prepared.” “Since it’s late tonight, I think we should let Heiichiro-san retire first.—Tama, won’t you go lay out the futon upstairs?” “That would be best,” Tama replied and opened the sliding door resembling a closet in the tearoom. There was a staircase leading to the second floor. Heiichiro felt the “pitiable” nature of it all anew—how every structural detail of Fuyuko’s house seemed imbued with secrecy.

(Do they have to go to such lengths just to survive?!) "The bedding has been laid out." “Well then, Heiichiro-san, you should get a good rest tonight.” “Let’s have you meet Master tomorrow morning.” “Yes, then good night.” “Good night.” Guided by Tama up the narrow staircase, Heiichiro found himself before a newly constructed ten-tatami room with crimson walls, complete with a tokonoma alcove and built-in closet. From the tokonoma ornaments, the room’s architectural details, and the opulent taste evident throughout, it could be inferred that this was a room built without sparing any expense. Tama said, "Good night."

“Is this room not normally used?” Heiichiro ventured to ask. “This is where Master and Mistress have their Sunday afternoon conversations.” “Fuyuko-neesan—” Heiichiro began, then hastily corrected himself, “Does the Mistress always sleep here?” Tama smiled brightly and replied, “On days when Master doesn’t come, she stays here.” “When Master is present at night, she stays on the second floor of that mansion I emerged from earlier. Now you understand, don’t you?”

“Good night,” Tama said once more and went downstairs. Heiichiro stripped down to his shirt and slipped into the silk futon. A sweet, luscious fragrance of spices wafted up from within the futon. He turned off the electric light. From far away, something like the sound of a tram could be heard. He recalled his mother. At their parting, the sad tears from when that train had started moving were granted to him once more. Shedding tears, if only for a brief moment, he could not help but feel that Fuyuko’s “life as a mistress” was one of suffering. (Does Amano truly love Fuyuko? Is Fuyuko truly happy? ...She doesn’t seem happy at all!)

In the early spring morning, Heiichiro awoke. He reached out unconsciously, seeking his mother, seeking the maternal love that would rouse his fussing only-child self, but there was no response. The faint early spring light shining through the windowpane dimly illuminated him. Heiichiro’s soul opened its eyes, startled by the void. (Ah, I have already left my mother and come on this distant journey.) He felt his entire body stirred by a kind of tension, inspiration, and loneliness.

“Heiichiro-san, are you already awake?” Tama came. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” While Heiichiro was changing into his kimono, Tama had already put away the futon. Downstairs, Fuyuko was not visible. Tama brought out the meal tray and served Heiichiro breakfast. In the small kitchen’s gas pot, miso soup was boiling. He slurped down the thick, gloopy miso soup he hated so much. He had just finished breakfast when Tama came to call. Exiting from the “secret path” of the three-tatami room to the corridor beside the villa’s garden, he was led to the drawing room. A single pine tree, its roots buried deep in the garden’s soil, stretched up toward the sun’s warmth as though yearning for it, reaching above the roof. The room was eight-tatami. The adjacent six-tatami space—which had been a front storehouse—was also opened up, and within the opulent abundance of lavish carpets, folding screens, and soft futon bedding, Amano Eisuke lay stretched out comfortably. The imposing grandeur he had once exuded at Kanazawa’s Koryutei was absent now, but his full cheeks, high forehead, and nose—tall and expansive as though commanding both forehead and cheeks—were softened this morning in mouth and eyes, seeming to watch over and tenderly care for the boy who had journeyed from afar. He bowed and found himself wanting to feel “warmth” from this giant—whose hair and cheeks were streaked with sparse white strands—who intended to look after him. Fuyuko was not visible in the room.

“Come closer here.” “Yes,” Heiichiro crossed the threshold and approached him. Tama offered Heiichiro a seat cushion. Heiichiro did not lay it out. Amano lightly said, “Please lay it out.” Since it didn’t seem forced at all and appeared to stem from a genuine intention to treat Heiichiro as Amano’s equal, he laid it out. Then Tama brought tea and sweets and left.

Amano, nearing fifty, and Heiichiro, seventeen, sat in silence facing each other for a while. “You came.” “I’ve come with resolve.” “Didn’t your mother cry?” “No, my mother told me it was best that I leave quickly.” “I see. Ahahaha.” “So you’re going to become a politician when you’re older, eh?”

“Yes.” “So you intend to set the world right that way, do you?” “Yes.” “When I was your age, I too intended to become a top-tier politician. But I only wanted to dominate the world. That’s where we differ. Ahahahahaha.”

“—” Heiichiro had come to feel both a desire to worship Amano and be filled with affection, as well as a mysterious, profound hostility toward him—simultaneously. "I will do everything in my power to help you achieve your ambition." “I will think of you as my own true son.” "However difficult it may prove for you, you must spend your student years at my T District mansion under the formal arrangement of being a live-in student." "I have a wife named Ayako and a son named Otohiko who is one year your senior." “If you truly cherish me, I want you to strive to serve these two dutifully as well—though this is not something I compel.” “Everything shall remain subject to your own free will.” “Well, Heiichiro.”

“Yes.” “Now regarding your schooling—there’s M Academy, where I spent part of my youth during a foolish, dream-like period. It’s liberal, suits your temperament, and is conveniently close to the mansion. But do you have another school in mind?” “No.” “In any case, if you devote all your strength to expressing the ambition you now feel burning within you, I will be satisfied with that. The only thing I want you to keep somewhat in mind is that in the Amano household, besides myself, there are a wife and child.”

“I understand.”

Heiichiro felt a strange tremor course through his entire body. It was a violent collision of light and darkness. At first, he had felt radiant affection—a glow of light and joy—when this solitary giant told him, "I will do everything in my power to help you achieve your ambition," and said, "So you intend to set the world right, do you?" Yet deep within him, he could not ignore those very words of Amano's: "I wanted to dominate the world!" and "If you truly cherish me, I want you to strive to serve them dutifully—". I will look after you. In return, you shall be a slave! Is he not saying this?

“Trying to make me do that—it’s no use!” Heiichiro cried out inwardly. "Save me, Heiichiro-san," Fuyuko’s plea echoed within him. ——Heiichiro fixed his gaze on Amano. “Tama,” Amano summoned. Tama appeared with both hands pressed firmly against the floorboards.

