Pathway to Japanese Literature

And none to comfort them. Thus —Ecclesiastes

Thus — Ecclesiastes

Chapter One When Heiichiro Oogawahira returned home late from school, his mother Hikari was not there. On the long brazier in the four-and-a-half-mat room at the top of the stairs lay a short note addressed to him, as was customary when she was away. “Today I’m going to Big Sister Fuyuko’s place.” “I’ll be back by dinnertime, so please eat by yourself and look after the house.” “Mother” Heiichiro felt slightly resentful that his mother had gone out alone without waiting for his return home, but more than anything, he was hungry. He pushed aside the white cloth covering the tray and could not help but shovel rice into his mouth alongside the simmered lotus root. And once he had stuffed himself with four or five bowls and his stomach was full, today’s incident on his way home from school began to resurface in his mind. Today was Saturday, and school was to let out in the morning. As the class president, he quickly finished overseeing the cleaning duty and hurried along the path beneath the rows of cherry trees toward the school gate when he heard someone arguing at the entrance. As he drew closer, he saw Nagata—the enormous-bodied, first-dan judo practitioner who had failed twice (he normally treated the school as if it were his personal domain)—threatening the handsome Fukai, demanding he become the “Childish One.”

“Listen here, Fukai,” Nagata said, trying to grab Fukai’s elbow.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Fukai flushed a beautiful crimson as he shook him off. “Hey, Fukai, if you don’t listen to me, this ain’t gonna end well.” Fukai struck Nagata’s extended, muscular arm with a resounding smack. And so the grappling began. Of course, Fukai was no match for Nagata. When he saw Fukai pinned down on the roadside grass, tears welling in his softly swollen eyes, Heiichiro could not help but sympathize with the boy’s brave courage. He threw down the bag he had been carrying and suddenly struck Nagata’s cheek from behind.

“Who’s there?!” “It’s me!” When Nagata turned around and saw that it was Heiichiro Oogawahira, he seemed slightly taken aback. Even Nagata, who was among those prone to physical strength, harbored a cowardly heart in the face of authority. And this was because he fully knew that Heiichiro was at least the class president. As he flinched, Heiichiro Oogawahira landed another punch near his ear. “Let Fukai go!” “Hngh...” And so Nagata loosened his grip and stood up.

“So it’s Oogawa, huh?”

"That's right." Heiichiro Ōgawara looked up at Nagata and answered with desperate resolve. "Remember this!" "Ōkowa!"

“I sure do remember! How arrogant, trying to make Fukai into the ‘Childish One’!”

As this unfolded, Fukai—who had been pinned down—rose to his feet, his long-lashed black eyes glistening with tears, and brushed the mud from his Western-style clothes. Nagata glared back and forth between Heiichiro and Fukai, then muttered, “Oogawa, you’re the one who’s strange!” and calmly walked away. Heiichiro felt a certain satisfaction at having driven off Nagata—who was physically stronger than himself—while simultaneously sensing it was his responsibility to escort Fukai home, despite their usual lack of closeness. The two of them did not exchange a single word along the way, yet a peculiar emotion had welled up between them, giving rise to a shared sense of awkwardness. The expression in those deep eyes that occasionally gazed up at him with trust filled Heiichiro with an unbearable sense of beauty and pride. Heiichiro actually thought that things between himself and Fukai had become a bit awkward. In the old estate town with its lonely cedar hedges lush and green stood Fukai’s house. Heiichiro, recalling that this town near the outskirts was one he had often wandered in those days, silently followed behind Fukai. Then Fukai, standing before a house with a black gate, smiled suddenly for the first time and said, “Here we are. This is my house.” Heiichiro was startled. And without thinking, he asked the following.

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

“Hoh—” Heiichiro said, aware of his blood rushing to his face, “doesn’t Miss Wakako live here?”

“Ah, you mean our next-door Miss Wakako?” “Yeah.” “She’s here—since our gardens connect, she often comes over to play. Do you know Miss Wakako?” “——” Heiichiro felt suffocated but forced himself to appear unperturbed. After saying “Goodbye,” he turned back toward his house, unable to deny how anxiety and jealousy now filled his chest. He had been thinking as he walked. Until moments ago, he had been a gallant fighter who battled for his beautiful classmate’s sake—but now it seemed he must accept this very same beautiful boy as his rival in love. It wasn’t that he had first learned of Fukai’s beauty through Nagata today. He even thought he might be the only one who truly understood Fukai’s beauty. Yet he had consciously kept his distance because Fukai—whose presence had seeped into his fifteen-year-old heart—was a boy from a “proper family.” The reason he could still harbor some goodwill toward Nagata—despite loathing his brutishness and stupidity—lay in Nagata’s poverty and how even such an impoverished boy could dominate others through sheer physical might within school’s kingdom. Seeing Nagata threaten Fukai had made it impossible for Heiichiro to stay silent. And so that outcome had yielded an unexpected discovery.

"I can’t go on like this." Heiichiro placed the bowls and plates from his finished meal onto a small, weathered shelf, grabbed the remaining bunch of bananas inside—he loved bananas—and headed toward the desk by the window in the eight-tatami room, the only one in the house despite being called the “back room.” Through the window stretched the clear blue sky of May, clusters of wispy white clouds drifting alongside trees budding with spring’s vigor. Heiichiro devoured the banana’s soft yet resilient flesh but found himself unable to sit still. The fact that Fukai had casually mentioned “Miss Wakako comes over to play since our gardens connect” tormented him—he who had never once spoken to her himself. To even consider himself and Fukai as equals felt shameful. Yet as he gazed at the radiant sky, his thoughts relentlessly compared their every trait— Between me and Fukai—who would Wakako choose? He couldn’t suppress his dread of Fukai’s beauty: that perpetually rosy complexion, those tenderly glistening black eyes, that slender frame draped in immaculate clothes radiating aristocratic refinement. Such elegant purity could never match someone like me, Heiichiro thought. But then—he couldn’t help reassessing: I have a sun-bronzed taut face...thick brows...a masculine nose—if Wakako values manliness, I’d surpass Fukai! He weighed their standings at school next— Fukai ranked low academically... Sat near the back... Yet—he reminded himself— My grades place me third...I’m class president...athletically active too... In those areas, I won’t lose to some pretty boy!

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

He could not help trembling before the seething surge of blazing passion. Yet that fervor—the ardor of first love—was smothered by the awareness pressing down upon him: *You have no home, no father—aren’t you a pauper’s orphan?* Ah, it was solely for this reason that Heiichiro had kept silent until now. Before these words that shook his entire being, he gazed up at the blue sky, feeling a desolate and mortal ache. And there, countless unforgettable memories rose vividly to mind.

It was last spring. A discussion meeting for elementary school graduates attending middle-level schools was once 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 were dreamily enthralled by each other’s stories. No story, no matter how trivial, was truly trivial. Melancholic, tragic, grandiose, or utterly comical fantasies intoxicated everyone. Heiichiro Oogawahira, for some reason, did not feel like engaging in difficult debates and instead told the story of Ali Baba from the *Arabian Nights*.

“And at the same moment, his brother’s head fell blood-soaked to the ground—” As he spoke these words and surveyed the forest-quiet room, the rustling poplar leaves beyond the window shone white through the glass, and an indescribable emotion surged within him. When he suddenly grew suspicious and glanced downward, he discovered her eyes—dignified and brimming with profound strength. Those eyes that had been fixed upon him since earlier momentarily wavered upon sensing his awareness, then flared up anew to assail him. Ah, those eyes were not ones he was seeing for the first time. This was when Heiichiro Oogawahira had still been a sixth-year elementary student. The previous year’s graduates had donated a large mirror over three meters tall to the front wall of the assembly anteroom where morning ceremonies were held each day—but as class president, Heiichiro 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 with startling clarity—were the very eyes now blazing forth to assail him! At first he thought it a hallucination, but since Wakako too served as class president for the sixth-year girls’ group, she should have been standing at the front of their line. It was unmistakably Wakako. He stared at her dignified and beautiful mirror image. Just as her figure was visible from where he stood, so too must his own form undoubtedly be visible from her position. Thinking this, he gazed at the mirror’s surface. It was a miracle. The image of Wakako—who had until now maintained perfect composure—laughed! Ah, those daily meetings between them mediated by the mirror’s surface! How joyful it must have been in their childhood to exchange smiles each morning through that mirrored plane—those unforgettable eyes now assailed him with overwhelming force. He felt with his entire being what those eyes conveyed. His whole body seemed to breathe flames. Moreover, it was unmistakable: her lustrous black hair bound in an elegant chignon (perhaps styled in some Western fashion), thick eyebrows reminiscent of ancient heroes, eyes burning with dignity and passion, plump cheeks brimming with vitality, lips both noble and resolute—in short, Wakako’s beauty blazed forth. Yet through sheer stubbornness—to avoid compromising his masculine bearing—he continued his story to the end.

Throughout his telling of the story—that light pulsating ceaselessly no matter how he tried to suppress it, those waves of joy, that surging, overflowing exaltation of the soul—he had been conscious of his resolve to see the tale through to its end. Yet when he finished speaking, how he descended from the podium, how he returned to his seat—all dissolved into an emerald-gold dreamscape brimming with entrancing radiance. Moreover, into his dreamlike state rang the teacher’s voice calling “Wakako Yoshikura-san,” clear as a silver bell. What a coincidence. He had not known that Wakako was next in the order to speak after him. When he raised his eyes, there she stood on the podium directly before him—radiating stately dignity—her right hand resting gently against her wisteria-purple hakama. The early spring breeze through the window teased a few stray strands of her hair, while her fingers unconsciously stilled the lightly swaying cords of her wisteria-hued skirt. Her dignified, beautiful burning eyes fixed squarely upon him, resilient cheeks flushed with passion’s glow. Ah—that eternal moment!

Wakako’s voice, rich in power yet slightly trembling, told the story of that day—and Heiichiro remembered every minute word and phrase with crystalline clarity.

“It was when my father was stationed at the Japanese embassy in Korea seven or eight years ago.” “It was a cold winter; though not much snow fell, the severe cold had frozen even the plants and trees.” “One morning, a Japanese lady of no mean status, seeming to have some business in a remote part of town, proceeded at a hurried pace.” “Just beyond the town, there stretched a winding range of red bald mountains—” The way her voice rose sharply on the ‘za’ of ‘gozaimashita’ remains unforgettable. “In the depths of those bald mountains, many tigers lived in those days, and it is said that Koreans were sometimes devoured.” “When the lady reached the outskirts of the town, something yellow came lumbering toward her from the opposite direction.” “The lady did not notice.” Then the yellow thing let out a dreadful growl. “It was a tiger.” “The tiger had come lumbering into town in search of some good food.” “It was at precisely the moment the lady became aware that the tiger lunged.” “The lady could do nothing.” “At that moment, the lady was carrying the new kimono of one of her children—a girl.” “Even if she herself were to be eaten, the lady resolved that her child’s new kimono must not be soiled, and clutched the bundle of clothing tightly to her chest.” “The tiger began to eat the lady starting from her head.” “However, even as she was being devoured, the lady pressed herself against the ground and clung to that bundle as if cradling her own child.” “And by the time the townspeople came gathering with their guns, she had already passed away, drenched in blood—yet her child’s new kimono alone, warmed at her chest, remained as pristine as if it were still embracing the child itself.”

“That child—” Heiichiro was startled and realized in a flash. And that intuition was conveyed to Wakako on the podium as well. A natural smile appeared on Wakako’s face—solemn and more dignified than lovely. Ah, that moment!

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

That evening, Heiichiro Oogawahira encountered her waiting for him at the school gate. Wakako smiled. It was a smile that welled up naturally. When he tried to say something, she began walking briskly. He thought, *I should just go home—this is pointless, doing this for some woman*—and when he stopped, Wakako also halted, fixing her gaze as if waiting for him. When Wakako turned around as if to say something and stopped, this time he felt an irresistible hesitation and found himself unable to approach. Repeating such vexations, Heiichiro had been drawn all the way to the lonesome estate district encircled by cedar fences. And at a house near the edge of that town, where the field could be seen beyond—it was, in fact, none other than Fukai’s neighboring house!—Wakako came to a halt. And the sheer force in her eyes when she turned around! Heiichiro was too terrified to approach her. They had laughed together—laughed together, yes—but... As Wakako seemed to have concealed herself inside the gate of the hedge, he mustered his resolve and went all the way to the front of the house. Then she hid herself at the entrance and waited for him.

“This is it—my house.”

She turned bright red, nodded her head two or three times as if in agreement, then opened the bell-chimed door and entered the house, nodding once more before closing it. Ah, the loneliness and frustration that followed—only those who have ever loved and have "known it in their flesh" would understand. In the dense evening stillness, not a single sound stirred. He stood before the houses until their lights came on, but not a single voice of Wakako—so eagerly awaited—was heard. That night, he wandered through the fields on the outskirts and returned home—but from that day onward, the girl named Wakako became someone who occupied the central position in his consciousness, unforgettable. And so, the long-forgotten memories of Wakako from their elementary school days came surging back with overwhelming vitality. Eyes blazing with passion to their very edges, eyebrows reminiscent of ancient heroes, cheeks swelling with vitality, a body moving with supple agility and solemn grace—Wakako’s beauty revived and overwhelmed him everywhere, at every moment: in the corner of the waiting room during ten-minute breaks; beside hallway curtains swaying in a gentle breeze; beneath the shade of leafed cherry trees on the playground; at the hushed entrance to the second-floor sewing room after school; even among a group of four or five girls idly touching the white ivory keys of an organ. What particularly compelled Heiichiro Oogawahira to believe that his love with Wakako must be profoundly deep were these memories: mornings before the school bell rang, when he—a sixth-grader then—would pass idle time grappling and wrestling with classmates in the waiting room, though Heiichiro himself would always subdue three or four boys at once; the memory of Wakako’s eyes brimming with admiration and longing, visible through the morning light during such moments; and the girl (Wakako) who listened intently to his singing as they all sat on the playground balance beam under a clear autumn sky, chorusing together—the girl to whom he had sung that “Iroha”... When singing the forty-eight-character song—*Iroha ni hoheto... Chirinuru o... Wakayo tare so... Tsune naramu…*—the feeling of having sung the “Wakayo” part particularly high—Heiichiro felt not only that he himself cherished this memory, but that Wakako must also cherish him in the same nostalgic way. And yet, even since the time when merely exchanging glances during their comings and goings at school had become too lonely to bear—when he began wandering the fields as if by chance and passing before Wakako’s house with his heart pounding, thinking it the only solace he could find—already a year had passed. For Heiichiro Oogawahira, the fact that Fukai was Wakako’s next-door neighbor and could address her with such casual intimacy—“Oh, Wakako-san?”—had to be a matter of no small consequence.

"What am I to do?" Heiichiro Oogawahira ate his meal and a banana, then remained with his cheek propped on his desk—less lost in thought than simmering in restless agitation. The world outside basked in May's balmy spring warmth. Sunlight glinted on the pale branches of the jujube tree in their garden, while cerulean skies soaked into the high roof tiles of the storehouse beyond. Amid this serene abundance of nature, Heiichiro felt wretched that he alone must endure such unbearable frustration. When he strained his ears, the resonant twang of a shamisen pulsed from beyond the back storehouse—likely carried from the brothel district. The instrument's mournful twang made him think of his mother. Resentment swelled anew at her prolonged absence—she'd gone to Sis Fuyuko's place and still hadn't returned. From those depths surged thoughts of Wakako. He writhed in anguish. Wakako's image inevitably dragged Fukai's presence in its wake. Listening to the trainee geisha's faltering shamisen notes, Heiichiro confronted his reality: a destitute youth living with his widowed mother in someone else's rented upstairs room. A fact he knew with excruciating clarity. A fact society deemed sufficient to strip him of all beauty, freedom, and hope. For Fukai was a young master from a proper household. Wasn't it Fukai's mere accident of birth—owning that mansion—that let him live beside Wakako, who'd grown ever more regal and unapproachable over these years (no, longer), addressing her with casual ease as "Ah, Wakako-san?" And when he considered further—Wakako herself being daughter to a retired diplomat of no small standing— How could he ever compare? This thought, always Heiichiro's cruelest torment, now struck with lethal force. Must I stay silent and abandon my Wakako simply because I'm poor? The notion felt both ludicrous and exquisitely painful.

Heiichiro Oogawahira came to feel there could be no such reason. "I am in love—with Wakako!" This fact—the fact of being in love—must hold greater power and authority than the fact of being poor. Even if Fukai was a young master from a mansion, there was not a shred of reason for him to yield Wakako to that mere pretty boy with tender feelings—so Heiichiro had reasoned. He had not noticed how his heart had progressed or the manner in which it had heated up. He could not help but rebel against society’s assumption that poverty justified trampling all natural and equal demands. He had been endowed with an irresistible force to resist it. Heiichiro had been thinking for a long time while shuddering violently but now felt it was no longer time to remain still. He resolved to write exactly what he felt in a letter and send it to Wakako. "And if she doesn’t reply or sends something cold," he thought, "then a woman like that doesn’t matter one bit." He had even grown serious about this grim resolve—to never concern himself with women again and instead become the world’s greatest man. He began writing on paper torn from his notebook with a pen. He tried writing "I" formally as taught in school but found it distasteful; even "I" in polite form displeased him—so he began writing "boku wa" in hiragana.

I am Heiichiro Oogawahira. You must surely know this. Therefore I will write nothing more about it. I know you. I am always thinking of you. Thinking of you so much it hurts. Yesterday and today too, I walked around near your house. It has been nearly a full year now. Do you remember that discussion meeting at our elementary school? I can still recite your speech from beginning to end even now. I want to become closer to you so desperately I can hardly bear it. I cannot go on like this. What do you think? Do you not wish for us to grow close? I am poor, living with only my mother and myself. Do you think it shameful to be close to someone like me? If so, please say so plainly. But though I am poor, I do not mean to remain merely a poor man. I will surely become great even in poverty. This I swear. I want so much to be close to you.

If you would be close to me, I will study even harder. And then I will become great and bring you joy. Please send me a reply. On Sunday morning, please come to the utility pole in front of my house. Heiichiro Oogawahira Ms. Yoshikura Wakako

Afraid to reread what he had written, he slipped the letter into the envelope as it was and wrote in large, careful block letters—as if practicing calligraphy—"Ms. Yoshikura Wakako, Private." Then came a crystal-clear feeling, like setting down a heavy load to rest. It was the fierce self-awareness of a boy taking his first step forward. Yet timidity and anxiety at venturing into the unknown welled up unbidden. He began pondering how to deliver the letter. If he met Wakako on the road tomorrow morning, he might hand it over—but whether they’d meet was uncertain. Even visiting her house tonight offered no guarantee. Still, he couldn’t remain idle. Shedding his Kokura uniform, he changed into an ikat-patterned lined kimono and hakama trousers, folded the letter into his shirt pocket, and stepped outside. His destination was Wakako’s house. Dusk neared outside, amber clouds strewn beautifully across the sky. Though visibly excited, halfway there Fukai’s presence pressed upon him again. I’m wronging Fukai. Worse still—he kept feeling—sending this letter secretly reeked of cowardice. “And yet—” A revelation surged within him—“I feel friendship for Fukai! A friendship separate from my feelings for Wakako!” This prideful bond refused to let him deliver the letter like some thieving cur skulking in shadows. “What should I do?” He stood paralyzed at the crossroads. Ten full minutes passed. Ahead lay Wakako’s estate district; to the right, the slope descending to the brothel quarter where his mother likely lingered near Fuyuko’s Harukaze-ro; leftward stretched the main street. He watched passersby come and go.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, a delightful idea came to him, accompanied by an emotion that perfectly mirrored the word "exuberance." It was for Heiichiro to confess his own feelings to Fukai himself and then have Fukai deliver his letter to Wakako. "That’s it, that’s it…" As Heiichiro turned back toward his house, he couldn’t contain his joy at how manly an attitude this was.

"That’s it, that’s it—I am in love with Wakako, and I do not want to act shamefully toward Fukai either." "That’s right—this is good. If Wakako were to choose Fukai over me, or if she has already chosen him, then I would be disappointed, but—" He couldn’t bring himself to explicitly state—to steel himself—to that extent. However, there was a peace of mind in knowing he wouldn’t have to do anything shameful.

Even though Heiichiro Oogawahira returned home, his mother 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 day sank into full night. From the brothel district behind came a different kind of shamisen melody—clear and resonant, its quiet sorrow pierced through by artistic discipline’s unyielding strength. Heiichiro found himself unable to stop muttering, for some reason, “I will become great, become great—I will surely become great.” The loneliness of waiting for his mother gradually welled up in the boy’s chest.

Even as the night grew quite late, his mother Hikari had not returned. And there beneath the lamp—having not eaten dinner while waiting for her—Heiichiro began to feel that abominable suspicion he always sensed when she returned late: sharp and instinctive yet truly beyond words. He found it shameful. If his mother were to come home and show him her calm face, it would vanish at once—that abominable doubt he felt guilty for harboring. Those who need not entertain such dreadful suspicions toward their own mothers now were fortunate. Unable to fully suppress suspicions cold and sharp as a blade’s edge, Heiichiro could not help but reflect on his “poverty” with anguished remorse.

Poverty, poverty! Ah, how much had poverty suppressed, trampled upon, and yet tempered that tender sprout striving to grow straight—this fifteen-year-old boy? He first came to feel his own “poverty” sear into his bones when he was twelve years old, in early summer. Until then, he too had possessed a home he could call his own. Along the banks of the S River flowing through Kanazawa’s city streets stood a spacious two-story house with walled gardens—his family home. Though theirs in name, their living quarters were confined to just two front rooms on the second floor, while countless other families rented out both the rear second floor and shop spaces. Even so, it remained indisputably their home.

Until around fifth grade in elementary school, though not wealthy, he had grown up carefree. How he must have cherished the garden’s plum trees, apricot trees, and ancient coral trees—their roots drinking from the river’s murmur just below. The absence of his father—who had died when he was three—weighed on him with loneliness, yet knowing this house had sheltered generations of his family soothed that ache somewhat: his father had been both a respected trader and beloved townsman here. Needless to say, the S River’s endless flow had always resonated with his feelings. But hardship inevitably came for Heiichiro too. That his mother Hikari had kept them in her late husband’s house for nearly ten years—a woman alone—spoke of struggles beyond ordinary measure. Human effort has its limits; past a certain threshold, fate must claim its due. As Heiichiro grew taller, their expenses swelled—and looming ahead lay the mountain called “tuition fees.” Hikari sold their ancestral home—her husband’s sole legacy—where she’d lived over a decade. Thus Heiichiro became “fatherless and houseless,” a boy adrift. He remembered vividly that sorrowful “first day of downfall.” The town glistened under post-rain evening skies, a five-colored rainbow halo crowning the damp air. Their belongings looked meager piled on carts. Heiichiro trailed behind the third and final wagon. Ruination’s sting—the homelessness, the world shrinking to suffocate—these truths rooted in him as he walked beneath that mocking rainbow. Long after moving, Heiichiro remained estranged from their new home. The contrast proved too brutal: where once flowed the S River’s eternal song, now came shamisen strains from behind the brothel quarter.

Instead of their spacious home, they now rented a second-floor space of eight and four tatami mats, with a family downstairs whose occupation was brokering geisha and courtesans. His mother had no choice but to take up sewing—a task she had previously done idly—as serious work. He had once asked his mother whether they had become poor so suddenly. “You must enter middle school, then high school, then university, and become someone great.” “That will require money, you know.” “That’s why we must save as much as we can now,” she told him. “I also told you that we came here by the brothel district because the pay for the work (sewing) is good,” she explained, “and that you must study diligently even while living near such a place.” Heiichiro truly thought that he himself must become great. This spirit had led him to graduate at the top of his elementary school class, had prevented him from becoming merely an honor student—a byword for spinelessness—and was now compelling him to manfully confess his true feelings to Wakako. Whence did this spirit come? Was it from the will of his deceased father? Or from his mother Hikari’s devoted love? Or perhaps from his awareness of their poor, lonely circumstances? Undoubtedly, it was all of these. But as for reaching its very root, no one could know. The one who knew it was none other than the cosmic force itself that begot the Heiichiro within Heiichiro. And that was something that could not be expressed in human language.

It was nearly nine o'clock when his mother Hikari returned. She explained she had been delayed making rounds to clients to express gratitude and gather work, then said she bought egg-shaped manju that looked irresistibly sweet along the way—unwrapping them and eating one herself first. When Heiichiro saw his mother's calm demeanor, he couldn't help feeling ashamed and fearful of having harbored those vile suspicions until now. Happiness welled up in him as he imagined her trudging through late nights gathering work for his sake—leaving him brimming with both guilt and joy. Chewing the manju, he came perilously close to confessing his feelings about Wakako. Such was the depth of his elation.

“We might have to move to Harukaze-ro where Fuyuko-san lives.” “There’s an empty detached room there—you could use it as your study or bedroom.” “But what will you do, Mother?” “I may need to handle all the sewing work for that house myself.” Hikari told Heiichiro this as they were settling down to sleep. Then came a peaceful, wholesome slumber.

The downstairs of the house that Heiichiro and his mother rented was occupied by a person whose business was brokering geisha and courtesans. In the back alleys of the brothel district, amidst rows of dilapidated shops reeking of garbage—tobacco stores, penny candy vendors, sundry goods and cosmetics dealers, and liquor sellers—a faded red-lattice window bore a sign reading “Geisha and Courtesan Brokerage: Tahyoue Nakamura.” The landlord Tahyoue had been born with a robust build and strength—it was said that in his youth, he had been a sumo wrestler in local circuits. But by around thirty, having squandered what little assets he possessed on women, drink, gambling, and brawls, he was said to have started a household after catching the eye of his current wife. Now, however, he was nothing more than a prematurely aged old man past fifty. The work of brokering geisha and courtesans was handled solely by the wife—who had once been a geisha herself. The wife had once told Hikari that had her husband not been a man she herself had fallen for, had abandoning him not shamed her before former peers and clients who had once envied her, and had she not felt some responsibility for the illness that had stolen his once-massive muscles, damaged his hearing, and ruined his eyes—she would have left him long ago to forge a new life. For the wife, three or four years Hikari’s junior, her husband—who spent each day bellowing as if still in his prime—seemed an unbearable burden. Hikari had often regretted settling in such a house by chance, yet only later would she come to realize how renting this second floor would make both her life and Heiichiro’s feel the truly momentous force of fate. It was this coincidence that had connected “Fuyuko” with Hikari and her son.

It was October of the first autumn since Hikari and her son had moved into the second floor of the geisha and prostitute brokerage house.

Hikari finished dinner and was washing dishes in the dimly lit kitchen. Downstairs in the parlor, the landlady still chattered loudly with a hoarse-voiced man—continuing some discussion they had sustained since that afternoon. Though less than five months had passed since coming to this house, they had seated a dark-skinned country girl who seemed to have been lured there, “For ninety-six months’ contract period, I can’t go above five hundred yen.” “No—this jewel here’s top quality! You wouldn’t lose out even paying eight hundred.”

“You must be joking.” “Expecting eight hundred yen for this merchandise—no way.” “Then I’ll come down to 770 yen.” “What?! Five hundred’s my final offer, I tell ya.” “It’s not like *you* raised the kid yourself—why the hesitation?” “You’ve already squeezed all the juice from the first fruits and now toss the scraps!” “Don’t play dumb.” “Six hundred yen then—”

“Alright—can’t be helped. Let’s settle on fifty ryo.” Having been shown time and again the fact of a woman being sold off for five hundred fifty yen like this, she tried not to listen even as her heart ached, assuming it was another such story. Young women who left the countryside with no destination in mind and found themselves at a loss—not only did they drag such women back down into an abyss from which there was no hope of resurfacing, but when those women living in that abyss, through a moment’s carelessness, an unexpected surge of sudden passion, or nature’s cruel irony, gave birth to cursed children of unknown parentage, they would take in those unfortunate infants for a small sum of money and then slowly starve them to death. Most infants died of tuberculosis or syphilis. If they did not die [of disease], they would be left without milk and wither away like fading embers.—Even as Hikari tried not to listen, the voices reached her ears. For her, who was acutely aware of her own powerlessness, the very fact that sympathy arose—sympathy that made her want to do something to help—was all the more painful.

“As for that, I’ve already got everything under control here in my heart—there’s no oversight in such matters.” “Well, since it’s you we’re talking about, Madam—but even so, they do say you can never be too careful.” “Hah! Ha ha ha!” Even after Hikari had finished washing the dishes, she lingered in the dim light of the earthen-floored area, hesitant to encounter those sorrowful, detestable people—but then the voices abruptly ceased. She resolutely entered the parlor. Then she saw the landlady, a forty-year-old man with a vulgar face, and a woman, all illuminated by the dim red light of the electric lamp. Her slender figure—clad in a white-tinted silk single-layer kimono and an obi of figured satin with wisteria purple and crimson blended in Yuzen dyeing—made it clear to Hikari that she was not of lowly status. As Hikari wiped her water-dampened hands on her apron and began to step up from a corner of the earthen-floored area, a light blue Western-style umbrella, likely belonging to a woman, had been placed in the corner. As the man passed by, he slightly hunched his back and said, “Excuse me.” At that moment, the woman softly lifted her face and gave a silent bow. She couldn’t be called exceptionally beautiful. Across her face—tinged with a faint pallor—there appeared an aloof spiritual refinement, a naive purity, and a lonely, neurotic gloom that seemed born of hardships endured. The woman had seemed to bow casually in silent greeting, but upon unexpectedly finding Hikari there, she appeared to freeze in surprise. She seemed the type to sink into pallor rather than blush. Hikari went up to the second floor, and the thought that yet another woman was falling into the abyss left her with no peace of mind. And she resented her own powerlessness. She felt sorrowful about herself—unable to devote her full strength even to raising Heiichiro alone into a splendid person, yet forced to stand by and watch as so many others fell into decay. She felt that society’s financial power and intellect must be used more to help people like these. She ended up going to bed as well, unable to bring herself to work after Heiichiro had fallen asleep early from the day’s exhaustion. The fatigue was sufficient to grant her a deep sleep.

“You disgrace!” A voice woke Hikari from her oppressive nightmare. Lifting her head to check if it had been a dream, she saw the waning crescent moon shining coldly through the glass door. “Acting so childishly at your age! Given the state you’re in now, how dare you still manage to pull off something like this!”

It was indeed the landlady’s voice from downstairs. “Ugh—what’s it to you?” “Whether you know or care makes no difference.” “When you pull stunts like tonight’s on a precious woman who’d finally steeled herself to go willingly—don’t you see how that could stir up trouble down the line?” “Even if I do put food in your mouth every single day without fail—if you keep acting this shameless, I can’t run a proper business.” “If you’re itching for a woman—take fifty sen to the lower shop. Now don’t get sore about it—it’s just how things gotta be.”

“Shut up!” “You’re treating me like some senile old fool, you bastard.”

The old man seemed to have stood up. The landlady’s shrill voice was heard. A woman’s voice—beginning with “Ah, what are you—”, still retaining some modesty before erupting into what resembled a full-throated scream—sounded out, and soon came clattering noisily up the stairs. The woman from earlier, still in her thin obi, approached Hikari’s side while suppressing her violent palpitations, terror, and anger. Hikari sat up from the bed. The faint light of the autumn moon filtered in.

“Please come here.” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry.” The woman sat there dejectedly trembling, though anger seemed to prevail over fear. Everything had become a fact laid bare with unbearable clarity. Hikari shifted her pillow aside, rolled a floor cushion into a makeshift pillow, cleared space beside her bedding, and said, “Please come rest here.” The woman whispered “I’m sorry” as she slightly hunched over and lay down beside Hikari. Hikari too lay down. She strained to listen to the sounds from downstairs. But downstairs had fallen silent—both landlady and old man now stilled. Hikari felt the woman’s slender shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Though accidental, she couldn’t deny their hearts had perfectly merged in this moment. Ah—poor woman—soon those tremors deepened into shuddering sobs. Hikari herself nearly wept. She rubbed the woman’s shoulders. “I’m so wretched… truly… truly…” Each time she tried stifling tears, the woman would whisper fragmented words before weeping anew.

Yet tears hold the power to warm sorrow. If one cries until they can cry no more, a clear brightness like after the rain will emerge afterward. Hikari knew that from her own experience. “Now, turn this way. Stop crying. Since we won’t be sleeping tonight anyway, turn this way and let’s talk.”

The woman eventually stopped crying and softly turned over. Hikari saw the woman’s tear-streaked face—pale yet refined—with its lonely features and spirited eyes. And so they confirmed their mutual understanding at a profound level. The woman was twenty years old. Her mother had said that when she was seven years old，her father had died this summer. The family had been longtime lacquerware artisans in Wajima of Noto Province，but after her father’s death，her brother—misguided by his middling cleverness—conceived of corporatizing Wajima-nuri lacquerware and founded a company．However，he embezzled stock funds，and if that money were missing，he would face imprisonment—in other words，the woman explained he intended to sell her unwed body into geisha work to procure replacement funds. She had learned shamisen，koto，flower arrangement，and tea ceremony since girlhood，and particularly regarding drumming，she expressed both interest and confidence，along with a desire for further training. Finally，she declared she wanted somehow to live authentically through art alone as a geisha. From their first meeting，Hikari had sensed this woman was likely still a virgin. The composure in her bearing stemmed from innate grace，wisdom，and education—not from carnal knowledge. Nor did it arise from worldly jadedness. This resolve—to raise money for her brother by selling herself while vowing to sustain geisha work through artistic skill alone—contained solemn conviction yet also naive vigor born of sheltered innocence. Hikari could not suppress a deep sigh. The woman then disclosed her name was Fuyuko and that starting tomorrow，she would begin working at Harukaze-ro brothel behind these quarters.

“Fuyuko-san,” Hikari could not help saying. “My heart aches at keeping you in this trade, but there’s simply no alternative.” “Your determination to sustain yourself through art alone is truly admirable.” “Please never relinquish that resolve.” “Even should art alone prove insufficient—as long as you hold fast to that spirit—oh, there will be hardships enough to kill you—nothing but hardships.” “I too have endured trials since your age—what matters most is keeping such resolve as your anchor—”

Hikari spoke of Heiichiro, of herself, and of how she prayed for Heiichiro's growth. And since Fuyuko lived nearby—though she couldn't be a blood aunt—Hikari found herself saying she would do whatever she could, thinking Fuyuko might visit her as someone not quite a stranger but like an aunt. The two talked through the night until the cold waning moon near dawn grew misty with thick fog, and the next morning Fuyuko left for Harukaze-ro "to become a geisha."

Three years had passed since that night. Three years’ time had swept over all things in existence. The same force that led Heiichiro—now a third-year middle school student—to know love’s anguish had also shaped Fuyuko into standing as one of the brothel district’s renowned geisha. The refinement instilled in her since girlhood, and her dignified bearing—cloaked in an innate grace tinged with solitude—kept her from being reduced to a mere victim of vulgar desire. Her resolve to stand through art alone, to rise as a geisha of distinction, bound her tightly and drew out her fullest worth. Of course, sustaining herself through “art alone” proved impossible. That morning when she had fled to Hikari’s home in disheveled nightclothes, crying “Auntie!”, then collapsed at her knees—busy with sewing—to pour out her first taste of hellish pain now belonged to a distant past. Yet for her, those trials became not sensual indulgence but a goad to discipline. Though unskilled at singing, she excelled in shamisen, koto, dance, and above all the drum—her teacher praised her as having a master’s potential, and she herself held confidence. She transmuted sorrows from harsh duties into fierce cries of *“Ha! Oe! Yoo!”* Through those impassioned shouts and the drum’s solemn tones, she found liberation. Meanwhile, Hikari grew adept at needlework and familiar with the townsfolk. The bond forged between Hikari and Fuyuko that night deepened beyond blood ties of aunt and niece into something surpassing even spiritual kinship. They could not help but share each other’s pains and joys alike. For Heiichiro, the love of these two extraordinary women—his mother and Fuyuko—undeniably nurtured him. Thus Fuyuko, who three years prior had sought refuge in Hikari’s bed, now hailed as a “renowned geisha,” became Hikari’s steadfast advisor in life’s practical matters.

On the afternoon of the day after Heiichiro resolved to have Fukai deliver his letter to Wakako，he returned home with loud footsteps，feeling a heroic pride over having carried out a certain deed. Why were his footsteps so loud? It was because he had carried out the “deed.” In the morning，when he met Fukai on the grassy field at school，Fukai gave him a gentle smile of gratitude but seemed to lack the courage to speak. He himself，gripping the letter in his pocket，could not utter a single word. During the entire first-period Japanese class，he continued to berate himself for his cowardice. And he was shocked to find he had written “Yoshikura Wakako” over fifty times in his notebook. The opportunity finally came during fourth-period gym class. He called out “Fukai-kun” to one of the group rushing toward the school building with the tolling of the bell.

“Huh?” Fukai’s cheeks flushed. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” Even he could feel his heart pounding. He crossed the athletic field and came to the lawn beside the dormitory, adjacent to a deep bamboo thicket. And sitting down on the wooden horse there, he finally spoke up.

“You said—you know Yoshikura Wakako-san—right?” “Yes——” replied Fukai with a doubtful look, his gaze now assuming a protective quality over the Wakako within him. “Here… this.” 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, and after a moment, his ears flushed crimson to the roots. When Heiichiro recognized this, he felt as though it had come down to either victory or defeat.

“I’ve wanted to become close with Wakako-san for some time now. Right? Won’t you pass it to her? I didn’t know your house was next to Wakako-san’s. Please, could you deliver it? Or—” He truly shuddered. A feeling akin to prayer pulsed within him. “Are you close with Wakako-san?”

“No,” Fukai said firmly, his eyes blazing. “I’ll deliver it.” “You have my word!” “Yes!”

“Thank you!” Heiichiro gripped Fukai’s hand—the joy compelled him to blurt out: “I want us to become good friends from now on too!” A beautiful flame burned in Fukai’s eyes. It was life’s torchfire: a brilliance that departs once kindled and never returns. *Ah—what bliss!* *Had I truly won those I loved?* *Had I claimed both Wakako and Fukai?* He strode home with thunderous footsteps.

At home, Hikari and Fuyuko were waiting. Gentle sunlight from the clear late spring sky shone down upon the two. “As expected, it was Heiichiro-san after all.” With the right hand she had been resting there, Fuyuko gently brushed back her smooth, abundant sidelocks and looked up at Hikari, who was diligently moving her needle to attach a purplish collar to a scarlet chirimen underrobe. The peaceful quiet was broken by Hikari and Fuyuko’s smiles.

“I’m home!” he shouted, throwing down his bag, changing into casual clothes, and as usual rushing straight to the low dining table. Even the chilled tofu soup tasted good to him. He looked at Fuyuko’s slightly tanned face turned sideways and her lustrous Shimada chignon, thinking she must have returned from getting her hair styled. Drawn to the graceful lines from her nape to her shoulders, he felt proud—though this was something he always felt—that such a woman was close to him like a sister.

“You’re late today, aren’t you?” Hikari said while sewing.

“There was a natural history gathering today,” he lied, though all he felt was guilt as he thought of Wakako. Then he asked Fuyuko, “Haven’t you finished preparing your dance yet?” “The twenty-eighth of this month. I’ll be performing this time, so you must come.” As Heiichiro wolfed down his rice with a “Yes,” Hikari remarked to Fuyuko, “It’s curious how fond he is of dance and song.” With that, the conversation returned to Hikari and Fuyuko.

“It’s still better to avoid drinking alcohol if at all possible, don’t you think?” “But when I’m out at engagements—when living feels utterly worthless, truly unbearable, even harmful—if I gulp down a full cup from the rinsing bowl, then my chest eases a bit.” “Otherwise, were I to step onto the veranda and play the hand drum, well, that might do—but—” “Of course that’s how it would be.” “There may have been countless times I’ve felt that way too, but well—with Heiichiro here, I’ve somehow managed to carry on, though—”

“Even so，I feel you are far better than someone like me.” “Do you think so?” “But I feel I’ve also put in considerable effort.” “Twelve years—right? That’s how long it takes for a baby suckling at my breast to grow old enough to strut around in middle school，you know.” “But from now on，my efforts will bear fruit.” “I’m truly envious.” “Well…” Hikari laughed forlornly. “Whether it’s poverty or something else… I keep feeling I might not live to see the day Heiichiro becomes a full-fledged adult.”

“Don’t say such things, Auntie!” Fuyuko said earnestly. “Even I feel that merely showing myself as I am now to you, Auntie, would be inexcusable!”

Hikari smiled cheerfully，as though unable to conceal her heartfelt joy， “I’m perfectly content as I am now，you know.” “It really has been three years even since then，hasn’t it?” “You’ve truly become such a splendid woman.” “Fuyuko-san.” “You mustn’t tease me like that，Auntie.”

Fuyuko clouded her face as if holding something bitter and turned her almond-shaped eyes toward the blue sky. “What a blue sky… Auntie—you haven’t gone to see the cherry blossoms yet?” “No—I’ve been swamped with work.” “I didn’t want to go this year either—it really is blue.” Then Fuyuko abruptly said: “Even for someone like me… if I wished for a child—could I be granted one?”

“Even for someone like me…?” Hikari stared at Fuyuko and remained silent. “Even for those of us who guard against conceiving a child as if it were a sin—if we were to sincerely wish for one, could we be granted it?” “Or as punishment, will we never bear children in our lifetime?” “I haven’t been able to meet someone whose child I’d wish for with all my heart, Fuyuko-san.” “No, I still haven’t met anyone whose child I’d want to have at any cost—if it were this person’s.” “Every man I meet is someone who makes me think having his child would be a disaster.” “But I would like to meet someone—even just once in my life—who would pray, ‘Please grant me this person’s child.’” “Even if such a time were to come… wouldn’t the punishment I’ve endured until now make it impossible for me to ever be granted a child?”

“That’s something we probably can’t understand.” “But I feel that if you were to devote yourself wholeheartedly at such a time, you would certainly be granted a child.” “Even someone like me has managed to raise Heiichiro—if you consider that…”

“Do you think so?” And the two of them fell into a lonely silence. Heiichiro Oogawahira finished his meal and sat by the long brazier for a while, but when his mother and Fuyuko’s conversation lapsed, he rose and made to head toward the desk in the four-and-a-half-mat room. Then Fuyuko likewise stood up and said, “Heiichiro-san, come stand by my side for a moment.” Heiichiro stood by her side. Fuyuko appeared taller due to her hairstyle being done up, but in reality, there was not a single inch of difference between them. “You’ll soon grow as tall as me,” Fuyuko said, exchanging a glance with his mother. Heiichiro laughed heartily as if to say “That’s right!” and, while thinking how wonderfully beautiful Fuyuko was, turned to his desk. After the joy of entrusting the letter addressed to Wakako to Fukai, he felt an unusual calmness and turned his thoughts to algebra problems. Then, the eagerness for tomorrow’s Sunday morning arose like a chill. And to his shame, even the fear that she might not reply would sometimes arise, leaving him helpless.

In the evening，Fuyuko said goodbye forlornly and left. She told Hikari that the seamstress currently at Harukaze-ro—the brothel where she worked—would be quitting after Obon，and suggested that Hikari come as her replacement. Then，while whispering something with his mother，she said things like，“Yes，that sounds good.”

Heiichiro Oogawahira—who for some reason always ended up acting arrogantly toward Fuyuko—would feel a loneliness after she left, as though he had lost something indispensable. On this day as well, in that sad twilight of dusk, just as Heiichiro began to feel the urge to act childishly and cling to his mother, the voice of the housewife downstairs called out, “Heiichiro-san!” It was not uncommon for the housewife downstairs to call out to him. Heiichiro, wondering if she had something unusual to give him or if mail had arrived, went downstairs. Then the housewife,

“Someone is calling for you,” said the housewife. Heiichiro opened the door without any expectation and stepped outside, where Fukai stood at the entrance.

“Why, if it isn’t Fukai-kun! Do come in.” Fukai stood in silence, staring at him with tear-filled eyes. Then, as if indicating the outside, he gently looked back. It had to be a wordless introduction. The next moment, Heiichiro spotted a girl standing with her back leaning against the telephone pole in front of his house. It was Wakako. Everything was understood. 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 convulsed with joy, surprise, terror, and shame. He ran to the telephone pole but stopped dead about three shaku away. Wakako, who had been leaning against the pole, straightened her posture, gently took out a light blue envelope from her bosom (ah, how translucent and beautiful her fingertips were!), showed it to Heiichiro, and smiled brightly. What was he to do? Heiichiro could not bring himself to close the three-shaku gap between them. Her radiant smile had dammed up his passion. His passion swirled within, and his entire body trembled with an uncanny intensity. Then Fukai came before him, lightly removed his hat, and said, “I must take my leave.” And showing a bashful face toward Wakako, he trotted off. Heiichiro felt he could no longer endure his own spinelessness. And he keenly felt how entirely he was being consumed for Wakako’s sake. In any case, he acknowledged the atrophy of his own strength. Then he could not stop the passion coursing through his entire body from transforming into a delightful shame and rising to his face.

“I couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” Wakako said, her face turning bright red. Then they both laughed at exactly the same moment. That laughter loosened their frozen tension. Heiichiro Oogawahira felt liberated.

He said, “Come along!” and started walking briskly.

The late spring evening outdoors was still bright, with the sky showing a deep beauty in its sunset glow. He turned right down a narrow crossroads and thought of heading out to the field. For a full year he had wandered that familiar field longing for her, and now he wanted to show this first day’s version of himself and her to that very ground. Passing grand brothel houses framed with red-lacquered lattices, the town gave way to the riverside. When he looked back, he was startled to find her following so vividly close behind him, feeling both pressure and turmoil.

The road spread out quietly along the stream between the vast cultivated fields. He stopped. She drew so close that he could hear and feel her breath. The two of them already felt a closeness as if they were born together.

“Shall we go to Fukiya Hill?”

“Yes!”

Ah, here it comes again—that soul-stirring smile. The water current flowed along the road, creating infinite undulations.

To the right were rice fields where planting had been completed, stretching all the way to the edge of the vast wilderness; the forests of the villages appeared darkened beneath the sun’s glare, and the sun burned crimson, larger than usual. The road climbed a gentle slope and stretched toward a grassy hill. That hill was what remained after a merchant—a friend of Heiichiro’s father—had failed to establish a cast iron industry during the fervent wave of entrepreneurship following the Russo-Japanese War. Among the overgrown weeds lay stones, rotten pillars, and fragments of rusted metal, which for Heiichiro became seeds for lonesome reverie. Spring, summer, autumn, winter—since Heiichiro had become unable to forget Wakako, how many times had he stood upon this hill and cradled his lonely heart? How many times must he have stood drenched in tears and shouted, “I will become great!” Along the riverbank, oak trees grew thickly, and a shrike sang.