“Can you call Tasuke and Yoshi? And what is Fuyuko still doing in the storehouse?” “The Mistress is searching for the Master’s garments.”

Before long, Tasuke and Yoshi appeared on the veranda. Tasuke was a bald-headed, robust yet refined man in his fifties, and together with the slender Yoshi, they made a good couple. The two bowed their heads to Heiichiro. Heiichiro also said, “Please take care of me.” “Since Heiichiro has come from afar, it will fall to you all to look after him again.” “Oh, there’s no need for the Master to instruct us further,” said Tasuke as he stroked his bald head, his face expressing both deference and genuine emotion. Heiichiro thought that he had now thrown himself into this kingdom of Amano’s, where even Tasuke and Yoshi, Tama, and Fuyuko had come to absolutely trust and obey. In this kingdom, all people lived “for Amano’s sake.” They lived their lives accordingly. Fuyuko opened the rattling storehouse door and came out holding clothes in her hands. She smiled with a hint of loneliness.

“Have you already woken up, Heiichiro-san? Last night, after the Master returned, I went up to the second floor and found you already asleep under the futon, didn’t I?” Everyone laughed quietly.

“It would be good for you to stay here for two or three days, taking in the sights and resting from your fatigue.” Fuyuko spoke half to Heiichiro and half to Eisuke. Eisuke nodded. Fuyuko looked at Heiichiro. That gaze let him know it was time to leave. He bowed politely to everyone and returned along the corridor to Fuyuko’s “hideaway.” He lay sprawled on his back across the entire second-floor tatami room, feeling the distant thunder-like roar of streetcars intersect with faint early spring sunlight. As he lay there, hostility toward Amano arose strangely in his consciousness like the hazy recollection of a dream. He thought of Amano’s benevolence—Amano who claimed to devote his life’s strength—doubted his own heart, and tried to dispel these groundless fancies, but failed. An unfathomable, endless, bitter loneliness seeped out. It was unbearable loneliness. Loneliness that seemed to surge faintly since humanity’s primordial dawn. Heiichiro spent three days at this place that was Amano’s “mistress’s residence” and Fuyuko’s “home,” tasting that loneliness.

Those three days revealed to Heiichiro that Fuyuko’s life was by no means “as he had imagined”—neither happy nor free. She was indeed a “mistress.” Amano had built this villa in a town near his company because it was far from his main residence in Takanawa, staying there every other night. The villa was, in essence, a mistress’s house. Tasuke and his wife had been Amano’s trusted retainers for over a decade—Tasuke once a company janitor, Oyoshi formerly a maid at the Takanawa residence—and while outwardly they collaborated to shield Fuyuko, this very collaboration meant that beneath their courteous and affectionate calls of “Mistress, Mistress,” they persistently enforced strict surveillance and interference as “Amano’s proxies.” Just as Fuyuko likely loved Amano, so too did he probably love her. Yet Amano’s love demanded absolute domination as well. Fuyuko lived like a captured songbird—her needs provided for, yet not free, truly lonely, treated as a “tool.” On nights when Amano stayed away, Heiichiro spoke of Tokyo’s streets seen for the first time, stories of his hometown, and memories of O-Hikari—so lost in nostalgia that he didn’t notice the night growing late. He must have rejoiced to find Fuyuko still beautiful as ever, noble-spirited and dignified yet tinged with loneliness. Both Heiichiro—and Fuyuko too—ached to speak more freely, their thoughts merging as one, yet he couldn’t shake the sense that an “unspoken will” filled the house, forcing a distance between them in their conversations. “Ye are your own slaves! Ye shall be slaves to your own words! Destroy your innate nature and kneel!”—a voice like thunder roared within him. Oyoshi and Tama came and went without purpose. Their watchful eyes gleamed relentlessly. And at the source of that gleam loomed “Amano”!

Ah, such loneliness! Loneliness again! That Fuyuko—once so splendid and beautiful she was called a courtesan—now completely dominated by Amano, a prisoner confined to the "villa"!

“Save me, Heiichiro-san.” Fuyuko’s lament and earnest wish reached Heiichiro’s ears. Heiichiro wondered whether he himself, now about to go to Amano’s residence, might also become a “prisoner.”

"If you can make me your prisoner, then try it! But I alone must never become one!"

On the afternoon of the fourth day, a tall man in his early forties named Okuyama came. He shared the same Kanazawa birthplace as Heiichiro. Fuyuko bowed politely to him with a "How do you do." Okuyama puffed tobacco smoke and offered compliments. Heiichiro found it distasteful to become this unpleasant stranger's "relative" and go to Amano's residence. Yet he reconsidered. "It's all spiritual discipline," he told himself.

No one knew of that "past fate"—how O-Hikari remained alone in Kanazawa, lonely and concealing forty years of her "buried past." Amano did not know. Fuyuko did not know. Ayako—Amano’s wife and O-Hikari’s sister—also did not know, and Heiichiro himself remained unaware. For they were ultimately human, and humans remain ultimately ignorant of their own true fate. Amano had acted for Fuyuko’s sake and because he considered his own son a delinquent unworthy of succession; Fuyuko had acted as “repayment” to O-Hikari, compounded by her own helplessness upon realizing she would never bear children. As for Amano’s wife Ayako—though her thoughts on the matter remained unclear—she likely never knew that the boy now her nephew was in truth the forgotten child of Ookawa Shuntaro, the man she had once adored with a maiden’s whole heart. And Heiichiro too was ignorant of these facts. He possessed nothing but a sacred, solemn, and fervently burning will. That will was one that resonated in all people’s hearts and sought to save all people. It was a will to become me for all people.