Heiichiro Oogawahira climbed to the top of the hill and sat down on the grassy plain. Wakako also sat down beside him, and the two of them immersed themselves in the air of this blissful evening field. O eternal sound of gently resounding water! O white clouds hanging motionless in the vast sky! O rich hues of the wilderness soil deepening in the gathering twilight! Ah, O supple grasses of the meadow, forming a bed for the two of them! O horn of the horse-drawn tram passing through the oak grove’s shade and the town’s outskirts! And now, O blazing crimson sun of late spring—wavering as you are about to sink beyond the horizon—! Wakako gently took out the same light blue envelope from earlier.

“Today, when I returned from school, Fukai’s young master gave me your letter.”

(Fukai’s young master) Heiichiro thought that only this term—"young master"—felt jarring in their present world. And then he received the light blue envelope. His hands trembled. “Please read it later.”

“Yes.” He put it into his pocket as instructed. “The letter said tomorrow morning, but I couldn’t wait until then—so I had Fukai’s young master tell me where your house was.”

Heiichiro Oogawahira felt utterly bewildered. Wakako—beautiful, noble, solemn, and a daughter of a fine household—whom he had feared he might never even have occasion to speak with in his lifetime; could he truly believe that this very Wakako was now addressing him? “Heiichiro-san,” she said, her voice swelling with fervor. “Do you—do you remember that moment from last year’s alumni gathering? Even afterward… I would sometimes visit the school to gaze upon the graduation commemorative photograph displayed in the staff room.”

(She remembered too.) At this realization, Heiichiro became unbearably happy. He too grew excited as though his passion might come spilling out. "So... so... that mirror from our elementary school days—do you remember it?"

“I do remember!” “Truly, when that principal kept talking at length and blocking the mirror, I was so furious I could hardly stand it!” “And beyond that—truly—when it comes to you, I remember every little thing without exception.”

“I... I do too,” he muttered, holding back the hot tears welling up in his eyes. “I heard you helped Fukai’s young master yesterday.” “Me? Ah, yes—did Fukai-kun tell you that?” “Yes—I’ve been hearing all sorts of things about your school from Fukai’s young master for quite some time now.”

“About me too?” “Yes, about you as well.” “But you mustn’t act that way.” “About you becoming class president, giving a speech at the debate meeting, and playing in the class baseball game only to end up losing—” And she burst into an impassioned laugh, as though unable to contain herself—turning her face away as if brushing back the strands of hair cascading over her cheeks—and shook her head vigorously. That majestic and profound beauty. “I love Fukai-kun too.” He declared.

“I love you too,” she said.

From beyond the oak grove came the deep rumble of an emaciated horse pulling a yellow carriage. The setting sun streamed through the carriage window like blood. To the two of them, the sight of the small carriage was both pitiful and amusing.

“Ah, O carriage—relic of a bygone era!” Heiichiro Oogawahira suddenly spoke in a speech-like tone, which even he himself found absurd, and the two burst into uproarious laughter until tears streamed from their eyes.

“Is it just you and your mother?” “Me? “I only have my mother. “We have no house, nor any money at all.” “But having your mother is enough. “I don’t have a mother.” “Ah! That’s right—I heard she was devoured by a tiger!”

When the sun had set, the two of them descended the hill and returned to town along the path through the fields. On the road, when Heiichiro Oogawahira recalled Wakako’s envelope, took it from his pocket, and said, “Shall I open it now?”, the chillingly cold touch of her hair as she tried to stop him from opening the envelope—uttering, “You mustn’t, Heiichiro-san, you mustn’t!”—remained unforgettable. “I’ll bring my reply tomorrow.” “Yes, I’m sure you will.”

The two of them parted at the crossroads atop the slope. Heiichiro Oogawahira felt as though he had not uttered a single one of the crucial things he needed to say. When he reflected on what those things might have been, his mind seemed utterly hollow. It was “a chaotic plenitude of emptiness.”

At night, he laid out a book on his desk, placed the pale blue envelope on top, and, overcoming his reluctance, cut open the seal.

Today after returning from school, I went out to the garden and thought of you. Today I felt terribly uneasy—why did we not meet on our way home from school? Then Fukai’s young master from next door called out to me. I know everything. I am truly sorry. But I simply did not know what to do, you see. I am truly yours. Now I am so happy I cannot keep still. I wish for us to grow close. But might you ever grow so close to me?

My mind races too frantically to put thoughts to paper. Mother (she isn’t my real mother, you understand) will soon come peeking to see what I’m doing. Heiichiro-sama, I find myself now utterly unable to endure not seeing you. Tonight I shall surely lie sleepless. In times past too, when sleep eluded me, I would always think of you. You may not know this, but I have often heard of you from Fukai’s young master. What in heaven’s name am I to do now?

Wakako Yoshikura

Beloved, Heiichiro Oogawahira-sama

Chapter Two

Spring had already passed, and the cloudy sky of the rainy season hung low over the northern town.

At fifteen, Heiichiro Oogawahira grew as robustly as a tree stretching skyward. Having matured within his mother’s devoted love and Fuyuko’s beautiful, noble affection, he had now grown further still through gaining Wakako’s and Fukai’s love. Though exceptionally inept at manual arts like calligraphy and drawing, he displayed remarkable budding talent in theoretical and emotionally oriented subjects. During foreign geography lessons, his wild imagination blazed with visions of harmonizing the entire globe under his will—how magnificent it would be if Wakako were queen and he emperor! In history class, reflecting on bygone eras and great figures’ lives sent shudders through him as he measured himself against them. The very conditions—“poverty,” “homelessness”—that perpetually cast him into desolate loneliness, even this pitiable state of being “parentless,” emboldened him as nature’s sign that a mission had been entrusted to him. "I am poor. But this gives me no reason whatsoever to bend my spirit’s true course!" Though lacking an athlete’s build and far from team material, he played baseball, practiced judo, and studied kendo.

However, countless trials still lay ahead for Hikari and her son. Tragically, Hikari had become unable to provide for their two-person household and Heiichiro’s school expenses by herself. The money from selling the house—her late husband’s sole remaining keepsake—had also dwindled to nearly nothing. She had to do something about it.

Though the bleakness of their future was all too clear, for Hikari to resign herself to despair—to simply await the coming misfortune—would have meant betraying her unshakable faith in Heiichiro’s future, her fervent blessings for it, and the profound significance she placed upon it. She confided in Fuyuko. Fuyuko suggested she come to Harukaze-ro since their seamstress had quit. The mother and child would receive meals there with a monthly stipend of five yen, she said. Hikari could not help but agonize over what to do for a long time. Even moving near the brothel district had seemed detrimental to Heiichiro—how much worse would living within those very houses be? It felt self-evident such an environment could never exert a positive influence. Yet continuing their current life would only deplete their meager savings faster still. She saw no alternative. Moreover, reflecting on her life experiences thus far, she reasoned that if living in a brothel’s corner could shake Heiichiro’s character, then he would prove unworthy of her trust. It was a gamble. Still she resolved to move in regardless. If things turned bad, she’d manage somehow—at least better than waiting passively for ruin. Thus did life’s daily struggles and anxiety for her only child make her forget both her innate revulsion toward prostitutes and her pity for them. This left no room for idle observation—hers became a life of solemn purpose. Having no other confidant, she tentatively broached the matter with Heiichiro.

“I hate it! I won’t go!” When Hikari confided in Heiichiro about moving houses, he screamed like a madman. (If I were to live in such a brothel, what would Wakako and Fukai think? They’ll surely want nothing to do with me!) So he thought in that instant.

Hikari, too, was initially perplexed by the vehemence of Heiichiro’s opposition, even though it was entirely reasonable. However, the matter had already been decided. Hikari quietly explained to Heiichiro—without resorting to numerical evidence—how their circumstances as mother and child had changed and grown dire. Moreover, she told him that even if they were to live in such a brothel house, they wouldn’t be staying with the women there, and that as long as he devoted himself wholeheartedly to his studies, it wouldn’t matter where they lived. Heiichiro listened to his mother’s words, yet he could not endure the oppressive weight and sting of poverty that pressed through them. However, ah—the very strength that had been granted to him now made him resolve, with sorrow, to spend his days beneath "the eaves of a brothel house."

(I will confess everything to Wakako and Fukai as well. That I have changed due to poverty out of necessity; that no matter where I live, this spirit of mine remains vigorous and sound, unchanged; and that I love you all and you all love me in return!)

“Miss Fuyuko, what a fate we share. What a strange twist of fate this is—truly, how mysterious,” Hikari said to Fuyuko with tearful emotion, uncharacteristic of her usual composure, when Heiichiro had finally given his reluctant consent and the arrangements had been settled between them. “Auntie, it is I who should say so. If you hadn’t been here, Auntie, what would have become of me? I would surely have become a far, far worse version of myself than I am now—even as I am, I constantly feel I’m causing you trouble, Auntie,” said Fuyuko.

From early morning on a Sunday in mid-June, Hikari managed to finish packing and cleaning with help from Fuyuko and a hired man. As she watched laborers load the last remaining black-lacquered chest and long chest onto a cart, tears welled in her eyes for no clear reason—could this be called the bitter sorrow of a nomadic existence? After Fuyuko accompanied the final moving cart away, the sight of the stripped-bare desolate room finally made Hikari cry. It was an indescribable helplessness—the loneliness and desolation that had seeped deep into her life as a widow since her husband Shuntarou’s death. “Truly we are born alone and die alone,” she thought as tears spilled over—just then Fuyuko hurried in wearing a pale blue flannel summer kimono with a hand towel tied across her shoulders and wrapped around her head like an older sister’s kerchief, saying now was an ideal time to go since Harukaze-ro’s master was awake while its courtesans still slept. Hikari felt grateful for this interruption. Though lonely, both women carried a new excitement as they turned right at the crossroads and descended a gentle slope. Even in this suburban pleasure quarter, Harukaze-ro stood as a first-class establishment—a three-story ancient-style gabled structure rising among grand old houses beside Hachiman Shrine’s dense cedar grove. When Hikari stood before its vermilion-lattice door, her entire body tensed anew. Beyond the colored-glass middle door lay chaos: expensive geta sandals, ashida rain clogs, and setta straw-soled footwear lay overturned, scattered sideways, or flung about in disarray.

The master was a man over fifty with a reddish balding scalp sprinkled with sparse elegant white hairs and an oily complexion. Seated on a side bench facing a three-foot-square sunken hearth while sipping heated egg sake, he said: “Save the details for when my wife wakes up later. Make yourself at home—relax as if it’s your own place. Do help her with advice too. You’ve got a son, I hear? There’s an empty room behind the storehouse—better make that his study.” The master’s words—more like those of a man acquainted with hardship than she had expected—brought Hikari relief. The morning sun quietly streaming in from the neighboring shrine’s precincts was another thing that gladdened her.

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

The wide kitchen’s wooden floor, the long corridor passing through the courtyard’s grove, turning before the storehouse and following the white wall into the dimness of the side passage—all grew faintly shadowed.

“Auntie, that’s the bathhouse.” A faint light seeped onto the narrow wooden floor beside the crimson, purple, and orange colored glass. Sunlight streamed from the garden adorned with azalea and nandina thickets, and facing the garden was the annex room. “Here it is, Auntie!”

Hikari looked around at the brazier, shelves, and Heiichiro’s desk—all placed discordantly in the ten-tatami room with blue walls—and couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loneliness, unease, and gratitude. “From now on, I’m happy that I can always live with you, Auntie,” said Fuyuko. “When I first truly knew you, Auntie, did I ever think we’d end up living together like this?”

“It’s truly a mysterious fate, isn’t it?” Hikari kept feeling as though she had touched some eternal force. And she gazed up at the future of life—eternal, unknowable, the spring of all joy and all sorrow. The sun shone down radiantly. “I’ve grown sleepy. Auntie, pardon me, but I’ll go take a quick nap,” Fuyuko said with a laugh as she left.

It was eight in the morning—still midnight for Harukaze-ro.

The large clock hanging in the main parlor of Harukaze-ro resounded deeply with ten o'clock's chime. Throughout the house, a turbid chaotic sleep lay sealed in gloom. The master—who had woken midway earlier and gulped down egg wine—now clung to the landlady who had sunk into deep slumber late last night, falling asleep himself while still pleasantly drunk from morning.

The electric lights had gone out, leaving the entire house dim and silent. The nighttime splendor that had thrived beneath the lamps could no longer be found anywhere. Through the fine-latticed glass of the front window, sunlight nearing midsummer—relentlessly intensifying in strength—streamed into the shop’s unlit room and was illuminating it. The women were revealed in their sleeping forms, as if floating in the morning light. Eight beds lined the room; mirrored dressers stood near the pillows on the wooden floor, four solid paulownia chests along the walls, and above them two-tiered hanging shelves from which well-worn everyday obi-like sashes hung down together with red undergarments. Layers of discarded kimonos, their red linings turned inside out, were stuffed into shelves—the black raw silk collars, soiled with grime and powder, glistening stickily. The white light reflected by the surface of a mirror—forgotten to be covered with a cloth—remained perfectly still upon one of them. It was quiet. They breathed rhythmically in their sleep. Some occasionally let out low moans.

It was rare for there to be as many as eight beds laid out as on this morning. On any given night, only three or four—or at most four or five—of them ever slept in their own beds. It was an all-too-clear fact what kind of places they would spend their nights in, with what kind of people.

Awakened by the ten o’clock chime, Fuyuko could not help but gaze out from her bedding at the unusually full lineup of her peers’ sleeping forms, illuminated by the light.

Lying by the wall, properly wrapped in a light blue summer futon that covered half her body, facing the wall with her left side on the pillow and sleeping peacefully was Sachi, two years younger than Fuyuko. The sun shone on her glossy Shimada chignon—she never forgot her evening makeup—and her small, regular breaths faintly stirred the roots of her hair. Though her stature was somewhat short and her build petite, Sachi possessed a firm, rounded fullness to her flesh and skin of such white translucency that its delicate grain seemed meticulously crafted.

Sachi was born in Tokyo. Her mother had been a woman renowned as a top geisha even in Yanagibashi, Tokyo, but after turning thirty, her luck took a turn for the worse. When her sole patron, a politician, died, her willfulness from her prime—when she had been at her peak—had already made too many enemies for her to continue working as a geisha. When Sachi’s mother began to sense her fading beauty and physical youth, she came to Kanazawa intending to make a living through her own artistic path (dance), said to be just one step from mastery. At that time Sachi was fifteen, but her mother’s inherited wit, childhood-trained dance skills, and the allure of her petite yet firm physique prevented her from growing up as a dance teacher’s daughter. While living near the pleasure quarter, Sachi’s mother naturally became acquainted with Harukaze-ro’s master. To Sachi’s mother—who had a discerning eye for men—he alone appeared somewhat like an earnest, hardworking man. With backing from Tahyoue Nakamura—Harukaze-ro’s master and quarter overseer—Sachi’s mother secured a position as Fujima-ryū dance instructor. This connection led Sachi herself to begin attending banquets as one of Harukaze-ro’s women at seventeen. Petite Sachi didn’t stand out when sitting demurely in finery among crowds. Yet facing men individually, beneath her crisp vivacity shimmered a bewitching force that seemed to ensnare souls. “First I assess the customer’s mood, demeanor, and spending habits.” “Can’t let my guard down around students or shop clerks.” “‘Best to target splendid well-off men in their thirties or forties,’ she once told Fuyuko.” Sachi seemed to take demonic pleasure in bewildering men and dragging them into her grasp. Even when slyly drawn along herself, once matters reached a point she’d twist away like a nimble kitten, coldly watching abandoned men—knowing full well this enchantress cruelty’s pleasure. Yet even she hadn’t lacked passionate love affairs, however erotic. When eighteen during New Year’s, Saburo-san—son of the town’s top kimono merchant and a high school student—began ardently pursuing her. The young master’s vigorous boyishness made her inexplicably fall in love. She’d shed all artifices and rise with single-minded passion solely when meeting Saburo-san. How love’s power made her alluring beauty shine only Saburo-san could know. For Sachi, precisely because carnal entanglements ran so deep, she grew unable to bear separation from him all day.

Saburo-san skipped school, Sachi stopped attending banquets, and day after day, night after night, the two remained shut away in a single room like fever patients. However, as the clerk from Saburo-san’s household took him away and they spent all day negotiating over the phone—even disconnecting it temporarily during this period—Sachi’s passion gradually subsided into dormancy. “I’ll never forget Saburo-san, no matter how much time passes!” she had declared—but that had been her first and last “self-abandoning” love affair and carnal indulgence. No matter how violent the maelstroms of pleasure and passion became, that fearsome discipline—to maintain shrewd calculations even amidst them—had now been perfected; as an ideal “good woman,” she lay there quietly sleeping, her breaths measured and regular, in perfect tranquility.

Next to Sachi lay Tokiko, who was turned twenty, her entire body arched back as she drew slightly high, labored breaths through her nose. The way she slept—with the quilt bunched between her legs and both arms flung out onto the tatami mats—had a quality that could not be described as merely rough. On her slender face, the high, sharp bridge of her nose, and the prominent larynx of her stretched throat, the light shone intensely. The flaking white makeup and her naturally bluish-tinged skin had become mottled; from her neck down, where the collar of her sleepwear had come undone, her emaciated chest was stained black with grease—an unhealthy sight, yet there was no mistaking the elegance of her form. She was a woman who had spent her entire twenty-year life growing up in the brothel district during an era that left indelible memories. She said she only had memories of having someone shoulder the burden of a harsh mountain path for her. Until thirteen or fourteen, she had been exploited as an errand girl. Each morning she rose earlier than anyone to clean ash from thirty braziers, then immediately took the ash container to a stream far from the brothel district to wash it and return. No matter how heavily snow fell on winter mornings, she couldn’t skip this task. Once finished, she helped with cleaning. After breakfast finally ended, she had to go to her teacher’s place for dance and shamisen lessons. This was agony for her. The artistic path brought her no enjoyment whatsoever. She earnestly wished to grow up quickly—to wear fine kimonos like the older geishas, drink sake, feast on delicacies, and revel with men. Precocious by nature, by the spring of her fourteenth year she was effectively no longer a girl. When she first appeared in banquet rooms wearing white makeup and rouge, dressed in a crepe-silk kimono as a maiko with “Good evening, sir,” she felt she had achieved great success. She couldn’t contain her joy when men called her “Toki-chan’s my good girl” or “What a cutie.” She became enthralled. All desires long suppressed were finally set free. She gorged herself on food and drink, caroused recklessly, and voraciously accepted even that one painful thing forced upon her.

As a lively, accommodating young woman who readily satisfied their desires, she became the darling of students and youths starved for sexual gratification, finding contentment in this. Holding her weary body, disturbed soul, and base satisfaction within her, the sight of Tokiko sleeping untidily that morning stirred in Fuyuko both wretched pity and sorrowful reflection.

Last night—or rather, past two in the morning this morning—Shigeko had returned from a client’s house and tearfully pleaded with Fuyuko about escaping the habutae merchant who had summoned her that night. Now she lay sleeping beside Fuyuko, next to Tokiko. Fuyuko had come to feel a certain fondness for this gloomy Shigeko. No matter how much she had begged her mother through tears, insisting she absolutely did not want to become a geisha, it had been impossible to overturn the will of her stepmother—determined from the moment she took in the infant girl as her own. Shigeko could not forget the words her stepmother had spoken: “If I hadn’t raised you, you’d have become bleached bones in some mountain or river by now.” She had become a geisha against her will. After abandoning herself to carnal acts, her spirit grew unusually agitated, leaving her sleepless through the night. On those very nights when sleep eluded her, she would imagine herself wasting away, envision a hell where each evening her essence was pressed dry like on an oilseed screw, and picture jet-black death stretching its hand to seize her. Last night too, she had asked Fuyuko, “What becomes of us when we die?” and fretted, “I feel some vile sickness coursing through my body,” before falling asleep with desolate loneliness clinging to her. Her face and cheeks twitched nervously— The storefront light now carried midday heat in its rays, and Fuyuko’s distress deepened. She turned over and stared at the women lined up to her right. Unaware of the golden sunlight spilling across them in broad streams, they all seemed to sleep—exhausted from the night’s labors.

Two peach-shaped chignons lay neatly at the collar of a small Benkei-striped quilt, their faces hidden beneath the covers—these were Yoneko and Ichiko, the two red-collar apprentices. Yoneko had become a red-collar apprentice for the first time that year at fourteen, but when she said, “If Yone-chan’s doing it, then I’m doing it too,” Ichiko, just a year younger, ended up becoming a red-collar apprentice as well. Yoneko was a slender, quiet girl, while Ichiko was somewhat spirited, lively, and as beautiful as a flower. Ichiko was doted on by many customers, but Yoneko was cherished by a select few good patrons. Yet the two themselves remained indifferent to such matters. They danced clumsy dances and delighted in being praised for them. Both had been born and raised as daughters of geishas who could not clearly point to any man as their father. They knew nothing of life beyond the brothel district. Would they ever gain even a proper understanding of occupation, love, or morality—throughout their entire lives?

Adjacent to these two girls, one bed remained empty. On the soiled sheet lay two vermilion-lacquered pillows, still neatly aligned. That was Kikuryu and Tomie’s “shared” bed. Since they rarely ended up together, they had been sharing one bed between them. When they did end up together on occasion, they would burrow into a single bed and make it their custom to talk about lovers’ rumors until the night grew pale with dawn before falling asleep. Last night, they had likely either stayed out somewhere or—if not—might have been in a room on the second floor.

Separated from the empty bed, across the threshold where the sliding door had been removed, the licensed prostitute of this house lay asleep. The one who lay there in a deep slumber—her mouth agape, revealing a plump profile, with thick, bulging white arms splayed out and a coarse yellow, black, and maroon vertically striped quilt bunched around her—was Tsuruko, a woman nearing thirty. Her girlhood through youth had been spent as a worker at a village weaving factory and a city tobacco monopoly bureau. Her plump, nearly bursting flesh and smooth skin were an innate repository of insatiable desire. She became a prostitute at twenty-three. For her, it was a profession that provided sustenance and a precious wellspring that granted pleasure. She never grew weary from her profession. The white, vivid red color of blood had faded, but across her plump flesh, pale blue veins rippled gently. "Mornings after sleeping alone are so dreary I can’t stand it," she once said to Fuyuko and chuckled.

In the shadow of Tsuruko’s large frame, one could not overlook a small, emaciated woman sleeping there. Her hollow-cheeked face—small and withered where flesh had fallen away—bit down on a stray strand of disheveled hair between her lips; with each breath, her slender nose faintly twitched. The sun shone upon that utterly oppressed, gloomy face. Each deep wrinkle on her forehead stood out clearly, expressing the woman’s hardships. Kozuma was an unfortunate woman. She was so wretched that even Fuyuko—who believed herself unfortunate—considered her truly so. Kozuma was the only one among these women born in this town, daughter of a middle-class pharmacy. After finishing elementary school, as was customary for middle-class daughters here, she attended daily sewing lessons. She had been a shy, inconspicuous girl with an affectionate nature. To reach her instructor’s house, she walked along the riverbank—where at sixteen she began encountering a young man who seemed to be a merchant. Kozuma thought him kind and manly. One day returning home, a sudden rain began pattering down. The young man happened by then, sheltering her under his umbrella all the way home. As they walked and she spoke haltingly with embarrassment, she rejoiced to learn he was the son of a paper merchant whose shop adjoined hers. The two grew close—and soon the girl appeared pregnant. While she agonized alone over whether she might be with child, their parents arranged a marriage. The match was to a pharmaceutical wholesaler. (“Why didn’t I tell my parents clearly back then? I was so afraid they’d scold me—don’t you see, Fuyuko-san? How naive I was!” Kozuma would often say.) Believing the paper merchant’s son had changed his heart, he took to dissipation. Eventually unable to hide her pregnancy, she was divorced.

The timid Kozuma, due to her timid and weak-hearted nature, fled her home only to suffer one ordeal after another, ultimately finding herself among a group of prostitutes. For her—possessing a timid, weak, obedient soul and a high-strung, sensitive body easily bruised—the work of a prostitute was a cruel hell. If she made it through a single night, by morning she would be tormented by a raging fever. And then, just as the heat and suffering would subside, the night’s terrifying, abhorrent cruelty would return. For Kozuma, who could not fully become a machine, it was a waste of her precious, precious life. It was no wonder that Kozuma, not yet twenty-five, had become emaciated, her appearance gaunt and darkly withered. Kozuma was haunted all day by memories and threats of abhorrent acts, cursing the oppression of terrible violence. “I do wish I could just sleep forever without ever waking up,” she said.

Ah, the lonely happiness of nights spent sleeping alone— As Fuyuko stared fixedly at Kozuma, the latter’s sunken eyes fluttered open. The sunlight seemed to sting her eyes in a flash. “Ah, Lord Sun,” she murmured faintly, and recognizing Fuyuko in the light, smiled a lonely smile. “Are you awake already?” “Yes, I woke up just now from the sound of the clock.” “Yes... Oh, I was having an unpleasant dream, wasn’t I? “I didn’t groan or anything, did I?”

“No—you were sleeping so soundly… It truly is a lovely morning… Ms.Kozuma.” “You mustn’t laugh at me... “When I suddenly opened my eyes... “Then I saw...

Fuyuko suddenly wondered how Hikari was doing at that moment. The room was likely tidy enough, but she must have been feeling lonely all by herself. Somehow, she wanted to see her awake face. Fuyuko got up, changed into her everyday clothes, and said to Kozuma, “I forgot I had a little errand to do—please rest a while longer,” then left the shop area. For Fuyuko, conversing with Kozuma was unbearable precisely because it seemed to thrust before her eyes—with merciless clarity—the vulnerable aspect of her character she perpetually struggled to conquer and unify through sheer effort.

While feeling lonely over Fuyuko’s departure, Kozuma gazed at Sachi, Tokiko, Shigeko, Yoneko and Ichiko, and Tsuruko, unable to suppress an unbearable, instinctive sorrow at the absence of Tomie and Kikuryu. Both of them had been invited to a certain restaurant last night and had likely stayed somewhere overnight. Both had been raised in Harukaze-ro since early childhood, just like Yoneko and Ichiko were now—having only just become full-fledged last year at eighteen, the age when ordinary girls would still be innocent. Kozuma could not help but feel deep sorrow when she realized she had fallen in love with that paper merchant’s son at precisely the age Kikuryu and Tomie were now. Tears lamenting her own vanished youth—and further, the plight of those who spent their maidenhoods in this liminal space without ever knowing pure first love, squandering their beauty in nightly duties. She even tried to think she might have been happier than they were. But that faint, dusty emotion accompanying her brief reminiscence shattered completely when a cramping pain seized her from lower back to abdomen. Exposed to sunlight, staring at her pale torso emerging between grease-stained underclothes and faded red underwear—the emaciated flesh of her ribcage, withered skin, skeletal ribs forming dark folds—she confirmed her days as a somewhat happy girl now belonged to another world. As for her present self—violent pain constricted her body. She clenched her teeth and endured it. Clammy sweat oozed from her shriveled pale hands. The malignant disease rooted in her marrow growled from within: *You don’t have long.* She lacked even strength to wipe the sweat soaking her body—wretchedly similar to client-taking sweats that made death seem preferable. Then she pressed her head against the pillow and tried again to close her eyes.

The time was nearly eleven o’clock. Doors opened here and there across the town, their shutters rattling as they rose. A drawn-out yawn echoed from somewhere. Kozuma steadied herself, sat up, tightened a slender red cord over her undergarment beneath her breasts, and slipped into the tearoom. In the sunken hearth, charcoal flames—likely kindled by the landlord at dawn—now roared vigorously. She puffed distastefully at her tobacco while basking in sunlight streaming through the window. Floorboards creaked in the kitchen where the elderly maid had just risen. As Kozuma focused on those creaks, another set of footsteps approached from afar. She listened vacantly. She lacked even the strength to think. Fuyuko appeared. Kozuma typically felt both fear toward Fuyuko and a worshipful love—the sort reserved for those strong enough to actualize their ideals.

“Good morning, Ms. Kozuma.” With this, Fuyuko bowed formally.

“Good morning.” Behind Fuyuko, she noticed a woman over forty—slightly gaunt from hardship yet dignified and graceful—standing there with stooped posture, appearing uncertain how to compose herself, her solemn gaze seeming to seethe at her own indecisiveness. “This is Oogawahira’s mother—she’s come to work here this time.”

“I look forward to working with you,” Hikari said.

Kozuma felt she had seen this person somewhere before. That magnanimous warmth felt achingly familiar to her. She thought this wasn't the sort of person who belonged in a house like this. Then abruptly—as if vaulting across some invisible boundary—her present self burned with shame before this woman. She bowed her head, "If anyone should say such things," she murmured, "it ought to be me." Fuyuko maintained her silence.

Fuyuko was slightly flushed. Fuyuko would always smile cheerfully when meeting Hikari, but upon coming to Harukaze-ro, she pursed her lips tightly and maintained a calm, slightly somber composure without disturbing her countenance. She did not speak much. The brusque silence and dignity—so incongruous for a woman in her trade—had refined her into a strangely desolate beauty. Hikari, comparing Kozuma and Fuyuko, felt gladdened as if glimpsing Fuyuko’s true beauty for the first time. When conversing together, Fuyuko hardly seemed like such an exceptional woman, but Hikari found herself thinking that in this tense state—worthy of being hailed as a top courtesan even within the brothel quarter—there was something austerely resonant in her bearing, as though she were seeing Fuyuko anew. In any case, the three sat bathed in morning light around the hearth and kept silent. In such circumstances, only soulless inanimate objects could have spoken.

“Toki-chan, Shige-chan, aren’t you getting up? It’s already late, Shige-chan! Toki-chan!” Sachi’s rounded, resonant voice could be heard from the shop area. “Yoneko-chan, Ichiko-chan, really! If you stick your butts out like this, what if someone takes them away in the middle of the night? Wake up already, really!” A pitter-patter of what sounded like someone slapping the small prostitutes’ buttocks and sleepy, startled laughter erupted in unison. The women of the brothel were all roused.

“Toki-chan, you should at least put away your own bedding.” “Yes, yes.” “Last night, I kept having such strange dreams.” “If it’s Tsuruko-san’s dream, I can generally guess what it’s about.” “Of course—dreams about some cute man.”

Sachi emerged wearing her usual spirited single-layer kimono with a Hakata underbelt tied, using a toothpick. Her shrewd, lively eyes that darted about lingered on Hikari before turning toward Fuyuko as if demanding an explanation. Fuyuko detested Sachi’s eyes. Those calculating eyes—eyes that could make any man struck by them instantly imagine temptations—Fuyuko found those eyes utterly loathsome. She usually remained silent. Sachi called Fuyuko arrogant. Had Sachi felt less confident about her appeal to men or earned less than Fuyuko by month’s end, her serpentine cunning might have turned viciously against her. But Fuyuko’s clientele stayed limited, and she detested overnight stays—a aversion she could enforce through her recognized standing. Thus her earnings never surpassed Sachi’s. This worked to her advantage. Yet even Fuyuko couldn’t stay silent now without leaving Hikari adrift.

“Good morning, Sachi-san.”

“Good morning.” “You know, the one I’d always spoken of.” “Oogawahira’s Auntie.” “She’s come to work here now.” “Do treat her well again, won’t you?”

“I see.” “You can count on me.”

Sachi glanced at Hikari. To her, Hikari appeared as a plain, somewhat mysterious forty-year-old woman—slightly different in her ways, offering no handle for conquest. Yet her own sharp wit and wisdom, combined with her ignorance of women beyond the brothel quarter, had put her mind at ease. Hikari saw there the petite figure of Sachi—lively as a fresh-caught minnow darting about, beautiful in her vigor.

“Please take your time, Auntie.”

Sachi left toward the washroom. “Shige-san, you’d better pick up those paper scraps.” As Shigeko was removing her undergarments to change into an unlined kimono and about to enter the tearoom, Tokiko called out to stop her while tightly winding her narrow obi around herself. The willful manner of this interruption pained Shigeko’s heart.

“What?” “It’s that paper scrap there.”

Tokiko pointed at Shigeko’s feet. There lay a crumpled scrap of paper stained with tainted blood. Shigeko seemed startled, but with tremendous speed, she spoke—her eyes carrying the look of someone retracing every moment from when she had returned late last night in that sorrowful, gloomy mood until she had gone to bed. “This isn’t mine.” “If it’s not yours, Shige-chan, then whose is it?” “How should I know whose it is?” “Hmph—”

Tokiko sharply tightened her narrow obi and tapped near her full breasts. The motion sent several identical paper scraps tumbling from her lined crepe kimono sleeves onto the tatami mats. Shigeko's eyes lit up. Yet that brightness—as if ashamed of its own radiance—reverted to her inherently somber features. Tokiko had to suppress her irritation at this unforeseen revelation. (Last night, at that gathering of high school students—the lively bespectacled man with the faintly bluish beard! She'd completely forgotten him!) Tokiko clicked her tongue softly and spoke.

“Shige-chan has such refined tastes... you know.” Shigeko contorted her face painfully and fell silent. She wished Fuyuko were here at times like this. For Shigeko, only the oppressive weight of thinking “I hate this, I hate this” felt strong—she lacked any power to resist or push forward through that pressure. She was too young to possess Kozuma’s resigned composure for detached observation, and hadn’t been blessed with Fuyuko’s innate talent for suppressing matters through heavy dignity and silence. Shigeko entered the tearoom while stifling tears. Tokiko followed.

“Good morning, Big Sister Fuyuko,” Shigeko said. “Good morning—Oh, Shige-chan, this is my Auntie. She has come to work here from now on.” Fuyuko also addressed Tokiko, who was silently using a toothpick as if angry.

“Toki-chan, please treat her well too, okay?”

“Yes.”

Tokiko and Shigeko left for the kitchen. The way Shigeko bowed deeply to Hikari was heartrending. “I think I’ll go wash my face too.” With that, Kozuma rose carefully, as if tending to the pain in her body, and headed toward the kitchen. “Ugh, I’m so sleepy, so sleepy! Why’d I have to get up this early? This is really the worst.” A voice like that of a large man—Tsuruko’s—rang out. Tsuruko—plump and fleshy, her half-naked body exposed—entered the tearoom and, seeing the clock on the wall nearing eleven, let out a shrill cry. And then she pitifully tried to suck on her own sagging nipples. The darkened nipples and sagging, ample breasts proved that she had borne a child in her past.

“I might not look it, but I’m still young, you know.”

With her large nose, big eyes, and thick lips—despite the dullness of Tsuruko’s upper half—Hikari felt a lingering sadness. “Go wash your face now—Auntie, this is Tsuruko-san.” Fuyuko now addressed Hikari. “Just some woman you’ve seen around, Auntie! Ahahahaha!”

Tsuruko left. The two girls, Yoneko and Ichiko, took down the heavy bronze brazier from the shelf beside the stairs, removing cigarette butts and smoothing the ashes while occasionally stealing glances at Hikari. Yoneko had a melon-seed-shaped face with a nose that was slightly too translucent—the tip even seeming to droop—but she possessed fine single-lidded eyes. Ichiko was a lovely, full-figured girl with a rounded chin and lips slightly parted as if ready to chat, her eyebrows and eyes bearing a gentle kindness.

“She’s Big Sister Fuyuko’s mother.” “No way! She’s Big Sister Fuyuko’s aunt—you know, the auntie who was in the back at Nakada’s second floor—the one who did that work.” “Oh, that auntie—then that means she’s Heiichiro-san’s mother—the one who’s attending middle school—right?” “Well, Ichiko-chan knows Heiichiro-san, right?” “I know.” “I know about him too!”

Yoneko seemed slightly displeased. (She often remembered Heiichiro grinning as he played ball in the street whenever she went out on errands, so she felt displeased that Ichiko knew the same Heiichiro.) Even though raised in the mud, the girl’s innocence did not deeply retain the memory of the many men who drank and reveled obscenely every night, yet had her remember the casual smile of a neighborhood boy—how remarkable!) “Does Heiichiro-san come here too, eh? Big Sister Fuyuko!” Just as Ichiko suddenly asked this before Fuyuko could answer—Sachi emerged at that moment and—

“Hurry up and clean the garden now.” “What’s all this dawdling about?” Scolded, the two girls went down to the dirt-floored entrance and began tidying the disordered geta one pair at a time. The sound of dusting began to be heard in 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 was alone, raising her voice loudly as she roughly stirred things around. Shigeko was silently sweeping. Tokiko muttered under her breath and made no real effort to clean. (Ms. Kikuryu and Ms. Tomie are probably still asleep in their warm futons by now—how utterly absurd.) “Tonight, I’ll call that clerk from last night again,” she was thinking. In the kitchen, the old woman—though “old” was a misnomer for this forty-four- or forty-five-year-old lanky figure, who, lacking innate gifts and having absorbed nothing from her eventful life’s hardships, remained unwithered and worked like a sturdy horse—had finally prepared watery porridge in a large two-shō pot, wastefully burning gas to do so. In the brothel, it was the custom to sip rice porridge for breakfast throughout the year.

“Everyone, the meal is ready.” Between the inner banquet room of the side garden adjacent to the kitchen—forming a right angle—lay this house’s dining room. In one corner stood the cellar entrance enclosed by a railing roughly three shaku square. Cold air seeped up from the dark pit’s mouth, filling the room with an icy breath from the earth’s depths. The old woman dripped sweat as she spread thin straw mats and centered the large porridge pot. She called again: “Everyone, the meal is ready.” Even here, hierarchy existed. Fuyuko and Sachi took the upper seats. Tokiko with Shigeko, Kikuryu with Tomie, Tsuruko with Kozuma—and finally Yoneko and Ichiko—each shared a meal tray divided between two. It was nearly noon now. In a sky of serene cobalt clarity after the rains, sunlight gilded the air with trembling gold heat. Through windows streamed green-gold radiance that cast delicate shadows on lacquered trays—black outside, vermilion within—their hues shifting subtly. Quiet reigned. White steam rose soundlessly from gaps in the soot-blackened pot’s lid, dissolving into subterranean chill before rising anew. Women who had smoothed disheveled sidelocks in the shop gathered here despite lacking appetite—habit alone compelling them. Fuyuko felt faint weariness after introducing Hikari to everyone. Perhaps rising early had unsettled her. She ladled porridge into a small teacup, sprinkled sesame salt, and began sipping. Sachi, Tokiko, Shigeko, Kozuma and Tsuruko all handled their steaming bowls listlessly—nearly gagging at each reluctant sip.

The only ones truly slurping the porridge with relish from hunger were the two girls, Yoneko and Ichiko. Nature had not yet robbed these two girls—overworked yet still protected in both soul and body from base degradation—of their healthy appetites. The two girls slurped greedily, making loud, messy sounds. Fuyuko gazed at their manner with pleasure. Scornfully, Tokiko pointed at the two girls with her eyes and laughed derisively toward Sachi. And she herself scowled, finding it a daunting task to finally sip a single bowl of porridge.

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

Tokiko glanced sidelong at the empty seat beside her and spoke up. She had been itching to say this since morning. “I suppose so.” Sachi said. “Since it’s Mochizuki’s time of month—it must be Yoshi-chan and Mr. Niwa.” “Yoshi-chan and Mr. Niwa—well, they *are* the clingy type after all, so it’s no wonder they’re late.” “Right about now, they’re probably still clinging on for dear life, refusing to let go.” Tsuruko loudly declared and laughed alone—ahahaha! Tokiko scowled in contempt at Tsuruko’s interjection. Tsuruko did not overlook that sight.

“Ahahaha! Ain’t it just whether ya pluck a shamisen or not?” “Yous got no clue how much more upstandin’ and grand I am compared to yous, ahahaha!” “State-licensed courtesan, they say.” Sachi backed Tokiko up with her shrewdness, avoiding deeper entanglement in this petty squabble as she left for the shop. Tokiko followed after her, shooting Tsuruko a contemptuous sidelong glance. “Ahahaha! No proper skills to speak of, yet actin’ all high-and-mighty over me—ain’t that just pitiful? “Ahahaha! Yous don’t even notice yous’re fallin’ apart at the seams!”

No one answered. Kozuma, Shigeko, and Fuyuko—each lost in their own separate thoughts and sunk in deep gloom—could not even laugh. (Blessed are those without souls. May those lonely souls who know not laughter be granted such grace!) As Tsuruko began returning to the tearoom, Sachi and Tokiko, carrying their makeup tools, started down to the earthen-floored area to go to the bath. “Go wash that rotting body of yours.” “Tsuruko-san, what was that? Go ahead and say it again.”

“Go polish your precious jewels.”

“That’s none of your business, I’ll have you know. I can’t perform such impressive feats that make men cry like a certain someone can.” “My, my, how pitiful for you. Though I may not look it, I’m still quite hale and hearty.” “Tsuruko-chan, that’s going too far.”

Sachi spoke in an admonishing tone. However, Tsuruko’s emotions, once derailed, could not be restrained by such means. Her bloated, corpulent body was permeated with twisted rage. “So what if it’s too much?” “I’ve got a mouth, so I’ll use it, don’t I?” “I can’t dance the way you do.” “After dancing a dance, what will you dance next?” “Quit flappin’ that smart mouth like you’re so high and mighty!” “Say whatever you want.” “You slut.”

“Well, you’re just a slut anyhow.” “If you’re a slut, keep quiet and behave yourself.” “Aren’t you lot the real sluts here? You’ve got self-conceit in spades, I see.”

Neither Sachi nor Tokiko could withstand Tsuruko’s eloquence—steeped in an undercurrent of bizarre anguish—as she hurled her entire body into the confrontation. The two exited the room with visible distaste. Tsuruko watched them depart before returning to the shop’s common area, where she flopped onto her back and sustained her hollow, madwoman’s cackling. A laugh that resembled stifled sobs from one whose tears had long since dried up.

Kozuma and Shigeko tried to say something to Fuyuko, but since Fuyuko remained solemnly composed, they returned to the shop in silence. Kozuma’s entire body felt weary, her every joint refusing to let her stay upright. She spread out a futon and lay down, her despairing eyes gleaming as though doubting some dark thing. Shigeko had been loosening her hair at the dressing table but eventually left for the bath. In the shop, Tsuruko and Kozuma remained.

“Ms. Kozuma.” When called, Kozuma let out a sigh and did not immediately respond. “How’s your condition?” “I’m not well and have grown weak.” “Does it hurt?” “Somehow my whole body feels like it’s failing, and my lower abdomen keeps cramping up.” (Tsuruko had experienced such symptoms herself. Because she was inherently strong, such pent-up states within her body never lasted long—they’d burst outward all at once, making fundamental recovery easy.) Tsuruko thought Kozuma wouldn’t last much longer.

“Where has everyone gone?”

The proprietress, having finished dinner with the brothel owner in the inner parlor, appeared at the shop. The proprietress—a woman of forty-six or forty-seven with shaved eyebrows and a lead-poisoned bluish tinge to her skin, who must have been quite splendid and beautiful in her youth—took care not to let even the courtesans divert her attention. “They’ve all gone to the bath, I suppose.” “Have Kikuryu and Tomie still not returned, huh?” “Not yet, I don’t think.” “Yes. You all should go take a bath too. If you just warm yourselves up properly, your bodies’ll hold out longer—Ms. Kozuma, how’s your condition?”

“Oh... thank you.” “If you’re not doing well, you must go to Dr. Iida regularly and get it sorted out, huh?” “Oh... thank you.”

Fuyuko entered there.

“Oh, Fuyuko-san, haven’t you gone to the bath yet, huh?” “No.”

“And how is that... person doing?” She had likely been referring to Hikari. “Auntie Oogawa is resting in the detached room.” “And her meal?” “She must have already finished breakfast.” “Of course she would—our mornings here are like the town’s noon, ohohohoho.” The proprietress sat down in the side seat of the tearoom and began reviewing last night’s client ledger among other things. Then, as if suddenly remembering, she called, “Yoneko, Ichiko.” The two girls came out while stroking their chins where the white makeup had flaked and said, “What is it?”

“You should go on over to the dance instructor’s place now.” “Yes.” “And tell her that if she has free time this evening, she should come visit for a chat. Do you understand?” “Yes.” The two girls left while keeping rhythm with their practice fans—dressed in neat unlined kimonos with obis fastened in beautiful crimson crepe and black satin combinations—saying, “Mother, we’re off now.”

The clock pointed to 1 PM. Fuyuko decided to introduce Hikari to the proprietress before going to the bath and walked down the long dark corridor to the detached room behind the storehouse. The bluish-tinged walls of the room, the modest small garden thick with shrubs before it, and the weathered wooden fence lay beneath a wide expanse of blue sky, together forming a tranquil and singular world. Hikari had spread out her sewing and was diligently moving her needle. "Oh Auntie, you're working."

To Fuyuko，Hikari’s gentle tears—so intimately familiar—were met with a warm，generous smile． “Ah，dear Auntie，” she thought． “Auntie，what do you think？” “About what？”

“About our circumstances.”

Then, once again, Hikari smiled gently. Auntie has already seen through the very foundation of our lives and returned to her usual relaxed kindness, Fuyuko thought. Auntie, who occupies a higher plane than myself—than myself, who remains perpetually tense in my natural resistance against being stained by the surroundings—Fuyuko thought. The various apprehensions and anxieties Fuyuko had been feeling were all swept away at this moment. She thought that Auntie possessed a firm conviction that allowed her to remain unperturbed even in the face of grave matters, so someone like herself need not fret. When she thought this, she saw her emotions slowly melt and flow away.

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

“Yes, that would be better.” “She’s perhaps 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’s built up a house of this scale—it’s not something an ordinary person could manage, you know.” Hikari stopped her work and stood up. The proprietress was still in the tearoom. “Madam, this is her—the Auntie who has been so kind to me.” “...Please continue to look after us.” “Who was it—oh, Hikari-san, was it? “I’m Tomi.” “Stop with this ‘Madam’ business—from now on, let’s you and I be Tomi-san and Hikari-san and give those youngsters a run for their money, shall we?” “Ohohohoho.” “Oh, it’s nothing—you just relax here as if it were your own home.” “It’s a bit gloomy behind the storehouse, but since I heard you have a son attending middle school, I thought his studies would require some consideration. After discussing it with Fuyuko, we settled on that room for you—how does it suit you?”

“Yes, that will be quite suitable.” “If you set that place up as your son’s study and work wherever suits you on the front or back second floor—how old is your son?” “He just turned fifteen this year.” “Well now. “As for someone like me, I remain childless even now as punishment for being in this line of work. “My, raising a child to fifteen by a woman’s hands alone—that must have been no ordinary hardship by any means. “Ah, and when did your husband pass away?”

“It must be about eleven or twelve years now, I suppose.” “Remarkable!” The proprietress exclaimed with genuine admiration—no mere flattery—and gazed fixedly at Hikari, who had lived a life so utterly divergent from her own, with heartfelt intensity. Seeing the gentle, lonesome smile lingering about Hikari’s lips, the proprietress brewed fragrant jade tea redolent with aroma, offering it to her before partaking herself. “Might I ask you to keep me company again going forward?”

“If anyone, it is I.”

The green shade of the neighboring shrine’s cedar grove, filtered through the sunlight, swayed drowsily over the three women. It was a rare stillness, a rare beauty. For a while, the tranquil beauty continued. Nature here manifested the beauty and majesty of things possessing individuality. After a while, the rickshaw’s bell rang under the eaves. “Madam, we’re back.”

“Welcome back.” Kikuryu and Tomie returned. Neither were beautiful women, nor did they possess outstanding character. But both were young. The preciousness of youth—a mere moment granted by nature. It shines, fills, and radiates with beauty wherever and whenever it may be. Youth blossomed profusely in the two women. The two of them likely had no idea what kind of faltering steps they themselves were taking. Youth has the power to intoxicate even acts that ought to be suffering, turning them into pleasure.

“You were quite late, weren’t you?” “Is it really that late?” Kikuryu stood there, gently adjusting her disheveled shimada mage as if to flaunt her youthfulness, the hem of her pale pink unlined crested kimono trailing long behind her. Tomie, adorned in the same vibrant grass-green attire, hummed a soft shamisen tune through her lips as she exchanged secret smiles with Kikuryu.

“It’s nearly two o’clock already. Hurry and change your kimonos, then go on to the bath.” Without responding, the two presented the hanafuda cards wrapped in a silk cloth before the proprietress. “Who was it this time?” “Yoshie-chan and Mr. Niwa.”

“I see.” “If you lot get too deeply involved yourselves or let others drag you in, there’ll be no undoing it.” “We’re perfectly fine, Madam.” “Well, if you say so… Oh, and since we’ve had this lady join us for work now, you’d best learn how to hold a needle properly in your spare time, understand?” “Yes, yes—sorry ’bout that, Auntie.”

The two women left for the main hall.

“Young people can’t be helped,” said the Proprietress. Fuyuko had transformed into a figure of solemn, unassailable dignity before one knew it. Hikari found herself thinking of Heiichiro for reasons she couldn’t name. At the Proprietress’s urging—*Rest properly today*—Hikari retreated behind the storehouse. Fuyuko went to bathe.

The proprietress withdrew to the inner room and began playing hanafuda cards with the brothel owner.

“That won’t do. Going with Aoni is far too greedy.” “Well, perhaps you’re right. Now, the New Year’s fortune belongs to me!” “How unfortunate for you—things won’t always bend to your whims forever, you know.”

“Ah, that’d be trouble if you take that one.” “Being just a little troubled isn’t enough for you, is it? See now—act so heartless and punishment will find you.” “The punishment’s yours to bear, you lustful crone!” “What’s this now, you faithless fossil?” “That’s… that’s because you adore that hag! Can’t help yourself, can you?” “Smooth words indeed! Loving a relic like you in my youth was life’s great blunder—yes, a blunder through and through.”

“A mistake indeed.” “A mistake, wasn’t it?”

“But here’s the thing—that mistake turned out rather well, didn’t it?” “It was a mistake, wasn’t it,” she said. “But here’s the thing—it’s strange how that very mistake comes alive.” “Back then I was still a fine young man with a full head of hair—oh, you led me astray so thoroughly, didn’t you? Led me astray to your heart’s content.”

Such words could be heard from the inner banquet room. The Brothel Owner and the Proprietress were completely unaware of what they themselves were saying. A slackened silence filled the entire house. In the shop’s main hall, Tsuruko lay on her back fast asleep, while Kozuma occasionally groaned with low, pained sounds. A yellow sunlight drifted over it all. While smoothing the tangles in their sidelocks at the two mirror stands lined up at the edge of the shopfront, young Kikuryu and Tomie—their entire bodies rippling with ceaselessly welling laughter—were discussing something they shared.

“Remember this, Kiku-chan—even though I went to wash up and change my kimono, you were still sleeping in the next room. You’ve got no room to talk about others!” “Ahahahaha! Lies, lies! When Yoshie-chan and I peeked through the sliding door, there you both were lying together with your eyes wide open! Tomie-chan, you’re the one who went back to sleep even after changing your kimono—Ahahahaha!” “Yoshie-chan and I, you know… Ahahahaha! Yoshie-chan’s such a fine man—your dearest, dearest—”

“Tomie-chan, you must stop this.” “Mr. Niwa’s the bitter one—a company man stuck in the past, isn’t he?” “Yoshie-chan’s merely a clerk at some Western goods shop.” “Exactly! For a mere clerk at a sundries store to buy me a golden ring—what an extraordinary clerk he must be!”

“Tomie-chan! “Then who was it that bought you that single-layer crepe kimono?!”

“Oh my, you even know about that? Oh my, you truly never let your guard down for a moment, do you?” The two women burst into laughter.

July was approaching. Heat welled up from the ground, and sweat seeped out relentlessly from the depths of human bodies.

“Kiku-chan, Tomie-chan, having fun! You actually came back today? I thought you’d never come back.” Having slowly warmed their bodies at the large Iron-Cooled Hot Spring along the riverbank and applied a pure white layer of post-bath makeup from collar to cheeks with a single brushstroke, Tokiko and Sachi returned while clinging to the most comfortable sensation they’d felt all day. It was Tokiko who called out upon spotting Kikuryu and Tomie. She couldn’t rest until she’d voiced every last thought in her mind. Sachi too watched them with a sly smile.

“It’s quite hot inside the house, isn’t it.” Without replying to Sachi’s words, Tokiko spread a damp hand towel from the mirror’s surface to the back of the mirror stand and sat down next to Tomie. Then after baring her plaster-white skin, she gazed entranced for a while at her own reflection in the mirror. Her flesh was plump, her face bore a faint healthy glow, and her entire body was plaster-white; yet there was none of the vibrant blood flowing gently beneath the skin or the youthful luster seeping through that one would find in a town girl. Tokiko gently pressed her own small, firm, puffed-out breast. On the surface of the breast, delicate veins appeared blue and translucent. The sensation of the breast against her fingertips was cold. The slight tension of flesh from her chest to abdomen reassured her of her youth.

“Mr. Niwa and Yoshie-chan?” Tokiko shifted her eyes from the mirror’s surface and swept a glance over them with a gentleness ill-suited to her nature. Though Tomie and Kikuryu—both eighteen—appeared woefully disheveled with their tangled hair and puffy eyelids, Tokiko noted the throbbing redness of their cheeks straining at the brink of bursting, the plump flesh of their arms reaching back to adjust their hair pulsing with fresh bloodflow. She burned with envy. Through unconsciously gauging the measure of pleasure these two possessed—or could possess—jealousy took root within her. They remained oblivious to such turmoil churning inside Tokiko. After exchanging glances and secretive smiles,

“It was Mr. Niwa and Yoshie-chan,” they said. Sachi, as usual, had discarded her single-layer kimono and now faced the mirror stand wearing nothing but a refreshingly light crimson underbelt. Her compact yet full-figured body showed no trace of skeletal structure. A pale crimson flush drifted beautifully across the smooth surface of her plump flesh. Sunlight flowed gracefully over the rounded swell of flesh. This flesh held neither the beauty of youth’s overflowing vitality nor the final beauty of decaying decline. It was a beauty of fully matured flesh—flawlessly elastic, every nerve anchored by Sachi’s serpentine shrewdness that left no gap unguarded. As Sachi firmly cupped her own plump, rounded breasts swelling upward, emotions of self-contentment and pride came surging forth.

“The bath there really does warm you up, doesn’t it,” Sachi said to Tokiko.

“That’s right, isn’t it.” Tokiko stopped the hand that had been rubbing water-based white makeup into her face after spreading cream, and turned toward Sachi.

“Sachi-neesan,” Tomie called out. “What is it, Tomie-chan?”

“You know, Mr. Niwa and Yoshie-chan send their regards.” “That’s enough of your boasting—go take your bath already. If you don’t get a nap in before evening, you’ll start dozing off again.” “Yes, yes.” Tomie shrank back at Sachi’s unexpected remark. The laxity of mind and body that had been pampered beside a man returned to its normal state through Sachi’s single comment. She quietly looked back at Sachi. Sachi moistened her small, supple palm with white makeup base and pounded it across her entire face. The gemstone in the ring on her right hand glittered. Though thinking Sachi was putting on airs like an elder sister, she still found her body beautiful. She tried imagining too the artistic power hidden within Sachi’s body—how such a small frame could appear like a six-foot robust man when she took the stage and danced through even a Shishi dance.

“Kiku, want to go take a bath?” “Yes, let’s go.” “We’ll go take a bath.”

“Go on ahead.”

The two went out. After they left, Shigeko entered with a gloomy face, silent. She knew that soaking in the bathwater would loosen her entire body’s nerves—coagulated and stiffened—while feeling an abnormal, melting pain. She couldn’t bring herself to apply makeup or polish her skin like the other geishas did. After climbing out of the tub, enveloped in steam, she let her pounding heart settle. When a chill crept in, she slipped back into the bathwater and shut her eyes. Through these repetitions, both her mind and body found rest in listless inertia. Shigeko always returned home dazed, never bothering with makeup even when facing her mirror. Aware of her slightly upturned eyes with their dark rims and dusky complexion, she believed a light touch of makeup suited her true nature better than caking on white powder. Her mirror stand sat between Sachi’s and Tokiko’s. Tokiko and Sachi left Shigeko wedged between them as they chatted freely. Shigeko sat blankly, doing nothing and saying nothing.

“What’s become of Yoneko and Ichiko-chan?” “Isn’t it dance practice?”

“That’s too long for dance practice.” “They’re hopeless.” “Dawdling around again instead of coming straight back.” As Tokiko muttered this while gently letting a fresh towel absorb the moisture from her skin, Ichiko’s resonant voice carried from the street in front of the brothel. “It’s here, Heiichiro-san.” Then Yoneko’s metallic high-pitched voice quivered. “Auntie’s been here with Sister Fuyuko since morning.” “Thank you.”

That was Heiichiro. After school had been dismissed, he absentmindedly returned to his former residence and was laughed at by the housewife downstairs. He knew Harukaze-ro well enough, but remained unfamiliar with every alley of the red-light district. Moreover, instead of taking his usual slope path, he had entered through Hirokoji Avenue where blue willows grew—a detour that left him disoriented. Every house stood identically two-storied with red-lattice windows. There he rested his weary legs at a crossroads in his summer uniform—white Kokura linen with gaiters. Then from a narrow alley to his right emerged Ichiko and Yoneko, familiar girls wearing white formal-paper toggles and clutching dance fans. They smiled upon seeing him, whispered between themselves, and made to pass by. Summoning courage, he asked: “Harukaze-ro—which way was it again?”

“Harukaze-ro is where I live.” When the round-faced girl with thick eyebrows and vivid eyelashes—the shorter one, Ichiko—answered, the taller girl with a slender face, a high nose, and darting eyes—Yoneko—flushed bright red,

“It’s Heiichiro-san, isn’t it?” Yoneko said. Heiichiro was happy. He thought it was like encountering a Buddha in hell. The three of them became close. Though none felt it deeply, in some corner of their pure hearts they believed in the impressions they held of one another. They hadn’t imagined they could grow so casually intimate through mere chance. It was but a glimpse of fate’s subtle, inevitable grand design. In any case, the three felt immense joy—and amid that joy, Heiichiro fleetingly recalled Wakako while Yoneko and Ichiko, finding both rivals and allies within each other as they walked, arrived together.

“What are you two doing? What have you been doing all this time instead of coming back sooner? What would you have done if something came up?” Tokiko’s voice echoed from inside the house to the outside.

“Who’s there?” Heiichiro said, glaring into the house. “It’s Sister Tokiko.”

Heiichiro found himself unprepared to grasp the concrete reality of the emotion conveyed by the whispering girl's answer. "Hey, could you call my mother here?" "I'll go get her." Ichiko dashed into the house. Yoneko told Heiichiro, "Please come in." Heiichiro stood before the house, yet now felt no inclination to enter. To Heiichiro, this was an alien realm. Though something like terror gripped him, he willed himself to maintain composure deep within. He started whistling a baseball fight song but stopped abruptly upon noticing its jarring dissonance with the surroundings. Gripping the iron railing before the latticework, he began vigorously scraping mud from his shoes.

“Isn’t that Heiichiro-san?”

That was Fuyuko, her face flushed as if she had just returned from bathing.

“Now, come in. “I’ve just returned from school. “Do come in.” Heiichiro savored the pleasant scent of perfume emanating from Fuyuko. Following Fuyuko into the earthen-floored entryway as he undid his gaiter buttons, his mother Hikari appeared. “Welcome back, Sister Fuyuko.” Ichiko greeted Fuyuko cheerfully. “Auntie, Heiichiro-san is here.” Ichiko added to Hikari. “Oh? Thank you. Heiichiro – you’re late today.”

“Hmm.” “When I came back just now, you were standing motionless in front of the house.” “That’s right—come over here.” “Hmm.” He followed Hikari through the long corridor, past the front of the storehouse and alongside the dark, damp storehouse, until he found his old desk in a room behind the storehouse. He felt lonely. Still 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 nothing but unbearable suffering. (Do I have to go this far just to survive?!) he cried out in his young heart. That painful silence and stillness was shattered by roaring, fiery laughter from the side of the room. The voice seemed to be Yoneko and Ichiko’s laughter—unbearable, bursting forth as they could no longer contain it. It must have been that they—having stealthily followed Heiichiro and hidden themselves—could no longer contain their laughter.

“Who’s there?!”

Then once again, unbearable, impassioned laughter burst forth, and the sound of scrambling footsteps fleeing down the hallway echoed through. “Damn it, messing around like that!” Heiichiro was furious; he felt an unpleasant feeling as though his personal space had been invaded. He was growing lonely. As his own downfall became clear to him, he could not stop his tears.

“I will become great!” “I will become great!” Amidst the tears, only these words came springing forth.

He sent the letter to Wakako. My family has moved to Harukaze-ro in the brothel district starting today. I imagine this must seem terribly sudden and has surprised you. You must also wonder why we relocated to such a place. To speak plainly, we are poor—if we continued as before, I could no longer attend school. Sister Fuyuko of Harukaze-ro has been kind to my mother before, and we’ve relied on her help again this time. She is a good person. I want to prove myself to you somehow. Even if I now live within these walls, I swear my spirit shall always—always—strive for greatness and truth. You would never doubt me merely because circumstances forced this move—yet I confess I find little to like here myself.

Heiichiro

Wakako-sama

Chapter Three

Less than a month had passed since Hikari and her son put down roots at Harukaze-ro when something dreadful occurred among the women of Harukaze-ro. It was July—a welcome near-midsummer time for the brothel district—on a deep, vividly blue night when the incident took place.

That night, the electric current sent from afar—from the source of the S River that flowed through the city—illuminated the tearoom of Harukaze-ro with a brilliant white light. It was a delightful night.

The night arrived with the glossy depth of pitch blackness and the cool, soft caress of an early summer breeze that clung to the skin. Beneath the sun's daylight, their emaciated frames, exposed ribs, lackluster tangled hair, and pallid flesh with poor circulation would be laid bare—yet bathed in night's infinite allure and illuminated by electric white light, everything transformed into visions of lush beauty and dewy freshness. The jet-black hair with its gemstone-like luster was beautiful, as was the color of passionate blood floating like tidewater upon their transparent white skin. What could compare to the beauty of light and shadow born from undulating flesh wrapped in hues of airy azure, pale peach, and wisteria purple?—The time was 9 PM. In ordinary homes, night was growing late, but in this house—in this town—their "day" was just beginning.

In the tearoom of Harukaze-ro, white steam rose vigorously from the large antique bronze kettle, emitting a subtle, pleasant sound. There sat the proprietress—her chignon still damp from an evening wash, her pure silhouette in an unlined kimono lightly wrapped with a black satin obi—exuding refined beauty alongside her faintly blue-tinted eyebrows. As the brothel owner had remained in for district office matters, she examined the ledger and entered into the guest register the names of two patrons who had shared a brief evening drink before departing promptly. Though they claimed to be company employees, their demeanor and conversational patterns made her certain they were schoolteachers. Their parting words—"Well then, let's meet again in September"—sealed her conviction.

“Those customers earlier—they were definitely high school teachers,” she said to the women sitting before her. Bathed in electric light whose every beam seemed to harbor nerves crackling with white-hot intensity, Shigeko, Tokiko, Kikuryu, and Sachi sat facing each other in a cross formation at the center of the room. Fuyuko had been invited to a large restaurant along the Ogawa river since evening and had not yet returned, and the two dancing apprentices, Tomie and Ichiko Yoneko, had not been invited to the room of a man who was a prefectural assembly member—a wealthy man known for his habutae silk business who enjoyed lively entertainment. Tsuruko had gone out for an appointment that would last until morning. Sachi and Tokiko, having seen that the two customers from earlier were presentable, declined the banquet room that had just then called to invite them via telephone and went out, but the customers merely had them quietly pour sake and left without a single friendly word. Sachi and Tokiko found this unpleasant and dissatisfying.

“I really shouldn’t have gone to that banquet room. It was so dull,” Tokiko replied. Sachi slowly filled the slender gold kiseru pipe with tobacco, then exhaled a wisp of purple-tinged smoke through her shapely, elegantly rounded nose. The smoke rose as if washing over her vivid face. Her voluminous chignon—thickly arranged in the ichō style—lent her features an abnormally intense vitality. She occasionally gathered wrinkles at her lower eyelids and the bridge of her nose, making a ticklish expression. (In these quiet moments, she would recall comical scenes—vivid illustrations of male foolishness—accompanied by memories of deceiving countless men through frivolous affairs, always resulting in that ticklish face.) From time to time, she scratched her head in small motions with gold and silver flat hairpins. As for Tokiko, she seemed to be wiling away the boredom through various disjointed, licentious fantasies. Each facial movement made her complexion glow purple, while the deep crimson of her lipstick shone large and wet like a demon’s.

“What time is it already?” Tokiko asked Kikuryu. Kikuryu was troubled as drowsiness weighed on her. The freshly styled shimada updo pressed down oppressively as she sat, its roots embedding into her skull like a leaden orb. Then her entire body registered a dissolving weariness and pain, threatening to drag her into unconscious oblivion. The white light cast violet reflections across her habitually bowed neck—its coarse-grained skin roughened beneath powdered makeup.

“Kiku-chan, nodding off like that—don’t be such a downer!” “Huh?” Kikuryu raised her face,

“It’s still just past nine,” she said. “Doesn’t tonight feel strangely slow?” “But it’s still early.” “That earlier affair was utterly absurd. Completely absurd.” “Completely absurd.” “But you’re still fine, Toki-chan. I haven’t been summoned anywhere yet.” “I haven’t been summoned anywhere yet.” “You’ve been invited more than enough since last time—shouldn’t you be content?” “Oh, you’re being mean again!”

Kikuryu clumsily twisted the muscles of her drowsily immobile face into a smile. It was Shigeko who, upon seeing this, made a pitiful, disgusted face. She looked down and stared at the small red ember in the tobacco tray. *What an irreplaceable blessing—to have such a night, to be idle like this!* For her, stepping into the guest quarters to interact with men was agony. She was someone who had to endure that pain to go on living. For her, the night was detestable. Though even daytime brought her no joy, she had been enjoying a brief rest and peace under the brilliant white light when Tokiko and Kikuryu’s conversation disturbed even this fleeting peace. Shigeko raised her face and cast a sidelong glance at Kikuryu’s rounded visage. That momentary gaze opened a terrifying abyss glowering with the full force of a lifetime’s resentment—insufficient even if wept through till dawn—born of all she had endured: being forced through trampling oppression, wounded again and again, yet persevering in silence. Though Shigeko remained unaware, even the insensitive Kikuryu unwittingly became terrifying enough to chill one’s spine.

“Shigeko-san.” “What is it?” “What’s the matter with your face just now?” “Did I do something?”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there? What’s with that face? You’re making a scary face and glaring at me. I may be a tomboyish girl, but I don’t recall giving you any reason to resent me. Or if there is, why don’t you just say so?” “——” Shigeko was startled. For it truly seemed she herself had made a terrifying face. She lowered her face. There certainly was—there certainly was every reason to resent you! You remained utterly unaware! Her anger surged like a reverse current—but something whispering from the depths—Not Kikuryu, you’re but a fragment, a fragment of an enemy—returned her once more to gloomy docility.

“Please forgive me.” Though addressed with humility, Kikuryu was not wicked enough to hold a grudge over it. “You really must be more careful, or there will be trouble.” As if to reinforce this, Sachi flicked her tobacco ash, making the gold of her kiseru pipe glint. Tokiko glared at Shigeko for a full five minutes as though she were the most loathsome creature in existence. The discontented weariness that welled up within the three women during their idle, clientless hours had found an outlet by concentrating their abnormal hatred upon Shigeko alone. They were clearly unaware of their own oppressed reality. Yet without doubt, for pure girls’ hearts and flesh to transform both soul and body into their current state, they must have endured countless unconscious pains and torments. Each person’s innate qualities differed in wisdom and folly. These differences might lead them down divergent paths—toying with men, finding pleasure in men, being toyed with by men, or despising men—yet at their heart’s foundation, in depths beyond consciousness, congealed a sorrow and hatred too profound to ever be drained. This emotion was a small feeling perceived by individuals, yet simultaneously humanity’s collective anguish. A groan finds its vent in unexpected places.

“There’s truly nothing worse than a sullen, damp-hearted person.” It was Tokiko. “I can’t stand people who mope around without even speaking properly, just like a certain someone.” “She’s putting on airs.” Sachi flicked her kiseru pipe, intending to give Kikuryu a definitive answer. It was deliberate yet unintentional. The tobacco ember snapped off and landed near Shigeko’s knee. A thin wisp of white smoke rose faintly. Shigeko silently brushed off the ember. Around her knee formed a brown scorch about the size of a red bean.

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you all right? Oh, it burned a hole, didn’t it? I’m sorry.” “No.” “Shigeko-chan, you need to go change your kimono.” Despite knowing that the unpopular Shigeko did not possess a change of summer banquet attire, Tokiko tacked this on. A small teardrop plopped onto the scorch mark on Shigeko’s knee. Seeing this, the two of them experienced a guilt-tinged yet somehow satisfied pleasure. They likely did not realize this pleasure was the kind one feels when pinching their own numb limbs. —Fortunately, right then, Tomie, Yoneko, and Ichiko returned with their “I’m home!”s and “I’m home!”s.

“Proprietress—at present—with the outer flower cards, I have twelve, and Yoneko-chan and Ichiko-chan have twenty-four.” “That makes thirty-six cards in total.” The proprietress—who had maintained silence through the geishas’ quarrels without intervening, having spent this time occupied with her ledger—finally looked up only when Tomie presented the Hanafuda cards.

“That was rather quick, wasn’t it?” “On the way, the client received a telephone call and went home, you know.” “Even so, it’s nearly ten o’clock already, isn’t it?” “Is it already that time?” she said dazedly. Yoneko and Ichiko admired their alluring figures in the mirror, sharing a childlike, vain delight. The sake they’d been forced to drink still smoldered within them, its heat pulsing through their bodies. The two went to the kitchen to drink water.

“For some reason, everyone seems so gloomy tonight.”

When Tomie sat down beside Kikuryu, ten o’clock struck.

At the same moment, footsteps of numerous men entering through the entrance echoed, and voices shouting “Here! Here!” could be heard. Everyone’s nerves tensed. Then into the earthen-floored entrance came a group of nearly twenty men—some in Western suits, others in summer yukatas—all thoroughly drunk. Bearded ones, bespectacled ones, youths who still looked green around the edges; their faces flushed crimson from liquor, they came pouring in. “Sachi here? Sachi!”

A man in his early forties—wearing gold-rimmed glasses with fleshy cheeks clean-shaven and mustache trimmed short, dressed in a milky-white suit—bellowed as he barged in. “Oh! If it isn’t Mr. Kawamura!” “That’s right! That’s right—the very Kawamura himself! Brought all my section boys today—come on up, everyone! Hey Tokiko! Show ’em to the banquet hall! Oh-ho! Madam Proprietress! Still thriving as ever—ahahaha!” The proprietress sprang to her feet. Though not exactly a prized customer, she couldn’t afford to snub Kawamura—chief of the prefectural civil engineering section and a man of influence. Tokiko, Kikuryu, and Tomie rose as well. Shigeko had no choice but to stand.

“Now, please come this way.” The four geishas smoothly adjusted their hems and ascended the stairs with poised elegance; as if pulled along by their movements, even those who had initially balked at entering all filed up to the second floor in unison. In the banquet hall spanning nearly twenty tatami mats, eighteen people now stood arrayed in a row—such was the scene that unfolded.

A dazzling electric light cast its white glare, and Harukaze-ro abruptly sprang to life. In the kitchen, water boiled over gas flames as they began warming sake. In the tearoom, Kawamura sat cross-legged, working his drunkenly slurred tongue as he initiated a confidential talk with Sachi. "Listen now—in my civil engineering section where I'm chief—there's two or three fellas against me, got it?" "I ain't scared of those bastards per se, but this way we can't run things smooth-like, can we?" "That's why I went and held a social gathering for the whole section today." "Where? The restaurant was T—see." "What's that? 'Why didn't I invite 'em?'" "'Cause I meant to bring 'em here on their way back—that's why I skipped inviting 'em proper." "Now hold your complaints till you've heard me through." "So here's the deal—tonight I need all you lookers to get the whole crew soused good, then—well—lend me your ears a spell."

Pressing his liquor-tinged breath against Sachi’s thick, bushy hair, Kawamura whispered. “Look—just have your lot take care of every last one of ’em. Got it?” “But we might not have enough people.” “Then call in more if you’re short!” “If only it were that simple… How many exactly?” “All together—eighteen men.” “Wouldn’t that be tricky?” “That’s exactly why you’ve gotta handle this smart—if we’re short, make do with what we’ve got—”

He whispered something else.

“Look, those drunkards wouldn’t know a thing. Look, what’s it matter in the end? As long as every last one of ’em remembers havin’ their fun with me here today. Look, I’ll take you to some fancy mountain hot spring later as your reward—got it?”

And he went up the stairs. On the second floor erupted a muddied clamor of hoarse voices and applause—drunk and stirred by mob psychology—from the group welcoming him. Sachi sat alone in the tearoom for a while, tilting her head. She had discerned exactly what Kawamura was asking of her. In her world, such things were hardly uncommon. In other words, it was a form of “castration policy.” Yet when she considered having to provide a certain satisfaction to eighteen people at once, she couldn’t help feeling perplexed. Having up to four or five guests wasn’t unusual, but handling nearly twenty proved inconvenient. The geishas were insufficient in number. At this peak hour from ten until midnight—the brothel district’s busiest time—no establishment would have geishas free. It grew especially difficult given these circumstances requiring particular acts. She counted on her fingers: Tokiko, Shigeko, Kikuryu, Tomie, Kozuma. Only five. Even including herself, that made six. She stood up, entered the telephone room, and called likely houses. None had anyone available. Recklessly negotiating with second- or third-rate houses would compromise their establishment’s dignity. She managed to find three prostitutes. She pressed them to come at once. With nine now, she thought they might manage somehow.

She returned to the tearoom, resigning herself to handling Kawamura alone no matter what, but with the remaining eight needing to manage seventeen men—even assigning two per man—someone would inevitably have to take three. For licensed prostitutes, servicing three men in one night might not be particularly unusual; however, having to handle three simultaneously within such a short time was something even Sachi herself had never experienced. She couldn't fathom how to allocate them. Just then, the proprietress came downstairs, her face flushed as if she'd been made to drink a cup.

“Sachi-chan, aren’t you coming up?” “Proprietress, this is no time for that!”

“What’s all this?”

“Those people are all officials from Mr. Kawamura’s section—and some of them even oppose him—so tonight we’re supposed to get them good and drunk and then… take care of things so they can’t utter a word.” “Hmm…” “But here’s the problem—even if I handle Mr. Kawamura myself and have Kiku-chan, Toki-chan, Tomi-chan, Shige-chan, and Kozuma-san attend to the remaining seventeen people—we’d still only have five geishas from our house.” “I just made some calls—got Yanoya-san from [XX House], Momotarou-san from [○○ House], and Hiyoko-san to come right away. But even then, we’ll only have eight people.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to draw lots—those who lose will take the hit.” “They don’t all seem that averse to men now, do they? Ohohohoho.” “But no matter how fond of men they are, they’d all hate something like this, Proprietress.” “Come on now—I’ll make the lots right away.” Sachi, too, had no choice. Moreover, her selfishness—since she herself only had to deal with Kawamura alone—meant she didn’t need to force herself into deep deliberation. She adjusted her collar in the mirror and then went upstairs. After a short while, three young—though not very beautiful—prostitutes came upstairs without even bringing shamisen, greeting, “Good evening, Proprietress.”

“Good work,” the Proprietress beckoned the three over. And in a faint voice, she spent a full five minutes explaining what this night entailed. All three made disgusted faces but answered with their mouths, “Yes, ma’am.” The three took the lottery slips the proprietress had presented. All three drew two lots each. The three made faces as if this outcome were at least somewhat of a relief.

“Now, head on upstairs.”

The three went up the stairs.

On the second floor, a savage, bestial shout erupted in unison.

“Come on—drink! You think there’s a law that lets you refuse a cup I’ve poured?!” The mingled scents of liquor and women trampled over and blew down eighteen men’s reason and decorum. To the storm-like cacophony of out-of-tune shamisen, the men’s muddied chests erupted in howling vulgar voices that roared a garbled pop song. Through this tempest, geishas slipped downstairs one by one. They drew lots from the proprietress’s hand—slips that would decide their fates this night. When Tokiko drew two slips, she flashed her white teeth in an unmistakably delighted grin. Kikuryu and Tomie heaved deep sighs before trudging back upstairs with resignation. Shigeko refused to come down readily. Remembering Kozuma lying ill in the shop, the proprietress called out, “Kozuma-san! Kozuma-san!”

“Y-yes…” came a feeble reply. “Come here for a moment.” “Y-yes…” Kozuma emerged still wearing her daytime sleepwear, her face deathly pale, hunched forward with dark shadows lining the hollows of her sunken eyes. “How’s your body holding up?” “...”

She had meant to say she wasn’t doing well, but upon inferring from the proprietress’s expression what she wanted to hear, Kozuma ended up replying, "I’m feeling much better." She felt she had done something irreversible. (In truth, this would later prove to be an irreparable act.) The proprietress repeated the circumstances in whispers, explaining them in minute detail. Then she presented the lottery slips—now only two remained—each representing a terrible fate where one slip would assign three men. Kozuma couldn’t bring herself to take either. She kept her head bowed. A struggle mingled with dreadful intensity raged within her heart.

Ah, this weak heart! She finally extended her hand and took one of the lottery slips. The lottery slip bore an ill-fated knot. “Oh…” she said, her bluish-pale face fixed with deathly eyes in a dull stare as she sank into despair. Shigeko arrived. She had grasped everything. It was an unbearably tragic reality.

“Fine!” Shigeko said. She had been forced to drink against her will and, as if defying the large sake bowl, had just now filled it to the brim and gulped it down in one go. She was drunk.

“Fine!” she said. “I’ll take Kozuma-san’s share too.” “Kozuma-san, you rest.” “Fine—I’ll handle it.” “Let them come—five, ten, bring as many as they can!” “Let hundreds line up at my door all at once—until I die, until my last breath stops!”

“Shigeko-san, you’ve been gulping down sake again.” “It’s fine. I don’t care what happens to me anymore.”

Kozuma's withered face glistened with tears. “Kozuma-san, Shigeko-san—please come here!”

It was Yoneko and Ichiko. Shaking off whoever had chased them to the stairs, the two who were still serving somehow managed to escape downstairs. “I’m coming now!”

Shigeko was cornered. Like a fierce tiger leaping at an enemy pursuing it in mortal desperation, she ascended the stairs. Pitiful Kozuma—Kozuma who could barely walk—no matter how Shigeko tried to stop her, found her heart growing weaker the more she was restrained, and had to trudge up into the second floor’s darkness, death flickering before her eyes. What transpired thereafter defies recounting.

In the predawn hour of four in the morning, within Harukaze-ro’s shop quarters, Sachi, Tokiko, Kikuryu, and Tomie had all sunk into a squalid, mud-like slumber. Fuyuko and the two girls were also fast asleep. The exhaustion that had utterly tormented their flesh and drained every last ounce of their energy had rendered them as though dead. Yet they who could still sleep after having been utterly exhausted had to be deemed fortunate. The agony of those who try to sleep but cannot; the torment as if scorched by flames—what is to be done? Shigeko could not sleep. Not being of robust constitution, she had drunk nearly a sho of alcohol and been abused; the aberrant alcohol that sought to spill outward contracted into her deranged nerves, seeped into every organ throughout her body and congealed, from which an agony beyond description welled up, and she thrashed about in torment. Nerves as sharp as a white blade; the madness of alcohol writhing within her; gallingly, gallingly—a galling humiliation that would not vanish whether she lived or died. In the midst of her agony, she suddenly thought she heard groans—low and pained—rising from nowhere in particular. However, when she strained her ears, she heard nothing. Then once more came the groans—low and pained. When she suddenly glanced sideways, the futon where Kozuma should have been lay empty. Her entire body shuddered. A Shigeko beyond Shigeko permeated through her entire being. Shigeko stood up abruptly. And she walked with heavy, plodding steps like a giant, pausing to strain her ears at the groans before continuing her deliberate stride. The groans came from the direction of the corridor. Because it was summer, the rain shutters had not been installed in the courtyard. In the dimly lit corridor’s center, something crouched and let out low, pained groans. Shigeko approached.

(Is this Kozuma?) she thought. And Shigeko placed her hands on Kozuma’s shoulders and started to lift her. Ah—at that moment, Kozuma’s deathly visage, contorted in agony, fixed a piercing gaze upon Shigeko. “Ungh!” Her teeth were clenched with every ounce of strength. Her entire body was soaked in a clammy, oily sweat that oozed relentlessly. A thin, pale arm trembled violently with its final strength. Then with a sudden jerk, her pale hand shot upward into the air before she slumped back down exactly as before. Shigeko stood frozen. The soles of her feet now felt a lukewarm, unnatural warmth. It was hard to discern in the dim light. As she stared intently, Shigeko let out a startled “Oh!” That “Oh!” was a complex cry beyond description. Despair, resentment, terror, awe, curses—all melted and scorched into one indivisible shriek. The warmth was blood. It was Kozuma—pitiful Kozuma—whose dreadful tainted blood had oozed out as a final remnant of her agonizing life! Ah—the moment she recognized it as blood, Shigeko felt through dawn’s cold air the resonant tolling of an alarm bell pressing upon her hearing with infinite force from between heaven and earth. It was a terrifyingly loud sound. She pressed both hands over her ears and, hurling her body forward as if to reject hearing it, began running through the house to escape the noise.

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang clang………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………” Shigeko, bellowing with tremendous force using every ounce of her strength and driven by desperate resolve to escape the alarm bell’s sound—audible only to her as it pressed in from all sides—smashed through the sliding doors with superhuman power and rampaged through the entire house. The great commotion jolted every single person in the house from their lethargic, exhausted slumber. A white-hot fervor momentarily illuminated the people from within.

That morning, Shigeko—her body like a withered tree scorched by inner flames—was bound with rough rope and loaded into a dark, narrow prison wagon to be severed from the life that had endured over twenty years of hardship, sent off to the insane asylum on the outskirts. That same morning, Kozuma’s corpse—her entire body ravaged by foul blood from a vile disease, having suffered horrific, detestable brutality on the final night of her wretched thirty-year life, brutality so extreme it seemed inconceivable as an earthly reality, causing that cursed tainted blood to gush forth all at once as she died in a pool of gore—was placed into a small coffin and sent from Harukaze-ro’s back entrance to the crematorium. Heiichiro and Hikari too, mingling among the courtesans trembling in the dark predawn, wept at the eternal farewell.

Chapter Four

The madness of Shigeko and the death of Kozuma that occurred overnight were a major incident for Harukaze-ro. It was like the terror of a deep, fathomless abyss yawning open in the ground. Yet the proprietress—who understood the psychology of maintaining appearances—commanded the women to absolute silence. Even without orders, the women were too terrified to speak. After this incident, whenever Hikari worked in a second-floor room, Tokiko, Sachi, Tomie, and Kikuryu began approaching her with anxious faces that seemed to beg for solace. Hikari could not help but receive them with her usual peaceful demeanor, eyes brimming with quiet tears. Fuyuko too came silently. From the workroom window, they would sometimes gaze wordlessly for long periods at the sunlit green cedar leaves in the neighboring shrine’s precincts. Had it not been for Emperor Meiji’s passing—reported with solemn gravity in newspapers immediately following Shigeko’s madness and Kozuma’s death—the people of Harukaze-ro might have become “cursed” and unhinged.

In July 1911, the representative of the era that had made Japan a world power passed away. Kozuma’s death had gone unknown beyond those at Harukaze-ro, but His Majesty the Emperor’s passing moved not only the entire nation—to the extent Japan had become deeply intertwined with global society—but also stirred emotions in people across the entire world. The women of Harukaze-ro, too, through His Majesty’s passing, were able to distract themselves from the strange, terrifying emotions arising from Kozuma’s death and Shigeko’s madness.

“You’re right—there’s nothing as precarious as a human lifespan,” said the proprietress. The reality that even one enthroned in imperial majesty could not overcome nature’s ordained fate seeped unmistakably into people’s hearts. Even an emperor, his lifespan determined, had no path but death. The truth that humans are mortal beings—precisely because it was too thoroughly understood—now resounded in those who had forgotten it as though discovering some new revelation. They couldn’t help but think that when death’s hour comes, we humans have no choice but to die. Yet ours was a nation stripped of the power to give original voice to such raw truths or deepen contemplations rooted in them. Still, when black mourning emblems hung from eaves nationwide and adorned the chests of passersby, people inevitably felt sorrow. That even he who held supreme authority as the nation’s pinnacle proved utterly powerless before death stirred mournful emotion. A national melancholy—no doubt compounded by the undigested stench of Western civilization, swallowed whole in under half a century, now festering as materialistic decay.

The brothel district too grew desolate in a short span of time. Along the wide road, national flags draped with mourning emblems hung from the grand houses lining the street—dully stagnant and unmoving. Neither shamisen music nor instrumental melodies could be heard. Only the intense midsummer sunlight beat down relentlessly, exerting a pressure that seemed to quietly look down upon human frailty. Harukaze-ro too grew strikingly desolate. Even the proprietress would often come lie down without particular reason in Hikari’s six-tatami room during those sweltering noons when summer’s heat made bodies unmanageable—the room where Hikari worked diligently. Though Hikari’s room—coolest in the house under cedar shade—might have been ideal for napping, this alone did not explain her visits. Having lived through over a decade of such circumstances, Hikari felt at most a quiet sorrow toward His Majesty’s demise; she found no need to feign fresh surprise. Had she unconsciously prepared herself for death? “How pitiful,” she thought from her heart’s depths. Without tiring, she earnestly continued guiding her sewing needle. The midsummer’s dense greenery and blazing sun pressed upon her, yet her tranquil heart gently sidestepped their weight.

“This summer truly has been full of unpleasant things.” The proprietress would often say to Hikari, her face—where faint blue traces of eyebrow makeup lingered—wearing an exaggerated expression. Hikari radiated a gentle warmth that inexplicably made anyone want to lean into her.

“Truly,I wonder what will become of things.” Hikari said that and quietly applied the finishing iron. If the brothel district’s decline had come just four or five days earlier then perhaps Shigeko and Kozuma could have been saved. Had Shigeko and Kozuma survived without meeting such cruel deaths who knows how much they might have delighted in the lull of this declining trade. ——The two who would have rejoiced had already died. It was too late——too late——Hikari thought tears welling in her eyes.

Yet for Sachi, Tokiko, Kikuryu, Tomie, and Tsuruko, facing nights of gloomy desolation—nights unsteeped in drunkenness, nights not spent sleeping in the warmth of men’s skin—was a kind of agony. Just as alcohol addicts exist in a half-dead state when not under alcohol’s influence, they were tormented by a dazed, listless fatigue accompanied by a kind of pain.

“Isn’t this just so dull?”

“It’s not just idling like this for three nights straight—they’re truly treating us like fools.” “Toki-chan, call Mr. XX and invite him over.” “I should invite —-chan too, don’t you think, Tomie?” That could only be called a good plan. They each invited their regulars. The invited men came, considering being able to enjoy themselves without charge as an “honor.” And at times, they would discreetly engage in inconspicuous amusement in the back rooms before leaving. Once people became aware of the appeal of inconspicuous, covert amusement, within a short time, guests began coming and going as usual at the brothel houses—though without the sounds of music and dance—until things had returned to normal.

“Oh my, stop it! Really, you must stop!”

In the back room, Kikuryu let out exaggerated coquettish cries, which Sachi admonished with, “Kiku-chan, your voice is too loud.” The people had unwittingly forgotten that momentary solemnity of death they had once felt. At the very moment when expressions of formulaic grief were beginning to flourish in earnest—in this way, while the Emperor’s demise had brought favorable outcomes for Harukaze-ro, this same fact also bore down upon the fates of Fuyuko and Hikari and her son with the grave significance of a swell of a wave.

One night in mid-August, as usual, made-up women gathered under the glow of electric lights in Harukaze-ro’s tearoom. The summer night breeze flowed gently in through the wide-open window.

“Well, we’ll be going now,” said Tokiko, Kikuryu, and Tomie—who had been adjusting their obi before the mirror—to Fuyuko and Sachi sitting there so unusually; after they left for the outer parlors, the room fell silent. Sachi was beautiful again tonight. The charm radiating from her small, taut frame and the vivid allure of her artful makeup felt far more striking than Fuyuko’s understated elegance—her light makeup and plain tastes leaning toward refined grace rather than overt beauty. Yet whenever they faced each other, Sachi felt oppressed. Fuyuko’s composed beauty—quiet in its unassuming hues and tinged with loneliness—seemed to press down upon her. Sachi avoided speaking to Fuyuko.

“Ichiko-chan, Yoneko-chan, you’re both here at the shop.” “Won’t you come here for your lesson?”

“Coming!” With blazing crimson obi flowing loosely and flower hairpins glittering so brilliantly they found themselves marvelous, Yoneko and Ichiko appeared. “Me?” Ichiko’s eyes sparkled as she tilted her head. “What?” It was adorable. Sachi saw a promising future for the geisha, while Fuyuko found a loneliness that struck her as poignant. “Please take care of Mr. Yatsu, Miss Sachi.” “Mr. Yatsu?” “You really do seem to like Mr. Yatsu, don’t you?” “Alright, are you ready—”

Following Sachi’s soft singing, Ichiko began practicing earnestly—though she couldn’t grasp the emotional depth imbued in each movement. Then from the telephone room came a shrill ringing. “Yoneko-chan,” Sachi called out to Yoneko, but the proprietress, who had been in the back, had already emerged with an “Ah, who is it?” and so the dance resumed once more. The call lasted exceedingly long; even after the dance ended, it still hadn’t disconnected.

“Ah, understood.” “I’ll make certain there are no oversights on our end.” “Then please hold a moment.” “I’ll give you an answer straight away.” The proprietress entered the tearoom while tousling her hair, her gaze wavering between Fuyuko and Sachi. “Kuroryutei’s asking if someone can go over right away to prepare for an overnight stay,” she said. “Seems he’s some big-shot industrialist from Tokyo—they say if anything goes amiss, it’ll disgrace all of Kanazawa.”

“Madam Proprietress, I will go.”

How had this response come about? Even after she had done it, Fuyuko herself could not comprehend why. In other words, it had been fate. Given that Fuyuko normally never vied for clients, even Sachi could not interject. “Well then, Fuyuko-san, you go on ahead. I’ll have your kimono and everything else sent over afterward.” “Since he appears to be a truly eminent gentleman, you should proceed with that in mind.” “Yes.” When Fuyuko stood up, she felt a shudder run through her body. Beneath an unfathomably deep night sky where stars shone brilliantly, Fuyuko had a rickshaw take her onward. When she arrived at Kuroryutei, a maid whose face she knew invited her into a room. There stood the mayor of this town—a man with a tall, large, and ruddy nose whom she had occasionally shared seats with at banquets, known around town as “the Tengu.”

“Oh, thank you for your trouble, thank you for your trouble. “To come straight to the point—the gentleman staying here tonight is one of the most prominent figures in Japan. In truth, there is a profound reason we have invited him discreetly, without informing the public,” declared the Tengu Mayor, proceeding to explain as follows. In Kanazawa’s sluggish commercial and industrial district, where our ceramics company stands as the sole major industry, various problems had arisen over the past two or three years, resulting in three consecutive terms of losses. However, this June, by adjusting workers’ treatment, we somehow managed to distribute a five percent profit dividend. “However, the workers launched a strike, and it still hasn’t been resolved.” Then came Emperor Meiji’s demise, and though the workers have been working with restraint out of deference, no one can tell when or how things might change. “And so, intending to settle the matter now while we can, we have secretly invited Mr. Eisuke Amano—‘our’ ‘Japan’s foremost industrialist.’”

“Given these circumstances, I trust you fully grasp the situation. It won’t be long—just a stay of about three days—but we want you to ensure he isn’t bored and that he has everything he needs during his time here.” “You understand now, don’t you?”

Fuyuko simply nodded. She couldn’t help feeling sorrowful toward the cunning and base Mayor who saw her as a tool. But if one were to hear the reason, given her current circumstances and in today’s society, it might rather be considered an “honor.” Fuyuko did not realize she had been swept into one of the infinite phases of life’s ceaseless flow—a phase bearing both her own fate and that of Hikari and her son. “Fuyuko-san, please come this way.”

The maid led the way. Fuyuko walked through the tatami corridor she had traversed countless times before, her heart steady. The weighty, slightly worn architectural details felt comfortingly familiar. A river breeze drifted in with the stream's murmur, carrying a soft rustle. The fine tatami room of this house—positioned with the great river at its back—had been built close to the water's edge. Soon, the indigo night sky emerged across the river, stars glittering above crystalline mountain ridges that rose like transparent waves. From the veranda jutting over a deep cliff, the river's whisper climbed upward as if welling from the silent darkness of forests below. Light spilling from a room cast its glow upon those wooded heights. (What manner of man awaits me there?) Fuyuko found herself rooted momentarily. (Ah, let him be worthy of respect! At least let him be someone I can bow to sincerely!) Through years of service, though betrayal had been constant, this remained her unrelinquishable wish—a woman's stubborn hope.

“About that earlier matter—” the maid whispered hesitantly.