Chapter Ten

The early April afternoon carried a gentle warmth that felt almost tender. (To think I must bow my head even once to such people—how bitter.) Through tear-blurred eyes, Heiichiro saw Shinagawa's sea glisten a dark indigo. This stood at Tokyo's remote edge, far removed from its bustling heart. The possessors of "wealth"—those requiring vast private lands and palatial residences—indulged their insatiable appetites upon newly claimed high ground. Under a cloudless cerulean sky, a broad thoroughfare sloped gently between a freshly cleared lot and towering brick walls. In the vacant plot, felled tree trunks and mud-caked roots lay exposed to spring sunlight, while cedar shadows darkened half the space. Swinging his cane, Okuyama told him these woods contained Prince M's estate—the very prince who helped overthrow the Tokugawa shogunate during the Meiji Restoration. At the slope's midpoint, beyond black-painted fences shading Western-style gardens, a crimson brick palace loomed into view. Sunlight glinted clearly on orange damask curtains adorning its spire's windows. Okuyama explained this belonged to imperial family K. The eternal blue sky blazed magnificently overhead. Melancholy washed over Heiichiro. Though its cause eluded him, from the street corner where cedar boughs overhung cement walls surrounding Prince M's estate, a narrow steep path continued leftward into gloom. "Turn here," Okuyama instructed, indicating Viscount O's bamboo-girt villa opposite the prince's domain. Spring's light failed to penetrate this road hemmed by cedars and bamboo, leaving it desolate with cold.

As they climbed the slope, a cloud of pale red cherry blossoms in full bloom appeared beautiful amid the gloomy woods—and Heiichiro intuited, *This is the place*. On the road, cherry blossom petals that had stretched their branches beyond the plank fence lay scattered in white. At the top of the slope, along the street to the right, elegant plank fences continued, and on the large steel gate was affixed a nameplate reading "Amano Eisuke." When entering the side entrance, a path paved with granite ran beneath cherry trees on both sides. Okuyama opened the latticed door beside the entrance and requested to be shown in. The maid came out and said, “Ah, Okuyama-san.”

“Is Madam present?” “Yes, Madam is at home.” “So,” he said, taking off his shoes and leaving Heiichiro behind as if he had forgotten him, heading abruptly into the inner rooms. Heiichiro sat on the well-polished entrance step, feeling an anxiety akin to a sailor gauging the skies. While gazing at the doghouse under the cherry tree visible through the lattice, he came to consider his coming to the capital an irreparable mistake. “Mr. Ookawa, Madam requests your presence.” A flat-faced maid with narrow eyes—in whose depths kindness smiled—had come to summon him, so he followed. In the ten-mat tea room, Okuyama, still in his Western suit, knelt formally and was talking about something. “He is but a boy who hasn’t even graduated middle school yet, you see—”

“Why on earth didn’t you bring him to me sooner?” The voice carried weight, cheerfulness, and a grand resonance.

The moment Heiichiro heard that voice, he sensed a subtle guiding force within his own qualities and involuntarily stepped into the room.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said with a bow. When he looked directly at the lady sitting before the hibachi, he was so shocked—so abruptly and profoundly shocked—that his entire body stiffened, leaving him unable to move. He saw in the lady a woman who was the living image of “Mother O-Hikari”! But that lasted only an instant—it was a profound impression that Heiichiro, with all his might, synthetically assimilated. It was a collation of sorrow’s essence inherent in human life with another essence. He looked at her again, as if doubting himself. And she was no longer “Mother O-Hikari.” She was a magnificent woman utterly unlike O-Hikari—her leisurely stature crowned with abundant black hair; slightly plump, glossy skin and a sturdy, almost masculine frame; eyes as fiercely beautiful as the gleaming edge of a white blade; a nose with crystalline bridge and elegantly rounded tip; full lower lip; gently drooping jaw and cheeks; earlobes through which blood shone with delicate translucence—a magnificent woman. As the great Madam Amano, she shone unashamedly with substantial dignity and grandeur. Though Fuyuko’s beauty carried shadowy loneliness about it, what a magnificent appearance this was! Heiichiro recalled his mother O-Hikari’s emaciated appearance and even felt repulsed by the illusion he had momentarily perceived as “Mother.”

However, it was not only Heiichiro who was shocked. Ah, who could fathom the profound turmoil in Ayako's soul as she too fell silent and stared wide-eyed? To think she would discover in this unexpected Heiichiro the "living image" of the man she had loved and never forgotten through all her days! In the courtyard spring, the sound of scarlet carp leaping made a sharp splash. "So you're Heiichiro-san, eh?"

“Yes, I am Ookawa Heiichiro.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you for the first time.” As he answered, Heiichiro felt an odd obstruction within—the sense that he might be uttering falsehoods. (I feel like we’ve met countless times before)—Ah, from some faint recess of his being that transcended life itself came the thought: It’s been an eternity. “Ookawa…” Ayako murmured softly, her gaze enveloping Heiichiro as if to embrace him. Her blade-like eyes—elongated slits now rounded and luminous—pressed toward him. Complex thoughts glittered like rapids in their depths, coalescing into a single icy current that pierced through Heiichiro.

“I was told your mother is all alone.” She asked Okuyama perfunctorily while staring at Heiichiro. “Yes, a mother and child living alone until now—but being unable to provide proper education, and since I’m acquainted with them, I made this request to the master here—” He’s lying, Heiichiro thought wretchedly, lowering his head. Without really listening, Ayako now turned to question Heiichiro.

“What kind of person is your mother? What is her name?” The extraordinary emotion Ayako showed when he said, “My mother is called Hikari—” was something Heiichiro would never forget in his life. The astonishment that should have burst outward instead invaded inward, rippling ceaselessly through the complex depths of her inner life. Madam concentrated her full power into her blazing eyes and did not allow Heiichiro to move a muscle. And the silence urged him to speak next. He was about to say, “My mother is forty this year—” when his mother’s admonition flashed through him like lightning. It was a critical moment. “My mother is from Kanazawa. My father passed away when I was young, so I have no memories of him whatsoever, but he was apparently born in a port called K, and by all accounts, he was my mother’s adopted son.” He too was trying his hardest. As if making a declaration, he could not help but state it forcefully. He himself was so single-minded that he could think his own words were truths possessing reality. Ayako moved her eyes as if doubting, but then lowered her gaze like someone peering into an abyss from a cliff’s edge and said, “Yes.” And, as if afraid to look at Heiichiro again, she called for the maid, “Kume.” Kume, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old with a round, doll-like face and fair, adorable complexion, knelt in the corridor wearing a white apron and rubbing her hands.