In the room, there was a sense of movement. Near the threshold sat a baron—a landed gentry of this region, mine owner, and industrialist—whom she recognized, along with a certain Mr. So-and-so, the prefectural assembly chairman. Fuyuko gave a slight nod, knelt near the threshold, quietly lifted her face properly, and gazed across the entire room with a heart like a honed blade. The electric light glowed brightly, yet her vision, having adjusted from the dim corridor, could not immediately clarify the room's interior. Gradually, to Fuyuko—her gaze fixed unwaveringly—the reclining figure of a man seeped into view like ink permeating paper. It was a posture of profound ease. His robust six-foot frame stretched out luxuriously to fill the space, standing indestructible as if passing through tatami mats and floorboards to take root in the earth's depths. His right hand—plump yet refined at the wrist—rested lightly atop a feather quilt; the line from sloping shoulders to nape; his left elbow firmly supporting the weight of a massive cranium—all remained motionless in perfect equilibrium, abdomen and torso relaxed without a single gap. For a time, Fuyuko felt struck by a solemn power emanating from his entire being. The hunger for character she had sought over twenty unfulfilled years now surged within her like an incoming tide. The cranium—rooted to earth through that steadfast left elbow—bore coiled hair; a high broad forehead luminous with intellect; thick distinguished brows; and from the serene expanse between them, a nose of crystalline clarity—rare among Japanese—radiating imperious will. Resilient cheeks rounded with vitality lay veiled by swarthy stubble, while lips neither fully closed nor parted held enigmatic softness. And those eyes—were they shut in sleep or contemplation? As she stared fixedly, an overwhelming sensation of greatness pressed upon Fuyuko with visceral intensity. She unconsciously lowered her head and stiffened her posture.

“During your stay, I fear you may encounter various inconveniences—though Fuyuko here is an unrivaled woman in Kanazawa—” Fuyuko bit her lip as she endured the Baron’s fragmented, unbearable words of introduction. Shame threatened to crush her very being. Yet the man reclining at ease gave no reply. “Then I shall call upon you again tomorrow. For tonight, I beg your pardon.”

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

The two "local representatives" departed. Fuyuko sat quietly alone, grappling with the self that had been left behind. A chilled river wind stole in, accompanied by the murmur of the stream. Fuyuko felt not solemnity but rather a clarity of mind akin to the trance-like focus she entered when striking the drum. A power—one that seemed to oppose the man’s imposing dignity and the personality force exuding from him, a power that dwelled deep beneath her usual “falsehood,” an unassailable “true strength of her own”—began to make her stand upright.

The man, in a weighty silence, half-opened his eyes as if in a dream.

“Please come closer.”

“Yes.” “You said your name was Fuyuko, didn’t you?”

Ah, that gentle yet powerful smile! A smile that shakes the world to its very foundations! From the faint smile lingering at the corners of his mouth, a sea of unfathomable power pressed upon Fuyuko—glimpsed through that faint trace like light through cracked ice. (Ah, such men truly existed in this world!) Then shame surged within her—the realization that her status, fate, and true worth appeared wretchedly meager before this man who lay sprawled so imposingly before her, utterly beyond comparison. Blood rushed to her head. The wellspring of passion Fuyuko had concealed for years overflowed through her entire being. Her dignified solemnity blazed forth with the beauty of a once-in-a-lifetime passion radiating from within. She suddenly felt empowered with active agency. This rare beauty of hers—a solemn splendor burning with youthful vitality—became the miracle of her lifetime. The dreamlike half-closed eyes opened fully, their sharp gaze absorbing every detail of Fuyuko's incandescent beauty without respite. A beauty like the gleaming edge of a legendary sword set aflame. There came that sublime moment when two people mutually recognized each other's worth. This was a profound, sincere, and infinitely nuanced emotion existing between those who had endured life's hardships yet overcome them—so Fuyuko thought. A feeling that between kindred souls of the same sex would forge deep camaraderie, and between opposites would birth a love surpassing romance itself.

“This is our first meeting.” Fuyuko bowed solemnly. As she was tidying away the leather bedding, small tobacco tray, and teacups left by the two local landowners into a corner, the maid entered—apologizing for her delayed arrival—and carried off the tea utensils. Fuyuko found herself filled with the wistful yearning of one who had touched humanity’s essence and a readiness to accept any urgent sacrifice. She offered him tea. He appeared oblivious to her having done so. She couldn’t discern whether he truly hadn’t noticed or was feigning ignorance. Conscious of her own naivety—like an untouched maiden—she began to say “That tea—” then recoiled at her sudden incapacity, burning with shame at herself.

“Thank you.”

He drank the tea as if nothing had happened. And then, as if addressing a long-time acquaintance, he spoke.

"I've just arrived here at seven tonight." "Is that so?"

“What time is it now?” The table clock in the corner of the room indicated ten twenty. “It is just past ten twenty.”

“Since I’ll be staying here for a while—you said your name was Fuyuko, didn’t you?” “Yes.” At that moment, in this room and the next beyond the lattice door, one could hear the clinking of metal rings from mosquito net hooks and the rustling of tatami mats.

The lattice door was quietly opened, and the maid pressed her hands to the floor and 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 in the breeze, the cloth swayed. Fuyuko looked at the two laid-out beds. An uncanny emotion that did not fully coalesce into "ideology" pressed against her chest. “Ah, I have prepared a bath, so perhaps you would like to take one before retiring?” “I’ll go in.” His physique, which had seemed rooted to the ground, heaved itself upright.

“You—” “I—”

“I see. I’ll go in alone.” Guided by the maid, the owner of a six-foot frame—solidly built with ample flesh—left the room without making the faintest footfall. Fuyuko remained seated alone, feeling the swirling vortex of burning passion. Before her lay two beds within a mosquito net swaying in the river breeze. What did these beds imply and demand of her? I would sleep in the same mosquito net as that man. When her nerves were struck by this realization, she had to still her entire bloodstream and sink into deep thought. (Ah, how painful to interact with him now as a traveling geisha!)

“Ah, the luggage from Harukaze-ro has been placed in the next room.” It was the same maid from before. Fuyuko said “I see” and did not respond further. This must have meant she was to quickly change into nightclothes in the next room and prepare for bed before he arrived. That... she couldn’t do. Even if she claimed physical discomfort and tried to force herself to change... she couldn’t. Not wanting her rare-born genuine feelings as a geisha to be appraised—this filled Fuyuko’s heart.

“Ah, Fuyuko-san, shouldn’t you change your kimono?” the maid said again. “I’ll 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 here?” “Yes—everything has arrived without exception.” Ah—on this clear night—Fuyuko thought she wanted to strike that exhilarating drum again and again until everything poured out through its skin. What sort of inn maid was this? Ah—merely some “famous” industrialist—yet through him came that sound transcending all earthly bounds—the animal-hide resonance surging from her very core like floodwaters through heaven and earth. “The stars shine beautifully tonight.” Fuyuko glanced sideways at the maid. Then Amano stepped quietly onto the veranda and stood gazing upward at the same vast depth of night sky.

“The stars are out, aren’t they?” Without responding to the maid’s flattery, Amano stared intently at Fuyuko with his large eyes. Fuyuko had surrendered herself to a gentle emotion. The sound of the river rapids heightened its eternal resonance. “Fuyuko.” “Yes.” Fuyuko stood up and approached his side. “What is that mountain over there called?” “That closer one must be Mount Io.” In the hazy, deep night air, the mountain range distinctly revealed its rocky surfaces, the entire mountain shining like deep purple-blue twill. Whether Amano was looking at the mountains or simply standing there, Fuyuko couldn’t tell. In that unknowing, a subtle force permeated through her.

“Let’s go to sleep.” He entered the room as if he had forgotten Fuyuko and began heading toward the next bedroom. “Wear that nightwear.” “Yeah.”

He had the maid change him and entered the mosquito net.

“Fuyuko.” “Yes.”

“If you grow sleepy, come into this bed to sleep.”

“Yes, thank you.” Fuyuko thought that in her entire life, she had never heard words as strong, warm, and filled with genuine emotion as those she had just heard. She recalled Hikari. When beside Hikari, she naturally forgot that she was a geisha. In his presence, she earnestly wished not to be a geisha. Instead of dissolving into a calm peace when beside Hikari, before him she was overwhelmed by an immeasurably great force—and even felt herself being dragged along by that power—("If you grow sleepy, you should come into this bed to sleep.") The inside of the mosquito net fell into complete silence. Fuyuko watched inside 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 leave him alone after putting him to sleep first? But that was how it had turned out. She stood up and left for the adjacent room separated by just a single wall that had been designated as her own. Under the intense light, a mirror stand, spare kimonos, shamisen cases, and other items lay scattered about. The maid looked at her with an odd expression. She untied her obi and changed into a thin lavender underrobe. She tightly fastened her abdomen with a Hakata sash and, facing the mirror stand, lightly applied thin white powder.

“Good night.” “Good night.”

Fuyuko quietly entered the mosquito net and laid herself down on one of the beds.

It was a strange night. At first, she had shuddered in anticipation of humiliation. Yet the room lay silent as a deserted forest. She opened her eyes and glanced at Amano beside her. She couldn’t tell whether he slept or woke. He lay motionless—limbs stretched languidly, head aligned supine—breathless save for the faint rise and fall from chest to belly where a summer quilt draped his waist. Had he fallen asleep? Had he drifted off without sparing me a thought? If so, then to him I might be less than even a geisha or harlot—something utterly insignificant. Or was he deep in meditation? Still, this silence felt too solemnly serene. Fuyuko stared into the watery chill behind her eyelids, sleep eluding her. Beneath her pillow, river rapids roared ceaselessly. Her nerves burned white-hot. Memories cascaded—childhood play, her father’s deathbed, brother’s disgraceful debts, that first night sold to the geisha house; Hikari’s kindness; grueling shamisen drills; desperate struggles against tainted surroundings; humiliations swallowed like stones—her whole life’s ledger rushing past. Yet whenever her thoughts paused, there he remained—still as temple statuary. Gradually this stillness curdled into fresh humiliation. At last, nerves frayed beyond bearing, she sank into mud-thick oblivion.

“Fuyuko, Fuyuko.”

The morning light shone. A clear blue sky stretched overhead. On the neighboring bed, Amano lay prone, turning his head toward Fuyuko and calling out.

“Yes.” She opened her eyes and sat up on the bedding. She regarded it as a blunder unprecedented in her life—having fallen asleep until he awakened her. “Have you awoken already?”

“Nah, that’s not it. If you’re sleepy, go ahead and sleep more—today, you know.”

“Yes.” “Since many people will likely come visiting, I want you to entertain every one of them thoroughly—even if it’s a bother.” “Yes, I shall attend to it.” He appeared to have brought the tobacco tray himself and was savoring a cigar with evident pleasure.

“You look sleepy.”

“No,” Fuyuko said, though perplexed, as she rose. The humiliation she’d felt the previous night now struck her as an unsightly blunder of her own making. Yet how was she to receive this unpretentious kindness? (Ah, but still—what joy to lie beneath a shared mosquito net without being forced into that act.) She withdrew to her room, shame and delight mingling, and only returned to the tatami room after completing her makeup and kimono change with fresh morning tea in hand. There he sat already, immovable as a mountain, while beyond the window milky river mist streamed swiftly through the forest canopy.

Before they had even finished breakfast, visiting guests arrived. People such as the Mayor, prefectural assembly members, and prominent city industrialists spent the entire day in this villa's great hall. While entertaining them, Fuyuko carefully observed his attitude toward these people. It was as if he had lain sprawled all day like an ascetic who had perfected his discipline. During lulls between visits, he would have the maid massage from his legs to his waist and sit quietly with closed eyes. Thus the day ended. That night, he ordered the maid to bring beer and quietly shared light drinks with Fuyuko. And the night was filled with the same deathly silence and stillness as before.

(Ah, such a man, such a man—that such a man existed in this world!)

The passion she had suppressed for years shattered all conventions and sent Fuyuko into violent tremors. She couldn’t stay still no matter what. Her hands and feet burned like fire. "I am no longer a geisha." "Selling affection." "I am not some transient woman." A woman of excellence—one who had unleashed all her latent potential at once—a woman burning with the sacred passion of love felt for the first time.

It was the late night of the third day. Fuyuko clung with all her strength to his motionless body—so still she couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead—her entire being trembling under waves of surging flames that pulsed through her veins. Dull half-closed eyes opened while remaining calm and stared fixedly. “Fuyuko?” “Please forgive me.”

“You weren’t supposed to have parents.”

“Y-yes.” Ah, this blazing life! The woman’s life force, blazing up from its very foundations, transferred into the steadfast man’s awareness. He quietly closed his eyes. The great power was shaken to its foundations by the sincere devotion of the woman who had offered her entire being. Like covering and enveloping blazing flames, the man’s colossal power embraced Fuyuko. “Please keep me by your side for my whole life, my entire life.” “I’ll keep you here. I too feel empty without you now.” “Is that true?”

“I don’t lie. From tomorrow on, you’re no longer a geisha. I’m setting you free. Will you come to Tokyo with me?” “—I’ll go. Anywhere—anywhere at all—I’ll go—” “—” “But you have a splendid wife and fine son already, don’t you?”

“I have a wife and children. But I need you too.”

“——?” “You’re not a replacement for my wife. “You’re someone entirely separate from my wife.” “As for you—being yourself—you’ve become someone I cannot do without.” The next morning, Fuyuko’s “redemption” was entrusted to the young mistress of Koryu-tei. A phone call was made to Harukaze-ro telling the proprietress to come immediately. The proprietress, her eyes bloodshot from alcohol, arrived. Fuyuko was listening through a sliding door as the mistress negotiated with the proprietress.

“It’s nothing else but that. This is quite sudden, but Mr. Amano—that is, Miss Fuyuko’s client—has decided to take care of Miss Fuyuko’s future. So if it suits your convenience, he wishes to settle the matter quickly, even as soon as tomorrow. What do you think? That is precisely why we asked you to come today.” “Oh,” the proprietress seemed surprised. “Well, that is certainly a commendable proposition.”

“So then, what exactly are your terms in this matter? To release Miss Fuyuko permanently—you must have various considerations on your side as well—” “Yes, naturally—but if Fuyuko were to leave now, I’d truly be in difficulties—” “From what I’ve ascertained through speaking with Miss Fuyuko, she still has approximately two years of service remaining—I fully appreciate your position—but what sum do you intend to set for her redemption?”

(How many thousands?) Ah, curse those words! Fuyuko thought.

“That’s—Mistress, I cannot let her go for less than two boxes.” “However, wouldn’t that leave Miss Fuyuko in too precarious a position?”

“Well, that’s a bargain, I tell ya. Just think about the effort it took to make a woman like that!” Two boxes—two thousand yen.

All endurance, all humiliation, the piecemeal selling of her soul and life—had this not come after such long hardship? And where could there possibly be any justification for demanding an additional two thousand yen in compensation? It pained her to have her worth measured in two thousand yen, but she detested even more the proprietress’s covetous hunger to claim that very sum. “If you skimp on two boxes, wouldn’t that shame a gentleman like Mr. Amano himself?”

It was a cold voice, one that grasped firmly onto the crux of gain and would not let go. “Very well then. I will inform him as such.”

On her way to Amano’s room, the mistress told Fuyuko that the proprietress of Harukaze-ro was “still a reasonable person.” Fuyuko even thought her “redemption” brought her no joy at all. In any case, the proprietress left after saying she would “set Fuyuko free for two thousand yen” and to “give her regards to Fuyuko.”

This night, two rickshaws arrived at the entrance of Harukaze-ro. It was Amano and Fuyuko. In the tearoom nearing ten o'clock, there were only Kikuryu, Osachi, and the proprietress. “Madam, they’ve arrived.” “Mr. Amano has also graciously come along.” “Well now, this is our first meeting. Now, please come this way.” Amano, nimble in his white yukata, went up to the second floor. As he started up, he looked toward Fuyuko and gave a nod as if to say, “Is this alright?” The proprietress had Osachi carry the tobacco tray and followed behind. To Fuyuko, who remained behind, the proprietress said,

“This morning, I was summoned to Koryu-tei—though I haven’t told the girls at the brothel yet—but things have turned out rather urgent, haven’t they?” At that moment, the proprietress came down. “Fuyuko-san, if you’d just called ahead, we could’ve at least gathered the geishas properly—honestly, I’m beside myself—anyway, do come upstairs.” “Madam, perhaps I—”

“We’ll talk later,” she was told, and Fuyuko came to a room on the second floor facing the inner garden. On the second floor, as Sachi and Kikuryu tried to curry favor with Amano, he responded with a quiet smile.

“How did it go?” He called out to Fuyuko. Fuyuko hesitated.

“It’s alright. You should tell them.” “Um... I... I haven’t said anything yet.” “—I see.” He heaved himself upright. Signaling for Fuyuko to remain where she was, he went downstairs. On the second floor, Sachi, Kikuryu, and Fuyuko were left behind. Sachi retained her usual glossy beauty. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it, Fuyuko-san?”

“Yes.” “Somehow, it feels as though we haven’t met in a month.”

Fuyuko smiled. It wasn't just a month. I had gained within these three days an experience of reform that would renew my entire life. The loneliness of having no one to whom I could dedicate my respect and love—a loneliness that had tormented me for so long—had been shattered by a man. In the wilderness, the sun had appeared. No longer was I a lonely solitude—I was now someone who had a sun to look up to. For Fuyuko, it was indeed a lonely thing, but this "loneliness" differed from what had come before.

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

At that moment, Amano returned. The proprietress, following behind Amano,

“Congratulations, Fuyuko-san! Make sure to properly thank Mr. Amano now!” she exclaimed with tearful cheer, her voice booming as though she had long since exhausted both the joys and sorrows that came with such occasions. “Madam, could you invite seven or eight geishas?” “Yes—I’ve already instructed them to come shortly—Sachi-chan! Fuyuko-san is no longer a geisha now!” “Good evening.” “Good evening.” Six or seven young geishas entered, bringing with them a lively scent of perfume, animated voices, and bodily warmth. And they chanted their congratulations to Fuyuko.

It was a deep summer night under a clear moon. In this beautiful summer night’s world, Fuyuko’s fate alone had changed abruptly. None truly felt the weight of Fuyuko’s fate in their hearts. They merely uttered congratulations as routine and envied her good fortune with ordinary feelings. (Is this what freedom is?) Fuyuko muttered to herself. With two thousand yen, from this moment on, I no longer had to work as a geisha. She felt strangely lonely. She also felt she had done something irreversible. Moonlight shone like a white blade from the clear black-indigo sky. She watched her colleagues frolicking about. Her heart had already drifted far away.

“Fuyuko.” “Yes.” “You’re skilled at the drum, I hear.”

“Yes.” “This moonlit night. Won’t you let me hear it?” The passionate love for her familiar art revived in Fuyuko’s liberated mind and body. Ah, I’ll strike, I’ll strike—strike and strike through this beloved night to pour it all out! She declared resolutely. “Sachi-san, please play the shamisen.” “As you wish, Fuyuko-san.”

Sachi’s shamisen and Fuyuko’s drum were brought in. Fuyuko, restraining the surging waves of joy from her artistic path, stroked the long-cherished large and small drums she had loved for years. Without any trace of shame, on this night celebrating her colleague’s good fortune, Sachi’s elegant figure—as she earnestly began adjusting the shamisen’s tones—was brimming with confidence and passion for their shared artistic path.

The gathering fell solemnly silent.

The moon shone purely like a bright mirror in the clear, vast sky. The entire firmament was illuminated by a cold white light, the world below lying solemnly transparent as water. In this serenely clear world, the shamisen's tones began resonating softly at a low pitch. The melody gradually strengthened its serene and peaceful rhythm, and when the plectrum's sound sliced through like water, the exceedingly gentle beat of the small drum intertwined with the shamisen's tune. The shamisen's notes—like a torrent forming rapids, rising and falling as they sought to unleash their wild passion—were now lightly, now heavily restrained by the drum's solemn strikes that suppressed and tightened them as the music swelled with tragic grandeur. The graceful shamisen tones trembled in the still night air, seeking to draw people into sweet dreams, while the veiled drum resonance—concealing its power—leapt high into the sky. For a long time, the two sounds battled. As they clashed, a delicate solemnity overflowed with inexhaustible strength. The music soon surged like swift rapids; while the two tones struggled like rival currents that eventually merged into one, before anyone realized, the ocean-like roar of the large drum thundered forth with new-found authority. The shamisen's sound was gradually overwhelmed.

"Ha! Hey! Yoooh!"

Ah, the great sound that surges beyond all! The grand, majestic music! The shamisen’s tones could no longer be heard. The triumphant fanfare’s wild fervor—grand, rich, and solemn 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 burning drum music resounded even to Hikari, who sat quietly sewing while watching over her sleeping child’s face in the room behind the storehouse. Hikari had not seen Fuyuko for three days. Hikari had been yearning for Fuyuko. To her starved soul, the fervent music resounded. Hikari stopped her sewing, crept along the dim, damp corridor, and crouched beneath the back ladder in front of the storehouse, listening intently. Each rhythm of the music seeped into Hikari’s heart, and an indescribable emotion welled up within her like sparks.

Then abruptly, the sound stopped. A solemn silence fell. The music of silence reverberated as Hikari stood entranced. Then came footsteps descending the ladder. "If you go down here and turn right—" That’s Fuyuko’s voice, Hikari realized.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll go alone.”

Hikari looked up at the ladder with eyes still brimming with emotion. There came a heavy, creaking groan. And in the next moment, a man descended and stood before the earthen storehouse. When Hikari, wondering what she was dawdling about, stood up without thinking, she saw a man directly before her. Hikari gasped and felt her entire body turn ice-cold. It was a face she recognized.

“You—could you be Amano—?” “—?” Amano glared at Hikari with terrifying intensity but let out a single groan: “Hmm.” “Kitano’s…⁈” he began in a crushed voice when Fuyuko descended from the second floor, asking, “Have you found it?” Hikari’s heart tightened with a start. The full force of the buried past tightened around her.

“No, it was a case of mistaken identity. I do apologize,” Hikari said, managing to regain her outward composure. “Oh! Auntie! It’s you!” Fuyuko exclaimed happily, her voice tinged with surprise. To Amano, she added smoothly, as if smoothing things over, “She has been like a caring aunt to me.” Amano wordlessly retreated into the toilet.

“Auntie, I must bid farewell and go to Tokyo.”

“—?” Hikari’s entire body turned cold with a terrible shudder. And now, she could not properly comprehend Fuyuko’s words. “That person,” Fuyuko signaled with her eyes.

“He is from Tokyo. “I will be under his care. “It was so sudden there was no time to consult you, Auntie.” “Who is he? What’s his name?” Hikari asked.

"A man named Eisuke Amano." "Amano—?" Hikari muttered. (That bastard!) screamed her entire being—screamed the 'buried past' concealed within her forty years of life. (That devil Amano—the one who stole my sister Ayako from my deceased husband over a decade ago! And now, is he going to take Fuyuko away too?)

“Excuse me,” Hikari bowed to Fuyuko and returned to the room behind the storehouse as if stumbling. The “buried past” stored deep within her consciousness had come to life with passion. It was agonizing. (That Amano was taking Fuyuko away. From what I’d heard, he was supposedly one of Japan’s foremost industrialists. That must have been true. The fact that “Amano Ichirou, the young thinker from over a decade ago” had become “Amano Eisuke, Japan’s great industrialist” was undoubtedly true. But had that declaration her sister made—“I will surely destroy him”—when Amano took her away proven futile? There he stood—Amano, bold before my eyes! And now he meant to take Fuyuko—she with whom I’d shared three years of irreplaceable closeness—away forever in mere three days? ...And I remained nothing but a pitiful seamstress who’d lost both the wealth and status of the former Kitano family—)

The following afternoon, Fuyuko left for Tokyo, accompanied by Amano. Fuyuko departed without knowing anything of the profound turmoil that had arisen in Hikari’s inner life or of the shared past between Amano and Hikari that had caused that turmoil. “He took Fuyuko too, that bastard!” Hikari said this from the heart. The facts of Hikari’s lifelong “buried past”—which she could not help but speak from the heart in this way—would be revealed in the next chapter. There, people would come to see the terrifying aspects of human destiny.

Chapter 5: ——The Buried Past——

Hikari was born in Oogawa Village, a seaside settlement at the edge of the plain some five ri from Kanazawa's urban districts. The village stood encircled by towering forests of cedar, fir, and oak that had long shielded its people from winter's bitter storms and summer's scorching sun. Though she never knew precisely when she first learned it, by her sixteenth or seventeenth year Hikari had come to fully grasp both her village's ancient origins and its enduring ties to her ancestral home. Long before Hikari's birth, Oogawa Village had existed within the same Kaga Plain yet lived apart from neighboring settlements. A millennium or two past, when deep snows blanketed this wilderness, wanderers said to be Heike remnants drifted northward and cast off their traveling sandals upon these vast plains—thus began the village. Here lay virgin soil of matchless fertility, earth pregnant with vital force—yet their numbers proved woefully inadequate. More people were needed for their band. To mankind had been granted but one method of creating life.

No villages with which to interact could be found near Oogawa Village; the small number of men and women had no choice but to strive on their own for the birth of new kin. The long years of wandering had diminished the number of women. Parent and child, brother and sister, sister and brother, uncle and niece, aunt and nephew, grandparent and grandchild, a friend’s wife, a friend’s husband, a lord’s wife, a lord’s retainer and his young subordinate—there was no helping it. If they were male and female, and if their union created new life, then it was deemed sufficient. "Be fruitful, multiply, fill the fields of Oogawa Village"—the clan members prayed this from their hearts. Thus those who cultivated the land without sparing effort were multiplied, and bloodlines became terrifyingly complex in their intertwining, growing ever more muddied. The desire to eat, the desire to dwell, a beastly thirst akin to depravity; children killing parents, wives killing husbands, friends killing friends—and thus the mingling of tainted blood between those murderous foes. Thus time passed. The sun daily illuminated the plains from the east, the stars nightly shone in the sky, and all the while—even as history was being lived out by other people upon the same earth—the people of Oogawa Village had continued living without knowing any world beyond their own. In spring, summer, and autumn, the blessed fields of the northern countryside thrilled people’s souls with pleasant labor and joyous revelry—but the terrifying winter, when heavy ice and snow fell ceaselessly from the gloomy, oppressive December sky day and night, and Siberian storms raged, constantly threatened them. O humans, who granted ye the right to prosper upon this earth? “Perish, perish, be utterly destroyed,” Winter declared. After three or four months when the colors of the trees could not be seen, when spring came around again, the number of villagers who froze to death inside the ruined village houses never fell below fifty each year. Yet just as nature held the power to destroy, so too did it hold the power to create and multiply.

The villagers had imperceptibly organized Oogawa Village into a cohesive society, achieving a remarkable unity. The ancestors of the Kitano family—Hikari’s birthplace—became central figures in Oogawa Village precisely when this unification neared completion. This coincided with an era when, though the villagers knew nothing of it, a commoner who had risen from humble origins was unifying Japan’s divided regional powers, bringing the Warring States period to its historical conclusion. Through long years of intermingled bloodlines—as certain personalities, talents, and physical traits recurred among this small village’s residents—the superior aspects of various bloodlines converged in one particular child who was blessed. This individual demonstrated a form of superiority over the villagers through physical strength, intellect, and effort with which he had been endowed. And thus he acquired wealth.

The poor weaklings yielded before him. He wanted to conquer the entire village of Oogawa. And that was an easy matter for him. ——The Kitano family is the head family of Oogawa Village—— From the moment he made this declaration, Oogawa Village had no choice but to confer all authority upon the Kitano family. Over generations, the Kitano family must have strived in accordance with Hikari’s ancestors’ will to make the villagers’ minds absorb that they were the head family of Oogawa Village. The people of Oogawa Village were all of the same bloodline as the Kitanos, and thus, just as the village’s prosperity was the Kitano family’s prosperity, the Kitano family’s prosperity was the village’s prosperity. The residents of Oogawa Village naturally desired the eternal existence of the Kitano family, and a morality that dictated no sacrifice should be refused for this purpose permeated the villagers with authority. And so, as a result, all the village’s nourishment was absorbed by the Kitano family, the entire village came to suffer poverty, and they even came to believe this was a natural state deserving of gratitude. When Hikari was still young, she often saw groups of peasants returning to the village entrance at sunset after laboring all day in the fields—as if they had completely forgotten their mud-caked work clothes and gnawing hunger—gazing up at the grand Kitano family residence with its white-walled earthen enclosure. As she stood by the gate that resembled a castle gate, each person offered heartfelt compliments as they passed. For the villagers, no matter how impoverished their own lives became, the wealth and prosperity of the Kitano family seemed to provide ample compensation. What was terrifying was that Hikari and her kin—the Kitano descendants—had forgotten that the source of the village’s current state lay in their distant ancestors’ political strategies, and had come to believe it was the natural order of things. Even Hikari herself had not realized just how pitiable and wrong it all was until she was later washed over by terrible hardships.

However, the period from which Hikari had somewhat detailed knowledge of her Kitano ancestors was the latter years of her grandfather Denemon. When Denemon was past fifty, that time was an era when a great wave of reform was beginning to sweep Japan. He was confident that no matter what reforms occurred in Japan, the foundations he had laid in Oogawa Village would remain unshaken. When political power was returned to the Emperor, he—at fifty-eight—maintained a composed expression, but before long was no longer Oogawa Village’s headman. When he heard that even the position of village headman had been abolished, he could not help but regard with wonder the new government that had obliterated his supposedly eternal status through a single edict. He had come to feel his own standing was relatively shallow. He was sixty. His vitality as a man was beginning to wane, yet a certain wisdom had ripened. He surveyed his surroundings as if waking from a dream. He thought something must be done. He was shocked at how destitute Oogawa Village’s residents had become. Poverty itself was acceptable, but he resolved they must not lose their allegiance to the Kitano family as transportation routes to other villages gradually opened through that very poverty. He summoned his final reserves of energy and launched a sake brewing enterprise. His plan succeeded brilliantly, and new vitality flooded through the village. A large sake brewery rose on an empty lot at the village outskirts; beneath its white walls glittering in sunlight, young village men rang out the clang, clang, clang of driving hoops into barrels. A modest circulation of money proved effective in steadying the villagers’ hearts. “It worked,” he thought. “It worked. Nothing on earth could shake the bedrock of Kitano tradition.” Denemon rejoiced. And so—amid that joy—in spring of Meiji 5 (1872), Denemon died.

Denemon had a son named Yotaro. He was a twenty-six-year-old young man and the son of Denemon’s former wife. Yotaro’s mother was the daughter of a peasant named Aoki from the same village, who bore Yotaro with Denemon and had no other children. When Yotaro was fifteen or sixteen, his mother died after enduring uterine cancer. With capable female hands lost, the youngest sister of the Aoki family—Yotaro’s maternal aunt—came to manage household affairs at the Kitano residence. Onobu was a slender woman with an ever-pale face that gave her a fragile, lonely air, yet at times she burned with passion, her cheeks flushing beautifully. Denemon could not deny finding such an Onobu beautiful, yet he harbored no intention of acting directly on those feelings. His wisdom—knowing too well the misfortunes such acts bred—had quietly subdued his desires; but once he began brewing sake, he desperately needed a devoted helper to entrust his life’s work to. He forced Onobu into marriage. How could Onobu have refused?! Denemon, fifty-eight, and Onobu, thirty-two, were wed! A terrible anguish had to be cultivated through this union. The one who unknowingly failed to suppress his love for Onobu—his aunt six years his senior—was Yotaro, Denemon’s only son and Hikari’s father. The dim second floor of the earthen storehouse—cold silence. Onobu’s beauty—her pallid flesh glowing with inner fervor. The loveliness of that phosphorescent glimmer in her melancholy eyes’ depths. Yotaro found himself unable to forget Onobu. Yotaro, with his tempestuous nature, loathed secret affairs and had repeatedly tried to confess his feelings to Denemon in desperation, only to be placated each time—precisely when Onobu was compelled to marry Denemon, who was both Yotaro’s father and her own elder sister’s husband. After Onobu became Denemon’s second wife, who could say how many times Yotaro pinned her down and hurled her against the floor in that dim, damp storehouse? Unable to grow mad enough to kill Onobu nor deranged enough to murder his father, helplessly dragged by her flesh, he spent two years staring at his wretched, shameless self—forced to keep the storehouse’s agonizing secret hidden.

There was a time when Onobu became pregnant and miscarried in less than three months. At that time, Yotaro continued to agonize near madness, wondering whose child that life—passing from darkness to darkness—had been. “It’s your child, Yotaro-san.” “Yotaro-san.” Shattering Onobu’s whisper, he cried, “Punishment! Punishment! "How could I know whose child it was?" he thought. And then, imagining Onobu herself saying "Master, I’ve done something pitiable" to his father Denemon became unbearable for him. Such was their gloomy, oppressive love; yet after Denemon’s death—unknowing of it all—Yotaro and Onobu were left with an abhorrent physical awareness. Denemon’s death made the two of them viscerally feel the horror of having committed a terrible sin. The fact that for one he was her biological father, for the other he was her lawful husband, and each of them being biological aunt and nephew to one another—that these two could not live without loving each other so desperately.

After Denemon’s death, more than anything else, Yotaro’s marriage issue erupted within the Kitano family. Denemon’s will stipulated that Yotaro should take as his wife Osato, the second daughter of the Aoki family—Onobu’s brother and the brother of Yotaro’s mother. And yet, the foremost advocate of this was none other than Onobu herself.

“It would be better for you to take Osato-san as your wife.”

“Are you serious?” “Then what do you intend to do about things between me and you, Onobu-san?” “We can just keep things as they’ve been until now.” “That’s absurd!” “Why?”

“Onobu-san, do you mean to meet me in this dim storehouse our whole lives?” Hikari imagined her parents Yotaro and Onobu in such moments and felt their tormented hearts suffocating her very breath. “If we don’t—sooner or later the villagers will find out, or no matter how careful we are, if I bear a child—then we’ll have no path but death.” “Then what would you have us do?”

“Instead, marry Osato first to satisfy the villagers, then keep me by your side as nothing more than your servant.” “I do not mind in the least being slandered by others and living in the shadows for my entire life.” “With your status, Yotaro-san, caring for me alone would be something everyone would turn a blind eye to once you’ve taken Osato-san as your wife.” Having said that, Onobu wept bitterly. Hikari felt she would spend her entire life comprehending the poignancy of Onobu’s sorrow.

Osato was a plump, cheerful country girl who considered her marriage into the Kitano family a lifelong honor and worked cheerfully all day. She treated Onobu with care, addressing her as "Auntie, Auntie" while serving her like her own mother. Yet when Onobu could no longer conceal her pregnancy the following year, Osato initially failed to grasp who the father was—such was her simple-hearted nature. One night when her beloved husband Yotaro confessed he himself was Onobu’s lover and implored, “Be kind to her, won’t you?”—the sensation of Osato’s world bursting into flames would haunt Hikari even in old age with a pathos that brought unbidden tears. She must have learned the bitter taste of sorrowful tears. And from that next dawn onward, the world must have greeted her with newfound depth. The country girl’s guileless purity stirred in Onobu not hatred but envy. Yet once she recognized the futility of jealousy, she attended Onobu with pitiful meekness, like a servant. Faced with Osato’s heartbreaking sincerity, the sinful pair could only heave deep sighs. Moreover, Yotaro found himself compelled to love Onobu’s soul and body—waning and pale yet achingly familiar—more than Osato’s heart and flesh that bloomed like fresh fruit.

The infant that Onobu delivered through her agonizing first childbirth in middle age was said to be a sickly male child—his body small and head swollen blue, his cries a feeble *hihihi*. This was Hikari’s elder brother. Hikari often imagined a certain moment from before her own birth. It must have been precisely late October in autumn. Peasants compelled to reap their year’s hard-earned harvest on swiftly darkening autumn days labored in the fields until dusk. Through gaps in the trees from the inner chambers of the Kitano residence stretched a vista of fields rippling with golden waves of rice ears across the earth’s expanse.

“Onobu-san, how are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling much better now.” Onobu wore an apologetic, lonely smile on her pale, gaunt cheeks and did not so much as glance at the infant Osato held. “I don’t feel the slightest affection for this child as if it were my own. That child is yours, isn’t it?”

“If you would allow me that, I would be so happy—what a good child he is.”

Osato pressed her flushed, plump cheek against the blue-swollen cheek of the infant. “I feel so strange—because I don’t find my own child cute at all. When I get close, there’s this foul smell, don’t you think?” “What a terrible mother you are. I’ll take care of him lovingly. Heiichiro-san—he’s the most precious heir of the Kitano family, isn’t he?”

As Osato soothed Heiichiro, she began to feel like crying. Onobu also had tears welling in her eyes. The autumn evening sun, streaming through the garden's standing trees, sorrowfully illuminated the two.

“Shall I truly give this child to you, Osato-san?” “Yes, yes, Heiichiro-san is my child.” The two could not bring themselves to hate each other—and precisely because of that, they had no choice but to bury their heartache deep within and resign themselves to loneliness. They were no longer aunt and niece, but woman and woman—two women protecting a single beloved man. “Yet it seems you could have had one of your own, Osato-san.” “Yes.” Osato bowed her head in shame and vexation, praying in her heart. However, Osato was never blessed with a child.

The following year, Onobu gave birth again. And that childbirth became the very hand that took Onobu's life. The twins—plump, healthy-looking girls clinging tightly to each other—had drained too much blood from their mother in being born. Onobu, who had devoted her life to an ill-fated love, drew her last breath with an "Ah," her closed eyelids flickering with pale phosphorescent light, or so it was said. One twin was Ayako; the other was Hikari. For Yotaro, now nearing thirty, Onobu's death meant liberation from their cursed affair. He was still young. The Kitano family's inherited virtues steered him toward the enterprise his father had left behind. This should have been his salvation. Yet even if Yotaro alone could be saved this way, Onobu's blood—she who had dedicated her life to that young nephew alone, enduring every sin and secret for his sake—remained in the Kitano household through her three living children: Heiichiro, Ayako, and Hikari. Fortunately, Osato bore no children. The loneliness of a childless woman nurtured those three like a true mother. In later years, Hikari would sometimes recall how Onobu had insisted on bringing Osato into the Kitano family and taste an indescribable complexity.

Yet by the time Hikari first became aware of her surroundings, her father Yotaro projected an image so utilitarian and businesslike that he seemed unrecognizable as a man who had lived through such a past. Yotaro could be said to have been reborn after Onobu’s death. To him, liberated at last from the long years of strange, gloomy carnal desires and the pallid soul’s influence, the suppressed heroic materialism came alive. The melancholy was Onobu’s, and not his own.

Hikari well remembered his sharp and valiant physique and countenance. She could never forget her father’s imposing and composed demeanor as he sat at the head of the vast tea room—spacious enough to lay out a hundred tatami mats (its ceiling-less space spanned by thick beams like bridges across the high rafters, and in one corner, a square hearth where a tarnished silver kettle hung from a soot-blackened adjustable hook)—receiving guests. Most visitors seemed intimidated by the silence of the vast, hushed room and Yotaro’s bearing, appearing unable to muster even half their usual vigor. When he let out a single booming “Ahahaha!” laugh at some provocation, most people seemed to flee back home right then and there. Having fully adopted this manner, Yotaro—much like his father Dennemon had once been engrossed—now burned with entrepreneurial ambition: sake brewing, large-scale fishing ventures, trade with nearby villages and towns. By the 14th and 15th years of Meiji, his influence resounded throughout the surrounding villages. And thus, the one who bound together everything within his household was the pitiable barren woman Osato. Whenever Hikari thought of her childhood years, she could not help but feel grateful for Osato’s tender life.

Hikari’s earliest memories of her siblings and Osato were filled with strangely unforgettable portents that would linger throughout her life. In the cold, somber inner Buddha room at the back, she—not yet five years old—was playing at cooking with crimson camellia flowers together with her sister Ayako (though they were twins, Hikari had been made the younger sister, and so it remained for her entire life). Pale sunlight filtered faintly red through the shoji screens. Hikari, who for some reason was passive toward Ayako, obediently arranged the petals one by one as Ayako instructed. Ayako was threading together the petals that Hikari had arranged. Then, suddenly from behind, something struck Ayako. It was her brother Heiichiro who, his large, blue-swollen head hanging heavily as he shuffled unsteadily forward, had struck Ayako, mistaking her for Hikari. But the next instant, Heiichiro discovered it was Ayako, turned pale, and froze in place. He who had been a natural dominant force toward Hikari was utterly powerless when it came to Ayako. He had to receive Ayako’s terrifyingly scornful gaze instead of Hikari’s gentle tears that seemed to beg for pity. “Heiichiro, you idiot!” It was so terrifying that even in her old age, Hikari could never forget it. Of course, Heiichiro burst into tears with all his might. Osato, who had to raise these three children, was also to be pitied. Hikari often saw Osato dejectedly on the verge of tears in the dim back storeroom’s shadow. After Hikari had grown older, Osato once said, “I wonder if your father ever truly loved me even once.” “If there had been even once, then I too should have been able to bear my own child at least once—” she had once said. “It was Onobu-san who gave birth to them, wasn’t it?” “I suppose my role was to raise them.” “So you all truly were fortunate ones who had two mothers, I suppose,” she had once said.

And it was indeed true that Osato, who spoke such words, loved Hikari most among the three. Hikari also remembered her father Yotaro’s lonely figure—amidst his urgent business—silently watching over the frail, selfish, timid Heiichiro as he cried and fussed, with an expression that seemed to say, “Ah, the Kitano line ends with me.” When Hikari imagined her father’s inner torment—unable to condemn the defects of the child he had sired—she felt desolate, and could not help sensing an uncanny dread toward the blood flowing through her own veins. Her father loved Hikari too, but in Ayako—a girl growing into a headstrong, boyish vigor and radiant beauty—he found a glimmer of hope.

When the three siblings were seven or eight years old, an elementary school of sorts was established for the first time in the neighboring village. To this school—which none in the village would consider sending their children—Yotaro had a servant accompany all three of them daily. For Hikari, sitting in chairs among unfamiliar children from other places and learning difficult classical Chinese texts and arithmetic from an elderly teacher proved utterly detestable. How desperately she must have wished back then to find some way not to attend school. In contrast, Heiichiro and Ayako delighted in going to school. The swift progress of Heiichiro’s studies astonished his teachers. Even after returning home, he would spend his days silently alone, poring over books. Luxuriant black hair, voluptuous curves, long-lidded eyes, a clear nasal bridge with aristocratic fullness at the tip, a plump lower lip, a gently rounded jawline, earlobes glowing with vitality—people called Hikari and Ayako mirror-image beauties, yet Hikari herself could never believe she matched Ayako’s loveliness. At school, while Hikari hid in room corners too pained to speak with others, Ayako had gathered nearly thirty older students around her within ten days and was being venerated by all as “Ayako-san.” Hikari too secretly revered Ayako. Yet for Hikari, school held no appeal. When spring came, she would claim to have forgotten something midway to school and make it her custom to pass blissful half-days in tranquil fields—listening to skylarks sing amid rape flower fields bathed in glorious spring sunlight.

The three children born from Onobu’s womb of painful love grew up amidst the Kitano family’s prestige and Osato’s affection, nurtured by tranquil, peaceful days. Worries and sorrows were but small waves stirring upon the surface of a peaceful sea. Amidst such happiness, Hikari and her siblings’ youth arrived. Hikari had no particularly strong memories of the girlhood that preceded her youth.

“You and Ayako-san truly looked so alike.” “When I saw your sleeping faces, I couldn’t tell you apart.” “But when that happened, if I woke one of you up, I could tell.” “If it was you, when roused, you’d be dazed at first, but once you realized it was me, you’d smile gently. But if it was Ayako-san, she’d glare fiercely as if enraged, then contort her face in a spasm,” Osato recounted to Hikari stories from their girlhood.

There was one fact from her girlhood that 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 prematurely born boy. That man had no choice but to raise the child. As he grew up, the boy became abnormal in some way compared to ordinary boys and detested labor above all else. Even when driven out to the fields, he would lie sprawled in the meadow, staring transfixed at the blue sky as if being absorbed by it, never attempting to pluck a single blade of grass. When he turned sixteen, his tenant farmer parent had withered away, blackened “like a dried-up sardine,” and died. After his parent’s death, he shut himself in a small house and refused to work. The villagers came to offer various advice, but he would roar “Idiot!” with a terrifying face and drive them away. According to the villagers’ accounts, the following conversation had been exchanged time and again.

“Why are you so lazy?” “When your father dies, you’ll have to take over and keep the house going, eh?” “Your father was a good worker.” “Aren’t you his son?” “You’ve got to work, grow up, take a wife, and build a household, haven’t you?”

“Who’d want to work?!” “Even if you don’t want to work, poor folks like us have to work to eat.” “If you don’t give up on that and work, what will you do?” “No!” “I hate the idea of working myself to death, withering away like some black dried-up sardine just like my old man did!” “How can you live without working?” “You’re lying!” “Wh-why would we lie?!” “Then how come the honorable Kitano family gets to live in such luxury and eat without working?!”

The villagers, upon being told this, felt a dangerous sense of having violated some terrible taboo and tried to grasp the meaning of the words expressed by this lone boy, but they could not understand. Therefore, they informed Yotaro of this and requested his "opinion."

“I’ll go there tonight,” said Yotaro. Hikari had been listening nearby. In the evening, she left the house with her father. At the edge of the village, in front of a small hut-like house, her father said, “Is Taichi here?” “Who’s there?!” “It’s me.” “Why aren’t you lighting the lamp?”

“Because there’s no oil!” Having said that, the emaciated, grubby boy who opened the door and came out—his eyes shining with a certain authority—Hikari remembered as one of those unforgettable people for the rest of her life. “Is that you, Master Kitano? “What business brings you here? “I’m surviving on the few scraps of spilled rice my father left behind. “Whether I work or not isn’t any of your damn business. “Go away! Just go away!”

“What are you saying?!” “You arch-thief! You arch-thief who dried up and killed my old man like a withered sardine! Are you trying to suck me dry too?! Damn it, you think I’ll fall for that trick?! Arch-thief!” Having said that, he heaved a great sob as if he could no longer endure it. Yotaro stood dazedly for a while but vaguely came to understand what the boy was trying to say. He could no longer tolerate it. The blood of generations of ancestors had reversed course within him. He struck the crying boy’s cheek with all his strength. Then the boy abruptly stopped crying.

“Y-you... You’ve done it now.” “This is revenge!” “Brace yourself!” “You insolent cur!” “Ungh…”

In the dimly lit doorway, a struggle began. No matter what, Yotaro was stronger. He twisted the boy down and bound his hands behind his back with his belt. Then he told Hikari to go call the villagers. Hikari stiffened at his words. In that moment, she realized she had unconsciously been sympathizing with the boy—willing 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 shed behind the house and confine him there.”

It was a night when white moonlight poured down over the entire village. The villagers shoved the boy into one of the ash sheds. “Thief! You arch-thief sucking the village’s blood! Ugh... ugh... you fools of the village! Ugh... binding me up... ugh... idiots! Arch-thief! Just you wait! Just you wait!” The desperate groans—like a sick dog howling at the moon through spring night—refused to cease their baying. In the ash shed, coated in soot like a charred dried sardine, this pitiful rebel screamed for three days and nights until he died.

The villagers would go out to the fields in the dim light before dawn as always to till the black, damp soil; after seeing off the bustling activity of rice planting, they would immediately face irrigation work, weeding, and insect expulsion rituals, then welcome autumn’s fierce harvest—thus through the year they toiled without sparing themselves from sunrise to sunset. It seemed almost miraculous they didn’t die. They appeared sturdy, but this was merely an illusion wrought by the sun’s direct glare and rough winds; in truth, they were left to contend with gaunt, weakened bodies that offered little resistance to disease. A fatalism viewing suffering as inescapable, mud-caked debauchery in the dark of night, and poverty. But these were matters for Oogawa Village’s people. The Kitano family alone should have known nothing but happiness and peace.

Hikari had lived until the summer of her twentieth year without knowing true misfortune in life. However, the time finally came for her to know the taste of tears. That unforgettable event occurred in the summer when Hikari was twenty years old—July of Meiji 25.

That day was scorching from morning, as if everything would blister and rot. Could there have ever existed a day on earth that blazed so fervently and brilliantly? To Hikari, it seemed strange that the objects on the ground did not burst into flames. That day was when Shuntaro Oogawa—the only son of a prominent merchant in Kanazawa’s city district, with whom Yoroichiro had become close after he began commuting there two or three years prior to study English—was supposed to stop by Oogawa Village’s harbor while navigating back a newly built Japanese-style ship from Hokkaido. Perhaps because Shuntaro and Yoroichiro got along well, there were times when Shuntaro would come to stay overnight at Yoroichiro’s place, and times when Yoroichiro would go to stay overnight at Shuntaro’s house. The fact that he and Ayako were in love was recognized by both her brother and Hikari, and it was also a reality that they approved of with goodwill. That Shuntaro, despite being a twenty-four-year-old youth, would navigate a ship all the way to make a special stop at Oogawa Village’s harbor was a joyous matter for Yoroichiro and his sister. Yoroichiro and Hikari walked along the scorched village road leading to the beach. Ayako had been invited but did not come. And it was in her absence that the love between her and Shuntaro existed. Yoroichiro and Hikari were considerate of such feelings in Ayako’s heart.

That day, the shining sky above the two walking figures trembled intensely, and the overwhelming odor of young rice steamed by solar heat from the expanse of green paddies pressed upon Hikari and her brother’s senses. In the wilderness, the slender rusted chimney of Mujodo glowed red. Hikari and her brother walked in silence, but she knew Yoroichiro was closing his eyes as if refusing to behold such intense natural vistas. When they passed through the pine forest at the wilderness’ edge, the path rose into a dune of scorching sand. Pale red morning glories bloomed across the sand like a dream. Then from the deep blue sea—stretched before the dunes where solar and geothermal heat mirrored each other—a faint breeze came whispering.

“Ah, what a pleasant feeling!” her brother exclaimed, turning to look at Hikari. Standing before the great sea that quietly and unwaveringly brimmed with boundless fullness, Hikari, as always, joined in her brother’s cry.

Standing on the deserted beach dune where not a soul was present, the two became entranced for a while by the sea’s profound aura, its interplay of light and shadow, and the vast expanse of sky that glowed and burned. Then her brother Yoroichiro—his disproportionately large head streaming with sweat, his body slightly shorter than Hikari’s heaving laboriously—suddenly called out, “Hikari.” Since Hikari had often experienced such things before, and since at that time she revered her brother as a scholar, she inclined her ear attentively.

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

“I was just starting to feel good—becoming entranced—but I nearly committed a grave error. “How could this nature stretching endlessly before me be a world so filled with grace as to entrance me? “Copernicus—that man, those Western scholars—taught us the Earth revolves... Yet humans remain mere creatures who cannot know it as truth until comprehending it... Nature is never some entrancing benevolence. “That I began feeling entranced just now stemmed from carelessness creeping into my mind. “If nature were truly gracious, how then should one account for this ugly, frail body of mine? “No matter what, I cannot help but conclude nature is cruel. “Isn’t that right, Hikari? “Of course, being beautiful yourself, you might oppose me—”

Hikari could not bring herself to look directly at her brother’s figure—his disproportionately large head, his short and slender torso, his stubby legs—standing forlornly under the blistering midday sun. Though these were her brother’s curses, which she had heard countless times before, she could find no way to comfort him.

“What purpose was I born for? This bloodless, withered skin; these pale, slender limbs; a torso where every rib shows through; a frame not even five shaku tall—and then, ahahaha—this pumpkin-like head! Did they really have to fashion me so uniformly hideous? No matter how I think of it, I’ve been cursed since before birth! They say when the Taiko was born, his mother dreamed of the sun, and when Jesus of the West came into this world, the stars blazed forth in celebration—but when I was born, it must have been a toad or earthworm that groaned!”

Hikari quietly listened to her brother's flowing words. Listening with all her might was the least she could do. The two had settled themselves in the shade of a ferry boat at the water's edge. "Isn't it the ultimate irony that I was born as the Kitano family's legitimate heir?" "This body that can't even lift a single heavy stone—this stomach that vomits if I eat slightly too much fine fish—how absurd that these belong to the eldest son of the Kitano house!" "It's true—I do love scholarship." "The joy of comprehending heaven and earth's principles remains my sole arrogance." "But precisely because I'm this family's eldest son, I can't leave home to study freely!" "And even if I could study—with this accursed body—what use is knowledge I cannot act upon?" "Ahahaha!" "In short—I am cursed." "I'm neither a proper guardian of our family's wealth nor fit to become a true scholar—ahahahaha!" "Father truly spawned an extraordinary nuisance." "He may have found purpose in siring me—but being born was my calamity." Her brother had closed his eyes briefly, yet once begun, his customary anguish could not be restrained until fully voiced.

“Father Yotaro makes sure not to say even a single word to me. “Given that my own state is so detestable that I myself loathe it, it might be understandable if you put yourself in Father’s shoes—but what about that cold ‘Just die already’ look of his? “Why did Father bring such an unsightly me into this world? “Have I ever asked Father to give birth to me? “Didn’t he just selfishly give birth to me? “What sin have I committed by being born? “And since the punishment for all sins piles upon me as curses, isn’t it agonizing? Hey, Hikari—what do you think? “Osato is certainly not our birth mother, but what exactly is she to us? “To Father, she’s a cousin; to me, she’s a cousin. My birth mother is Father’s aunt—to me, she’s a mother and then a great-aunt—what kind of mess is this! “Is it my mistake to feel that the punishment for these congealed sins has come to burden my unfortunate life?”

Hikari saw anguished tears welling up in her brother’s pale, swollen face. Hikari was desperate to comfort her brother. But she didn’t know what to say to comfort him. If it had been Ayako, she might have lifted his spirits by saying, "Brother, stop that! I can’t stand this sniveling!"—but Hikari couldn’t do that. Hikari could do nothing but sympathize in her heart. Hikari turned her eyes toward the sea out of helplessness. The sun glared across the entire expanse of the leisurely brimming sea, where white wave crests tangled and clashed. And then, a Japanese-style ship that had been unseen until now, its pure white sails filled with wind, came racing into view near the coast. Ah, the joy she felt upon seeing that would remain etched in Hikari’s memory for the rest of her life.

“Brother, I can see Mr. Shuntaro’s ship.” “Oh.” “Seems so.” Her brother finally stood up with apparent happiness. Hikari—who knew Shuntaro was her brother’s only true friend, a man sharing profound inner communion with him who always brightened his spirits—felt even greater joy than her brother in such moments. Ah, that beloved figure cutting through the boundless sea like a swan! Between the crimson flags fluttering at the bow, the movements of the boatman’s sturdy naked form became visible, until at last the prow turned squarely toward shore. To Hikari and the others, Shuntaro Oogawa stood clearly in view, arms folded across his chest. Her brother cried out hoarsely, “Hey!”

“Hey!” Shuntaro’s resonant voice carried across the sea breeze reached them. The ship soon halted its motion as its new anchor flashed azure light before plunging into the waves. The sea cradled the vessel effortlessly like a swan while swaying gently with undulating ripples. A small ferry boat lowered onto the water approached bearing Shuntaro. “Hey. Thank you.” When Shuntaro returned the “Hey” and their hands gripped each other’s, tears moistened Yoroichiro’s eyes.

“My apologies for making you come all this way. And thank you, Ms. Hikari, for coming as well!” The simple words and those clear dark eyes—gazing down at them with genuine nostalgia—revealed a bright affection toward the siblings that Hikari recognized. “Business was booming there! After seeing how lively Matsumae was, this place feels practically dead by comparison!” The sun blazed down on Shuntaro’s muscles—so taut they made his frame appear slender—making his eyelashes flutter. Yoroichiro looked up as if—

“It’s a fine ship—better than I’d thought,” he said.

“It’s rock-solid.” “Didn’t flinch when we hit a squall near Sado—hells’ bells, this heat!” “C’mon aboard.” “Deck’s cool under sailshade.”

Yoroichiro remained silent. Shuntaro asked Hikari as if seeking confirmation, “Has he been bitten by the gloom bug again?” "Or has he settled into being a scholar now, eh?" Although he said that, his eyes showed genuine concern and friendship. Hikari was glad of that.

Eventually, the three were carried by the ferry boat and boarded the new ship. The scent of new wood was refreshing. Shuntaro stomped on the deck and said, “If anything troubles you, come here.” “I could take you to China or the South Seas—you could read your favorite books here.” “Once you’re out on the sea, your mood’ll clear right up.” Then he bellowed: “Hey! Spread zabuton cushions here and bring canned chestnuts and sake!”

The three of them settled into the open space surrounding the main mast. Hikari gazed at the open sea that was half terrifying and half exhilarating to behold. Then her brother said, “Actually I’ve been thinking—the Earth’s rotating right now,” and laughed. The boatman brought sake. Hikari felt a cheerful happiness as she poured drinks for her brother and Shuntaro. Neither of them was much of a drinker. “No wonder you’re brooding.” “But even brooding’s got its layers.” “Think on it—isn’t heaven and earth vast?” “If folks truly knew your worth like that—why, that’d be trouble itself.” “Your body’s weak.” “Your face—well—it’s ugly.” “But that great soul inside you? Should be shining through all that from within—I tell you.”

"(Your body is weak; your face is ugly)"—the only person who could state such things clearly to his brother was Shuntaro. In such moments, Hikari felt a brotherly love for Shuntaro as if he were her own flesh and blood. And in fact, he was supposed to become her brother in the future as Ayako’s husband.

“It’s a lonely and heartrending thing. But that’s already an unchangeable natural fate. It’s fine to resent, but it’s foolish to get trapped in resentment and lose sight of freedom’s path—why wouldn’t your old man love you? It must be because finding your own father within yourself is painful—so he acts harshly out of fear of himself. But when it comes to my old man—just thinking about him brings tears. He drank, he gambled—ah, from when I was seven or eight, I’d rise before dawn to cook rice and make miso soup, then go wake him saying ‘Your meal’s ready,’ while he stayed abed. Of course, my suffering and yours are fundamentally different—no mistake there. How to describe yours? Karma from a past life!” Hikari felt the words sting her nerves, but her brother ate the canned chestnuts with unexpected calm, murmuring “They’re good.”

“They’re good, aren’t they? I brought these specifically to share a drink with you out here in the open sea. When we reached these waters, even this old salt’s heart raced with excitement! But tell me—what have you been reading lately? Last time we met, you were burying yourself in Darwin’s theory of evolution.” “I haven’t read anything recently. My head feels heavy, and this heat wears on my body.”

The two of them had flushed cheeks from the slight drunkenness of the sake. Hikari too had been poured a small cupful, and the blood throughout her body grew hot. The boatman’s Izumo-bushi song came in fragments,

If the west darkens, rain comes; if the east reddens, wind follows;

Even a ship loaded with a thousand koku, if there's no wind, can't make haste...

The boatman’s song came carried along by the sea breeze. “Is Miss Ayako well?” Shuntaro asked after some time. “That one’s always full of energy—she’s taken over the entire household.” “And then—” “And then?” “Ahahaha! It’s strange how she only quiets down when we talk about you.”

“I see,” Shuntaro said, looking at Hikari with a smile. Hikari thought she was happy. “It’s splendid that you’re also in good health, Hikari-san.” Hikari could do nothing but smile, having no way to respond. “You’re truly fortunate to have such a fine sister,” he said.

“Well—but I don’t think I need a sister. Especially how Ayako looks down on me with utter contempt!” “Ayako-san—if she’s such a bother, perhaps I should take her off your hands?”

The three of them had before long become mutually tense with the full force of their hearts. “That’s already—! Ayako acts differently when it comes to you! —It’d be best if you made the proposal directly to my old man yourself.” “Do you think so?” And all three of them let out a sigh of relief. —The boat waited for a while, then returned Hikari and the others to shore. The scene of a new ship raising its sails and setting out across the sea where the sunset blazed was a beautiful one. Hikari and her brother quietly made their way back along the country path, the lonely summer sunset at their backs. Along the path, her brother said.

“What do you think? Isn’t he a man who wouldn’t shame Ayako as her husband?”

"Yes, absolutely!" "You'll have to bear with it a little longer, okay?"

Near the village, insects chirred incessantly. The day's residual heat still lingered, yet the wind sweeping across the fields carried a chill. Hikari, Yoroichiro, Shuntaro—and Ayako herself—had all been utterly convinced on that day that Ayako was destined to become Shuntaro's wife. That within mere days an unforeseen upheaval would compel Hikari to wed him instead remained a possibility none could have fathomed.

At that time, there existed in the city of Kanazawa an academic youth association called the "Free Society". Initially formed as a political association by Mr. Y—who had retreated to his hometown after failing to achieve his ambitions in the central political arena—to quietly build influence while instilling civil rights ideals in youth, the Free Society was abandoned by him when the Constitution was promulgated in Meiji 23 (1890), the National Diet convened, and he was elected as its first-term member. Even after Mr. Y departed, the Free Society remained—yet it had now become a purely academic youth association. And so it had become customary for this society to hold a general meeting every summer, inviting prominent figures from the central intellectual world to give lectures. Yoroichiro Kitano was indeed one of the influential figures among the young men of the Free Society at that time. For that year’s lecture meeting, they had invited Dr. O—a university professor and renowned legal scholar—and Amano Ichirō, a young thinker who, though not yet widely recognized at the time, published the monthly magazine *Flood*, propagating the liberation of freedom, power, and passion among a segment of youth and seeking to dismantle established authorities.

It was a morning two days after Hikari and Yoroichiro had met Shuntaro on the beach of Ogawa Village (Shuntaro was supposed to go as far as Yonago Port in San'in).

Hikari stood at the gate bathing in sunlight that pierced through the forest at the village entrance when the postman brought a telegram. It was a telegram addressed to her brother. Her brother's specially built study stood as a new two-story structure behind the storehouse. Climbing the creaking stairs with an odd palpitation in her chest, Hikari found sunlight streaming through the window beautifully entangled in pale yellow mosquito net threads. It was quiet. She hoped her brother would be awake. Her brother lay in bed with eyes open.

“Is that Ayako?” “No, me.” “Hikari?” “Yes.” “I thought you were Ayako. When that one talks about Oogawa, she gets all womanly—it’s strange.” “A telegram has arrived.” He received the telegram from Hikari. And then he sprang up with such vigor that even Hikari was startled.

"I'm going to Kanazawa now. The Free Society’s lecture meeting has been moved to today!" Heavy footsteps sounded as Ayako entered—her glossy black hair coiled in a ginkgo bun, wearing a sarasa-patterned apron with one pale red shoulder cord undone. She stood slightly taller than Hikari, her slender frame upright, an overflowing radiance vitalizing her entire being. "We must clear away the meal quickly—it's becoming a nuisance," she said.

“He says he’s going to Kanazawa now.” Since her brother remained silent, Hikari spoke up. “What for?” “To the Free Society’s lecture meeting.” With those words, Hikari showed the telegram. Then the three of them descended the stairs, passed through the long veranda corridor, and entered the tearoom—where Yotaro, his hair now white, sat alone with eyes closed. The solemn peace of that moment when father and his three children sat facing each other would remain etched in Hikari’s memory for life. Ayako and Hikari watched as Yoroichiro departed toward Kanazawa along the scorching country road.

It was the night of the following day, thick with stagnant muggy air that seemed to congeal in place. The lingering light spreading across the horizon was swallowed by dark skies and an indigo sea as shadows crept outward to blanket the entire plain. Through layered clouds shrouding a leaden firmament, only fragmented moonlight pierced downward - the moon itself remained veiled from sight. This was a night heavy with unnatural heat that pulsed through one's veins like fevered blood.

Hikari stood at the gate gazing outdoors. She worried why Ayako had vanished since evening. Late yesterday her brother Yoroichiro had returned from Kanazawa like a triumphant general. He had brought with him Amano Ichirō—one of that day's lecturers, a young thinker. Hikari had anticipated a man of thirty-four or thirty-five years, yet here stood one not yet thirty. And those masculine features! That noble bearing! His intimidating composure when sitting motionless; his quiet yet fervent speech; the effortless dignity with which he carried himself when Yoroichiro introduced him to Father Yotaro in the spacious tearoom—a presence so overwhelming it seemed to engulf even Father; his relaxed manner that treated the entire Kitano lineage as worthless—this demeanor kindled worshipful admiration in her brother, planted dread in Hikari herself, and roused in Ayako indignant fury—a seething hostility that seemed to scream How dare he! Remembering how Ayako had glared at him yesterday—body taut with violent hatred—Hikari grew increasingly uneasy that both Ayako and Amano Ichirō had disappeared around dusk.

“How detestable!” Ayako said to Hikari that afternoon. “How about that condescending attitude of his? Why must Brother and Father fawn over him like that? Why don’t they just drive him out?!” From those words, 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. 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 that pitch-black night, the stars were reflecting off the trees of the villages. When she suddenly noticed, the slim, tall figure of a man could be seen approaching with long strides from the direction of the shrine forest. It was Amano.

“Hikari-san, is it?” He whispered near her ear and calmly walked through the gate. The deep gaze he cast downward as he entered—its intensity seeming to absorb everything—held a superhuman terror. Hikari felt relieved. Then, from the same forest direction, a black shadow appeared trudging forward. It must be Ayako, Hikari thought. It was Ayako.

“Ayako-san.” When she called out, the complex terror in Ayako’s eyes as they met. A blade-like ferocity—restraining blazing flames with solemn coldness—bore down upon her.

“Hikari-san.” “…?” “Please come here for a moment.”

Ayako concealed herself in the deserted side path of the mansion. Hikari suppressed her pounding heart and followed Ayako. "Hikari-san, this is my one request to you in this lifetime," Ayako's voice trembled slightly, yet a cold solemnity lay beneath. "I have become someone who must exact revenge. All the pride, beauty, and purity of my twenty-year life—I must spend my entire lifetime avenging myself upon those who trampled every part of me—" Hikari was startled. Ayako continued.

“Hikari-san, tomorrow I will elope forever from this house with that detestable Amano Ichirō.” “Everyone will say I ran off because I was infatuated with that man.” “But Hikari-san, you alone must know that I am fleeing with my sworn enemy so I may spend my entire life avenging today’s humiliation without letting him escape.” “And please go to Mr. Oogawa in my place.” “Do you understand?” “Yes, Hikari-san—this is my lifelong wish.” Ayako looked up at the sky and groaned.

“How dare you! You manipulated my brother and father, and still not satisfied—trying to conquer even me… Even if you conquer this body of mine, what could you possibly do to the real me? The real me will always belong to Shuntaro-san! —Hateful bastard! Detestable bastard! Amano Ichirō, you beast! Remember this day! I will take revenge! I will spend my entire life taking revenge! —Hikari-san—I will marry Amano. And then I will thoroughly intoxicate him with my beautiful body. But within ten or twenty years, I will surely exact this revenge from today and destroy that power-filled Amano! Hikari-san—you must go to Shuntaro-san. And this must remain your secret alone for the rest of your life.”

The next day, Amano departed. And that night, Ayako ran away from home. From the train, she sent a message addressed to her brother and father: “In order to become husband and wife with Amano— she wrote that she had eloped—and sent it. Everyone came to believe that. Both her father and brother were enraged, denouncing Ayako as unfaithful. Particularly Father furrowed his brows as if retribution for his own sins had arrived. “Do whatever you want!” he said.

Unaware of Ayako’s circumstances, when Shuntaro Ōgawa came to propose marriage, Hikari asked that if he found her acceptable, he take her as his bride instead. The matter was not easily settled, but Hikari's sincerity softened everyone’s mixed emotions. When Hikari married into the Ōgawa family as Shuntaro’s bride, her state of mind was one of solemn resolve. Yotaro died the year after Hikari married into the Ōgawa family. That autumn, Osato also passed away. Only Heiichiro remained in the Kitano family, though he himself never lived out his natural life span in happiness. The time had come for the Kitano family’s downfall. There was no reason to regret their ruin—Hikari would later reflect. From its very origins, it had been natural for the Kitano family to possess nothing at all. Their grand mansion and treasures had been the mistake. That this downfall was ultimately carried out through the death and will of Heiichiro himself—the Kitano family’s heir—might indeed be considered a blessing for their legacy. In May of the third spring after Hikari’s marriage into the Ōgawa family, Heiichiro—who had been suffering from stomach cancer—hanged himself by the neck on the second floor of the storehouse (the ruined site of Yotaro and Onobu’s illicit affair). Moreover, his will stated that all property was to be returned in its entirety to Ogawa Village.

“Return all property to Ogawa Village!” Ah, this single act became Heiichiro’s final offering to a life he had spent agonizing over his own frailty. People claimed he must have gone mad, yet no traces of insanity could be found. The Kitano family had perished. Yet Heiichiro’s spirit would endure eternally. “Magnificent! Truly magnificent! He finally carried it through!” Shuntaro told Hikari. “Your brother was extraordinary!” he had declared—words she only came to recognize as originating from Shuntaro’s own confidant long after his death, when she herself had grown old.

The year after the Kitano family perished, Hikari gave birth to Heiichiro. And so it was that when Heiichiro turned three years old, Shuntaro died. After Shuntaro’s death, Hikari had discarded her remaining years and lived solely for Heiichiro alone.

Ah, those long years of hardship.

The great turning point in Hikari’s life had originated in that man Amano’s act of “taking” Ayako. Had Amano not defiled Ayako, she would have wed her true beloved Shuntaro Oogawa. That would have brought happiness to both Shuntaro and Ayako. Hikari too might have been spared such an arduous fate, and the Kitano family perhaps need not have met so wretched an end. The root of all fate’s distortion lay solely with Amano Ichirō of old—now called Amano Eisuke! Ah, and that unforgivable demon Amano had stolen Fuyuko away as well.

Hikari clasped her hands together in prayer-like devotion and could not help watching over the growth of her only child, Heiichiro. (There is no one but Heiichiro who can defeat Amano!)

Chapter 6

It was a night of solemn darkness. The cold of midnight nearing mid-autumn pierced bitterly through their skin. The dark shapes of earthly things were swallowed by the darkness; only the damp night dew settled heavily.

Nearly six hundred boys were lined up in hiding.

That was a wide athletic field on an elevated plateau. Dew-dampened grass was underfoot. It was a darkness as clear and all-encompassing as being submerged in water. A stillness unlike the mortal world seeped into the hearts of six hundred boys. Save for the occasional sound of shoes scraping, teachers treading cautiously, and whispered voices, there was only the intermittent chirping of crickets.

The taut silence was shattered by the deep roar of a cannon resounding through the night sky. In the darkness came a stirring movement, and two bonfires suddenly burst into flickering flames at the front of the athletic field. Amidst the scattering sparks of blazing bonfires, a modest altar appeared between light and shadow.

“Attention!” The boy, compelled by the solemn atmosphere, drew himself up rigidly and closed his lips in a motionless stance. The flames swayed and flowed as the night wind buffeted them. A black shadow quietly offered sakaki at the altar. The teachers each made their offerings one by one. The student representative likewise presented sakaki. Through the silent night sky came the distant booming of cannons - boom, boom. “Salute!” In the darkness, six hundred boys executed a prolonged, reverent salute. When they raised their heads, the bonfires had already gone out, leaving only embers scattered through the darkness. It was desolate yet solemn.

The group began departing one by one through the grassland damp with night dew, exiting through the back gate toward town. Heiichiro was among them. He looked up at the sky repeatedly, but none of his beloved stars were visible. Pressed forward by the crowd into the town center, he saw black mourning drapery hung around houses on both sides, lanterns with black crests dangling from every eave. At the stroke of midnight that night, ordinary citizens had gathered in the park square to reverently send off the imperial remains from afar during the Grand State Funeral ceremony. A loneliness came over Heiichiro. Walking amidst the crowd flooding the streets—all moving silently without raised voices—he thought of Fuyuko who had left, his own impoverished fate, Wakako, and ultimately how they all must someday die. Cannons boomed in the distance. When he neared the great S River bridge close to home, he noticed a girls' school student standing at the bridge approach. The hairstyle and slightly stooped posture were unmistakably Wakako's. His heart swelled with joy. What sublime meaning—what rapturous joy—to meet his beloved Wakako on this night saturated with death's solemnity, majesty, and terror.

“Wakako-san!” “Oh! Heiichiro-san! I knew you’d come—I’ve been waiting here believing you would.” “Thank you... Let’s walk along the riverbank toward S Bridge.” “Yes.” From the bridge approach, they began descending along the willow-lined bank following the river’s course. No one else passed by. The water’s current glinted with black-indigo undulations as it flowed alongside fifteen-year-old Heiichiro and sixteen-year-old Wakako. Heiichiro kept one hand thrust in his trouser pocket while clasping Wakako’s hand with his right. That faint warmth—that alone sustained them slightly against the desolate chill of autumn midnight.

“We watched the bonfires burning at the athletic field, gave our deepest bow, and that was all.”

“We did the same—but somehow it’s gotten unsettling.” “I feel the same way.” “Just thinking about funerals makes me sick.” “It’s not just about having no choice but to die even if we hate it—” “That’s simply how things are.” “Even if unavoidable—you’d loathe dying too, wouldn’t you?” “I detest it!” “Dying? Unbearable!”

The two tightly clasped each other's hands and gazed at the water flowing beneath their feet. Heiichiro was recalling his deceased father. Wakako was thinking about her deceased mother, who was said to have been killed by a tiger. The flowing water ceaselessly carved the same rapids as it flowed on.

“What are you thinking about?” “Me? I was thinking about my deceased mother.” “I was just starting to think about my deceased father too.” The two fell silent again.

This time, Wakako began to speak. "Heiichiro-san."

“What?” “Do you know what being husband and wife means, Heiichiro-san?”

“I know.” “What’s it like?”

Heiichiro declared loudly. "We'll surely become husband and wife someday soon! Right? Wakako-san!" "—" "I'll become great soon. I am poor. Even so, I'll study hard and become a first-rate politician and make life in this world better for us. I'll become someone who won't feel ashamed even when we're husband and wife—"

“Really?” “Would I ever lie? Haven’t I always written that in my letters?”

Wakako let out a deep sigh. Her eyes began to shine with ardor. Pressing Heiichiro's right hand with both of hers, she held it firmly against her chest and would not let go. "Shall we go to Fuki-ya Hill, Wakako-san?"

“Yes. I would like that.”

The two were happy. They didn't feel like parting ways yet. Having slept through the day, they weren't sleepy. Crossing the bridge, they hurried through desolate dark streets, passed through a section of the brothel quarter draped in black mourning curtains around two AM, and emerged into a vast nocturnal plain. Bounded by the horizon line, fields lay drowned in darkness while the sky hung clouded in watery blue. Insect voices seethed up from the earth. They walked the path with hands still clasped. The overwhelming vastness of night's natural world couldn't help but instill terror. Fuki-ya Hill's grasslands glistened with night dew, offering no place to sit. Rooted where they stood, they endured the night air pressing against them.

“This is where we met for the first time, isn’t it, Wakako-san?” “Yes—I still have that letter of yours memorized, Heiichiro-san.” “I remember it too.” Having said that, he sat down there. Wakako crouched down beside him. They shivered in the cold. Wakako thought of her home and grew uneasy. “I wonder what time it is now.” “Who cares? I’d stay here all night if I could. I’m not just some middle school deadweight forever.”

Then Wakako began to giggle uncontrollably. It was bitterly cold, but Heiichiro endured it.

“What’s so funny?” “It’s funny you call yourself ‘deadweight’!” “That’s right—just deadweight, huh.” Heiichiro also laughed heartily. “The state of affairs in Tokyo must be quite grand, don’t you think?” Wakako said inquiringly. “I suppose so. After all, it’s the real deal...” he began saying, when thoughts of Fuyuko surged up. “…Since someone I know went to Tokyo recently, I bet they saw the coffin today too.”

“Who is this person you know?” “Well, she’s a woman named Fuyuko—a friend of my mom’s.” “I see.” Wakako fell silent. After a while, she said, “Let’s go back.” “Why?”

“I’ve grown rather bored somehow,” she added. “You can’t go home now—it’s gotten too late.” “Then let’s go back.”

The two trudged back to town along a dimly lit country path. When they emerged into the open, they forgot everything and laughed together. As they reached the street corner, the shrill ringing of an extra edition's bell approached from town. Heiichiro lunged forward and snatched a copy.

“Wakako-san!” “What is it?” “General Nogi has committed junshi—ritual suicide!” “Oh—!” The two of them could clearly read that fact in the bold print of the extra edition. “Heiichiro-san!”

For those unacquainted with kissing, their overflowing passion could only be expressed through firmly clasped hands. Their love had been sanctified and blessed by a solemn death. General Nogi's passing held the power to restrain the era's weaknesses and moral decay that tend to emerge during transitional periods between historical epochs. For this boy and girl, it became the unforgettable backdrop of their first love that would linger throughout their lives.

After Fuyuko left, no outward changes occurred in the lives of Hikari and Heiichiro. Hikari remained the diligent seamstress of Harukaze-ro brothel, a devoted mother, and an auntie who perpetually exuded calm peacefulness about her. The sorrow Heiichiro felt at Fuyuko’s parting had not yet manifested in his character—he was still too young for that. The wound seemed to vanish without a trace through his growing vitality. Or perhaps it lurked deep within his character, waiting for the right moment to emerge. However, he had school, Wakako, and Fukai: the proud joy when Wakako spotted Heiichiro among nearly a hundred girls at the autumn elementary school parent-teacher meeting and smiled at him; the absurdity, joy, and triumph of hearing his oblivious classmates point at Wakako and whisper things like “Beautiful!”; and there, Fukai’s gentle, long-lashed eyes—always glistening as if damp with tears—shone perpetually. The heart that loved a girl, the heart that loved a boy, and the heart that—inspired by being loved and trusted—could not rest without shouldering all responsibility—that was his arrogance. He often went to N Mountain at the eastern edge of the city with Wakako and Fukai, the three of them together. Breathing in the dense growth of pine groves, the silence, and the crystalline coolness, they sat on a grassy hillock, immersed in eternal, innocent joy.

“We aren’t children forever—we’ll surely become great before long. I may be poor, but I’ll become a true statesman—” (Though poor, I’ll become a true statesman—) This was Heiichiro’s catchphrase. How poverty and statesmanship connected through some pathway likely eluded even his own understanding. Moreover, his concept of a “statesman” undoubtedly held an entirely different meaning from that of “real-world politicians.” For him, being tormented by “poverty” formed an internal logic that compelled him to become a politician in reality and eradicate both the pain and evils of “poverty” for countless people. To Wakako and Fukai—the perpetual audience to Heiichiro’s heated ideals and fantasies—no fact seemed more readily achievable than Heiichiro becoming a first-rate politician.

“When it comes to politics, I’m just a boy and know nothing. But those are things I’ll understand once I grow up and study. Anyway, I’m poor. As long as I’m poor, I’m destined to become a politician!” cried Heiichiro, and while one felt an inexplicable affection for him, the other felt an equally inexplicable trust and admiration. Even if he was poor, the boy Heiichiro was happy living with his devoted mother at home and having a beautiful, exceptional girl and boy as his beloved. He spent his fifteenth year in happiness, and in March of his sixteenth year, he was promoted to the fourth grade. He was not top of his class, but his grades were not poor.

It was the spring of his sixteenth year. It was a remarkable period when all human faculties granted by nature simultaneously burgeoned and surged. Heiichiro found himself astonished by his own lengthened stature, his tautened muscles, the shockingly resonant voice he now discovered himself speaking with, and his swelling passions. He too had come to recognize that this most promising—and most perilous—phase of life had arrived. Yet he still lacked the discernment to restrain himself. At every lecture meeting Heiichiro's name inevitably appeared; at every baseball match he inevitably materialized in uniform at some corner of the field. He felt incapable of remaining still. He yearned to plunge into every danger, slice through obstacles with decisive strokes, and emerge triumphant to demonstrate his prowess. While this burgeoning growth left Fukai somewhat intimidated, for Wakako—rather than the formless affection she had felt until six months prior—it now revealed within him a 'man' who exuded compelling force. For beneath her abbreviated hakama, unadorned yet abundant chignon, and plain Meisen silk kimono without sleeves, this seventeen-year-old girl already harbored a matured 'maidenhood'. (During this period Heiichiro would avert his eyes and lower his gaze whenever encountering Wakako on his morning walk to school—unaware this stemmed from his own development—occasionally reproaching her through letters.) This very growth transformed into resentment among upperclassmen and peers who deemed 'Oogawa insolent', while teachers gradually shifted their view from 'promising student' to one tinged with hostility—'that incorrigible youth'. Given their imposition of boundaries upon 'promise', their growing displeasure toward Heiichiro—who periodically breached those limits—proved inevitable. In this world, the exceptional must be tormented. Those sheltered by wealth and status to protect their preeminent gifts remain fortunate indeed. But those compelled to expose their brilliant endowments amidst 'poverty'—these must be called life's most wretched souls. He was born knowing blade and battle. His genius was nature's imperative crying 'Fight!' He was born to war against society. Pain proved unavoidable. He must prevail.

He was destined to redeem his lifetime of misfortune solely through the brief triumphant victory at the end.

O unfortunate ones! That was still permissible while he remained a boy. As an emperor, he ruled over the kingdom of boyhood—a sovereignty still permitted. But when adolescence began stirring within him, he had to learn the pain and struggle that were both his nature and destiny. O unfortunate ones! Heiichiro too had been chosen among their number.

On a day in June when the rain fell in a steady drizzle, he was in a corner of the anteroom conversing quietly with Fukai as usual. Though he extended his reach into every direction like that, when it came to friends with whom he could truly converse, there existed none beyond Fukai alone. While they were engrossed in conversation, a burst of raucous laughter erupted from the opposite corner. It was that someone had spread open an umbrella and was spinning it like a wheel, sending everyone into uproarious laughter. Some were calling out, “Whose is this? Whose is this?” while others roared, “Harukaze-ro, Fuyuko! Wahahaha!” Heiichiro approached the group and looked. It was the umbrella he himself had brought that morning. Indeed, written on the umbrella were the words "Harukaze-ro, Fuyuko." He felt anger toward the group roaring with laughter.

“What’s so funny!” he shouted. The group fell into a hushed silence. Then someone shouted, “Who’s the guy holding a geisha’s umbrella!”

“It’s me! “I’m the one who brought it! “If any of you have complaints, step out here and say them to my face!”

Then from behind came a raucous shout. Heiichiro wondered just how spineless a wretch he was. He could no longer endure it and, while closing the opened umbrella, “This is my sister’s umbrella! I’m poor and using my sister’s hand-me-down! Do you get it?—It’s not right for you to laugh at me!” And gripping the umbrella in a reverse stance, he glared around, ready to hurl it at anyone who dared speak another word. No one said anything more about his terrifying demeanor, but the gymnastics teacher led him down the dimly lit corridor leading to the armory, saying, “Oogawa, come with me for a moment.” He remained silent, gazing at the white bush clover flowers in the botanical garden visible through the window. He remained resolved that if the teacher said anything incomprehensible, he would hurl him aside, determined to go on a frenzied rampage hurling everyone in the entire school.

“What on earth is the matter?” “Everyone laughs at the characters written on my umbrella.”

The short, bearded teacher spread open the umbrella and examined it, a vulgar smile playing on his lips, then immediately assumed a solemn educator’s demeanor. “You are not to bring such a thing to school from now on.” “I have no other umbrella besides this one.” “If you don’t have one, then go buy one.” “Financially, things are difficult—I can’t buy one right now!” “Don’t be absurd!” In truth, the teacher had taken this as nothing more than Heiichiro’s stubbornness. Moreover, it was indeed true that the vigorous youthful energy Heiichiro exuded did not conjure an image of a household too poor to afford even a single umbrella.

“Moreover—this umbrella is a treasured item to me.” “What?” Heiichiro had no words. There were things he wanted to say, but the words would not come. (Ah—wasn’t this the umbrella Fuyuko had left behind! Wasn’t this the very umbrella that Fuyuko—the beautiful Fuyuko who had loved him—once carried!)

“In any case, I will keep this umbrella.” The teacher confiscated the umbrella and left. That umbrella never returned to Heiichiro’s hands after that. It remained unclear how the teacher had disposed of it. He might have walked about proudly holding it open.

There was a bespectacled fifth-year baseball captain named Harada with ill-bred manners. This man had repeatedly sent letters to Fukai, striving to establish "friendship". Fukai neither informed Heiichiro nor responded. The letters grew increasingly overtly threatening. Fukai finally confided in Heiichiro. Heiichiro sent a letter to Harada.

It was under the Chinese parasol tree by the old pond next to the science laboratory, past the athletic field. “Do you know about my relationship with Fukai?” he said. Harada, looking down on Heiichiro who was three years his junior, said, “I don’t know.” “You’re lying! Didn’t your letter say you wouldn’t stand for anyone telling Oogawa-kun?” “I don’t know what letter you’re talking about.” “Liar! In this climate, even if you go searching for your little Baby-san, do you think any decent person would comply?”

“Biggest damn meddling—what business made you call me here now?”

“About Fukai,” “Fukai and I made a brotherly vow—I’m telling you this clearly now.” “So if you’re sending those letters to him knowing this, I’ll have to do something about it. If you didn’t know, then cut it out.” “—I didn’t know.” “Still ain’t right.” “What’s ‘not right’?” “Even calling it a brotherly vow—it’s not like the pacts you people make.” “You lot wouldn’t get anything beyond filthy thoughts.”

“Remember this!” “I’ll remember, all right!” And the next morning, as Heiichiro was discussing matters with Fukai in a clover-covered corner of the athletic field, a group of fifth-year students rushed in and launched their attack. “What are you doing?!” Heiichiro thrashed about with all his might, using his hands and both legs. Because the third- and fourth-year students came to their aid, the fifth-year group withdrew.

Again, it was a clear morning in early autumn of the second term. From the open classroom windows could be seen a limpid sky and cherry fruits—some red, others tinged with purple. It was ethics class. The principal—an elderly Bachelor of Letters graduate from the Imperial University—was conducting the ethics class. He was a man who seemed to have quietly draped his free-thinking ideals in mundane 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 the gentle qualities within himself felt infinite sorrow and joy as he surveyed these nearly forty rosy-cheeked sprouts. Koshimura—the top-ranked student with an exceptionally large head who had maintained first place since his first year—declared in a precocious yet crystalline tone that while his aspirations remained undecided, he wished to enter the law department and become a politician who would administer state affairs. The second-ranked student, Takenaka—a boy with one damaged eye and lingering innocence—said he wanted to become an industrialist because they must now vigorously develop commerce. The third-ranked student, a boy named Wataya, also said he wanted to become an industrialist. The fourth-ranked student—a pallid boy named Tsuzawa with small eyes and a large mouth—said he wanted to master electrical science. Heiichiro was at the fifth desk.

“What are your thoughts, Oogawa-san?” (the principal had addressed him with ‘san’).

Heiichiro had to stand up straight. The first answer he managed to utter through effort was the words: "I am poor." Everyone burst into laughter. He swung his right hand with a forceful motion and continued recklessly: "Because I am poor, I will become a politician. I will become a first-rate politician. I will undertake something far more significant than mere statecraft like Mr. Koshimura." "That is poverty." "To eradicate poverty." "To eradicate poverty from this world." "I know many people suffer because of poverty." "Whenever I look at the newspaper, I wonder why current politicians don’t do something about this." "If all people in the world without exception could rejoice in being born happy, then that’s all politics needs to be, I think." "There are many politicians in Japan, but I don’t think there seem to be any who truly understand the suffering of all humanity and are trying to eliminate that suffering." "My close friend Fukai—"

Everyone had only caught the part about "Fukai," so they all burst out laughing. By now, their uproarious laughter meant nothing to him.

“My close friend Fukai says he will become an artist in the future.” “I too would very much like to become those things, but rather than being a literary man, artist, or thinker who waits for future generations to feel my influence—since I’m impatient—I want to become a politician and directly realize in this world what I believe to be truth.” “When I look at the newspapers lately, the Prime Minister...” “Mr. Oogawa!” “Do not touch upon political issues—that’s enough, that’s enough.”

Heiichiro saw the principal smiling as he restrained him. A multitude of things he still wanted to say surged up like a spring, but he lowered himself into his chair. Everyone turned their gaze back at him.

“How about becoming an economist?” The principal said gently. “But… that would leave me uneasy.” “―” The principal fell silent. And with that, he ended the day’s questioning and had them open to “Chapter Eighteen: The Necessity of Thrift.” The principal’s smile was no longer visible. It was like a fragment of cleared blue sky glimpsed fleetingly through gaps in darkening clouds. Immediately, the cloud of years-long life and habits concealed it once more. He listlessly continued his lecture on textual analysis, having a single student read aloud as if teaching from a primer. He could muster neither passion nor vigor for this matter of “The Necessity of Thrift.” His true life, rather, lay in the home sustained by his endurance of these classroom routines. If one were to record his state of mind at that moment, he was thinking about his eldest daughter in her second year of girls’ school and his younger daughter in sixth grade of elementary school while continuing the lecture. He had no sons. While thinking that he must somehow father a son before growing old, he continued lecturing: “At all times, people should make simplicity their guiding principle...” When he exited the classroom door at the long-awaited toll of the bell, the goodwill he had felt toward Heiichiro—a quiet, upward-gazing anticipation of a promising future, akin to thinking “a decent fellow”—had vanished, leaving behind only the notion of “a dangerous element.”

It concerned the break between the next classes.

The principal went to the faculty room and began discussing holding a very private exhibition of students' work products this year instead of the sports day.

Pale autumn sunlight streamed through the cherry tree shade, spilling onto the shoulders of a group of middle school teachers in their faded Western-style suits. Four teachers were gathered around the principal. A short, round-faced man with thick, long whiskers sprouting from both cheeks (he had the nickname “Cop”) thrust both hands into the slightly frayed pockets of his trousers, spread his short legs into an isosceles triangle, and said, “As a gym teacher, I find it regrettable that we won’t be holding the sports day.”

"But you see, since sports day is something we can hold any year and isn't anything out of the ordinary, exhibiting students' work for their parents to view would be quite beneficial." The English teacher—his long neck bearing sallow, sagging skin stretched taut over a prominent Adam's apple, spectacles perched on his nose, perpetually clutching a white handkerchief that he habitually fluttered before listeners' eyes when speaking—looked down from beneath his chin at the gym teacher's thinning crown and waved the handkerchief in his right hand as he spoke.

“It would be good not just for the parents but for the students as well.” “However, nothing surpasses having a sports day.” “Well, it goes without saying that nothing surpasses a sports day. But this year, given what the principal said about various budgetary circumstances no longer permitting it, ah—”

And the English teacher waved his handkerchief. He remained oblivious to this habit of waving it. When he returned home, his wife would scold him for ruining new handkerchiefs within a day. He couldn’t fathom how they became soiled so quickly. With a heavy sigh, he had to request yet another fresh handkerchief from her. Each time, she made him hear afresh about their hardships—eight mouths to feed on fifty-three yen a month, six children to raise—no easy task.

“Mr. M, what sort of post-graduation aspirations do the students in your class have?” The vice principal, who had been sitting in a chair beside the principal reading a new magazine, stretched his arms with a groan and addressed the English teacher. This question made the English teacher completely forget all his previous arguments. His mind suddenly conjured images of the nearly forty students in fifth-year Class B under his charge. “Well, compared to last year, there’s been a significant rise in students aiming for business and engineering fields.” “Yes indeed – we’ve already reached seventy percent aspiring toward commercial or industrial sectors.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

The vice principal let out a big yawn. Just then, Japanese teacher K entered. He was a man in his early forties. He had been born in this region. He had spent his youth at Doshisha in Kyoto. His youthful ambition had been to become a proper novelist. Yet as his youth waned, he had been forced to discover that his talent fell short of what he'd believed it to be. When he read R.K.'s work "The Five-Storied Pagoda"—revered by Japan's literary youth of that era—how bitterly he must have wept. His directionless anguish drove him to dissolution. Dissipation stripped him of his assets. When he returned to his hometown as one of life's casualties, the academic credentials he'd somehow obtained allowed him to secure sustenance through employment at this middle school. Still, whenever lecturing students on writings by that literary rival from his youth—now enshrined as textbook classics—he couldn't help feeling the parched passions of his younger days stirring anew.

"When R.K. was still a young man of twenty-one or twenty-two, around the time he first made his name, there was a gathering of literary figures in Tokyo. At that gathering, a man named M lavished praise on one of his works, then turned to the soiled unlined kimono-clad youth beside him and asked, 'What do you think?' Then it was said that young man blushed and said, 'I am K.'"

He had sometimes spoken of such things to students who understood nothing of them. He, who was said to resemble B—the beautiful literary figure who had committed suicide—still retained traces of that likeness in middle age through his deep double-lidded eyes and refined nose. — He twisted his lips bitterly and turned toward his desk. The principal smiled warmly in that instant. He had laughed at the English teacher’s comically flourishing handkerchief, but to disguise his amusement, reflexively called out “Mr. K” to the Japanese teacher. The Japanese teacher frowned and looked up at the principal with his large double-lidded eyes.

“He was your charge, wasn’t he—the one named Heiichiro Oogawahira?” “Ah, that’s correct, but—” He recalled Heiichiro. Then he realized he loved Heiichiro. Of course he never showed it outwardly, but beneath Japanese Teacher K’s skin, the “failed literary man” K who still lived within gazed at the thunderous stirrings blooming in Heiichiro’s heart. Especially when he discovered the pure, boyish sentiments with which Heiichiro loved that beautiful youth Fukai, “Literary K” couldn’t help smiling secretly. He was slightly surprised the principal had specifically singled out Heiichiro. Yet the principal’s lonely smile made him smile in turn.