“Is the four-and-a-half mat room beside the entrance that I mentioned earlier ready?” “Yes, it’s completely prepared now.” “Then show Ookawa to his room,” Ayako said with visible strain. In the new four-and-a-half mat room beside the entrance with fresh tatami mats stood a desk by the window, a bookshelf against the wall, even a hat rack prepared at the edge of the transom, while in the corner lay the willow trunk he had sent directly from the station, its ropes still untied. The sasanqua camellias and nandina trees planted in the vacant lot beyond the window swayed translucent in the sunlight. Kume sat down at the desk herself to demonstrate and smiled. “Ookawa-san, we’ve kept everything ready awaiting only your arrival.” She slid open the right-hand shoji door. Beyond the engawa veranda came sunlight streaming across the inner garden’s broad lawn, pale red cherry blossoms blooming amidst evergreen thickets, and small birds chirping. What profound serenity this held. He sat before the desk and sank into the all-pervading stillness. Unlike the external quietude, he clasped tight an “uncanny” sensation mysteriously swelling within him.

“This is quite a nice room. You’re truly fortunate, Ookawa-san—to be allowed to commute to school from a residence like this. And truly, there’s no house as fine as this one. Madam is such a splendid, deeply considerate person, and even the Master is quite admirable. Though the Young Master is somewhat frail and neglects his studies…” Kume spoke animatedly, occasionally using exaggerated expressions just as Tama from Shimotomacho used to do. Heiichiro did not exactly dislike those colorful glances, but for some reason, he could not stop a fragile loneliness from shaking his entire body. (It’s because I left Mother.) (Even if we had no rice to eat tomorrow, as long as I was by Mother’s side, this loneliness could be endured.) And then an inexplicable attachment to Madam Amano welled up within him. He was gazing at the sasanqua leaves by the window with those complex emotions. Kume explained near his ear that he had to clean his room, the corridor, and the front garden every morning after waking up; that he occasionally had to light the bath; and that after returning from school, if there were any visitors, he had to attend to them. Before long, all seven maids in the mansion came one by one to give their introductory greetings. Okuyama repeated “Please take care of him” each time with apparent sincerity.

"What a spineless fool I am! I can't let this happen!" He waved his hands as if warding off evil spirits that assailed him in solitude, untied the cords of the willow trunk, and withdrew his inkstone and pens. Then he began composing his first brief letters from Tokyo - to his mother, to Fukai, to Ozawa. (Ah, I must let Wakako know. She must surely be here in Tokyo!)

Past eight in the evening, Amano returned by automobile. Heiichiro welcomed him together with the maids, but Amano entered deeper inside without even a glance. He grew despondent as he considered that behind this coldness lay Shimotomacho and the existence of the mistress Fuyuko. (I can't let this happen. This really won't do. I can't let this falsehood become entrenched!) he thought in a flash. After thirty minutes had passed, the maid told Heiichiro, "The Master is calling for you." Amano was in this mansion as well, sprawled out leisurely under a blanket in the center of the tearoom, just as he had been at Koryutei in Kanazawa and at the villa in Shimotomacho. Ayako leaned against the brazier and remained silent.

“Did you speak with him?” “Yes, around noon Okuyama came by and made the introductions.” “What about the school?” “That hasn’t been arranged yet.” “Hmm.” Amano looked at Heiichiro and asked, “What year did you complete?” “I’ve finished the fourth year.” “Then M Academy will do—it’s close enough from here. You may go there tomorrow.” He added, “I’ll draft a letter to Tanaka.” Kume, who had been massaging his feet, fetched an inkstone case and scroll paper from the inner chamber. Amano scrawled the letter with rough brushstrokes and laid the sealed envelope before Heiichiro.

“Tomorrow, you should take this and go to M Academy yourself.” “Tanaka is someone I’ve known for some time.” “Yes,” Heiichiro replied, raising his eyes, then started as he felt Ayako’s gaze fixed upon him with fiery intensity. Then Amano glared at him with a piercing, terrifying intensity. A great man and woman. That Amano and Ayako—whom he could indeed call such—were staring at him with such intensity was terrifying. However, when he thought about being able to attend a new, free school starting tomorrow and study, Heiichiro welled up with vivid joy and hope. That pure, vivid emotion held the power to overcome the “inexplicable dark gloom and terror” seething deep within him. He was filled with joy and regained his vigor.

“It’s truly enviable, Ookawa-san. If I were a man, I’d beg to attend school too… Don’t you agree, Madam?” Kume said. “Why, just earlier I remarked how fortunate Ookawa-san is.” “How about you go to a girls’ school instead? Wear proper shoes and go.” “Oh Madam, if I were a man, I would want to go to school. But those schoolgirls—I’d sooner die than become one!” Everyone laughed at Kume’s vehement tone. Heiichiro laughed too. Even as he laughed, he sensed Ayako’s gaze striking him like lightning—swift and piercing. Amano’s quiet composure, brimming with latent power, remained unbroken as he laughed. He entertained the maids with lighthearted jokes. Ayako did likewise. As Kume had declared—“You won’t find another mansion this splendid anywhere”—the couple appeared model masters: benevolent toward their servants while harboring untapped reservoirs of formidable influence. Yet Heiichiro could not ignore how they simultaneously exacted absolute obedience from those same maids. This awareness kindled a vague resentment within him. More disturbingly, through Heiichiro’s unclouded perception, it became evident that Amano and Ayako’s very ability to jest with the servants revealed their personalities not as harmoniously united, but as locked in silent contention.—Within himself, defiance toward Amano already stirred while Ayako’s ardent gaze seemed to envelop his entire being. Being near them grew unbearable. “Then I shall go alone tomorrow,” he announced, tucking Amano’s letter into his breast and turning toward his room. At that moment, someone slid open the shoji screen. A tall young man peered in—clad in a new Oshima tsumugi lined kimono, neither emaciated yet somehow withered overall, with sallow skin and restless eyes that lent him a disreputable air.

“Oh, Young Master, you’ve returned,” Kume said. “I’m home,” he said irritably, sitting down beside the brazier and looking down at Heiichiro. “Who’s this?” Amano and Ayako did not even glance at this young man Otohiko, who should have been their only child, and treated him with cold indifference. “Is this the student who was supposed to come this time?” Otohiko said to Kume. “Yes, this is Ookawa,” Kume replied. “So you’re Ookawa?” His voice was hoarse and rough.

“I am Ookawa.”

“I’m Otohiko, you know.” He laughed hollowly. Heiichiro looked up at this youth, wondering if he was Amano and Ayako’s child. A broad forehead; a nose that stretched, swelled, and spread outward; thick, robust eyebrows—Otohiko too possessed each of Amano’s majestic features. Yet each element remained diminutive, devoid of the abundant vitality welling from within, leaving the whole withered. Observing the dinginess of his weathered skin—fatigued like ancient parchment—and his elderly-like complexion, Heiichiro couldn’t suppress the thought: (Amano’s son ages prematurely).