“He’s quite the character, that student.” “Because he’s poor, he says he’ll become a politician, and now he’s started attacking this Commission Incident.”

"I see." "He’s usually a quiet student, but there are moments when he flares up like this." "He’s extremely—" He faltered slightly but couldn’t suppress the words that had risen within him. "He possesses genius-like qualities." “Who is it?” interjected the gymnastics teacher. “We’re speaking of fourth-year Oogawa.”

“Ah, Oogawa.” “Well, he’s quite an interesting student.”

At that moment, the class-bell signaling the period resounded through the air.

The principal stood up. The principal’s casual remark caused all of Heiichiro’s "anecdotes" to become known to every teacher. Their understanding of Heiichiro remained at finding him merely "interesting" when in good spirits, yet when harboring malice toward him, took on the nature of utterly denying his worth as a virtuous middle school student. The sixteen-year-old Heiichiro remained utterly unaware of how his own power reverberated through his surroundings. The surging blind force within him ceaselessly sought paths of expression.

Autumn had deepened. Even during sunlit midday hours, the soundless autumn wind pierced through clothing with its cold bite. At dusk, standing in the fields gazing across the midday wilderness, one saw only black soil dampening gloomily in shaded hollows where golden rice stalks had been completely harvested. The low foothills of the Hakusan Range pressing upon Kaga Plain sometimes cast amethyst hues into skies colored like faintly sweet dreams. That October when people welcomed autumn's lonely winds - harbingers of northern winters' terrible fury - with trepidation, on its second Saturday came Heiichiro's school exhibition: an exceedingly modest affair. Though unclear what value such events held for students themselves, they proved necessary if only to send ripples through teachers mired in stagnation - to agitate lives hardening imperceptibly as each retreated into their shell. Particularly in this autumn of gloomy spirits, it made good sense. For Heiichiro, this exhibition held no relevance. In an education system where displays meant drawing, calligraphy, penmanship - manual skills all - he became merely an unremarkable boy. He scored below average in every dexterity-based subject. Though striving for composure and scorning such disciplines, loneliness gnawed at him. How he'd have rejoiced had this been athletics or lectures! He described the event to Hikari as utterly trivial. Thus he found himself unable to bear wasting a tedious autumn Saturday at school. He resolved to meet Wakako. The boy's adventurous spirit sought satisfaction by inviting her to this exhibition. He wrote Wakako: "Since our academic exhibition falls this Saturday, please come after school." "If teachers question you," he instructed, "say you're my cousin come in Mother's stead." Adding: "I only submitted one poor calligraphy piece anyway," he sent the note. "I will certainly come," Wakako replied.

The pure excitement of awaiting one's beloved transforms an unremarkable Saturday into a joyous, radiant day that would shine throughout one's lifetime. That day, how many times must Heiichiro have looked down from his second-floor classroom window at the path leading from the main gate through the cherry tree-lined path to the waiting room. Even knowing she wouldn't come in the morning, he couldn't resist peeking out at every footstep. After finishing lunch and switching places with classmates, he found himself unable to remain in classrooms or school buildings. He invited Fukai and climbed the small hill flanking the school building. From the hilltop, the path from the school gate lay clearly visible. The two lay sprawled in the grass talking while waiting endlessly. Fukai kept lecturing Heiichiro about unboyish topics—Western authors and Japan's rising literary figures—with relentless enthusiasm. Heiichiro had never directed his fundamental will toward literature—toward trivialities like novels. Had anyone else spoken thus, he might have snapped: "Quiet! I detest this rotten womanly whining." Yet he listened to these words spilling from the beloved boy's petal-like lips.

“In Russia, you see, there’s this man named Maxim Gorky—he was originally the son of a poor laborer and worked as a boatman going up and down the Volga River.” “Then in his youth, he wrote various works and has now become a world-renowned literary master—this might sound a bit off the mark, but Heiichiro-kun, I can’t help feeling you resemble Gorky.” “—So it’s Maxim Gorky, huh.” “Is he still alive now?”

“Yes, he’s very much alive.” “They say he’s even become the leader of Russia’s Social Democratic Party.” “Hmm—” Though Heiichiro couldn’t quite grasp what sort of man this Gorky was or how truly great he might be, he found himself drawn to the idea of someone rising from poverty to achieve such renown. “Does Russia have so many remarkable people like that?” “Oh, countless—there’s Kropotkin, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky—” “Who counts as great here in Japan, I wonder?” Heiichiro rolled onto his back, propping himself up on an elbow as he posed the question while inwardly scoffing, Who could possibly measure up?

“×××××—” Heiichiro had never heard of such a person. He stared at Fukai with deep suspicion. Fukai’s slightly flushed face shone with a serious and pure light. “Have you ever read them?” “Yes.” “Hmm—why have you become so engrossed in reading such works lately?” Heiichiro posed this question. Fukai turned crimson from ear to ear and lowered his face completely, whether from shame or not. The fact that Heiichiro himself bore deep connections and responsibility regarding these motives had not occurred to him. He stopped his questioning and sat up on the light, pleasant hay before suddenly looking toward the school gate. A pale pink parasol of showy elegance came into his view.

“It’s Wakako-san!”

Heiichiro worried that Wakako might pass by without noticing them on the hill. Behind him, Fukai gazed at Wakako’s figure with equal intensity, his eyes burning as he stared transfixed. Wakako quickly spotted the two on the hill. She laughed. With light makeup and her obi tied in a drum-style knot, Wakako truly could only be seen as Heiichiro and the others' older sister.

“Won’t you come down?” “Why don’t you come up here instead?” “We mustn’t. This is still school grounds. Please come down. If a teacher sees us...” “Right!” Heiichiro ran down the slope. He seized Wakako’s hands and shook them vigorously. “Ah—you’re hurting me! Young Master Fukai is watching!” “—I waited ages. Didn’t I, Fukai-kun?” “Didn’t I, Fukai-kun?” Fukai nodded silently. “Sooo—I’ve stopped entering the school building altogether.”

“Why? Of course, since we haven’t submitted anything of ours—” “But isn’t this too shameless and bold? And here—it doesn’t seem proper if someone were to see us.”

“Let them see!”

Heiichiro swung his slightly soiled Ogura-weave Western-style sleeve—the elbow torn and white cloth fraying—two or three times. Even so, he went to the fountain beside the science laboratory. The autumn sun streamed gently over the three of them. The blazing crimson of cockscomb plants in the botanical garden kept flickering at the edges of their vision.

On the evening of that day, when the gym teacher made 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 front. Turning it over, he saw "Oogawahira Heiichiro". "He should be a fourth-year student—" Driven by caustic curiosity, he unfolded the letter inside. Clumsy, oversized characters spelled words he found utterly inexcusable. Heiichiro remained oblivious. A terrifying abyss of unfathomable fate gaped wide, awaiting his plunge.

The morning after Sunday was the only fresh morning at school. The spirits that had gently relaxed on Sunday, having been cleansed of the grime of unpleasantness and aversion accumulated during a week of school life, took on a complexion of delight, enlivening the teachers' room this morning. On Monday mornings alone, people fondly remembered one another.

On this Monday morning in mid-October, the short, long-bearded gym teacher arrived at school more energetically than anyone else. So much so that even the janitor—who had been dividing charcoal in the brazier—was startled by his appearance, he strode down the hallway in boots polished to a glossy black with shoe polish on his short legs, his footsteps echoing loudly. There he waited for the principal’s early morning arrival. As the principal—having been seen off at the entrance by his two lovely daughters dragging their hakama skirts behind them, and repeating to himself their parting words “Have a safe journey”—passed through the school gate and began ascending toward the entrance hall, the gym teacher he disliked approached with a “Good morning.” He returned a “Good morning,” and attempted to walk straight past.

“I have a somewhat special matter to discuss with you.” “Ah, is that so? Then please come to my room.”

The principal entered his room and drew the window curtains tightly.

The cherry trees and their trunks were beautifully glistening in the morning sun.

He found it unbearably unpleasant that his time spent sitting in his chair each morning, quietly savoring his tobacco in solitary enjoyment, had been intruded upon by the man standing before him. “I have discovered this letter, but what should be done about it?” “I believe this is truly a grave matter.”

Having said this, the gym teacher placed a large Western-style envelope stained with hand grime onto the principal’s desk. The principal found this utterly disagreeable. Nevertheless, he mechanically picked up the envelope and examined it. “Yoshikura Wakako-sama / Oogawahira Heiichiro” The principal silently read through it. I’m disappointed there’s no sports festival, but instead, our academic achievement exhibition will be held. Those trivial, dexterous fellows strut around with puffed-up chests, acting all high and mighty. I didn’t submit anything. I feel a bit lonely. But I want you to come that day. Here is an invitation addressed to my family; please come after school with this. I will definitely be waiting on the hill opposite the path from the school gate. Ever since I came up with this idea, I’ve been so happy I could go mad. Yesterday morning, we met at the crossroads of K Street, didn’t we? Why did you act so indifferently? Next time, if you don’t go with a smile, I’ll be angry—

The principal tried to smile，but with the gym teacher peering at him with a spiteful look，he had no choice but to assume a solemn expression. “This is outrageous! The day before yesterday，after closing assembly，I patrolled around school grounds checking for irregularities—and there it lay fallen.” “Seeing its torn seal，that Yoshikura woman must’ve dropped it without question.”

The principal was piecing together his memories of Heiichiro and thinking. Heiichiro, who had said "I am poor," was there. "If it's that student, he might have done something like this," thought the principal. The principal rang the call bell. Summoned by the janitor, the fourth-year homeroom Japanese teacher pushed open the door and entered.

“Heiichiro Oogawahira is in your class, isn’t he?” “Yes, he is.” “Please examine this.”

The Japanese teacher read the letter. He glanced at the gym teacher and exchanged looks with the principal. They both thought it had to be found by such an unpleasant man. "I must say, this is quite shocking," said the Japanese teacher, though inwardly he hadn't been particularly surprised at all. "In such matters, I believe it would be appropriate to summon the student to thoroughly verify the facts, and if confirmed true, impose strict disciplinary measures to admonish him for the future—"

The two remained silent.

The gym teacher drew a certain resentment from their silence, and now burned with unpleasant defiance not just toward Heiichiro alone but toward both of them.

“Allowing one’s mistress onto school premises is an unforgivable act. I believe we must suspend him to correct his behavior for the future.” “Well, we must first question the student himself about the facts—after all, we don’t yet know whether this Wakako is actually in such a relationship—”

The principal had the janitor summon Heiichiro. Into the silence of the three, Heiichiro entered with loud footsteps. He stood rigidly at attention, seemingly having run here, his chest heaving with labored breaths. The Japanese teacher, wanting by any means to settle the matter internally here and now, deliberately put on a fearsome expression and “Oogawa,” he said. “Yes, sir.” “Do you recognize this letter?” “Yes—this is the letter I gave to Wakako-san, but how—”

He flushed red with shame at having his soul laid bare. At the same time, he recognized that the malicious gym teacher was glaring at him now, intent on tormenting him in his vulnerability. He repeated to himself that there was nothing morally shameful in his actions—if he were going to feel ashamed now, he wouldn’t have sent her the letter in the first place.

“Is Wakako-san your relative?” The Japanese teacher asked. Heiichiro sensed the compassionate escape route being offered, yet answered supraconsciously, “No.” “Then how do you know her?” “She’s… she’s my friend.” His voice trembled. “You can’t call her a friend.” “Hah! Writing this sort of letter to a young girl who’s not even family—this isn’t proper.” "—" “What kind of person is Yoshikura Wakako?”

“She’s a fourth-year student at a girls’ high school.” “What was your purpose in sending that letter?” “I just wanted to see her.” “What kinda ‘wanted to see her’ is that?!” The gym teacher slapped Heiichiro across the cheek. Heiichiro felt blood surge through his entire body and pressed a hand to his stinging cheek. “You’re a middle school student, ain’t ya?! “Sending love letters to some girls’ school student, callin’ her onto school grounds, havin’ secret trysts—what the hell d’you think this is?! “What kinda ‘wanted to meet’ bullshit is this?!”

The principal and the Japanese teacher could no longer intervene under these circumstances.

“You! Spouting off about becoming a politician and how modern politicians are corrupt—such impertinent crap—and yet look at this disgraceful mess you're in! What kinda ‘If I don’t laugh tomorrow morning, I’ll get angry’ bullshit is this?! Don’t you think you’re a corrupt student?!” “I am not a corrupt student!” “What did you say⁈”

“Why is it wrong that I sent a letter to Wakako-san?” “We comfort and encourage each other—that’s how we study together.” “What exactly have I done wrong?” “Have I committed some crime against anyone? Wakako-san and I have been at the same school since elementary days—” “Idiot!” “What the hell do you think this place is?!” “Hah! Now—what the hell do you think this is?!” The gym teacher tried to shove Heiichiro against the wall. Heiichiro’s fury erupted all at once.

“What do you think you’re doing?! What wrong have we done? By exchanging letters, how joyfully we’ve been spending each day! It’s precisely because of Wakako-san that I strive to study hard and become great. What’s wrong with encouraging each other and studying together!” “That’s exactly what’s wrong! Get out! Who answers back to a teacher?! Out!” “I’m leaving!” Heiichiro could no longer hold back his hot tears.

“This is what he’s like. “We must absolutely impose a three-week suspension as punishment.” The faint autumn morning light fell upon Heiichiro—pressing an arm against his overflowing tears—the gym teacher glaring resentfully, and the silent principal and Japanese teacher. “You—get out now.” The Japanese teacher said sternly.

“Go home and take ample time to reflect quietly,” said the principal.

Heiichiro wiped his tears and left the principal’s office.

As Heiichiro exited the school gate, the morning assembly bell's toll reverberated through the frigid air behind him. To the turmoil of his scorching, constricted mind, the bell's peal seemed to urge: *Think alone. Think deeply—until your heart's roots settle with unshakable resolve.* He walked through the town unaware of his own movements. The crisp autumn morning air pressed insistently against his cheeks before streaming away. Until this sixteenth autumn, he had never truly examined his life's foundations. Having lost his father young and been raised solely by his mother Hikari, he'd come to recognize himself as part of an impoverished mother-son pair upon awakening to his own existence. (But I'm no weakling crushed by poverty.) His mother's spring-like, inexhaustible love had transmuted poverty's potential distortions into invigorating fuel. Even in true destitution, he'd been happy. He had been living life's burgeoning process with every fiber of his being. He could no longer be considered a child. Like a young oak in mountain woods—greater than surrounding weeds and shrubs despite its youth—sixteen-year-old Heiichiro had lived by unconscious inner vitality, yet now this sapling must collide with society's constraints. Such was the oak's fate. He felt within himself a majestic sense of ascension and discovery, as though awakening from dreams to stand upon an unknown plain surveying vast wilderness.

What’s wrong with that? I don’t recall doing anything wrong. Am I truly such a poor student at school? People might not call me studious, but I’m no slacker either. Though I inwardly scorned my teachers when they acted rashly or basely, I never ceased respecting them as our mentors in my heart of hearts. I loved Wakako. Yes—I loved her! I can say I was in love! But why should being in love be wrong? What’s wrong with confessing that love? The gym teacher reviled my letter as some vulgar love note. If by “love note” he means that sort of thing—then no, it wasn’t that! But if it means a letter confessing love—though I detest the term—then yes! Let it be a sacred love letter! I have cherished and revered Wakako’s beauty and dignity—never once have I thought to defile her! I must strive endlessly to become a man worthy of her beauty! And Fukai—I love Fukai too! I loved him because I couldn’t help loving him! What’s wrong with such necessity? Doesn’t Fukai love me too? Doesn’t Wakako love me too? Haven’t we three studied together all this time—finding true joy and purpose?

"Where is there anything wrong?"

It was upstream on the S River, away from the city. As the land rose higher, the plains on both banks narrowed until there were almost none left there. Under a quiet, clear sapphire sky, the river formed deep pools as it flowed gently. Wisteria vines clinging to the cliff face hung down to the water’s surface, and the flowing current whirled in eddies there. A riverbank overgrown with withered grass; beyond the earthen embankment, the distant mountains at the border shone like crystal. Heiichiro lay down in the riverside grass.

*If they claim this is wrong, then why don’t they calmly explain why?* *Why must they immediately assume something strange about my relationship with her?* *Isn’t it because you’re despicable!* *Be ashamed!* Never before had he felt so acutely—how he had been raised solely by Hikari’s hands, how he attended middle school despite their poverty, and all that concerned Fukai and Wakako—as if these truths were now searing themselves into his very being. It was the *natural reckoning* of his sixteen-year life. It was a stage of growth transitioning from childhood through boyhood to youth.

"How utterly tedious," he thought. Before him materialized images of the principal and his homeroom teacher. He intuited the secret goodwill the two had held. Not only had the gym teacher’s attitude toward him not been solely about condemning the letter as wrong—he had also realized that the letter was merely being used as a kind of tool. A large wooden box called school—stagnant, warped, underhanded—a place where petty struggles and endless snarling never ceased. They had to enter that box every single day. It was utterly unbearable. There was no time to waste. The box’s owner was the principal, with teachers squirming inside it and competing to assert themselves—"What a vile affair!" he exclaimed inwardly. Then—he encountered a radiant light shining forth from within. It was the "wisdom-light bestowed by nature."

"But this isn't just about school. Isn't this life—this entire Earth—also one vast, stale, warped, sinister sphere? A mass of endless snarling? Must I too spend my life snarling like countless humans born only to die and be born again? I can't believe that's true. I refuse to believe it no matter what. Shouldn't I at least resolve to make this life—even if I alone must do it—a vivid, beautiful existence brimming with joy? It may be impossible. But we can't say it's impossible. Might it not be possible after all? Yes—it can be done. I will surely prove I can do it. Even if I die proving it—ah!" He gazed up at the deep azure sky and knelt as if praying to something. "Please let me do this." The sense of "mission" blazed within him.

Heiichiro returned home around four in the afternoon appearing unruffled. He couldn't bring himself to tell his mother about the suspension. If she found out, so be it; if not, he resolved to keep it hidden by any means. He didn't know what course to take. Yet something requiring action had begun writhing at his very foundations. He slept deeply until evening fell.

“Heiichiro, Heiichiro—someone’s come to call for you outside.” He woke up. Yoneko laughed as she looked between Hikari and him. “Who?” “A Miss Yoshikura.” Yoneko smiled with knowing eyes. “Really?” “Yes. She’s waiting outside.” “I’ll be right back.” Heiichiro left the room. As they passed through the long storehouse corridor, Yoneko remarked, “What a beautiful young lady.” Outdoors, in the dim unseasonable chill of evening, eaveside electric lights glowed.

“Heiichiro.” Her voice contained tears. He silently watched Wakako as she drew near and stood clinging to him. For a long while, their gazes remained locked. A multitude of emotions surged between them. Everything had become clear. In the dim evening dusk, Wakako’s pale face quivered faintly. “I’ve done something unforgivable.” “—”

“Today, I was scolded at school too, and on top of that, they called in my mother and made her hear everything.”

(Bastards! Those damn schoolteachers! They've treated us like degenerates or something! Stupid! Be ashamed! Be ashamed! Look at us now! Aren't we facing each other with such pure and noble hearts!) "When Mother asked me about you, how it tormented me!" "I'll meet your mother."

“You mustn’t! Even now, I came here quietly, as if running away.” “Today, I was struck by the gym teacher and even got suspended.” “...I’m sorry for worrying your mother.” “I haven’t told her yet. I want to somehow avoid telling her, but they’ll probably call me in tomorrow or so.”

When he imagined his mother's state of mind, he felt a dark oppression. The streets were already dark. The autumn night pressed heavily upon them. In this solitude, they felt their lives intertwining and binding together through mutual touch. Oh raging storm, blow! Our new lives would illuminate fate's raging darkness. "You mustn't be afraid. I'll grow up soon. Even if we're completely powerless now, does that mean we'll stay powerless forever? No matter what happens, I can't live without you. Could those school bastards ever understand our hearts?"

“Heiichiro-san… Somehow I feel as though I’m tempting you—as though I’m causing trouble for your mother.” “Don’t be ridiculous! If this is temptation, then we’ve both tempted each other.” “I—Heiichiro-san—”

Ah, what a miracle. That these two, who until yesterday had never known their beloved’s lips, should now—after all the persecution and suffering they’d endured—come to naturally seek each other’s lips! Love is indeed deepened through persecution. The soft touch of a lover’s lips known for the first time, the thundering heartbeat resonating through their entire bodies, the fiery passion. Even if all the people in the world were to deny their love, in the end, it was Heiichiro and Wakako who loved. “Forever!”

“Truly, forever!” Heiichiro, returning to his mother who waited fretfully for her only child’s future, was still fortunate. Wakako had to return to that terrifying bed of thorns where her cold stepmother and stepsisters waited, fangs bared for her failure. Wakako stood at the dark street crossing, assailed by her reluctance to go home. Death manifested before her as an immediate and undeniable fact.

“You mustn’t be afraid. I’ll grow up soon too—” Heiichiro’s voice resounded solemnly. As if recognizing within herself the strength to endure it all, she began trudging forward. Surely her father would never believe her to be an improper woman. “I’ll grow up soon too—”

Wakako offered up her wholehearted prayers to those words and tried to fortify within herself the conviction to overcome suffering.

It was late at night in autumn's October.

Chapter Seven Even after his suspension period had ended, Heiichiro stubbornly refused to return to school. Hikari, who had spent nearly half a day being lectured at school about the reasons for Heiichiro's suspension, did not utter a single word of reproach to him. She simply heaved a deep sigh. "Sending letters to another household's young lady—that's beyond presumptuous, I tell you."

She had stopped at that, but she couldn’t remain silent about Heiichiro’s refusal to go to school. He was the only child she had raised all this time. In the end, she even pleaded, “I beg you.” Heiichiro overcame the disgust that surged unbidden within him and reluctantly attended school each day. Every morning upon waking, Heiichiro would feel life’s weight profoundly, thinking: Ah, must I go to school again today? By late November, sleet heavy with moisture was already falling across this northern town.

For some reason, from around that time, Heiichiro could no longer catch sight of Wakako. Those happy, glorious encounters on his morning walk to school had been stolen from him. He asked Fukai, but Fukai didn’t know either. He even visited Fukai’s house, but he could no longer see Wakako in the neighboring garden beyond the fence where he had once spotted her. “Did they hide her?! Are they planning to take her away from me?!” He had come to arbitrarily believe—based on ordinary accounts—that the reason for Wakako’s disappearance lay with her stepmother, the sovereign of her household. He wanted to find out where Wakako was by any means necessary. He thought he couldn’t possibly let it remain unknown. Every night, through the dark, cold nights when sleet fell, he wandered around Wakako’s house. However, instead of the joy of suddenly discovering Wakako, he was showered from within the house with a dead silence and relieved cheers as if a nuisance had disappeared, leaving him alone in his fury. He could not bring himself to send the letter into the enemy’s midst. Fukai also worried. Even when Fukai had his family members discreetly inquire, their responses were always deflected with “She’s slightly ill and has gone to visit distant relatives, ohohoho.” Heiichiro’s sole hope became a letter from Wakako. When he returned from school, he shouted at Hikari, “Has a letter come?” The letter did not come. He grew restless with impatience. Anxiety had turned into a dusky black, damp mass that seeped into the marrow of his spirit and continued to accumulate, and there was nothing he could do about it. If they were to explode all at once, the aftermath would be refreshing like after a summer shower, but the mounting frustration would plunge one into prolonged agony and rot the soul. Heiichiro felt a suppressed, full-bodied fury—the loneliness of having his lover taken from him, anger toward the lawless power that had seized her, and toward the vulgar societal force that he now viscerally perceived as trampling his happiness and tarnishing his glory.

And so, this incompetent who smoldered with violent emotions yet failed to achieve independence had to confront days of hardship. He no longer exercised nor studied; with all healthy outlets for his vitality blocked, he was becoming like a corpse. There were days when he even glared at Fukai with cold disdain. "Heiichiro-kun, it's better not to worry so much. Really, Heiichiro-kun." Fukai could never refrain from saying this.

It was on the way home from school, the afternoon of the final day of the second term exams, when the thin, dry snow of late December was scattering against the tips of their shoes. Heiichiro looked wilted. Fukai, though hesitating many times, thought he couldn’t simply abandon Heiichiro’s gloom and apathy. The pain of unrequited love Fukai had endured for two years now made Heiichiro experience that pain, and he had thought many times to persuade him of this shift to literature—as a means to escape the anguish of unrequited love—as "salvation" in the same way. He hesitantly 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 about a year now. “I think it would be good for you to associate closely with those people—won’t you come? “I don’t mean to lead you astray.” “A literary circle?” “Yes, that’s right. “There exists a gathering of people as free as could never be imagined in schools—people who always seem to have tears pooled deep in their hearts. “I can’t tell you how much suffering I’ve escaped thanks to them. “Heiichiro-kun, please come tonight. “I’ll take 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 as well.” “As for you, I no longer have that one secret—any—at all.” “Please, truly come tonight.”

Fukai was proactive and endowed with fervor. “I’ll go.” Heiichiro answered and somehow became aware of tears welling up in his eyes. Ah, my spineless self. He thought of his spineless self—seen through by the boy he loved, taught salvation—and wept.

Fine powdery snow fell incessantly. From a turbid gray sky, white flakes drifted down in eerie silence. The damp ground ceaselessly absorbed the snowflakes, erasing any trace of them, while roofs, eaves, and telephone poles already bore layers several inches thick. In this northern town—now experiencing its fourth snowfall—fierce winds occasionally swept through the streets. With their cloak hoods pulled low and sharing a single umbrella between them, Heiichiro and Fukai hurried through the dark, gloomy streets of dusk—a town so devoid of life that it rendered existence itself utterly worthless. They exchanged no words. They occasionally glanced at each other. Fukai, wearing a lonely expression, looked sidelong at Heiichiro with eyes burning like one gazing up at an unknown world. Am I playing the demon tempting him? Fukai wondered. Why had I revealed a secret kept for over half a year? Yet whenever he saw Heiichiro’s face—bereft of all joy—he couldn’t bear to abandon him. Heiichiro, observing Fukai’s vivid complexion that occasionally betrayed sighs, stared with thirsty eyes at the new world this beloved guide might show him. His soul—which had long dwelled within his four beloveds: Hikari, Fuyuko, Wakako, and Fukai—now bore fresh wounds from schoolteachers before being stripped of Wakako altogether. Groaning from these injuries, it endlessly sought something new. Hikari. Fukai. Wakako, whose whereabouts were unknown. Fuyuko, who had vanished into distant Tokyo.

“Is there still quite a way to go?”

“No, not much further.”

In a narrow street lined with earthen walls in the old samurai district, the two of them stood for a while. The snow fell incessantly. A restless silence filled the space—one that seemed to conceal some dreadful upheaval, like a premonition of the world’s annihilation. They started walking again. When the earthen walls of the samurai district ended, the street turned into an alley to the right. In the poor, twisted neighborhood, red lamps already glowed in the houses. The only unlit building was a two-story structure with glass doors spanning over two ken at its storefront, a paper sign pasted on the glass reading “Manila hemp rope work—men and women wanted.” Fukai stopped before that house.

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

Heiichiro silently looked up at the second floor. The second-floor window—similarly fitted with glass panes—was too dark to see through clearly, but a crimson curtain was visible beyond the glass.

“Let’s go in,” said Heiichiro.

“Mr. Ozawa! Mr. Ozawa!” Fukai’s voice echoed through the stillness. A man’s gravelly reply drifted down from the second floor: “Who’s there?” “It’s me—Fukai.” “Fukai-kun?! Get up here! Just got back from the paper.” The voice turned welcoming yet retained its rasp. “Come on up!” Light abruptly flooded the second floor, setting the crimson curtains ablaze with scarlet reflections. They pushed open the side door and climbed straight up the dim wooden stairs. Two low-ceilinged rooms stretched before them, their shōji screens removed to create a single dingy space. At the rear stood a desk cluttered with bookshelves and a brazier, while against the wall rested a narrow Western-style bed. Bathed in the red-tinged glow from the lamp and curtains sat a gaunt man of twenty-four or five—broad forehead shadowing eyes sunk deep into their sockets, hollow cheeks accentuating his sharp jawline. His thick cotton kimono with cylindrical sleeves hung loosely on his frame as he sat perfectly still.

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

“Who’s there?” The man asked Fukai. “This is my close friend Oogawa.” “He wanted to meet you, so—” “Ah, I see.” “I am Ozawa.” “I’m just a nobody.” “Please, this way.” “Thank you.” Heiichiro had never before encountered a youth of this sort; uncertain how to judge this young man with his peculiar aura of dark allure or determine the proper attitude to adopt, yet since Fukai had at last revealed him to be the central figure of their group, he opted for a somewhat reserved and deeply courteous manner. His appearance was so shabby that had one encountered this Ozawa knowing nothing of him, they might well have scorned and dismissed him outright; the stench and shadows unique to life’s back alleys clung to him. However, in this instance, for Heiichiro, it was the longed-for foreign port; the crimson curtains and wooden Western-style bed against the wall did not make for an unpleasant backdrop to Ozawa. Ozawa stared at Heiichiro with sharp eyes. A boy sitting properly with hands on his knees—not particularly large in build, with dark skin, lips pressed tightly together, and eyes that were clear and sharp, occasionally revealing a blazing torch-like intensity—this must be Oogawa, he thought. His mood suddenly improved.

“Have you finished your exams yet?” “We just finished them today,” Fukai answered. “No wonder I thought you’d vanished—the New Year’s issue of Sokoshio came back from the printers yesterday.” Ozawa leaned back, grabbed one of the thin magazines piled on the lower shelf of the bookcase, and held it out before them with an unconscious, friendly smile—not the opaque smile of the strong, but one born from a weakling’s relief at realizing his fears were unfounded. Heiichiro sensed an oddly comforting familiarity. He flipped through the magazine page by page. When Fukai’s name appeared in size-four type, his heart inexplicably leapt.

“It’s printed quite well.” “I suppose that’s all it amounts to.” Ozawa answered self-deprecatingly. Within that answer lurked a lonely, resigned sentiment akin to Let things turn out however they will! Ozawa soon picked up a new magazine and began casually flipping through its pages. “This time I’ve written a threadbare autobiography,” he remarked. “The one called ‘Letter from a Pitiful, Aged Youth.’ That’s it.” “Shall I read it?” “Now listen—I’ll read it.” Ozawa looked between Fukai and Heiichiro with an expression mingling entreaty and pride. “I think you probably have a general idea of what kind of person I am.” “Now listen—alright? I’ll read it.” He began to read.

Letter from a Pitiful, Aged, and Despairing Youth Shizuko, my beloved Shizuko, I wanted to confess to you with my own lips what I now attempt to write, but when we are together, the spark of passion between us burns too fiercely. I finally discovered, after numerous attempts, that when I am with you, I cannot calmly and honestly recount the history of my own life. Yet we must acknowledge as an undeniable fact that our love has grown deeper than what's ordinary. But surely we cannot continue like this forever, can we? You might be different. Judging from those words you once said—"You're more of a boring, ordinary coward than I imagined"—you might already be growing tired of me. Even if you grow tired of me, I will at least acknowledge that I am in no position to complain about it. You may have been expecting a stronger villain. But Shizuko, isn't it unlikely that there exists a villain who doesn't know how to line his own pockets with money? The fact that I am no villain should be immediately clear from considering my poverty, shouldn't it? A great villain who scorns money—such beings may be exceedingly rare, but when utterly destitute, even the most formidable villain will become a complete fool. Even a superhuman villain who intends to blow up the Earth, annihilate humanity, and disrupt the cosmic order would find himself utterly powerless without money—you must understand this much—left with no choice but to eventually die away. I've written something rather gold-worshipping, haven't I? To prevent misunderstanding—though if you must misunderstand, then so be it. Shizuko, as I remain in this psychological state of wanting to write you another love letter, I shall write a little. I was born in Takaoka, Etchū Province. I do not know my real parents. Why don't I know? It may seem like a lie, but this is how it is.

Imagine a certain wealthy merchant’s household. There was an only son there. When he came of age, he took a wife, but as they had no children, after some time he divorced her and took a younger bride instead. By that time, the master’s parents were still alive. A son was born to the young bride. When the boy was two years old, the master died of a lung ailment. The young bride, left with two orphans, was neither chaste enough to preserve her lonely existence through fidelity, nor did she possess lofty ideals, nor did she feel any love accompanied by profound understanding toward the children. She had a man marry into the family. When the boy she had with her previous husband was four years old, the bride gave birth to a girl with a different father, and the following year, she died of the lung ailment her previous husband had left behind. The infant who was his own child and the boy born of his previous husband and beloved wife—that was me—how could a thirty-year-old townsman left with a four-year-old me and an infant live alone? He took in a new bride. And I was raised by those unrelated parents until I was ten years old. Shizuko, I was still young then and thought nothing of it at the time, but looking back now, there are so many things that bring tears to my eyes. To think that there is no greater misfortune in life than being born without parents—is it unreasonable for me to think so? I believe that lacking even one parent can already serve as proof that the fate of the child born into such circumstances is not ordinary or harmonious. It was when I was thirteen. Whether my second father had contracted my second mother’s lung ailment or not, he too died of his lungs. It was utterly unbearable. I knew at that time that that father was not my real father. Still, I was quite sad.

I wondered if my real father had also died suddenly like that. In other words, it seems I unconsciously mourned my real father by mingling that grief with the tangible reality of "death" manifested through my false father. Though the exact mental pathways are unclear, from that time onward, I had inwardly demanded that my surviving false mother remain unmarried. I could not help but feel a terrifying force—as if to say that if she were not to remain single, I would not let it stand. We would sleep in the inner room with Mother, myself, and my sister laying our three pillows side by side, but one night I was suddenly awakened by hushed voices. That dark hue of darkness, the whispers heard within the darkness—ah, even now the anger that seeped through my entire being to my child’s heart at that time makes my blood boil as if scalding through every limb. I won’t forgive you, you harlot! While shouting thus in my heart, I endured my trembling body without moving. From the very next day, it stands to reason that I became a boy who would not obey a single one of Mother’s commands, no matter how trivial they might be. Eventually, another man came as a live-in son-in-law. By that time, I was already thirteen. In my heart, they were shameless adulterers! With this thought constantly present, I must have appeared to outsiders as a gloomy and eccentric child—one unlike any ordinary child. At fourteen in the spring, I proclaimed of my own accord that I disliked middle school and would instead enter a commercial school. The lewd pair in my household, unaware that I had outwitted them, were delighted to give their immediate approval. For me, if I were to enter middle school, I would have had to remain in Takaoka, but since attending commercial school meant going to N Port instead, the reason I insisted on it was my desire to leave home as soon as possible. It seems I was not so dim-witted after all—I passed the commercial school entrance exam and left that detestable home in high spirits, stepping out into the world of strangers for the first time. Shizuko, I was fourteen then. At that time, I was boarding at the house of a dried goods merchant from the same Takaoka, a household consisting only of the master and his thirty-four- or thirty-five-year-old wife, with no children. “If only Ozawa-san weren’t the eldest son, we’d truly take you as our own,” declared the portly master nearing forty—and the earnestness with which I, back then, solemnly replied “I would become so” still retained a naivety that brings tears to my eyes.

However, in the autumn when I was fifteen, that seemingly robust master who showed no signs of imminent death perished. The mistress, being resolute by nature, refused to shutter the shop and declared she would manage the dried goods store herself. Shizuko, I must confess—the instant I returned from school and learned of the master's death from her lips, a delusion of some vile entanglement paralyzed my entire being. Ah, that mistress robbed me of my fifteen-year-old virginity still unripe on the bough. Over a year and half, that woman—undeniably past thirty-five—drained me of youth's seething vigor until I resembled an aged youth cast aside like withered chaff. Whether sin or virtue I cannot say, but this coincided with my first bitter taste of naturalist literature newly arrived in Japan—Zola and Maupassant became incantations on my tongue. Immersing myself in novels exalting bestial desire proved unbearable sustenance. How must I comprehend—how mourn—that one of my tender years could harbor true fascination for such matters? I can no longer parse meaning from those bygone days. All feels fated. This stumbling start to life—worse it might have been, but better never could exist. In any event, I confess to you my immersion in naturalist writings until twenty summers passed. By then I'd abandoned formal schooling midway, finding greatest pride in knowing provincial journalists by name and face. At twenty summers I fled to Tokyo, enrolling in a private school as mere pretense while haunting third-rate literati—such was my existence then. Shizuko, body and spirit weary from this chronicling. Laugh! Laugh! For even this bungler once dreamt literary greatness—how pitifully human. Laugh! Laugh! Shizuko—if only those counterfeit parents in my hometown had survived four... five more years unscathed... They were no villains starving me outright, yet now—what fresh torment!—the woman succumbed to lung rot! Then her man squandered fortunes on speculation and debauchery before fleeing to Korea!

I wanted to stay longer in Tokyo. There were so many things I wanted to do there. But when cast into circumstances requiring self-sufficiency, I proved too spineless to remain. I fled back home, became a journalist I despised, and after a year stopped despising it altogether—dragged along halfheartedly through twenty-five years of existence. Yet as I sit alone writing this letter to you, a sorrowful and absolute pessimism seizes me. Shizuko—have you never known such moments? That we are ultimately nothing but eternal prisoners. The prison called life, the prison called the world—ah! Even were the universe infinite and eternal, with numberless stars coursing through endless time and space—that boundless prison.

Shizuko, can you understand these feelings of mine? It is said that matter is indestructible. If that is the truth, what am I to do? What is one such as I to do? Indestructible! Eternity!

Ah, if this life were indestructible and this universe eternal—what would become of me? Are we not prisoners chained indestructibly, eternally, to an infinite universe! It’s unbearable. My wish is rather that all would dissolve into nothingness! Let me die and burn away—let everything vanish into absolute void! This is my desperate plea. Shizuko—is this outcry of mine so unreasonable? I crave annihilation over immortality. I want to negate existence itself. Even nihilists leave me restless with dread. If anything persists eternal or unyielding—I cannot end myself. Let there be a darkness beyond nihilism—a void without name! Shizuko—in truth—I ache to die by my own hand. Yet this terror clings: what if suicide brings no true oblivion? What if death births new chains? Life—death—they blur into sameness. Ah—how I yearn to erase this world, this self—all of it! But if I perish—might some new existence claim me? Stone—plant—beast—man—god—all revolt me. Has it ever been proven that death yields nothingness?

No. On the contrary, various religions and philosophies assert that death is not true annihilation. That is what worries me. Because of that worry, I can’t even die—every day I commute to one of these prisons called a newspaper company, working like a prisoner, eating like a prisoner, drinking alcohol at least, writing trivial articles, and even trying something resembling love with a woman like you. If there exists something you might call pessimistic hedonism, I’ll have it declared. This isn’t mere pessimism. The very concept of such “pessimism” has become unbearable to me. Shizuko, somehow I’ve grown tired of even writing. I’ll stop. When I began writing, I started with a somewhat more charming improvisation, but in the end it turned into this. Come here—if I can’t do anything else, at least let me drink some booze and hold you. That’s the least I can do. At least I want the world’s wealth. Then I’d buy out all humanity, trigger a massive explosion across the entire earth, and at least exterminate these meddlesome creatures called humans—but even then, if humanity perished, some other monstrosity might emerge. When I think of that, my chest churns with nausea. Shizuko, I’m waiting. I remember the softness of your breasts. Ah, despair. This prison where even dying isn’t free. This eternal prison of “life” that permeates the very essence of existence and mortality. Goodbye.

From the 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 perceived a solemn darkness of spiritual torment. This inexplicably gladdened his present heart. Fukai sat motionless-eyed with flushed cheeks, exhaling a profound sigh. To Heiichiro, that demeanor seemed to have grasped the sacred gravity of Ozawa's suffering. Outside, the pre-storm stillness pierced through heaven and earth with crystalline clarity.

“Mr. Ozawa, aren’t you here?!” “Mr. Ozawa!”

“Is that Shizu-chan?” “Come in.” Ozawa responded to the woman’s voice while remaining sprawled on the floor. A stifling heat and the reek of youth rose to the second floor as a young woman entered the room—her hair hastily tied back to expose a wide forehead, her plump cheeks framing a face that lacked conventional beauty.

“Customers? Adorable customers—”

Heiichiro and Fukai bowed properly. "Isn’t this Mr. Fukai? "And who might the other one be?" "This is my close friend Oogawa."

“Ah, Mr. Oogawa.” With these words, the woman tried to rouse Ozawa—still lying prone—by repeating “You... you...” Ozawa suddenly grunted, “Did you read that?” “I read it. But I didn’t really understand the latter part. It’s really intense.” “But I didn’t really understand the latter part.” “It’s really intense.” “But what I write isn’t something ordinary folks can grasp.” “But Shizu-chan, I only wrote down ordinary things.” “But it’s intense.—But isn’t that okay?” “It’s not that there’s this thing called ‘me’ anymore.” “If this universe is truly inescapable, then isn’t it better to live each passing moment we have here as interestingly as possible?” “If it’s a prison, then a prison it is—isn’t that okay?” “What’s wrong with embracing in prison?”

“That’s fine, isn’t it? If one could forget... But I can’t forget. For me, Shizu-chan—our essence, our life being truly eternal and infinite—I can feel it seeping into my very bones, can recognize it. Yet for me, that eternity isn’t a joy like it is for others. Even if I were the sun, or something even more omnipotent, I would hate it. I don’t want to be anything at all. We do not want to be (something). I do not want to be ‘Life’ itself. Some among us may believe death is nothingness, but I cannot accept that death is void—the absolute end. It must be something. Death too must be a form of life. As long as I remain human now—as long as I am this man called Ozawa Shigeta—even when this self dies and burns to ashes, it must undoubtedly become something. Suppose I throw myself into a volcano’s crater—even then, I must become something. Even if cast into the void beyond Earth, I must exist as something in this universe. For me, that is agony. Shizu-chan—truly—‘nothingness’ isn’t permitted to us in any real sense. Therefore we truly have no ‘freedom’. We are eternal prisoners. Don’t you agree, Shizu-chan?”

"I don't really understand." "Let's stop this kind of talk—wouldn't it be better to have some fun with a woman like me instead?" "Don't you think, Mr. Ozawa?"

Ozawa remained silent. Then he sat up abruptly, stared fixedly at her smile, and murmured in a tearful voice, “A sad game?”

Heiichiro and Fukai promised they would come again and went outside. Ozawa saw them out to the entrance and shouted, “My apologies for leaving so suddenly—come back again. Oogawa-kun, come again!”

The cold moonlight shone white upon the snow-dampened road. The two bid a lonely farewell beneath the willow tree at the street corner. For Heiichiro, this night’s gathering was an unusual experience. An older youth named Ozawa; a young woman named Shizuko, likely his mistress. Completely new people had appeared in Heiichiro’s world. Those people were utterly different from his school teachers. He felt envious of Ozawa and Shizuko—who seemed to love each other freely without reservation—but simultaneously detested the filth that manifested both the despair-tinged gloom filling Ozawa’s room and their indolent spirits. "No matter how impoverished we may be, no matter how utterly vile everything becomes, no matter how excruciating this life feels—still I want to burn with hope," thought Heiichiro. Be that as it may, Heiichiro yearned for their freedom. The more his hatred and rage toward his surroundings—which had intensified over six months—grew, the more his heart was drawn to Ozawa’s circle. Above all, he felt betrayed frustration at Fukai associating with such people secretly. He could no longer deny they had ceased being innocent boys. There were moments Heiichiro clearly recognized his solitary self enveloped in desolate vacuum. The power meant to shine outward and warm others condensed inward into dawn’s wisdom, striving to grasp truth.

He visited Ozawa’s house alone when the next night arrived. Through the window curtains, a broad, blood-like light spilled out onto the road. He heard what sounded like the voices of a considerable number of people engaged in conversation. After wavering several times, he climbed the dark staircase.

“Who is it?” “Mr. Oogawa?” “Please come in.”

Shizuko had keenly noticed and stripped away the "reserve" from his wavering consciousness. He smiled and nodded to Ozawa. Around a single brazier were seated Ozawa, Shizuko, and two unfamiliar young men. One was a ruddy-complexioned man who resembled the head clerk of a large shop, with jet-black hair neatly parted and wearing a lined kimono secured by a stiff obi; the other was a tall, gaunt man who appeared to be a student, clad in a lined kimono of Kurume kasuri fabric. Heiichiro bowed to them as well.

“This is Mr．Oogawa．” “He’s a friend of Mr．Fukai’s．” “He first came last night．”

Shizuko introduced him. The student-like man bowed his head as if unaware that Heiichiro was still a boyish middle school student and said, “I am Miyaoka. Pleased to meet you.” The merchant-like man buried his half-smoked cigarette in the ashes before saying, “I’m Nagai. Pleased to meet you.” Heiichiro sat formally upright and strained to follow the conversation of those he had now joined.

"I simply cannot let things continue as they are now. Even for Aiko, I don't think it's something she can endure. If we're going to part even a day sooner, then part; if we're going to be together, then be together—we have to decide one way or the other, because this is unbearable." Miyaoka hurriedly inquired about Nagai's muttering. "So, do Miss Aiko's parents know about that?"

“I don’t believe they know about that. At the very least, I’m acting on absolute faith in Aiko’s words—but 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 my current situation. I might be terribly selfish. I may not have the right to say such things. But I want to keep Aiko all to myself now. Lately, there’s hardly been a day I don’t meet her. It would be more accurate to say I see her every single day without fail. But every time we meet, I feel unbearably tormented by the thought that this dear Aiko might be taken from me and possessed by that frivolous bastard. Every time I meet her, I can’t help imagining those moments when Aiko is pretending to be that bastard’s wife. Then I end up utterly disheartened. I’m ashamed to admit it, but lately, every time we meet, I’ve started interrogating Aiko with ‘Aren’t you married yet?’—so desperate to see the answer in those eyes of hers. It’s quite unbearable. It may seem as if I’m saying what her parents or that man ought to say, but I believe this is my rightful place to speak. Even if that man over there obtained permission to marry Aiko from her impoverished true parents through predatory means, I possess both a heart that truly loves Aiko and a heart that yearns for her. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the one trying to reclaim what was stolen by that bastard. Of course, her parents—who were dazzled by a bit of cash and promised their daughter to such a libertine—are parents through and through.”

"And what do you plan to do?" said Ozawa. "I told Aiko to confess everything about us to her parents and that man now. However, Aiko says that if such a thing were to become known to that man, he would surely pressure her father and mother to return the money. Then when I say, 'Let’s run away somewhere together,' Aiko says, 'You’ll surely be thrown in prison.' Saying something like kidnapping charges." "Why don’t you take her and run away, prepared to go to prison?" said Miyaoka.