“Are you going to bed already?” he asked Heiichiro with what seemed like half-hearted curiosity. “No, not yet—” “Well then—Father, shall we play the gramophone?” Otohiko said in a hoarse voice, but Amano merely opened both eyes slightly and did not respond. Otohiko called out loudly, “Oyuki! Oyuki! Bring the gramophone!” summoning the maid from the next room. His face had been wounded by his parents’ coldness and indifference, and was distorted. A maid named Oyuki, her face covered in pimples, brought the gramophone. Otohiko said while attaching the needle, “Why don’t you all come here and listen?” Before long, the gramophone began playing its comically vulgar, irresistibly laughable song titled *“Behind the Field—”* in that single room on a spring night. An unbearable, carnal burst of laughter erupted from the maids in the next room. Ayako said reluctantly, “Come over here, everyone.” The women, who had been itching to come since earlier, entered the tearoom guffawing as if laughter were their ticket in. As Otohiko’s presence became obscured by the five maids and the gramophone’s voice, Amano and Ayako occasionally amused everyone with light humor.

“Otohiko, next you should play Tsubosaka,” Amano also said, “as one of the crowd.” Amano was addressing Otohiko. However, Ayako ultimately did not so much as glance at Otohiko.

Heiichiro returned to his room midway through. He spread out the new futon his mother had laundered for his move to Tokyo and burrowed into it. From the tearoom came alternating waves of the women's exclamations and raucous laughter with the gramophone's high-pitched raw voice. He could not sleep. He could not even pray. As he was about to fall asleep, he heard the women's apparently cheerful laughter, but found himself unable to accept it as simple mirth. The laughter became small waves surging across a great sea's surface. In those ripples' deepest reaches likely lurked an infinitely profound ocean. To Heiichiro, that sea's mystery and depth and terror pressed upon him physically. Tears began seeping into his heightened nerves. Mother, Fuyuko, Wakako, Fukai, Amano, Ayako, Otohiko—ah, how lonely I am, he thought.

The next morning, Heiichiro went to M Academy. Instead of prison-like wooden fences, thorns formed a natural hedge. The gate hung loose on its hinges, while poplar trees that had grown wild swayed by its side in the gentle breeze. To the right stood a new red-brick hall - its deep crimson spire piercing the blue sky, marble pillars radiating solid grandeur, sunlight shimmering through stained glass windows. To the left of the gently sloping road extending from the gate, the land rose into a rounded hilltop swathed in lush grass where a tennis court lay. A lone blonde girl in floral-patterned clothes competed with a student-like youth, rackets in hand.

“Never! Only oneError!” Heiichiro heard the Western girl’s flushed, unmediated voice. Beyond the lawn stood three Western-style mansions encircled by hedges of thorns, evergreens and poplars. When he climbed the slope’s crest, a tall pale aqua three-storied building labeled “Higher Division” rose on his right. Behind it spread a deep oak forest, while before it lay lawns where cherry blossoms bloomed riotously – beyond which appeared a new two-storied building in faded ochre.

A bearded man in a black gown who looked gentle crossed the athletic field and walked toward Heiichiro. Heiichiro bowed and asked, “Excuse me, could you tell me where the Regular Division is?”

“What brings you here?” “It’s regarding a certain Mr. Tanaka—” “Ah, I am Tanaka,” he said with a cheerful smile. “I consulted Mr. Amano,” Heiichiro said as he handed over the letter. Tanaka, who was holding what appeared to be a thick Western book while reading the letter, boomed, “I see.” “You’ve completed four years, I see.”

“Yes.” “Then I’ll arrange to have a certificate sent to your former school from my office. Classes start on the tenth of this month, so do come.” He spoke casually yet kindly. “Will this settle everything?” “Yes, that’s quite alright. You must prepare your textbooks by the tenth or you’ll face difficulties later. —Please convey my regards to Mr. Amano.” “Ah, so you’re Ookawa-kun under Mr. Amano’s patronage.”

Tanaka bowed politely and entered the Higher Division building. Heiichiro basked awhile in the radiant morning light, gazed in admiration at the scenery of this new world that opened before him, and was filled with the joy of knowing he could live in this world.

The dawning of youthful life... From the direction of the tennis court came the sound of a Western girl and students singing in chorus. Thus did he begin attending as a fifth-year student in the Regular Division of Christian-based M Academy on April tenth.

The mysterious, deep-rooted afflictions surrounding Heiichiro were too feeble against his youthful vitality. Even when the heavy burden of fate and its unfathomable mysteries—lying in wait since before his earthly existence—sought to drag him into gloom, he possessed the strength to resist them. He overcame the oppressive weight of his entrenched circumstances and strove to master the dark anxieties and confusion that surged without cause. Before him awaited a new school life. In battling the annihilating forces from within and without that threatened to overwhelm him at every turn, this proved vital for nurturing his calling. Had there been no school, he might have perished.

The reason he could never bring himself to attend middle school in Kanazawa was that he saw through how "education" and "educators" sought to suppress and stifle the natural talents welling up within him. He did not consciously realize it at that time, of course. But in a place deeper than his consciousness, there existed something that would rather desire "no education" than an education that killed his innate talents. What he sought was the "true freedom" to be able to say he loved the girl he truly loved. (Ah, "true freedom"!) True freedom that manifests the potential of endowed power upon the earth and brings it to fruition! True freedom, the source of all humanity's greatness! (It was this that I desired.) For others, this might often have been a mistake, or perhaps could have become a mask for other base, immoral desires. Yet for Heiichiro, it was truth—like a sprout lying dormant in the earth craving moisture, like young leaves thirsting for the sun's light and warmth—an unconditional demand, a "natural decree." (Ah, I thirst for the sun of true freedom!) Had the culture of this earth progressed further and human thought advanced more, it would have been Heiichiro's destruction that need not have occurred. Or perhaps this was Heiichiro's struggle in pursuit of such human life.

Around six in the morning, he would wake up. If he didn’t wake up on his own and was sleeping in, Kume would quietly rouse him. He would put away his futon and immediately slide open all the long veranda’s storm shutters. Each time he slid one open came the exhilaration of sunlight gushing in to bathe him. When he finished opening the storm shutters downstairs, he would then open those on the second floor as well. From the second floor stretched a corridor leading to the Western-style building behind the mansion. He would open those windows too. The morning view through the Western building’s windows defied description— past clouds of cherry blossoms within the estate grounds, a Takanawa hill swathed in morning mist stretched into view, while beyond the houses lay Shinagawa Bay’s pale yellow waters. Then the majesty of golden spring light breaking through the haze! On mornings when late nights left him unbearably drowsy, he sometimes dozed for twenty minutes on the guest room sofa, savoring its cushions’ resilience. Next came cleaning his room and dry-mopping the hallway— a task he detested above all others. His careless work inevitably drew scoldings from O-Toshi, the head maid over thirty with thinning hair and disheveled sidelocks. Yet sweeping the granite-paved gate area in the front garden became his one pleasure— that refreshment after clearing away pale cherry petals from damp soil and stone, then sprinkling water. On his first morning there, as he leaned on a bamboo broom like a staff gazing up at roadside cherry trees, warmth bloomed at his leg— Pochi, the house dog, greeting this newcomer with a kiss. The chestnut-furred dog—white-spotted and plump, with lush ears and humanly expressive eyes—licked his leg before pressing its bushy head against his ankle. He accepted this unexpected affection from the adorable creature and patted its head.

His final morning task was mixing yesterday’s leftover rice with beef broth for Pochi. He and Pochi had grown close. On good days he ate with the maids, but usually hurriedly devoured cold rice leftovers—the same given to Pochi—topped with undercooked miso soup in a four-mat corner room beside Count Ō’s bamboo grove near the kitchen. He detested the maids’ scowls but never complained about the poor food. School started at eight. Otohiko attending Keio University would already depart during his meal. Heiichiro rushed out wearing Otohiko’s hand-me-down navy serge suit refitted with M Academy buttons and new shoes. As he left, Kume bid him farewell with a respectful “Safe travels.” Exiting through the gate’s left slope led past Duke M’s residence, but he turned right instead—circling Count O’s dense woods until reaching Prince K’s enkianthus-lined palace avenue. Walking this mansion-studded street stirred unease: *Is this truly right?* His mind dwelled on his mother, Harufurou brothel, and *Sokushio* comrades. Each encounter with schoolgirl clusters made him glance back—half-expecting Wakako among them. Some resembled her so acutely he nearly cried “Wakako-san?” before remembering married women don’t attend school—leaving him hollow. Descending the academy slope brought cheerful “Good mornings” from strangers who shouldn’t know him. This gladdened Heiichiro. (Still friendless, mornings found him sitting on dew-damp grass beside classrooms or wandering commemorative trees before high schoolers playing catch—eyes alight with yearning camaraderie—awaiting that beloved bell.) (True spiritual power eludes me... Yet undeniably blessed with youthful warmth.) Ah! Even as he critiqued thus—that bell’s chime trembling through crisp dawn air remained unforgettable. No hurried clangor this— But nostalgic warmth kindling joy in listeners’ hearts.

It was a bell’s toll that compelled one to gather. As the bell tolled, people entered their classrooms one by one. Heiichiro’s classroom was at the eastern end of the lower floor; beyond the wide athletic field visible from its windows stood the theology department’s subdued crimson Greek-style building, and it was a room with a clear-hearted atmosphere. To Heiichiro, it felt almost too lighthearted, but he didn’t mind. The joy he felt while receiving instruction was the “youth” that overflowed within this school. Many of the teachers were young men who had just graduated from university and remained in Tokyo to pursue further studies. Mr. O, the mathematics teacher, was currently creating a paper on the significance of the philosophical foundations of mathematics—unprecedented in Japan—and he was also a musical talent who usually played the piano at the church. Mr. M, the Western history teacher—not yet an official Bachelor of Letters as he couldn’t graduate until July—with his young master-like mischievousness, would often perch on the desk next to Heiichiro’s,

“You need not memorize the deeds of boring men.” “However, if you don’t understand Alexander the Great’s true ideals, you’re hopeless!” he had no qualms about filling an entire hour with talk of Alexander. Mr. E, a teacher who looked no more than twenty-two or three, was lecturing on English grammar while, “How much credibility my words hold is questionable.” “Since I’ll be going to America this autumn, once I return, I might be able to speak a bit more of the truth,” he said. He was a young man who had just graduated from Doshisha University in Kyoto. They didn’t seem to carry themselves like proper teachers at all. They seemed like they had just left school themselves yesterday. For Heiichiro, that was a source of joy. Among those middle-aged or older, it was people like Mr. Tanaka—the school steward who taught the Bible; Mr. K from Kumamoto’s samurai lineage, also a steward who taught Chinese classics; the gentle elderly calligraphy teacher who single-handedly managed a Christian elementary school; and Mr. F, the aged Western-style painter who wore faded velvet clothing from his youth spent studying in France—who taught Heiichiro. They were cheerful optimists.

But what left a deeper impression on Heiichiro were "worship" and "the Bible lectures." Crossing through the oak grove behind the High School Department, passing through the dim basement of the new chapel and ascending the stairs, one emerged into the chapel's interior—made solemn by towering hills, reflections from orange, purple, blue, and crimson stained-glass windows, and imposing marble columns. The altar, the piano below the platform, and the large Bible on the dais created a solemn tension. The students quietly occupied their chairs. Teachers wearing black gowns gathered. Six or seven Western teachers also assembled. When the hushed silence had settled, a beautiful Western woman with golden curls emerged from the basement—dressed in floral-patterned light attire—and took her seat at the piano. Mr. O, whose pale forehead and clear eyes gave an inescapably scholarly impression, lifted a white baton and murmured, "Hymn number—." Guided by the piano's accompaniment and the baton's undulations, teachers and students alike listened to the grand symphony they collectively created, singing without pause. This did not strike Heiichiro as religious fervor. Yet it resembled artistic rapture. While he observed the saccharine euphoria filling the chapel, he himself felt no desire to succumb to its intoxication.

(Feminine and optimistic—this joy felt too shallow and insubstantial for me!) Let all praise Heiichiro's spirit that thought thus, utterly and completely! Praise be! And the chorus resounded with praise. (At any rate, it was certainly a good thing— teachers and students, foreigners and locals, men and women all singing together in harmonious joy! Only this togetherness felt too shallow...)