“Ridiculous! Because for us, the very concept of sin doesn’t exist! Even if we were to feel any fleeting fear or darkness, it would only be because we have discerned the extent of their misguided beliefs—the erroneous notions from which they might act. We are the ones who are right. The other man unjustly took her away through malicious means, motivated solely by Aiko’s beauty. And precisely because their methods were cunning, the law and society recognize even that injustice as legitimate. To comply with such laws and willingly enter prison would be an insult to fate. You’ll incur divine punishment.”

“Then what are you saying we should do?” “We’re completely powerless. But how can we just stay like this? And Ozawa—it seems Aiko is pregnant!” “Ah hahaha! Hey, Shizu-chan. Weren’t you acting a bit suspicious yourself?”

“That’s right,” “I do feel a bit suspicious.” “The very idea of me giving birth to your child feels so absurd, don’t you think?” “You becoming a father... me becoming a mother—” “Ah hahaha! Mr. Nagai, you shouldn’t rush things like that.” “Anyway, isn’t it enough that you can meet her now?” “Wouldn’t it be fine to keep seeing Miss Aiko secretly?” “We’re only human, after all.” “We’re just earthly creatures.” “There’s no way anything decent could come of this.” “This world’s nothing but suffering anyway.” “If you want to run away, then run.” “If by some miracle you two manage to start a new life in Hokkaido or Manchuria—great! If you get caught—so what? You’ll either get killed, thrown in prison, or maybe even end up together openly. Things’ll sort themselves out.” “But instead of risky moves like that—wouldn’t it be better to handle things quietly while no one’s watching?”

Nagai listened to Ozawa’s words with a bitter smile.

"If you were to think that way, it would settle everything—but—" "But poor Miss Aiko," said Shizuko.

“Yes, pitiable,” said Nagai.

For a time, the members of the group fell silent. Heiichiro Oogawahira found himself overwhelmed by joy for no apparent reason. Ah, when he realized the suffering was not his alone, he felt an emotion like light welling up within him. (Ah, now at last my life has meaning!)

"Is Miss Aiko truly pregnant?" "Well... that isn't yet clear." "Are you yourself truly certain?"

"——"

Nagai did not answer. He could not answer.

The more one loved, the more it became a terrifying mystery that humans were not permitted to know. Ozawa also fell silent, as if slightly regretting his own question.

"But you see, that’s something Miss Aiko would have a memory of. If Miss Aiko has firm certainty, then Mr. Nagai’s child must be residing within her." "Can women intuitively sense such things?" Nagai looked up at Shizuko with shining eyes. "But—if it were this person—if it were this person’s child—I believe I would surely sense a resonance in the heart that deems it acceptable to conceive, that considers conception desirable."

“Is that so?”

Nagai wore a lonely expression as though peering into a swirling abyss. Ozawa groaned deeply, unable to bear the solemn passage of this moment. Nagai, clinging to the faint light Shizuko had offered,

“You stated that you might be pregnant now, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. I do feel that way.”

“So, if you were pregnant, would you have any memory of which day and night that might have been?”

“Well, nothing has been definitively stated yet, but it’s not impossible.” “Say it clearly—is there?” “Yes. There is.”

“I see.” Nagai lowered his eyes again. At that moment, Miyaoka, who had been wanting to leave for some time now, attempted to stand up. Ozawa said, “Are you leaving already?” “Yes, excuse me.” “Since your exams are over, there’s no need to rush—I’m heading to the café right now, so wait a bit longer and come along.”

"Very well." Ozawa patted Nagai’s back. "Nagai-kun—put it aside for now. Let’s go to the café tonight instead. Have a drink after so long. Right? Let’s do that." His voice carried philosophical weight. "Either you sacrifice yourself directly to your true emotions’ demands—or if you lack that courage—abandon all self-reliance and leave it to fate. One or the other." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Trying to erase suffering? Futile. Sleep’s best—though even asleep, nightmares might haunt you."

“That’s right!” “Let’s do that.” “Tonight we’ll drink.” “Shizuko-san, you should come too—right?” “Oogawa-kun, Oogawa-kun—you come along too.”

“Yes,” Heiichiro also stood up. The group of five stepped outdoors. The snow wasn’t falling, but two or three stars glittered in the cold, indigo sky. Miyooka, a higher school student wearing a long mantle, was reciting a cherished poem into the quiet late night.

He did not forget the woman who had shown a handful of sand like tears coursing down cheeks.

“Ishikawa Takuboku! Good stuff—Takuboku’s good!” “To live long or not to live long—ahahaha! Hamlet’s a fool! Doesn’t our very existence prove we’re messages from the land of death? Not one soul returns from death’s realm—no, this whole world itself is what returns from there! Ahahahaha! Hamlet remains such an optimist!”

The radiance shining through the purple, crimson, blue, and golden-hued colored glass panes stained the road.

Pushing open the door, the group entered the room.

"Welcome," said a waitress whose beautiful contrast of white apron and red obi at her back greeted this peculiar group. In the downstairs dining hall, through the thick blue leaves of tropical plants, the figures of a group of young painters strumming mandolins could be glimpsed.

“I’ll go upstairs.” “Hey，can you show us to that back area on the second floor?” Ozawa removed his black soft hat and black cloak and ascended the stairs. The second floor had been arranged as a Japanese-style room.

“Nagai! “Sake?” “Or something with color?” “I’ll take both.—Wait, make it hot sake.” “Hey! Bring hot sake and some good rare meat!”

“Yes,” replied the waitress as she descended. The melody of strumming mandolins, like the sweet whispers of a spring stream, echoed up from downstairs. It was far too much like music from another world for the five of them. An oppressively solemn silence and a deafening symphony of screams resounded mightily in an upstairs room. The fresh meat and mellow sake warmed their hearts and flesh. Ozawa began to speak eloquently while taking a drink of sake.

“Nagai! Stop it, stop it! Quit your pointless worrying! What do you intend to do by running away with Aiko-san? Become a more righteous villain!... —Isn’t that right? If that person ceases to exist as a human being, wouldn’t that solve everything? Even bees know how to skillfully and naturally commit murder. If even Aiko-san intends to do so—” “What method is there?”

“There is one,” Ozawa said. “But it’s a method I can’t use. And at the same time, it’s a method that must not be spoken of.” “Why can’t you say it?!” Nagai raised his bloodshot eyes brimming with murderous intent. “—Women can do it,” Ozawa continued. “Men cannot.” “Then it’s something I can do, isn’t it?” Shizuko blurted out loudly, unable to contain the physiological agitation surging through her drunkenness. “You can’t do it.” Ozawa’s voice cut sharply. “Aiko-san could do it.” With these words, he sipped the hot liquid overflowing from his cup.

“Let’s have done with that talk.—Now, Ozawa-kun—have you read Dostoevsky?” “Which Dostoevsky?” “All of him.” “You think yourself some polyglot savant?”

"But there are two or three translations out there—" "I don't read them." "I don't know any writer called Dostoevsky." "If you know something, then tell me." "Well, I first learned about him when I borrowed an English translation of The Brothers Karamazov from a classmate, then read every English version I could find—"

“Hmph.” “In *Crime and Punishment*, there’s a character named Svidrigailov. He tried everything—even threatening a woman with a pistol to possess her—but ultimately couldn’t go through with it. Overpowered by her moral authority and genuine compassion, he ended up wandering alone to the drill ground.” “Then he meets a sentry.” “‘Where are you headed?’ the sentry asks.” “‘To America,’ he answers, presses the pistol to his temple, pulls the trigger, and collapses.—This is just a minor episode, mind you, but within my limited reading experience, I know of no work as solemnly magnificent as his.” “Especially his *The Brothers Karamazov*—”

“Let me see that book sometime. “I truly wish to encounter a work so profound it makes me forget myself—even just once in this lifetime. “And I want to forget the very fact that I’m alive.—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—whom we’ve just heard about for the first time—let’s all drink together!” “If someone who left behind such magnificent works... right, Shizu-chan, they must’ve suffered terribly!” “Even amateurs like us are like this, aren’t we?!”

Nagai went downstairs. The sound of phone calls persisted. Twenty minutes later, Nagai came back up. “I heard Yamazaki, Kohnishi, and Semura are coming!” Miyaoka showed a displeased expression. He had wanted a quiet story and had begun talking about his favorite author. Ozawa and the others did not welcome this. Moreover, they were about to start their usual heavy drinking. Even for Miyaoka—who had lost his parents young, been raised by his brother, and come to this northern city—there existed no shared crucial world between him, a student still supported by his brother from an upper-middle-class family, and Ozawa’s group. To Ozawa, even if it were one of Russia’s great authors, barging into the midst of their life-and-death conversation that had just been unfolding constituted nothing less than an unforgivable violation of sacred dignity. Though Miyaoka absorbed Ozawa’s words with ears and mind, his soul remained closed; toward the real lives of Nagai and Ozawa, he could only adopt an attitude resembling how one savors a Dostoevsky novel.

“Dostoevsky is weeping!” “He’s weeping right here in my chest!” Heiichiro, who was silently eating the still slightly raw grilled meat, could see pearl-like teardrops glistening in Ozawa’s eyes. Amidst hurried footsteps came a “Brr, it’s cold!” as a bearded man in his mid-thirties—a member of the intellectual class—entered, tossing his double-layered mantle into a corner. This man was proprietor of the city’s sole fountain pen wholesaler and remained unmarried. Though normally a diligent merchant who single-handedly funded their group’s journal Sokoshio, whenever he joined this crowd, his guileless nature would surface—and he would weep while lamenting his loneliness.

“Mr. Kohnishi, you’ve come after all.” “We have something hot for you.” “Oh, splendid! Tonight I was just at my wit’s end wanting to kill myself.” “Thank you.” “Thank you for inviting me.” “Oh, splendid—splendid—”

At that moment, Yamazaki and Semura arrived. Yamazaki was a man from Kumamoto—a brilliant scholar who had graduated from the Imperial University’s science department two years prior at twenty-seven—but having been forced into an unwanted marriage, he arrived in the city that spring to visit his uncle, bringing along his lover and a considerable sum of money from his father, the president of a bank. He made his living by writing editorials and such in the capacity of a guest contributor for a newspaper company. His passion for astronomy, his former field of study, had not waned, but since his father would not permit the marriage born of his own will, he was striving to protect his lover by sacrificing that passion. That year or so of life had shown him an existence far deeper than that of a "spoiled rich kid." Semura was a twenty-five-year-old assistant instructor at an industrial school. He taught students not much younger than himself to fiddle with clay, seeking in this group some solace from the frustration and weariness of his exhausted body and mind. He was a poor young man who had to sacrifice the growth of his genius to support his mother.

“There are those who find some peace of mind by thinking of Rodin and Michelangelo.” “But for me, it’s the opposite.” “Far from finding peace, I feel overwhelmed and saddened—losing all energy to even speak.” “I can’t even manage day-to-day life—and yet I want money……”

Semura and Yamazaki entered.

“Did you arrive together?”

“No, we just met at the door there now.” “Mr. Yamazaki, Mr. Semura—let’s drink through the night tonight. “It’s such a cold, lonely night.” “How could anyone stay still?” “They say those so-called philosophers can remain aloof and composed.” “Such philosophers—they’re probably just wooden statues.” “Come now, let’s drink until dawn!” Shizuko poured a rich golden liquid into the offered cup. Two adorable girls with peach-parted hairstyles moved through the group, never neglecting to pour. Yamazaki spotted Heiichiro.

“Shizuko-san, who’s this young man here?” “This is Heiichiro.” “Heiichiro? Isn’t he still attending middle school? Hmm—then hasn’t he been suspended recently? For sending letters to a girls’ school student—” “Yes—that’s me—Heiichiro.”

“Yes, it’s me—that Heiichiro.” He answered earnestly. His cheeks too were flushed from drink.

“So it’s you, ha ha ha ha—suspension suits you well.—” Yamazaki suddenly peered through a gap in the glass door to the outside, then involuntarily cried out, “A shooting star!”

The night deeply embraced these youths' depressed spirits that were barely comforted by their futile wine spread throughout the room. It was a darkness that knew no dawn. Were these anguished spirits truly confined solely to this group in this city? Could it not have been the frustration lurking within all living souls across this vast earth? Or was it perhaps a spiritual suffering unique only to Japan's promising youth? Was it a social manifestation of capitalist tyranny imposing stone-like burdens upon human life? If so, then one day those countless souls crushed beneath would ignite into flames of wrath blazing across all creation. Yet that could only be one cause among many. It could never stand as sole reason. The greatest cause lay in us being ourselves. Of course,"the anguish of being ourselves" cannot be equated with"artificial life pressures." The former proves irresistible; the latter still holds hope for improvement. And improve we must. What defies all remedy is cosmic anguish. Cosmic anguish permeates every fiber of existence. We cannot even conquer earthly human suffering. Most end their mortal days never knowing cosmic anguish.

Heiichiro returned home past 1 a.m. that night.

For Heiichiro, Ozawa’s group had become indispensable to his existence. Within it, he could encounter living passion, true suffering, and exultation—the young man’s sole solace. He had joined the *Sokoshio* circle with all the fervent devotion of his boyhood years. Though Hikari fretted over his sudden late-night excursions, she exercised enough restraint not to confront him immediately. She recognized a perilous threshold approaching her only child’s path. Four decades of hardship stayed her from blindly interfering—a restraint neither wholly good nor bad. That Heiichiro’s burgeoning manhood had found no chance to plunge into debauchery amid this awakening was indeed his fortune; that he—who once centered life’s meaning entirely on Wakako—avoided dissolution when bereft of that purpose bordered on miraculous. His long-nurtured inner life, rapidly maturing, now channeled its torrent through *Sokoshio*—surely preferable to dissipation’s abyss. Hikari’s noble anguish lay in refusing to dam this singular flood.

The seventeenth New Year arrived, and the severe winter persisted long in the northern town. Heiichiro Oogawahira endured his daily school attendance as if it were grueling labor, returning each day to immediately visit Ozawa’s residence. Shizuko—who appeared at times like a progressive woman, at others like a lewd and shameless harlot, and still other times like a cherished older woman sympathizing with worldly psychology—was discovered to have graduated from a Tokyo Christian girls’ school’s specialized course and now worked as a clerk at a large city bank. He did not desire a future where he and Wakako existed like Ozawa and Shizuko. Moreover, each interaction with Ozawa’s group revealed an ever-widening inherent divide. It was criticism and dissatisfaction from the coming era toward Ozawa’s circle—mirroring their own discontent toward contemporary power blocs. To Heiichiro, the stench of “despair” and “darkness” permeating Ozawa’s group grew unbearable at times. This might have been because Heiichiro remained too young. When he reached their age, he might have transformed completely into sharing their ideology. But now—even when swept into frenzied storms with Ozawa’s circle, bellowing sorrowful songs—he felt he could not linger forever in this tempest threatening to drag him into distant oblivion. How long could this continue? How long could he wallow in despair? The voiceless cry echoed within him. Yet this was merely an undercurrent surfacing momentarily. Ozawa, Shizuko, Yamazaki gazing at stars with Westerner’s eyes, Semura lecturing on Renaissance art through photo albums, Nagai—the earnest kimono store clerk—all evoked senior-like reverence; touching their lives brought immeasurable comfort. When Yamazaki’s azure eyes contemplated celestial wonders, his pure fervor merged with stellar grandeur into life’s rare beauty. Semura’s discourses on Greco-Roman sculptures left deeper impressions than four years of middle school ever had. Heiichiro could not fully grasp Nagai’s anguished love psychology. Yet reflecting on his own pain allowed him to gauge its intensity—he understood society’s view of Nagai’s “shameless delinquency” held no inherent wrongness. Rather, how unnatural must it have felt that Aiko—his childhood friend—belonged to some creditor of her dead father? Even Nagai and Aiko—whose love should have been natural—suffered under unjust social constraints: two souls abandoned in desolate wilderness, drowning in sorrow with no path forward.

“We exist among so many people, yet we’re like sinners exiled to a wilderness,” Nagai said, his voice trembling with tears. The group members could only watch in silence as he continued, “I don’t believe this is right.” Though their hearts swelled with the desire to help, what could they possibly do? They could neither fully separate the two nor arrange for Aiko’s amicable divorce and marriage to Nagai—the only option left would be to kidnap the girl and land in prison. Once again, they had to confront their own powerlessness.

“You mustn’t end up like us.” “Ah, Heiichiro-kun—in the end, we aren’t life’s victors.” “We’re merely those fighting bloodied in the streets.” “And what’s more, we’re just cowards likely to be defeated at any moment.” “Listen—you mustn’t imitate us.” “You must surpass us and, when we’ve barely carved out a path only to die defeated, stride over our corpses to raise a triumphant hymn of true victory.” “Ah, Heiichiro-kun,” Yamazaki would often say. The sentiment behind those words was a vast, lonely emotion shared by Ozawa and all the others—one that prayerfully watched over the boyish figures of Heiichiro and Fukai, who belonged to the next era, while simultaneously contemplating their own harsh pasts and futures likely bleaker still. January and February passed as Heiichiro visited them. During that time, Wakako’s whereabouts remained completely unknown.

Chapter Eight March came. March in the northern country was still a time of severe winter. The snow did not fall heavily, but when it did fall, it did not melt. On the morning’s frozen, blade-like earth, winter’s cold red light glittered brightly.

It was a morning in mid-March. As it was the second day of his final 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 tearoom of Harukaze-ro, a murky reddish-dark electric light was lit. He tried to go outside wearing boots that had hardened like iron from snowflakes accumulated since the day before, careful not to wake those sleeping soundly. When he opened the door, suffused with the white light of a March morning, a single envelope was visible where it had fallen on the dirt floor. It appeared that the first delivery had slipped it through the gap in the door. He picked it up and looked at it. The letter, in familiar handwriting, was addressed to "Mr. Heiichiro Oogawahira." It was a letter from Wakako. For some reason, he felt no joy at all. (Ah, was this not a letter I had waited for far too long!) Snow was not falling, but on the frozen, hard earth, layer upon layer of snow lay piled an inch or two deep. He took off the hood of his coat and walked while reading the letter.

...Please forgive me, please forgive me. It is my fault. It is my weakness. "Why are you afraid? I will grow up soon"—your words still resonate in my frail heart even as I write this letter. Yet I—Heiichiro-sama, please forgive me—must obey my mother and marry into another household. Despise me with all your heart. Since that autumn letter incident, I endured Mother's harsh rebukes before being sent to Tokyo. I refrained from writing you because I simply couldn't bring myself to do so. Please forgive me. ...But Heiichiro-sama, how could I ever forget you? I shall live long—this I vow. Heiichiro-sama, become truly great without yielding to impatience. And someday gaze back upon this wretched woman who turned away. ...The man who will be my husband is a Western-style painter ten years your senior——

He wondered if there was some mistake and read it over again and again. But there was no need to read it again. Once was enough—he had already come to know that the facts in this letter were true. Could this empty feeling he felt be what is called disappointment? At school, whether solving geometry problems or composing answers about the British conquest of India in his Eastern History class, he was thinking of Wakako. He did not understand how she was feeling. He was merely thinking. It was an emptiness beyond comparison.

Forgetting that the question about India’s conquest was meant to be a historical examination answer, he vehemently attacked British cruelty across three ceaselessly written pages and left the classroom before anyone else. From the preparation room, he stepped out onto the sports ground. A piercingly clear blue sky—rare in this northern region’s winter—stretched above. Winter sunlight glinted across ice that had frozen solid over the entire field. He pulled Wakako’s letter from his pocket and found himself compelled to pore over it once more. Then a single brilliant flash ignited in his mind, and he roared from the depths of his being.

"I'll become great!" Not a shred of hatred toward Wakako arose within him. As he kept rereading Wakako's words—"I will live a long life, surely"—nostalgia welled up like a spring. Become great, become great—once I'm great, how could I possibly abandon my beloved Wakako without uniting with her?! He wanted to dash around the sports ground. The ice was treacherously smooth—perfect for sliding. He walked across the sports ground's gleaming surface, gliding with each step. His entire body grew damp with sweat as new vitality overflowed.

“Oogawa.” Fukai approached.

“Fukai-kun. Come here!” Fukai approached with a smile playing on his lips. “Look at this.” As Fukai took it and began reading, Heiichiro watched with bated breath, his gaze unwavering. “Miss Wakako has gone to Tokyo to be married.” When he uttered these words, Heiichiro truly felt the sorrow of this irreversible, lonely turn of events. Fukai kept reading it over and over. When he finally raised his head, his face had turned deathly pale. Heiichiro took back the letter from Fukai and roared once more, “I’ll become great!”

The winter light shone upon the two of them. Beyond the vast, glistening plane of ice, the majestic peaks of the E Mountain Range emitted a white radiance.

“Oogawa.” “What is it?”

“There’s not a single word about me in here!”

“Huh?!”

Heiichiro saw tears overflowing on Fukai's pallid face. Fukai pressed his coat sleeve against his face and wept convulsively, as if he could no longer endure it.

“Fukai-kun, what’s wrong?” As Heiichiro rubbed his back, a new awareness flashed forth from the unconscious realm—Ah, so that’s how it was. He stopped rubbing Fukai’s back and stood in silence. A complex sorrow had seized him and would not let go. Tears overflowed in both his eyes. He hadn’t been unaware of it. Fukai, forgive me—I wasn’t unaware of it. He took Fukai’s hand and shook it firmly, as if pleading for forgiveness.

The workings of nature may be endless and without beginning or end, but their cyclical processes are not merely monotonous rhythms. At times they lie completely dormant—ordinary and monotonous; at others, they become a violent force like a storm, momentarily exhausting all possibilities. In human destiny too, when people look back after events have passed, they often cannot help but believe that fate truly follows that very rhythm.

Ever since learning of Wakako's departure to the capital and her marriage, Heiichiro's thoughts burned with dreams of the future yet remained utterly unable to escape the emptiness and gloom of reality.—If I were to be born twice into this world, and if Wakako could also be born twice into this world at the same time, then perhaps I might be able to resolve myself as I am now. But I can only believe that my entire life exists solely within this single existence here and now. In my lifetime, no matter what happens, I will seek Wakako-san. I cannot consider this world's fate without connecting it to Wakako-san. Ah, I cannot imagine Wakako-san as the wife of a man ten years my senior. To me, Wakako-san will forever remain that passionate girl with flushed cheeks—Heiichiro had once sent such impassioned words to Fukai. "The misfortunes and sufferings a man must endure"—due to his delayed independence, Heiichiro had to taste the pain of having his first love stolen away. It was unbearable.

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

That night, after finishing his exams with the desperate urgency of a fever-stricken patient, Heiichiro Oogawahira found himself compelled to visit Ozawa's house. In his mind, matters concerning Wakako, Fukai, and himself swirled unresolved like undigested food.

Upstairs, Ozawa and Miyooka, a high school student, were engrossed in passionate conversation. “However, just as Whitman sings, ‘I float my elegy with joy, with joy for you, O Death,’ death can indeed be considered a peaceful eternal rest.” “Enough, Miyooka-kun! Stop this at once!” Ozawa closed his eyes and, with an air of unbearable irritation, brought Miyooka’s heated words to a halt. Miyooka, his passion interrupted, glared sharply at Ozawa through his glasses.

“Is something wrong?” “This doesn’t sit well with my disposition—stop it at once! I don’t believe Whitman held such views on death—no, thank you. Enough already—stop this!” “Why doesn’t it align with you? Just yesterday, I was reading his *Leaves of Grass* at school with a friend—we rejoiced in unexpected discoveries. Why doesn’t it align with you?”

“Because Whitman is a poet,” “Because he views death and life as separate entities.” “I believe what we call death and life are merely labels slapped on by humanity’s flawed perception.” “If being here constitutes life, then this phenomenon called death is just another part of it.” “Death isn’t rest.” “Absolutely not.” “Death is life too.” “Thus death means pain too.” “To think we vanish at death—that’s just humans covering their eyes, too terrified to face truth’s glare. How could this *us* right here ever disappear completely?” “If total annihilation were possible, we wouldn’t be manifesting here at all.” “Our very manifestation proves eternal existence.” “Call this existence ‘life’ if you insist—the label matters little.” “That fellow Christo claimed eternal life flows inexhaustible like a spring—true enough about the spring’s endlessness.” “But preaching supreme joy in eternity? To me that’s crimson falsehood.” “We exist forever.” “However desperately we crave oblivion—nothingness remains forbidden.” “Even transformed into death’s existence, complete erasure eludes us.” “We can’t comprehend the whole universe.” “Yet even unknown to us as such, the universe persists unchanging through eternity.” “And we—as its fragments—endure eternally too.”

“We die.” “But that death is nothing like what we imagine.” “So suffering isn’t escaped by dying.” “Religious teachers preach emancipation from suffering, but isn’t that emancipation just death contrasted with life—a pain mistaken for liberation from pain?” “Isn’t it merely swapping the pain we call pain for the pain we call God or salvation?” “In short, it’s utterly hopeless.” “Wanting to act and having acted—they’re just cases where we occasionally swap labels; in essence, they’re carrying out the same unchanging thing.” “If humanity perishes, we’ll likely have transformed into something else entirely.”

“Ah, there’s your usual philosophy again. What you say may indeed be truth.” “But it’s also true that I find joy in Whitman’s poetry—and couldn’t we imagine beings beyond ourselves? God-men or human-gods?” “For instance, if your life—that eternal pain—were not pain…” “Don’t spout nonsense. How could we comprehend the suffering of god-men or human-gods? Look upon the blazing sun! When that sun finally crumbles, monsters beyond humanity may spawn from its fragments. The kingdom of God resides at the zenith of suffering.”

“——”

Miyooka fell silent. Heiichiro too remained silent. Ozawa’s somber tone alone resonated. The faint rasping sound that broke the silence was likely the snow beginning to fall. The charcoal fire in the brazier blazed fiercely, crackling and scattering sparks. It was quiet. The silence continued for about ten minutes. No one could bring themselves to speak. It was terrifying to speak, as though doing so would defile this solemn silence. When the sound of snow being brushed off geta came from downstairs, the three of them exchanged glances as if they had been saved. Then came the sound of rustling clothes ascending the stairs. It was such a quiet, deep winter night.

“Ozawa-san, are you here?” Shizuko said in a small voice as she came up. Melting white snowflakes clung to her bangs.

“Shizuko?”

“Ozawa-san.”

She settled herself squarely in front of Ozawa. She did not laugh.

“What’s wrong?” “Ozawa-san, won’t you marry me?”

“What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” “I was expelled from the bank—because of you. In my belly, it’s already moving sometimes.” “Is that true?” Ozawa asked. Ozawa was serious.

“It’s true.” “I don’t know.”

Ozawa coldly declared like a judge pronouncing sentence. At first Shizuko seemed inclined not to take it seriously, but Ozawa’s frigid expression compelled her to regard it earnestly. For the first time, Shizuko’s plump face drained of color. She appeared unable to form words. Then a dry laugh—like that of someone possessed by some higher consciousness—contorted her features. “I’ve nowhere left to go from here. Let me stay tonight! I’ve money enough to idle away half a year or more.”

With those words, Shizuko spread open her haori as if to show Ozawa her abdomen.

“It’s already May.”

Her abdomen, when looked at closely, was quite significantly swollen. Ozawa was staring coldly.

“Are you saying it’s my child?” “Yes, it’s your child.” “Ahahahahaha… ………………………………… So when there’s a child, you just pin all responsibility on the man, eh? Ahahahaha—Ozawa becoming a father? Ahahahaha!” Ozawa laughed hollowly.

After returning through the violent blizzard along the night path from Ozawa’s house, Heiichiro found his mother Hikari waiting awake for him. She would usually look at Heiichiro with a lonely expression accompanied by sighs, but tonight her face had softened. “Heiichiro, I hear Ms. Fuyuko will be returning to Kanazawa at month’s end after all this time.” This brought even Heiichiro an unexpected joy. Nearly two full years had passed since Fuyuko’s departure. Though occasional news of her had reached them during that time—they knew she had been given a small detached house with a storehouse in a back alley of Tokyo’s bustling Nihonbashi district, where she lived attended by an elderly maid and young girl; that Amano stayed overnight every other day; and that his influence was formidable—the details of Fuyuko’s life beyond these facts remained unknowable. A year and a half might seem brief, yet for Heiichiro and his mother it had been a long stretch filled with many changes. He felt a poignant shame at the thought of meeting Fuyuko. Hikari, for her part, reflected on the harsh life she had endured for her only child. The secret of fate buried in her past—that solitary truth she had kept hidden in her heart without forgetting for a single day despite being consumed by daily life since Fuyuko left—now revived within her with fresh pain and terror. (What wretched people we are.) Still, being able to see Fuyuko brought joy to mother and child alike.

"Is she coming alone? Huh, Mother?" "No," Hikari hesitated. "She's coming with... with Mr. Amano, I hear." "I see. Then it's disappointing." (Wakako had married into Tokyo, and now Fuyuko was coming.) Heiichiro found himself dwelling on these thoughts for no reason, unable to help feeling ashamed of his stagnant, lifeless, gloomy present life before the two women. Ah, truly, on this same earth there was Wakako and there was Fuyuko. Why wouldn't he strive to become a splendid person? Going to school as he was now had become instinctively painful to him. He thought about what he ought to do. The world felt as if it had darkened. In the sleepless midnight, he lay with eyes open, tears spilling out.

March 30th was a day when the late winter sun, having grown warmer over just two or three days, reflected on the melting snow water flowing through the streets.

Hikari was sleeping in a separate room because she felt chilled.

In the afternoon, as she gazed in a dreamlike state at the crimson sun shining through the shoji screens, a human shadow appeared on the paper panels.

“Who is it?”

“Auntie, it’s me. “It’s me, Fuyuko.” “It’s been so long, Auntie.”

The shoji was opened. Fuyuko kept her head lowered for a long time. "Oh, please come in. I felt a chill today, so—" Hikari and Fuyuko faced each other. As if to stop her slowly welling tears, Hikari softened her expression amiably and said, "Is this truly not a dream? But Ms. Fuyuko, you haven't changed at all." "Auntie, you too——" Fuyuko began to sob quietly. Fuyuko had just met with the women of Harukaze-ro and presented them with heartfelt gifts, but when they kept their distance like foreigners and wouldn't even give her a proper greeting, her heart filled with sorrow—only to then weep at Hikari's unchanging quiet affection.

“Truly, truly, the only one who never changes is you, Auntie.” (Ah, it is in Hikari’s heart that the true homeland of old resides.) Fuyuko spoke in fragmented, sparse words—about how she had arrived at Koryūtei with Amano last night; how she was meant to stay here for about two days; how immeasurably she had looked forward to coming here; how saddened she had been by everyone’s coldness at Harukaze-ro; how happy she was to see “Auntie”; how her Tokyo life was never easy, filled with constant anxieties—but then she suddenly stared at Hikari’s face,

“Auntie,” she called out. “What is it?” Hikari smiled. “You look just like Mr. Amano’s wife!”

“Why?” Hikari calmly replied but lowered her eyes. “Not long after I first settled into the Nihonbashi house where I now live, His Majesty the Emperor passed away.” “For that grand state funeral ceremony—I attended at a property owned by Mr. Amano’s company in front of Hibiya Park, right near the Imperial Palace—where I was permitted to pay respects alongside company officials.” “At that time, I endured such hardship.” “I had to maintain composure as though I were someone entirely unrelated to Mr. Amano.” “When night deepened and the imperial hearse prepared to depart the palace, I happened to glance beside me and saw a woman among frock-coated company men whose face mirrored yours exactly, Auntie.” “Thinking my eyes deceived me, I looked carefully—she was stouter than you, Auntie, with fiercer eyes and more imposing features that gradually seemed less like yours—but finding it so strange, I quietly asked someone nearby. Auntie—that was Mr. Amano’s wife! That moment’s feeling—like cold water dousing me, yet guilty, wretched, jealous—I’ll never forget it my whole life.” “And since you resemble her so perfectly, I felt such profound terror I couldn’t speak.”

Fuyuko then spoke of how the true depths of life as a mistress were marked by precarious loneliness; of how even now, anxiety about being cast aside at any moment never ceased; of how persecution and ostracism from society remained unrelenting. “Somehow, it no longer feels like we’ve been apart for two years at all, Auntie. I don’t know how to put it—I truly feel like I’m being indulged by my own mother.”

Hikari could no longer keep her face raised. It was because she had come to feel in her heart an irresistible anxiety, an estrangement, and the loneliness of one who knows everything. (It was no wonder Amano’s wife resembled me. She was my own sister! And does that Amano embrace my sister Ayako one night and then Fuyuko the next?!) “Auntie, where is Heiichiro-san?”

“Where he’s gone—he hasn’t been seen since this morning. I’m also at a loss about how to handle him these days,” Hikari could not help confiding her daily struggles. Hikari confided that since Heiichiro had been suspended from school, he had come to detest it and had grown gloomy and rough in temperament. “I don’t know what to do either. However, I do think it’s better for his temperament to leave him as free as possible rather than interfere too much, but Ms. Fuyuko, I’m even worried whether we can afford the school fees until he graduates from middle school.”

Hikari spoke with deep worry. Such suffering was something that became somewhat lighter just by being spoken of. Fuyuko listened intently to Hikari’s story. And from the middle of the conversation, her eyes began to shine with eagerness. “Auntie, how about sending Heiichiro-san to Tokyo?” “—Oh, do that, won’t you, Auntie?” “Huh?” Hikari’s eyes widened. The consciousness that had moved solely as an instinctive mother flared open—and all of Hikari, who had quietly endured over forty years of hardship, perceived the future of her only child that Fuyuko’s words implied. (I must never send Heiichiro to Tokyo!)

“Wouldn’t it be acceptable to proceed this way? Mr. Amano has but one young master of his own. He says he wishes to support someone who could accompany the young master—someone who might in time become both his cane and pillar. Auntie, if it were Heiichiro-san, I would entreat Mr. Amano through any means possible. As this is my personal plea, please permit me to look after Heiichiro-san.”

(Ah—the Amano who stole away my sister, the Amano who stole away Fuyuko, the Amano who indirectly drove my brother mad and killed my husband, who squandered all assets that should have secured our future—is this same Amano now trying to steal my only child Heiichiro too?) Along the endless wilderness path of this incomprehensible fate, "that bastard Amano" gradually drew near once more through some twisted providence. “Auntie, please agree to this.” “No—let me make this happen.” “If you endure the loneliness awhile longer, Heiichiro-san will surely grow into a fine man.” “Forcing him to attend a school he detests—even I can see that’s wrong.” “Now, wouldn’t it be better to enroll Heiichiro-san in a Tokyo middle school?” “—Once half a year or even a full year passes, you’ll come to be in Tokyo yourself before long, won’t you?”

Fuyuko was clearly agitated. (Was this not Hikari—the one who had cared for me when I was a girl with no one else to rely on?) To care for Heiichiro's future on behalf of that Hikari was a joyful thing. Hikari heard in Fuyuko’s words a fervent, harsh declaration of fate. Heiichiro’s ruined life did not seem likely to return to normal if left as it was. If he were sent to Tokyo and made to commute to one of its liberal schools from a grand residence, perhaps even his emotional wounds might heal. Yet the man in question was the "Amano Ichirō" who had become "Amano Eisuke". To be indebted to our archenemy 'Amano Eisuke'? Could such a thing be possible? Moreover, through Fuyuko’s hands! From the mistress of my own sister’s husband—(ah, curse that word!)—! I can't, I can't!

“Auntie, please do decide this truly. Let me have this good deed. Heiichiro-san is pitiable too—and though it’s terribly rude of me to say, doesn’t he lack any solid plans even after graduating middle school? Now please let me take care of Heiichiro-san, I beg you, Auntie.”

The determination that there was no way she wouldn’t take care of him was visible in Fuyuko. To Hikari, it appeared as though Amano were declaring—No matter what happens, I will take your only child! “Let’s ask Heiichiro,” Hikari said. “Ms. Fuyuko, I too cannot make any decision beyond this.” “If he agrees to go... Ms. Fuyuko, then I will formally make the request.”

(I'll leave Heiichiro's fate up to Heiichiro himself,) she resolved.

Leaving behind a souvenir for Heiichiro, Fuyuko departed Harukaze-ro in the evening. When Heiichiro returned home for dinner, Hikari told him that Fuyuko had come during his absence. Heiichiro wore a lonely expression and said nothing. Hikari looked at Heiichiro, who had grown terribly thin of late, as if only now realizing it. And in the end, she never mentioned the matter of going to Tokyo.

On the afternoon of the following day, as Heiichiro and Hikari were eating, Ichiko came to inform them that Fuyuko had called, asking Hikari to bring Heiichiro to Koryūtei immediately. Hikari, as if she had collided with something terrifying, trembling, while clearly seeing the critical fork in fate’s path, as if praying,

“Heiichiro,” she asked, “if there were someone to take care of you, would you have the will to go to Tokyo alone and study?”

“Huh?” “Ms. Fuyuko was saying that if you had the will to go study in Tokyo, she could try asking someone called Mr. Amano.” “Huh?” “Meaning you’d be placed at Mr. Amano’s residence and have him send you to school.”

“—I’ll just go to Koryūtei and see!” “I see.” Hikari, disheartened and seemingly bereft of spirit, took out new hakama trousers, a haori coat, and a lined kimono from the chest and silently laid them before him. Then she changed into her own kimono and walked the considerable distance along the snow-covered road to Koryūtei.

Hikari came to the entrance but did not go in. The maid respectfully guided Heiichiro. As they passed through the tatami corridor, Fuyuko came forward from the opposite side, smiling as she greeted them.

"You've grown so big! You've become quite the adult now." He laughed. And he thought—she’s still beautiful. "When I told Master Amano about you, he said he absolutely wants to meet you. Now, you must speak clearly and properly, you hear? —And Auntie?" "She absolutely refuses to come in, saying she can’t stand entering inside." The ten-mat room, with its golden-framed screen and carpets ablaze with color, gave Heiichiro an overwhelming impression that seethed and surged within him. He saw Amano lying sprawled in the center of the room, having his feet massaged by a maid. He placed his hands on the floor and bowed.

“This is the person,” Fuyuko introduced. “And what is your name?” Amano asked calmly. “My name is Heiichiro Oogawahira.” “And school?” “School—it’s been a complete failure,” Heiichiro said, and added, “I’ve just graduated from the fourth year of middle school.” The gas flame in the room’s stove burned blue, and Heiichiro, unaccustomed to the heat, felt on the verge of dizziness. He stared fixedly at the giant closing in on him—this man lounging leisurely amid such opulent luxury. He was encountering this sort of person for the first time in his life. A persistent pressure ceaselessly sought to crush him. Heiichiro felt within himself a preternatural power resisting that pressure. (I won’t lose!)

“And what do you intend to become?”

"I want to become a true politician and save this unfortunate world." “Seems you need money to set the world right.” "Money—is necessary. "But money is secondary." “Even if I’m poor—” “You think you can save the world even in poverty? “Ha ha ha ha—don’t you have the will to come to Tokyo and study?” “Oogawa-kun.” "If Mother permits it, I want to go."

At the beginning of April, when cherry buds began to blush crimson, 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 will never forget that I am your only child! Ah, take good care! No matter what may happen, I will surely achieve my ambition and show it to you! Ah, take good care!)—Heiichiro departed for Tokyo.

“At last… I’ve truly become all alone!” Hikari whispered. (Her sister taken, her brother taken, her husband taken, Fuyuko taken, and now even Heiichiro taken from her.) There was neither hatred nor sorrow. Only a quiet loneliness welled up. And, unknowing of anything, “The one who will defeat Amano is Heiichiro,” she whispered.

Chapter 9

It was late at night in early spring. There was no snow falling, and the wind wasn’t fierce. The deep blue night sky was serenely clear. Under that sky—Tokyo.

In the train racing through the interplay of brilliant lights and darkness, Heiichiro offered a prayer-filled resolve to the new life and new people that would now open before him. The immeasurable surge of human power—the great metropolis held within it the future and ceaselessly resounded with an eternal din. From the train window streamed towering buildings, wide stone-paved roads, the dense evergreen foliage of street trees, the mingling red and white lights of electric lamps and gaslights, crowds of citizens coming and going, and the aggressive, threatening searchlights and roars of automobiles. What magnificent grandeur! Thinking this, he couldn’t help but look at the profile of Fuyuko sitting beside him. As he thought that in the midst of this great metropolis, the only person he knew was this Fuyuko, he felt proud that her dignified beauty did not diminish in the slightest among the many women coming and going. (Even in Tokyo, Fuyuko remains beautiful—and as for me, just... To...kyo—) In what appeared to be the city center, where imposing structures exuding dignity and solidity lined both sides of the street, Fuyuko quietly pointed at a solemn five-story stone building among the deep aqua rooftops and said, “Mr. Amano’s company.” Before long, the conductor’s voice called out “M Street, Third District.” Heiichiro and Fuyuko got off there. A warm early spring breeze blew across the broad avenue. Heiichiro walked in silence, following behind Fuyuko. On a side street where a four-story egg-yellow ceramic brick building housing a precious metals dealer faced a red brick trading company, along that side street stood a row of modest plaster-walled storehouse-style wholesalers with lattice doors. There was another narrow alley branching off the side street. Into one of those narrow alleys, stepping on the gutter planks, Fuyuko entered. On the right stood a high black-painted plank fence, while on the left, midway down the alley, an electric light glowed beneath the eaves of a house fitted with a new, intricate lattice door. “Here it is, you know—my house,” Fuyuko said.

“Tama, are you there? Thank you for keeping watch over the house.” “Yes,” answered a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old maid as she slid open the frosted-glass shoji door at the entrance. “Welcome back, Madam. We’ve been awaiting your return most anxiously,” she said with a deep bow. “Madam.” “You’ve done well,” Fuyuko replied. Heiichiro followed Fuyuko inside. The three-tatami entryway had fusuma doors where a closet might normally be. Beyond lay an eight-tatami room similarly fitted with sliding doors instead of storage space. Heiichiro stood motionless in the cramped entry area.

“Tama, go order four duck and green onion sobas immediately.” “Yes, Madam.” “And—has Mr. Amano not arrived yet?” “Yes. He telephoned earlier that he might be somewhat late today.” “I see.”

Tama went outside. Heiichiro entered the bright eight-tatami room and looked around it, wondering where in the world the "telephone" was. Nothing resembling a telephone was visible. Yet he recognized how excessively polished the entire room was—its furnishings too elaborate and delicate, leaving not a trace of spaciousness. He found himself sitting face-to-face with Fuyuko before the small gleaming long hibachi, feeling at a loss (a sense of pity). That his first profound impression should be (a sense of pity)!

“Is this your residence?” Heiichiro blurted out.

“Here?” “Yes, it is.” “Why do you ask?”

“It’s quite cramped, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s quite cramped, isn’t it?” Fuyuko smiled. “There’s still a large house behind this one, you know. This is merely my sleeping quarters, you understand.” She had spoken in a whisper, but the surrounding silence made her words ring out sharply. The city’s clamor that had moments earlier surrounded them might as well have never existed here. Those who knew would recognize how such quiet spaces and moments lurked within the metropolis’s furious whirlpool. Fuyuko brewed tea and laid out sweets. Heiichiro—feeling ravenous—devoured every last morsel.

“I’m starving.” At Heiichiro’s declaration, Fuyuko burst out laughing. This spontaneous laughter naturally became the opportunity to broach what she had resolved—since before Heiichiro’s arrival in Tokyo—to make him gradually comprehend. “You’re hungry?” “Tama will bring the buckwheat noodles shortly.” “But more than that, Heiichiro-san—there is something I must have you understand—” Fuyuko began. She kept her gaze lowered, looking up at Heiichiro with earnest sincerity at each pause in her speech.

“Even if I don’t say such things—Heiichiro-san must already know everything—but I must constantly remind myself that I, as a person, do not truly exist in this world.” “I am Mr. Amano’s mistress—you understand, don’t you?” “For someone like me to care for you, Heiichiro-san—that must be impossible.” “A ‘ghost’ who isn’t alive shouldn’t be able to look after people, should they?” “That’s why this time too, officially speaking, it’s Mr. Okuyama—from the same province—who will be seen as your caretaker.” “If you don’t properly grasp these matters, something will happen that leaves all of us—myself, you, Mr. Amano, and Mr. Okuyama—utterly helpless. You understand?” “It would be best if you regarded Fuyuko as nonexistent.” Heiichiro felt a pang of sorrow at Fuyuko’s words. “Since Mr. Amano’s residence has the Young Master, Madam, about five maidservants, and an elderly manservant, you must acclimate yourself with the intention of having Madam and the Young Master support you for life—so as not to incur resentment from those beneath you. Isn’t that right? As the Young Master attends Keio University’s Department of Finance, study diligently alongside him—and you must grow to become Mr. Amano’s right-hand man.” “Truly, Mr. Amano’s efforts are nothing short of extraordinary.”

He had to constantly deny the existence of Fuyuko, whom he relied on. And that Fuyuko was the woman Amano loved—that through her arrangements he had entered Amano's residence and was pursuing his studies under his patronage. To Amano's wife and son in that household, he had to commit the falsehood of feigning ignorance about Fuyuko's very existence while resolving to grow close enough with them to share their lives indefinitely. A stormcloud of doubt surged through Heiichiro—could he truly perform this theatrical act weaving together complex falsehoods and truths? He looked up at Fuyuko with bewilderment. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. He hung his head in silence. Fuyuko too fell silent. The stillness grew terrifying between them. It truly seemed they'd ventured too far down this perilous path. But theirs was no fate permitting retreat. Whether for good or ill, they could only move forward. At that moment, he recalled his mother's "secret admonition" when leaving Kanazawa.

Mother said. “Your ancestors were the Kitano family—wealthy farmers of Ogawa Village who left Kanazawa city.” “It fell into ruin during my brother’s time.” “And though your father passed away when you were young—he was a man who always wished to work for the sake of many people—yet he died before fulfilling that.” “You have been raised solely by my own hands, so you are what society calls a ‘mother-raised child’ and a ‘pauper’s child.’” “You have a responsibility to show the world that the will and power of the ruined Kitano family, your deceased father, and this Hikari who has dedicated her life to you can overcome poverty and adverse circumstances even for a pauper’s child.—And another thing: while keeping all this firmly rooted in your spirit, you must never reveal that your mother’s birthplace was Ogawa Village’s Kitano family when you go to Amano’s household.” “You must make them believe Mother was born in Kanazawa.” “Also, you must say that Father was from a mountain region.” “Anchor these two things deep in your heart, study with all your might, and Mother will pray with her very life that you become what you always say—a ‘true politician’—”

Now, to these "Mother’s admonitions" were layered "Fuyuko’s admonitions." Layers upon layers of secrets, layers upon layers of burdens from invisible fate—this self that must bear them all to go on living. Heiichiro couldn’t help but sink into gloomy darkness. A desolate feeling arose in him, as though he had strayed into pitch-black shadows. Of course, beneath that "uncertainty" there had taken root a substantial, radiant force—though. “Since Master Amano has invested such extraordinary efforts for you—” “Since he himself has gone to the trouble of finding a school for you—you must endure any hardships there, mustn’t you?” “Those of us born into meager circumstances have no choice but to taste bitter tears and resign ourselves to silent endurance.” “That path holds many sorrows.” “There are pains worse than death.” “But through enduring them—isn’t that how human mettle is forged?” “You know—even after nearly ten years since first knowing grief—not a single night passes without my weeping.” “I truly cannot help envying you.” “Is being born male not the greatest fortune?” “If we bury ourselves in bitter endurance for a time—when the hour comes—could we not live freely before all the world? So please—become a great politician and save those doomed to lives of wretched poverty like ours.”