On many days, by the time he finished school and returned to Amano’s residence, dusk had already fallen. Heiichiro rarely met Amano or Ayako. From morning until late afternoon he was at school, and at night he would shut himself in his room to study. If there was any business, Kume would relay it. Not meeting the two—that was good for Heiichiro. Whenever he met Amano and physically felt Amano’s power, it made Heiichiro recall Fuyuko and O-Hikari, inevitably filling him with a bottomless, dreadful hatred toward Amano—who should have been his benefactor—and whenever he encountered Ayako, he could not help but feel a terror as though being dragged into some abyss. The mingled emotions he felt toward O-Hikari, Fuyuko, and Wakako—this amalgam of sentiments—tormented Heiichiro, for he felt not the slightest sense that she was his benefactor’s wife. Yet when he was alone without meeting these two, Heiichiro was indeed a young man burning with purpose. In an ordinary and uneventful manner, he had thus already welcomed July.

On a day in early July, the school held a lecture by Mr. A—an American who stood as a foremost figure in the global Christian community—for all students of the High School Department and fifth-year students of the Ordinary Department, conducted in the student assembly hall on the upper floor of the High School Department.

That day’s fifth period was gymnastics class. Tokyo’s July blazed with a crimson sun and fiery sky—an oppressive world where all things gasped with vitality pulsed through his sweat-drenched flesh from exertion. With Mr. A’s lecture scheduled in the assembly hall during sixth period, he reluctantly followed his classmates into the third-floor grand hall and took a seat near the window. From there stretched a view of athletic fields, school buildings, and blue sky, while a summer breeze cooled flushed cheeks. At first, blood pounding fiercely through his veins made everything seem ablaze—even sounds reached him distorted—but as his pulse steadied, he noticed the deepening hush around him. He scanned his surroundings. About two hundred High School Department students and fifth-years sat in disciplined silence. Then the door opened to admit Mr. K—the gaunt, long-haired English department head and church elder in black academic robes, his small eyes sunken deep in their sockets. Behind him lumbered an imposing American—tall, portly, striding with unceremonious vigor. The two mounted the podium. They stood motionless in prolonged silence. As Mr. A mopped his florid face with a handkerchief and adjusted his pince-nez—skin glistening with robust health—Mr. K’s sunken eyes blinked rapidly until he could endure no longer and—

“My dear young gentle-men! I am very glad to have an opportunity to speak my thought of our Christ...” he began. It was a terrifying voice. It was a voice overflowing with vigor. The voice was so loud that the glass throughout the room quivered violently. The words of that booming voice were interpreted into Japanese by Mr. K’s feeble, parched-sounding voice.

“Jesus Christ was not a scholar.” “Jesus Christ was not a minister in positions of national importance, nor a military officer.” “Of course, he was neither noble nor wealthy.” “He was merely a poor youth—without status or treasures, truly earthly, possessing nothing worthy of pride in material wealth.” “The child of a Jewish carpenter.” “Yes, he was truly the carpenter’s son.” It was when he finally reached thirty years of age—after long wanderings and anguished journeys—that he attained full awareness and conviction of being God’s Son within himself, completed his faith in humanity’s salvation and the Kingdom of God, could no longer remain still, and—filled with a spirit like flames erupting from the earth—could not help but proclaim, “The Kingdom of God is at hand.” Even were we to substitute our (Our American) experience for that inner exaltation and fulfillment of Jesus Christ at that time, his entire body would spew flames, and the whole world would blaze white-hot with illumination. Yet such solemn inner life and power of Jesus Christ went unfelt by many people of that era. To most, he appeared as nothing but a single downcast man or delinquent youth—the poor carpenter’s son who had passed his younger days without steady occupation. At first they denounced him as a madman. Yet how profoundly did his teachings—steeped in tears yet valiant—bestow subtle power upon those ceaselessly yearning hearts: fresh spirits, youthful minds untainted by worldly dross, or polished souls moistened by sorrow’s tears—youths, those weeping in poverty, people tormented by illness—all drawn to his ethereal nature as one who believed himself God’s chosen Son, Truth’s very embodiment, submitting to the truth he proclaimed. Truly did the lame rise and walk, lepers become whole, the blind gain sight. This was no miracle. It was natural beyond measure—so obvious as to need no remark. When I contemplate the joy of Jesus Christ—that youthful embodiment of truth transcending life and death—rather than the joy of sight restored to the blind, I cannot help but weep. Yet at that time, Christ’s way of life proved incomprehensible to Judea’s politicians and scholars. ‘Was he not merely a carpenter’s son?’ ‘A wandering delinquent youth who scarcely ate?’ Yet this fellow spouted lunatic ravings while wielding mysterious power that compelled multitudes—youths, women, even occasional dignitaries—to convert, utterly transforming their characters.

At first, they left him alone. However, Christ’s power had taken root among the people to such an extent that they could no longer leave him unchecked. Above all, the prophecies of ancient Jewish prophets had compelled people to believe him to be the Messiah. “The splendor of Solomon does not compare to a single lily flower.” They deemed those words dangerous before ever tasting their profound beauty and truth. At that time, Christ had twelve disciples who remained constantly at his side. They were all promising youths of pure character. No one could have imagined that one of those twelve exemplary disciples would attempt to betray Christ to the authorities. “I believe Jesus’s greatness lies precisely in being sold out by his beloved disciple—but regardless, Jesus was betrayed by Judas for a few pieces of silver.” Before this, at what would become the sorrowful Last Supper with his disciples, Jesus declared that one among them would betray him, and prophesied that a certain disciple would deny knowing him three times before the rooster crowed. Jesus had already known of his impending death. When Jesus was dragged away by that nation’s officials, followed by surging crowds from that same land, and the judge asked what should be done with him, the masses endlessly cried out, “Crucify him!” “What sorrowful ignorance!” “The tragedy of human blindness from two millennia past remains unbroken to this day.” Jesus was sentenced to death by the very people he loved—those he believed he had been sent to save. For their sake—for the sake of humanity’s sin in demanding that execution—he burned with resolve to atone through his own flesh for all mankind’s profound transgressions, seeking to reveal truth’s imminent arrival. It was a death of solemn gravity. Moreover, he died a condemned prisoner. A delinquent youth who led astray impoverished hearts. How those crowds must have rejoiced—the scholars and politicians who condemned him—at this troublesome convict’s demise.

“First, they must have thought their pillows were high with this,” “Yet the faith of Christ—who dwelt in lonely solitude throughout his life as God’s chosen vessel—remained truth living in all human hearts.” “The Jewish nation fell.” “Those politicians, scholars, and crowds who condemned Christ to death have now utterly perished.” “But even now, that anguished cry he uttered while nailed to the cross—blood dripping from mortal flesh, ‘Oh God, have you forsaken me?’—lives on with power to bring tears to every being called human.” “The heart of Jesus ascending that cross—a single-minded belief in humanity’s eternal future mingled with tears of sorrowful parting.” “When we contemplate Christ’s solemn, lonely life, what we feel is loneliness… helplessness… pity… frustration… and finally, a faith like fire.” “The faith that we may hope for God’s Kingdom on earth—nay, that it is even now being realized.” “And thus, America alone is the nation of this faith!”

From the massive physique—massive lungs, massive trachea, massive tongue—spewed forth great eloquence, which Mr. K passionately interpreted. It was solemn. Heiichiro profoundly felt within himself the vitality of a young man who had lived in the fields of Judea two thousand years prior. He could not hold back the ceaselessly flowing tears. Then the repeated words—“That nation of faith is America alone!”—resounded like thunder.

"Why must it be only America?" "Exactly—why must it be America?" As this torrent of criticism surged within him, Heiichiro—wiping sweat while confronting that enormous fleshy body that devoured blood-dripping beef at every meal—found Mr. A's preaching about "the poor carpenter Christ" utterly discordant and absurd. Gold-rimmed pince-nez; the gold watch he had just displayed; the gold ring on his thick finger! ("Oh you hypocrite!") The spirit that had stirred Christ two thousand years prior made Heiichiro rise upright.

“Mr. K!”

“What is it?” Mr. K glared sharply at Heiichiro. At Heiichiro’s abrupt rising, the entire assembly fell silent and fixed their eyes upon him.

“I have a question.”

“Wait until later.”

“No, letting Mr. A speak any further would be blasphemy against Christ!”

“——” “Why must only America believe in Christ’s spirit, humanity’s true culture, and the realization of God’s Kingdom? I cannot comprehend this.” “Here now stands I, Ookawa Heiichiro—a Japanese man—who has wept at the truth of Christ’s life. I cannot help but believe that the Kingdom of God Christ envisioned will be realized on earth.” “And I am Japanese.” “I wish to believe Japan shall realize God’s Kingdom.” “To declare America alone capable proves America fails to uphold Christ’s spirit!” “Preaching Christ’s life while adorned in gilded ornaments is sheer presumption.” “Rather than lecture, I would cry out: ‘Give that golden ring of yours sincerely to the poor!’”

Heiichiro shuddered as he glared at Mr. A's blue eyes upon the podium. His entire spirit blazed up in unison with the cosmos. At this moment, he felt an "authority" devoid of dread permeating his entire being. Initially, people fell silent at the abruptness, but soon they all began clamoring in unison. Being young, they found themselves utterly overwhelmed by Heiichiro's tragically heroic bearing.

At dusk, Heiichiro returned to Amano’s residence bearing a heart steeped in desolate loneliness. He sat thunderstruck with dejection. He had “vanquished” a world-renowned Christian. Though victorious, when he asked himself on the schoolward path where exactly he was returning to now, anguish gripped him. To Amano! Ah—Mr. A’s golden ring! Hypocrite! Yet wasn’t this self that could shout such things an even baser hypocrite? That he accepted Amano’s patronage already gnawed at his conscience—and now Fuyuko’s presence! Mother’s admonition! Clutching a godforsaken heart barren of conviction, Heiichiro shut himself in his room without supper. A tormenting maelstrom churned within him.

You must not accept Amano’s patronage! You must confess all facts to the Amano couple—about Fuyuko and O-Hikari as well—with complete honesty! First, purify yourself! After having purified yourself, then may you fulfill your mission!

"I can’t… I can’t do that—" (Wouldn’t doing that destroy Fuyuko, Mother, Amano, and myself?!)

Heiichiro cradled his head in his hands at the desk and writhed in agony.

“Ookawa, you here?” came a hoarse voice as Otohiko entered. Heiichiro merely turned around without any intention of replying. Instinctive disgust surged over him. “Why aren’t you eating?” “I’m feeling a bit unwell.” While scrutinizing Heiichiro’s face as he answered, Otohiko suddenly remarked with a spiteful expression, “You really do resemble my mother.” “I see,” Heiichiro replied. He was in no condition for that.

“You look pale,” said Otohiko with feigned concern. “Let’s go cool off at the rooftop plaza of the Western annex. Come on, Ookawa!” He dragged Heiichiro to the Western annex. They climbed a pitch-dark narrow spiral staircase and emerged onto the rooftop. A deep indigo summer night sky stretched above them. Stars glimmered coldly through wisps of cloud. The chill night wind carried whispers from Tokyo’s veiled cityscape below—its lights burning crimson through the mist like humanity’s collective longing, enveloping all sorrows, sufferings, and fleeting joys within night’s embrace.

“That black indigo over there is the Pacific,” said Otohiko. “I just want the old man to die soon.” “Then this mansion, this house, all the money—everything will be exactly as I want!” As Heiichiro gazed at the crimson city lights burning in the sky, lonely tears welled up in him. “Then I could keep any woman I like too.—Ookawa, I know damn well you came here because of Father’s mistress!”

“Excuse me!” “I don’t have time for this!” Heiichiro ran down from the rooftop like a madman, scurried through the corridor into his room, and slammed the sliding door shut with a bang.

Ah, what should I do? (Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head)—the hot tears could no longer be restrained. Ah, this emotion, this truth—this cannot be mine alone. These tears of mine must be the tears of all people. I must not cry over my own loneliness. Ah, I don’t care what becomes of me. I pray to fight for the tears of all people that now press urgently upon me! Ah, could I not make the faces drenched in the sorrowful tears of all people shine with newfound joy? My life is a lifetime solely for that purpose, and my mission is nothing other than that! Ah, if this great wish requires my very life, then I will even die when the time comes!

“That Which Lurks Beneath” End