Fuyuko's eyes were brimming with tears. Each word she spoke in a low voice was imbued with the sorrow of her entire life. Heiichiro sensed a sublime beauty in Fuyuko. It was rare for Fuyuko to show this beauty. It was the pinnacle of human beauty. Heiichiro accepted with his entire being the passion hidden within Fuyuko. The dark "uncertainty" was dispelled, and the youth's pure passion began to overflow, radiating a white light from within. (Ah, what is there to fear? What in this world could possibly be terrifying? I will protect my mother and father’s secret. I hold Fuyuko deep within my soul. I will cultivate a deeper sense of respect and affection toward Mr. Amano. I will interact with Mr. Amano’s wife and children with sincerity. And so I will study with all my might. What is terrifying is that even in studying, one might forget substantial study. What is terrifying is losing the ambition to become a great politician who truly saves people after growing up. I could not help but feel this way. Ah, no matter what it takes, I must eradicate all the unfortunate souls from this earth; I want to see the joyful faces of those who devote themselves to me, those who love me—Mother, Fuyuko, Wakako, and Fukai. Furthermore, I want to declare to myself that my existence has truly been worthwhile. I have come this far.)

(I will remain pure, honest, and wholehearted.) Heiichiro remained silent while thinking. “Let’s stop this kind of talk now, shall we? “Since you must already be aware of everything.” “Even if you’re tired tonight, please try to endure it a little longer.” “It would be best for you to meet with Mr.Amano and speak with him.” “After sightseeing here for two or three days with Mr.Okuyama visiting Takanawa residence... I wonder about Tamako.” “She’s taking awfully long.”

Silence closed in on the two who sat wordless. It was the first time Heiichiro had been told a story by Fuyuko in such a profoundly penetrating manner. He felt that the barrier of "adult and child" that had existed between Fuyuko and him had completely disappeared. It was neither a feeling toward Mother nor toward Wakako, but a feeling that combined both Wakako and Mother. At that moment, there came the sound of repeated knocking at the three-tatami closet near the entranceway: “Madam, I’m terribly sorry, but might you open up for just a moment?” “Madam,” Tamako’s voice called out. 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 Tamako emerged with an “I do apologize.”

“It’s a secret passage, Heiichiro-san—from there it leads to Mr. Amano’s villa,” Fuyuko said, smiling. Tamako—fair-skinned, her cheeks apple-round—heavily placed a large duck-and-noodle bowl there. Fuyuko offered one to Tamako and another to Heiichiro. When Heiichiro had finished his second bowl of soba, a refined woman in her fifties appeared from the “secret passage” between Fuyuko’s hideaway and Amano’s villa. She removed her sash and sat properly with her hands neatly placed.

“Madam, welcome back.” “Heiichiro-san is this gentleman here.” “Welcome.”

“Since he’s come from the countryside for the first time, Auntie, please look after him again.”

Yoshie, a narrow-eyed woman who seemed kind-hearted and a true Edo native through and through, lived in this villa together with Tasuke, who had worked as a company caretaker. The maid Tamako was the sole daughter born between Yoshie and Tasuke. This was something Heiichiro would come to learn later.

“Has Master not yet returned?”

“Yes, madam. Earlier he called to say he might be late tonight, so he requested we prepare the bath. Tasuke has been adjusting the bath temperature ever since and waiting, but it seems he still hasn’t arrived. In that case, Madam, why don’t you take the first bath?” “I’m fine, but—” Fuyuko looked at Heiichiro. She wanted to have him use it. But she did not bring it up. Heiichiro understood. The four of them began passing time with innocuous chitchat revolving around him—Fuyuko’s covert efforts to make Aunt Yoshie think well of Heiichiro; the aunt’s growing goodwill as a pure Edo native with a beautiful disposition; Tamako’s smiles and coy, fleeting glances that acknowledged him as a promising young man of the opposite sex—these things at times made him feel vulgar, at others pleased, and still others ticklishly self-conscious. And beneath it all flowed the loneliness of being on a distant journey.

Even after ten o'clock passed and it became eleven, Amano did not return. Through this, Heiichiro came to realize Fuyuko had begun being tormented by an inexpressible anxiety. That Fuyuko should feel this anxiety struck him as both wretched and 'pitiful'. Moreover, the kind of sympathy and consolation Yoshie and Tamako showed toward Fuyuko felt more painfully humiliating than hostility to Heiichiro.

“Perhaps Master stopped somewhere along the way?” “I suppose so,” Fuyuko answered quietly. Then she said to Yoshie, “The bedding should be laid out by now.” “Yes, it’s laid out.” “Since it’s such a night, I think we should let Heiichiro-san rest first—Tamako, won’t you prepare the bedding upstairs?” “That would be best,” Tamako answered and opened the sliding door resembling a closet in the tea room. There was a staircase leading to the second floor. Heiichiro felt renewed pity at how every detail of Fuyuko’s house seemed steeped in secrecy.

(Is this what it takes just to survive?!)

“The bedding has been prepared.” “Well then, Heiichiro-san, you should rest well tonight.” “Let’s have you meet Mr. Amano tomorrow morning.”

“Well then, good night.” “Good night.”

When Heiichiro, guided by Tamako, climbed the narrow staircase, there lay before him a new ten-tatami room with red walls, featuring an alcove and sliding door compartments. From the alcove ornaments, the room’s architectural features, and the substantial aesthetic sense evident throughout, it could be inferred that this was a room built without sparing gold. Tamako said, “Good night.” “Is this room not normally used?” Heiichiro asked resolutely. “This is where Master and Madam have their conversations on Sunday afternoons.”

“Fuyuko-neesan—” Heiichiro started to say, then hurriedly asked, “Does Madam always sleep here?” Tamako smiled cheerfully, “On days when Master isn’t here, Madam stays in this room. On nights when Master is present—well, you saw where I came from earlier—she stays on the second floor of that mansion. You understand, don’t you?”

Tamako then said “Good night” and descended downstairs. Heiichiro stripped to his shirt and slipped into the silk-quilted futon. A sweetly fragrant aroma wafted up from within the bedding. He turned off the electric lamp. Something resembling the distant rumble of a streetcar reached his ears. He remembered his mother. The sorrowful tears from when they had parted—when that train began moving—were granted to him anew. He wept tears and, if only briefly, found himself unable to dismiss the thought that Fuyuko’s “life as a kept woman” must be agonizing. (Does Amano truly love Fuyuko? Is Fuyuko genuinely happy? ...She can’t possibly be!)

In the early spring morning, Heiichiro Oogawahira awoke. He reached out unconsciously, seeking his mother, seeking the loving care that would rouse his fretful, solitary self lying there—but met no response. The faint early spring light shining through the windowpane dimly illuminated him. Heiichiro's soul, startled by the void, opened its eyes. (Ah, I have already left my mother and come on this distant journey.) His entire body surged with a kind of tension, inspiration, and loneliness.

“Heiichiro-san, have you woken up already?” Tamako came in. “Good morning.” “Good morning.” While Heiichiro was changing into his kimono, Tamako had already put away the bedding. Fuyuko was nowhere to be seen downstairs. Tamako brought out the meal tray and offered breakfast to Heiichiro. In the small kitchen’s gas pot, miso soup was boiling vigorously. He sipped the thick, gloopy miso soup he detested. Just as he finished breakfast, Tamako came to call on him. From the “secret passage” of the three-tatami room, he emerged onto the corridor alongside the villa’s garden and was led to the reception room. A single pine tree that had sunk its roots deep into the garden’s soil stretched upward over the roof as if yearning for the sun’s warmth. The room was eight tatami. The adjacent six-tatami space—which had served as a front storehouse—stood open, and amidst the lavish spread of expansive carpets, screens, and soft bedding lay Eisuke Amano, his body stretched out comfortably. The imposing grandeur he had once felt from Amano at Kanazawa’s Koryu-tei was absent now, yet the man’s full cheeks, high forehead, and nose that stretched long and wide as if commanding both brow and cheeks—his mouth and eyes this morning appeared soft, gazing tenderly at the boy who had journeyed from distant home shores as though watching over him with care. Bowing, he found himself wanting to feel “warmth” from this giant—whose hair and cheeks were streaked with sporadic white strands—who intended to look after him. Fuyuko was nowhere to be seen in the room.

“Come closer here.”

“Yes.” Heiichiro crossed the threshold and approached him. Tamako offered Heiichiro a zabuton. Heiichiro did not use it. Amano said lightly, “Sit down.” Since this clearly stemmed not from any affectation but from a genuine intent to treat Heiichiro as Amano’s equal, he sat down. Then Tamako brought tea and sweets and left. Amano, nearing fifty, and Heiichiro, seventeen, sat in silence facing each other for a while.

“You came.” “I resolved to come.” “Didn’t your mother cry?” “No, Mother said it would be best for me to go quickly.” “I see. Ahahaha.” “You were going to become a politician when you grew up, weren’t you?” “Yes.” “So you intend to set the world right that way, is that it?” “Yes.” “When I was your age, I too intended to become a first-rate politician. "However, I wanted to rule the world. "That’s where we differ." “Ahahahaha.”

“—” Heiichiro had come to feel simultaneously a desire to worship Amano and be filled with tender affection, alongside a mysterious, profound hostility. "I will exert all my strength to help you achieve your ambitions." "I shall think of you as my own true child." “However, though it may be difficult for you, you must spend your student days at my residence in T District in the capacity of a live-in student.” "I have a wife named Ayako and a son named Otohiko who is one year older than you." “If you truly trust and care for me, I would have you strive to serve them appropriately as well. ――However, this is not something I will force upon you.” "I will leave everything to your own free will." “Well, Heiichiro.”

“Yes.” “Now regarding your schooling—during my youth, I spent what you might call a foolish, dream-like period at M Academy. The place is liberal, suits your temperament well, and being close to the residence makes it convenient. But do you have another school in mind?” “No, sir.” “In any case, if you devote your full strength to expressing those aspirations burning within you now, that will satisfy me.” “Just remember this—in the Amano household, apart from myself, there exists a wife and child.”

“I understand.” Heiichiro felt an extraordinary shudder course through his entire body. It was a violent collision of light and darkness. Initially, when this solitary giant had told him—“I will spare no effort to help you achieve your ambitions”—and “So you mean to set the world aright”—he had sensed within those words a tenderness glowing with luminous joy. Yet in his deepest core, he could not ignore those other words from the same Amano: “I wanted to rule the world!” and “If you truly cherish and trust me, I would have you devote yourself to serving them appropriately——” “I’ll take care of you.” “In return, become my slave!” Wasn’t this what he was truly saying?

"Trying to make me into that—it’s no use!" Heiichiro screamed inwardly. Save me, Heiichiro-san resonated Fuyuko’s words in his mind. Heiichiro stared at Amano. “Tamako,” Amano called out. Tamako appeared with both hands pressed to the floor. “Call Tasuke and Yoshie for me.” “And what exactly is Fuyuko still doing in the storehouse?” “The Mistress is searching for your garments in there, Master.” Before long, Tasuke and Yoshie appeared on the engawa. Tasuke was a sturdy, balding man in his fifties who nonetheless carried himself with refinement—a good match for his slender wife Yoshie. The couple bowed deeply to Heiichiro. Heiichiro returned the courtesy with “I’ll be in your care.”

“Since Heiichiro has come from afar, you will need to look after him again.” “No, there’s no need for you to say such things, Master,” said Tasuke, stroking his bald head, his face expressing obedience and sincerity. Heiichiro thought that he had now immersed himself into this kingdom of Amano’s, where Yoshie and her husband, Tamako, and Fuyuko had all come to place their absolute trust and obedience. In this kingdom, all people lived “for Amano’s sake.” They were living for that purpose. Fuyuko opened the rattling door of the storehouse and emerged, holding garments in her hands. She smiled a lonely smile.

“Are you already awake, Heiichiro-san? Last night, after the Master returned, when I went up to the second floor, you were already asleep under the futon, weren’t you?” Everyone laughed quietly.

“Why don’t you stay here for two or three days? Rest while taking in the sights.” Fuyuko spoke half to Heiichiro and half to Eisuke. Eisuke nodded. Fuyuko looked at Heiichiro. Her gaze informed him that it was time to leave this place. He nodded politely to everyone and returned along the corridor to Fuyuko’s “hideaway.” He lay sprawled on his back across the second-floor tatami room, feeling the collision between the train’s thunderous roar—like distant rumbling—and the faint early spring sunlight. It was strange that, as he lay there, hostility toward Amano arose in his consciousness like the faint recollection of a dream. He doubted his own heart as he considered Amano’s benevolence—Amano, who was trying to devote all his strength to his life—and attempted to dispel these baseless delusions, but it was no use. An unfathomable, endless, vexing loneliness began to seep out. It was an unbearable loneliness. It was a loneliness that seemed to surge forth faintly from the very dawn of humanity’s birth. Heiichiro spent three days at what was Amano’s “mistress residence” and Fuyuko’s “home,” savoring that loneliness.

Those three days made Heiichiro realize that Fuyuko’s life was by no means as "he had imagined"—they revealed to him that it was neither happy nor free. She was indeed a "mistress." Amano had established this villa in the town near his company due to the distance between his corporate headquarters and main residence in Takanawa, staying there every other night. The villa was, in other words, a "mistress residence." Tasuke and his wife had been Amano’s trusted retainers for over a dozen years—Tasuke formerly a company janitor, Yoshie formerly a maid at the Takanawa residence—and while outwardly cooperating to shield Fuyuko from external scrutiny, this same collaborative force persistently maintained strict surveillance and interference as "Amano’s proxies" beneath their courteous ministrations of "Mistress, Mistress." Just as Fuyuko loved Amano, Amano likely loved her in return. Yet Amano’s love simultaneously demanded absolute domination. Fuyuko was like a captured and caged songbird—her material needs met, yet constrained, truly isolated, treated as a mere instrument.

Heiichiro, on nights when Amano did not come, spoke of the Tokyo cityscape he had seen for the first time, stories of his hometown, and Hikari, lost in nostalgia and unaware of the night growing late. Heiichiro must have been immeasurably delighted to find Fuyuko remained as beautiful as she had been in the past—noble in bearing, dignified, and appearing lonely. And Heiichiro (Fuyuko too) desperately wanted to speak more freely, with their consciousnesses merged into one, yet he could not help feeling that an "unspoken will" filled the house—one that somehow prevented this and enforced a separation in their conversation. "Ye are slaves unto yourselves," he perceived a spirit roaring thunderously: "Ye shall be trumpets of your own words; annihilate your innate selves and kneel!" Yoshie and Tamako kept coming and going without any real purpose. And kept their watchful eyes sharp. At the source making them gleam was "Amano"!

Ah, what loneliness! And this solitude! To think that Fuyuko—once so splendid and beautiful she was been called a celebrated geisha—had now become utterly dominated by Amano, a prisoner confined to his "villa"!

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

"If you think you can make me your prisoner, then try! I alone will never be captured!"

On the afternoon of the fourth day, a tall man in his early forties named Okuyama arrived. He was from the same Kanazawa as Heiichiro. Fuyuko bowed politely to him and said, "Please take care of me." Okuyama blew tobacco smoke and uttered flattery. Heiichiro found it repugnant to become this unpleasant stranger's "family member" and go to Amano's residence. However, he reconsidered. "It's nothing but training," he told himself.

No one knew of the "buried fate of the past" that Hikari alone harbored as she remained in Kanazawa, lonely with forty years of that "buried past." Amano also did not know. Fuyuko also did not know. Ayako, Hikari’s sister and Amano’s wife, also did not know, and Heiichiro himself was unaware. Because they were ultimately human, and because humans remain ultimately ignorant of their true fates. Amano—for Fuyuko’s sake and because he considered his own son a delinquent unworthy of succession, with Fuyuko serving as "repayment" to Hikari and compounded by her perceived helplessness upon learning she would never bear children—though it remained unclear how Ayako viewed this, surely did not know that Heiichiro, now her nephew, was likely the forgotten child of Shuntaro Oogawa, the man she had once devotedly loved with a maiden’s whole heart. And Heiichiro too was ignorant of these facts. He possessed nothing but a sacred, solemn, fervently burning will. That very will was one that resonated in the hearts of all people and sought to save them all. It was a will to become me for all people.

Chapter Ten

The early April afternoon carried a gentle warmth that permeated the air. ("How bitter to bow even once to such people.") Through tear-blurred eyes, Shinagawa's sea shimmered with a dark indigo brilliance. This place lay on Tokyo's outskirts, far removed from its center. The possessors of "wealth"—those whose desires demanded vast private lands and grand mansions—were sating their insatiable cravings upon newly elevated terrain. Under a clear, calm blue sky empty of drifting clouds, a broad flat road sloped gently between freshly cleared vacant lots and high brick walls. In the vacant lots, tree trunks felled during land-leveling work lay exposed to the spring sun alongside roots caked in raw earth, while a cedar grove's shadows darkened over half the space. Swinging his cane, Okuyama explained that within those cedars stood the estate of Duke M, who had wielded power in overthrowing the Tokugawa shogunate during the Meiji Restoration. Upon reaching the slope's midpoint, beyond a black-painted fence shaded by Western-style garden trees, there loomed a magnificent red-brick palace. Even the sunlight glinting off orange damask window drapes in the spire's windows stood clearly visible. Okuyama informed him this was the residence of K from the imperial family. The blue sky above shone with such beauty it seemed eternal. Heiichiro felt melancholy rise within him. Though uncertain why, from the street corner where forest foliage spilled over Duke M's cement-walled estate, they turned left onto a dark narrow slope that steepened gradually. "Turn here," Okuyama instructed, indicating that the bamboo grove opposite Duke M's estate belonged to Viscount O. Enclosed by cedars and bamboo, the road remained untouched by spring sunlight—chillingly desolate. As they climbed, pale red clouds of cherry blossoms bloomed gloriously amidst gloomy trees, and Heiichiro instinctively knew: "This must be it." Cherry petals from branches overhanging plank fences lay scattered white across the road. At the slope's summit stretched an elegant wooden fence along the right-hand street, its large steel gate bearing a plaque reading "Eisuke Amano." Entering the side gate revealed a granite-paved path running beneath cherry trees on both sides. Okuyama opened the lattice door beside the entrance and requested admittance.

A maid came out and said, “Ah, Mr. Okuyama.” “Is Madam present?” “Yes, Madam is at home.” “Right,” he said, taking off his shoes and leaving Heiichiro behind as if forgotten, then proceeded inside. Heiichiro sat on the polished entrance steps, feeling an anxiety like a sailor watching storm clouds gather. While gazing at the doghouse beneath the cherry tree visible through the latticework, he began to think his coming to Tokyo might be an irreparable mistake. “Mr. Oogawa, Madam requests your presence.” A flat-faced maid with narrow eyes that held smiling kindness had come to summon him, so he followed. In the ten-mat tea room, Okuyama sat formally in Western clothes while speaking. “After all, he remains a boy yet to graduate middle school—”

“Why couldn’t you have brought him 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 nature and involuntarily stepped into the room. Bowing with “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” when he looked directly at the Madam seated before the brazier, he found himself immobilized by shock—a shock so sudden and profound that it seemed to solidify within him. In Madam, he had seen a woman who was the living image of his mother Hikari! Yet this lasted but an instant—a deep impression that Heiichiro perceived with all his might, synthesizing it comprehensively. It was a confrontation between one essence of sorrow inherent in human life and another. He looked at her again as if doubting himself. And she was no longer “Mother Hikari.” A woman utterly different from Hikari—an imposing figure with leisurely stature and abundant black hair; slightly plump yet lustrous skin; a robust, almost masculine build; eyes as sharply defined as gleaming blades with terrifying beauty; a clear-cut nose bridge; elegantly rounded nostrils; a full lower lip; gently drooping jaw and cheeks; earlobes through which blood vessels showed beautifully—an impressive woman. She radiated substantial dignity and greatness worthy of her status as Madam Amano. While Fuyuko’s beauty carried a shadowy loneliness about it, how magnificent was this presence! Heiichiro recalled his mother Hikari’s emaciated appearance and felt displeasure at his own illusion that had momentarily mistaken this woman for her. Yet Heiichiro was not the only one startled. Ah, who could fathom the profound turmoil in Ayako’s soul as she too sat silent, eyes wide open? To think she would find in this unexpected Heiichiro the living image of the man she had loved and never forgotten throughout her entire life! The sound of scarlet carp leaping in the courtyard pond splashed clearly. “Are you Heiichiro-san?”

“Yes, I am Heiichiro Oogawahira. It’s my first time meeting you.” As he answered, Heiichiro felt an internal barrier—the sense that he was uttering falsehoods. (I feel like we’ve met many times before) Ah, from the faint, distant depths of his heart transcending life itself, something proclaimed it had been too long. “Oogawa…” Ayako murmured softly, staring at Heiichiro as if to envelop him. Her long, blade-like eyes—their slits rounded and wide—shone brilliantly as they pressed toward him. Complex thoughts glittered like a rushing torrent in their depths, coalescing into a single icy stream that scrutinized him.

“You mentioned his mother is alone, correct?” She asked Okuyama perfunctorily while staring at Heiichiro. “Yes, they’ve lived as a mother and child alone until now, but since they couldn’t provide adequate education, and as I happened to be acquainted with them, I made a request to the master here—” (He’s lying), Heiichiro thought, feeling despicable as he looked down. Without even properly listening, Ayako now turned to question Heiichiro.

“What kind of person is your mother? What’s her name?” The extraordinary emotion Ayako showed when he said, “My mother is Hikari—” would be something Heiichiro could never forget in his lifetime. It was as if the shock that should have burst outward instead turned inward, coursing relentlessly through the intricate layers of her psyche. The Madam concentrated all her extraordinary strength into her blazing eyes, immobilizing Heiichiro completely. The silence compelled him to continue speaking. He had just begun saying, “My mother is forty this year—” when his mother’s warning flashed through his mind like lightning—a critical moment. “My mother was born in Kanazawa,” he continued. “My father passed away when I was young, so I have no memories of him whatsoever, but he was said to have been born in port K and was apparently my mother’s adopted son.” He strained with all his might, compelled to declare it forcefully as if making an oath. So single-minded was he that his own words seemed to hold the weight of absolute truth. Ayako shifted her eyes suspiciously before lowering them like someone peering into an abyss from a cliff’s edge and murmured, “I see.” Then, as if afraid to look at Heiichiro again, she called out to the maid: “Kume!” Kume—a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old with a round face, doll-like fair complexion, and delicate features—knelt in the hallway wearing a white apron while rubbing her hands.

"Is the four-and-a-half mat room by the entrance that I mentioned earlier ready?" "Yes, it has been fully prepared."

“Then please show Oogawa to his room,” Ayako said with visible anguish.

In the new four-and-a-half mat room by the entrance with fresh tatami mats stood a desk furnished 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-woven trunk he had sent directly from the station, its ropes still untied. Beyond the window, sasanqua camellias and nandina trees planted in the vacant lot swayed backlit by sunlight. Kume demonstrated by sitting at the desk herself. “Mr. Heiichiro,” she said with a smile, “we’ve arranged everything so all we needed was your arrival.” She slid open the right-hand paper door. Past the veranda came sunlight flowing across the inner garden’s broad lawn, pale red cherry blossoms blooming wildly among evergreen thickets, and the trilling of small birds. What profound stillness this held. He sat before the desk and sank into the all-pervading silence. Yet unlike the outer quiet, within him swelled an uncanny sensation that spread mysteriously.

“This is quite a nice room indeed.” “You truly are fortunate, Heiichiro-san.” “To think you’re being allowed to commute to school from a mansion like this.” “And truly, there’s no mansion as fine as this one here.” “Madam is a splendid and deeply compassionate person, and Master too is such a kind man.” “Though Young Master’s health is somewhat delicate and he tends to neglect his studies…” Kume chattered animatedly, occasionally using exaggerated come-hither looks just as Tamako from Shimotomatsu-cho used to do. Heiichiro didn’t entirely dislike those coquettish glances, but for some reason, he couldn’t suppress the desolate loneliness that shuddered through his entire body. (It was because he’d left his mother.) (A loneliness that could be endured without being felt as long as he remained by his mother’s side—even if they had no rice to eat tomorrow.) And now, an inexplicable attachment to Mrs. Amano began welling up within him. He gazed at the sasanqua leaves by the window through this prism of complex emotions. Kume, close to his ear, explained that he must clean his own room, the hallway, and front garden every morning after rising; that he must occasionally stoke the bath fire; and that after returning from school, any visitors would require his attendance. Eventually, all seven maids of the mansion came to offer their introductory greetings one by one. Okuyama earnestly repeated “I leave him in your care” each time with feigned sincerity.

"What a spineless fool I am! I mustn't!" When he found himself alone, he swung his hands about as if warding off attacking evil spirits, then untied the cords of the willow trunk and took out his inkstone and pens. And he began writing his first simple correspondence since arriving in Tokyo - to his mother, to Fukai, and to Ozawa. (Ah, I want to let Wakako know. After all, she must be here in Tokyo!)

After eight o'clock， Amano returned by automobile. Heiichiro， along with the maids， went to greet him， but he entered deeper into the house without so much as a glance. He considered how behind this “coldness” lay Shimotomatsu-cho and “the mistress Fuyuko，” and felt a dark gloom settle over him. (I mustn’t. This really won’t do. This really won’t do—letting such falsehoods become entrenched!) he suddenly thought.

Thirty minutes later, the maid told Heiichiro, "Master has summoned you." Amano lay sprawled in the center of the tearoom here in this mansion too - just as he used to at the Koruiten in Kanazawa and his Shimotomatsu-cho villa - with a blanket draped carelessly over him. Ayako kept silent, leaning against the hibachi.

"Did you speak to him?" "Yes, Mr. Okuyama came around noon and handled the introductions."

“What about school?” “Not yet.”

“Hmm.” Amano looked at Heiichiro and asked, “What year are you in school again?” “I have completed four years.” “Then since M Academy is conveniently close from here, you should go there tomorrow.” He then said, “I’ll write a letter to Tanaka.” Kume, who had been massaging feet, brought an inkstone box and scroll paper from the inner room. Amano scrubbed the brush to finish writing and placed the sealed letter before Heiichiro. “Tomorrow, take this yourself and go to M Academy. Tanaka is someone I’ve known for quite some time.”

“Yes,” said Heiichiro as he raised his eyes, startled to feel Ayako’s gaze fixed on him with fiery intensity. Then Amano glared at him with terrifying intensity. "The Formidable Man and Woman" The fact that Amano and Ayako—one might call them formidable—were staring at him with such intensity was terrifying. However, when he thought that starting tomorrow he could attend a new, free school and study, "the boy Heiichiro" felt vibrant joy and hope welling up within him. That pure, vibrant emotion had the power to overcome the "inexplicable gloom and terror" that threatened to fester deep within him. He became energetic, overflowing with joy.

“How truly enviable you are, Heiichiro-san. If I were a man, I’d beg to be sent to school too—don’t you agree, Madam?” said Kume. “Why, just earlier I was saying how fortunate Heiichiro-san is.” “Why don’t you go to a girls’ school yourself? And wear proper shoes.” “Oh, Madam, if I were a man, I would want to go to school. I’d rather die than become one of those schoolgirls!” Everyone laughed at Kume’s thoroughly disgusted tone. Heiichiro laughed too. Even as he laughed, he felt Ayako’s gaze—swift as lightning—pierce through him. Amano’s composure, brimming with relaxed authority, remained unbroken even in laughter. He amused the maids with lighthearted humor. Ayako did the same. As Kume had remarked—“You won’t find such a splendid mansion anywhere else”—the master and mistress appeared benevolent toward their servants, noble figures harboring reservoirs of untapped power. Yet Heiichiro couldn’t ignore how they simultaneously demanded absolute obedience from the maids. This realization kindled a nascent resentment within him. Moreover, through Heiichiro’s clear perception, it became evident that Amano and Ayako’s personalities weren’t harmoniously united but stood glaringly opposed—their very capacity for humor toward the maids revealing this rift. Within himself, defiance toward Amano had already begun taking root, while Ayako’s fervent gaze seemed to envelop his entire being. Being in their presence grew unbearable. “Then tomorrow I’ll go alone,” he said, tucking Amano’s letter of introduction into his pocket as he turned toward his room. At that moment, someone slid open the shoji screen and peered inside—a tall young man in a new Oshima tsumugi lined kimono, hands tucked in his sleeves. Though not emaciated, his entire form appeared withered and sallow, restless eyes lending him a sinister air.

“Oh, welcome back, Young Master,” said Kume. “Just now,” he replied irritably, sitting down beside the hibachi as he looked down at Heiichiro. “Who’re you?” 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?” Otohiko asked Kume. “Yes, this is Mr. Oogawa,” Kume answered. “So you’re Oogawa?” His voice was hoarse and coarse.

“I am Heiichiro.” “I’m Otohiko.” He laughed hollowly. Heiichiro looked up at this youth, wondering if he was Amano and Ayako’s child. A broad forehead, a nose that rose prominently and spread wide, thick and robust eyebrows—Otohiko too possessed each of Amano’s majestic features. Yet each was diminished in scale, devoid of that inner wellspring of vitality, leaving his whole being withered. Seeing the grimy, aged-looking skin and elderly complexion, Heiichiro couldn’t help thinking: (Amano’s son is aging prematurely.)

“Are you turning in already?” he asked Heiichiro with what seemed like half-hearted curiosity. “No, not yet—” “Well… Father, shall we play the gramophone?” Otohiko said in a hoarse voice, but Amano merely opened his eyes slightly and did not respond. Otohiko called out loudly, “O-Yuki! O-Yuki! Bring the gramophone here!” summoning the maid from the next room. His face, wounded by his parents’ coldness and indifference, was twisted. A maid named O-Yuki, her face covered in pimples, brought the gramophone. Otohiko said while attaching the needle, “Why don’t you all come over here and listen?” Before long, the gramophone began playing a comically vulgar song—“Behind the Field”—in that spring night’s room, so absurd it was impossible not to burst out laughing. A carnal, irrepressible burst of laughter erupted from the maids next door. Ayako said reluctantly, “Everyone, come over here.” The women, who had been fidgeting restlessly with the desire to come in since earlier, entered the parlor guffawing as if laughter were their ticket to admission. As Otohiko’s presence became obscured by the five maids and the gramophone’s tones, both Amano and Ayako occasionally livened up the gathering with light humor.

“Otohiko, play Tsubosaka next,” Amano said, addressing him as one among the crowd. He spoke to Otohiko. Ayako, however, never once looked at Otohiko in the end. Heiichiro retreated to his room midway through. He laid out the new futon his mother had laundered for his move to Tokyo and burrowed into it. From the parlor drifted women’s gasps and raucous laughter, mingling with the gramophone’s shrill, unvarnished voice. He could not sleep. He could not pray. As he hovered at sleep’s edge, he heard what sounded like women’s cheerful laughter—yet he found himself unable to accept it as mere cheerfulness. The laughter resembled small waves rippling across a vast sea. Beneath those surface ripples, he sensed an infinitely deep oceanic expanse lurking in the depths. To Heiichiro, that sea’s mystery and depth and terror pressed close against him. Tears seeped through his acutely sensitized nerves. Mother, Fuyuko, Wakako, Fukai, Amano, Ayako, Otohiko—Ah, I am lonely, he thought.

The next morning, Heiichiro went to M Academy. Instead of wooden fences arranged like those of a prison, thorns had naturally formed a hedge. The gate doors hung loose on their hinges, while poplars that had grown unchecked swayed in the breeze beside them. To the right rose the russet spire of a new red-brick hall against the blue sky; its marble columns stood with solemn grandeur, sunlight shimmering beautifully through stained-glass windows. To the left of the gentle slope extending from the gate, the ground swelled into a rounded hillock enveloped in lush green lawn where a tennis court lay. A blonde girl in a floral-patterned dress was competing with a student-like young man wielding rackets.

“Never! Only one Error!” 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. At the slope's summit rose a tall pale-blue three-story building labeled "Higher School Department" to the right. Behind it stretched a deep oak grove; before it lay lawns where cherry blossoms bloomed wildly, and beyond these stood a new two-story building in ochre hues.

A bearded man in a black gown who seemed kindhearted crossed the athletic field and walked toward Heiichiro. Heiichiro bowed and asked, “Excuse me, where might the Regular Department be?” “What business brings you here?” “I was hoping to see a 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 had been holding a thick Western-style book and reading the letter, said loudly, “I see.”

“So I take it I’ve completed four years?” “Yes.” “In that case, I’ll have a certificate sent from my office to your previous school. Classes begin on the tenth of this month, so please come.” He spoke casually yet kindly. “Then does this settle everything?” “Yes, perfectly fine. If you don’t prepare your textbooks by the tenth, you’ll face difficulties later.—Well then, give my regards to Mr. Amano. Ah, so you’re Heiichiro-kun under Mr. Amano’s care.”

Tanaka bowed and entered the Higher School Department building.

Heiichiro Oogawahira immersed himself in the serene morning light for a while, gazing at the scenery of this newly opened world, filled with the joy of knowing he could live in this world.

The dawning of youthful life...

From the direction of the tennis court, the chorus of a Western girl and students could be heard.

Thus, on April 10th, he began attending as a fifth-year student at M Academy’s Regular Department, founded on Christian principles.

The inexplicable, deep-rooted troubles surrounding Heiichiro were too much to overwhelm him, for his vital force remained too youthful and robust. Even as the heavy burden of fate and its unfathomable mysteries—lying in wait since before his life on earth began—sought to drag him into darkness, he possessed the strength to resist them. He strove to overcome the oppressive weight of his own deeply rooted circumstances and conquer the dark anxieties and confusion that welled up without reason. Before him awaited a new school life. In battling the overwhelming forces of annihilation that assailed him from both within and without, this new phase served effectively to nurture his mission. Without 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 wither away the natural talents welling up within him. Of course, he did not realize this at the time. But deep beneath his consciousness, there was something in him that would rather have "no education" than an education that killed his innate talents. What he sought was "true freedom"—the freedom to love 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 had desired.) In another person, this might often have been a mistake, or perhaps served as a mask for some base immoral desire. But for Heiichiro Oogawahira this was truth—like a sprout hidden in the earth craving moisture like young leaves yearning for the sun’s warmth—an unconditional demand a "natural decree." (Ah how I thirst for the sun of true freedom!) Had earthly culture advanced further and human thought progressed more there would have been no need for Heiichiro’s destruction. Or perhaps this destruction itself constituted Heiichiro’s struggle to attain such a life for humanity.

Around six in the morning, he woke up. If he did not wake on his own and slept in, Kume would quietly rouse him. As soon as he got up, he slid open all the long veranda’s storm shutters. The exhilaration of bathing in sunlight that rushed in each time he opened one. When he finished opening the storm shutters on the lower floor, he then opened those on the second floor as well. From the second floor stretched a corridor leading to the Western-style building behind the mansion. He opened the windows of the Western-style building too. Opening those windows revealed a morning view beyond description. Beyond clouds of cherry blossoms within the estate grounds lay a Takanawa hill wrapped in morning mist, while past rows of houses stretched Shinagawa’s pale yellow sea. And how grandly golden spring light broke through that mist to shine forth! On mornings when late nights left him unbearably drowsy, he sometimes dozed for twenty minutes on the guest room sofa while savoring its cushions’ resilience. Then came cleaning his room and wiping down hallways with dry cloths. He hated this chore most of all. His careless work inevitably drew scoldings from Toshi—the thin-haired head maid over thirty with messy sidelocks. Yet sweeping granite-paved ground within the front gate became his one pleasure. How refreshing it felt after clearing away pale cherry petals scattered over damp earth and stone then sprinkling water! On his first morning there came an odd sensation—warm yet nostalgic—at his feet as he leaned on a bamboo broom like a staff gazing up at roadside cherry trees. Pochi—the house dog—was licking this newcomer’s feet. Chestnut-furred with white speckles and plump frame, Pochi pressed fluffy ears against his ankles while licking with human-like expressive eyes. He accepted this unexpected kindness from the endearing creature and stroked its head.

His final morning task was to mix yesterday’s leftover rice with beef stew broth and give it to Pochi. Pochi and he had become close friends. On good days, he would eat together with the maids, but usually he ate in a corner of the long four-mat space next to the kitchen—adjacent to Count O’s dark bamboo grove—hurriedly adding half-cooked hot miso soup to the leftover cold rice he had given Pochi. He disliked the maids’ sullen faces but never complained about the unpalatable food. School began at eight o’clock. Otohiko, who attended Keio Gijuku, would already be gone by the time he ate his meal. Heiichiro hurried out wearing Otohiko’s hand-me-down navy serge suit with M Academy buttons resewn and newly bought shoes. As he left, Kume said, “Please go on your way.” Exiting the gate and descending the slope to the left would lead to a side path by Duke M’s residence, but he turned right instead, circling through Count O’s dense woods within the same mansion-lined district until emerging onto Prince K’s palace avenue flanked by twin enkianthus trees. As he walked through streets lined with nothing but vast mansions, he was filled with doubt: Is this really right? This was because he thought of his mother, Harukaze-ro, and the people from Sokoshio. Every time he encountered a group of young girls, he would look back to see if Wakako might be among them. They looked so much like her that he nearly called out, “Aren’t you Miss Wakako?” only to remember that Wakako—now married—couldn’t possibly be a student anymore, leaving him forlorn. When he descended the slope leading to school, people who should have had no reason to know Heiichiro—the new student—all greeted him with cheerful “Good mornings” as they passed. For Heiichiro, this was joyous. Still unfamiliar with anyone, he would sometimes sit on the verdant lawn beside the school building each morning, other times wander among the commemorative trees in front of the Higher Division, watching those playing catch in the athletic field with eyes shining in affection and conquest as he waited for the nostalgic sound of the bell. I don’t know about true spiritual strength—but they’re certainly blessed with warm youthfulness. Ah, during those moments of critical contemplation, the unforgettable sound of the school bell would reverberate through the clear morning air. It was not an urgent bell. It was a nostalgic, warm sound that awakened joy in listeners’ hearts.

It was a bell that compelled everyone to gather. Following the sound of the bell, people entered their classrooms one by one. Heiichiro's classroom was at the east end of the lower floor, where through the window one could see past the wide athletic field to the deep red Greek-style building of the theology department—a room with a clear and bright atmosphere. To Heiichiro, it felt almost too cheerful, 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 continue their studies. Mr. O, the mathematics teacher, was currently creating a paper on the significance of mathematics' philosophical foundations—unprecedented in Japan—while also being a musical prodigy who usually played the piano at the church. Mr. M, the Western history teacher—though not yet an official Bachelor of Letters and unable to graduate until July—with his young-master-like mischievousness, would often perch on the desk next to Heiichiro's,

“There’s no need to memorize some boring guy’s deeds,” he said while lecturing. “But if you don’t understand Alexander the Great’s true ideals, you’re hopeless!” He showed no hesitation in filling an entire hour with talk of Alexander.

Mr. E, a teacher who looked no older than twenty-two or twenty-three, while lecturing on English grammar,

“How much credence can be given to what I’m saying is questionable,” he said. “This autumn I’ll be going to America myself, so perhaps after returning I’ll be able to speak a bit more truthfully.” He was indeed a young man who had just graduated from Doshisha University in Kyoto. They didn’t carry themselves like proper teachers. They seemed like people who had left school just yesterday. For Heiichiro, that was a joyous thing. Among the middle-aged and older staff were Mr. Tanaka—the school treasurer who taught Bible studies; Mr. K, a former samurai from Kumamoto and fellow treasurer who taught Chinese classics; a gentle elderly calligraphy instructor who single-handedly ran a Christian elementary school; and Mr. F, an aged Western-style painter who wore worn velvet suits from his youth spent studying in France—these were the ones who taught Heiichiro. They were cheerful optimists.

But what left a deeper impression on Heiichiro were the "worship services" and "Bible lectures."

Crossing the oak grove behind the Higher Division, passing through the dim basement of the new chapel, and ascending the stairs brought one into the solemn interior—a space dignified by distant hills, reflections from orange, purple, blue, and crimson stained glass windows, and imposing marble columns. The altar, piano below the dais, and large Bible upon it maintained an austere presence. The students quietly occupied their chairs. Teachers in black gowns gathered. Western teachers too assembled—six or seven in number. Just as a hush settled over them all, a beautiful Western woman in floral-patterned attire emerged from below, her golden curls catching the light as she took her seat at the piano. Mr. O—his pale brow and limpid eyes imparting an air of profound erudition—lifted a white baton and murmured, "Hymn number—." Guided by the piano's strains and the baton's undulations, teachers and students alike became both performers and audience in a grand symphonic act, their voices rising in ceaseless song. This communal fervor struck Heiichiro not as religious zeal, but rather as akin to artistic rapture. He observed the saccharine joy permeating the chapel yet felt no urge to partake in its intoxication.

(Feminine, optimistic—this joy is too shallow, too light for me!) Thus Heiichiro's spirit raged on and on—May it flourish! May it flourish! And the chorus swirled forth. (Still, it must be a good thing. Teachers and students, foreigners and locals, men and women all singing together in harmonizing joy! Yet that unity felt so shallow...)

When school ended and he returned to Amano's residence, dusk had already fallen on most days. Heiichiro rarely encountered Amano or Ayako. From morning until late afternoon he remained at school; at night he would shut himself in his room to study. If any matters required attention, Kume would handle them for him. Not meeting them proved a relief to Heiichiro. Encountering Amano and physically sensing his power forced Heiichiro to recall Fuyuko and Hikari against his will, filling him with bottomless hatred toward this man who should have been his benefactor; meeting Ayako inexplicably filled him with terror as though being dragged into an abyss. This mingled emotion drawn from Hikari, Fuyuko, and Wakako—the utter absence of any sense that she was his benefactor's wife—tormented Heiichiro. Yet when alone without facing these two, Heiichiro became truly a youth burning with purpose. Through these ordinary uneventful days, he had already reached July.

In early July, a lecture by Mr. A—an American who stood as a leading figure in global Christendom—was held in the student assembly hall on the upper floor of the Higher Division for all Higher Division students and fifth-year General Division students. That day's fifth period had been gymnastics. Tokyo's July blazed—the scorching crimson sun and fiery sky made all creation pulse with vitality through sweat-drenched flesh invigorated by exercise. With Mr. A's talk scheduled for sixth period in the assembly hall, Heiichiro reluctantly followed his classmates into the third-floor hall and took a seat near the window. From there, he could survey the athletic field, school buildings, and blue sky while a summer breeze caressed his heated cheeks. At first, the blood coursing violently through his veins made his surroundings seem ablaze with sound, but as his pulse steadied, he realized the hall had fallen utterly silent. He glanced around. About two hundred Higher Division and fifth-year students sat in hushed anticipation. Soon the door opened to admit Mr. K—the gaunt, long-haired head of English studies and church elder—clad in a black gown, his small sunken eyes blinking behind spectacles. Behind him lumbered an imposing American—portly, tall, exuding vigor—who strode forward with unceremonious largeness. Both men mounted the platform. They stood motionless in prolonged silence. Mr. A mopped his florid face with a handkerchief while readjusting his pince-nez, but suddenly—as if unable to endure Mr. K's incessant blinking any longer—

“My dear young gentle-men!I am very glad to havean opportunity to speak my thought of our Christ……” he began.

It was a terrifying voice. It was a voice brimming with vitality. The voice was so loud that the glass throughout the room rattled and trembled. Mr. K's feeble, parched-sounding voice interpreted those booming words into Japanese.

“Jesus Christ was not a scholar. “Jesus Christ was not a state minister in positions of power or a military officer. “He was neither a noble nor a wealthy man. “He was but a poor youth—without status, without treasures, truly of this earth, possessing not a single thing worthy of pride in material wealth. “The son of a carpenter in Judea. “That’s right—he was truly the son of a carpenter. It was finally at thirty years of age that he—after his long wandering and agonizing journey—came to be filled with the full awareness and conviction of being the Son of God within himself; that his faith in the salvation of new humanity and the Kingdom of God reached completion; that he could no longer remain still, impelled by a flame-like spirit welling up from the earth, until he could not help but declare: ‘The Kingdom of God has drawn near!’ Even if we were to measure the inner exaltation and fullness of Jesus Christ at that time with our American experience, it would be as though his entire body spewed flames and the entire world were illuminated with white-hot light. “However, such solemn inner life and power of Jesus Christ were not perceived by many people of that time. “To many people, he appeared as nothing more than a down-and-out failure or delinquent youth—the son of a poor carpenter who had spent his younger days without any steady occupation. “They initially reviled him as a madman. Yet those drawn to his mystical character—believed to be the Son of God chosen by the Absolute, the very embodiment of Truth—and who obeyed the principles he preached; those fresh spirits, young spirits, spirits untainted by worldly dross, or hearts polished smooth and moistened by sorrowful tears—to the hearts of youths, those weeping in poverty, those suffering illness, all yearning ceaselessly for something—how profoundly did his teachings, brimming with tears yet fiercely courageous, impart their subtle power! “Truly, the lame stood and walked, lepers became whole, and the blind had their eyes opened. “That was no miracle. “It was only natural—so natural as to be self-evident. “When I think not of the joy of the blind having their eyes opened, but of the joy of Jesus Christ—the young embodiment of truth transcending life and death—I cannot help but be moved to tears. “However, at that time, the life of this Christ was incomprehensible to the politicians and scholars of the land of Judea. ‘He’s just a carpenter’s son, isn’t he?’ ‘Isn’t he just a vagabond delinquent youth barely scraping by?’ ‘That fellow spouts mad-sounding words, yet possesses a mysterious power that makes many youths and women—and at times even prominent figures—convert to his teachings and undergo complete transformations of character.’”

“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.” “Particularly, the prophecies of ancient Jewish prophets powerfully compelled belief in him as the Messiah.” “Not even Solomon’s splendor could equal a single lily flower.” “They deemed it dangerous before savoring the profound beauty and truth of those words.” “At that time, Christ had twelve disciples constantly by his side.” “They were all promising, pure-hearted young men.” “No one could have imagined that one of those twelve outstanding disciples would betray Christ to the authorities.” “I believe the greatness of Jesus lies in being betrayed by his beloved disciple—but in any case, Jesus was sold by Judas for a small amount of silver.” “Before that, at what would be their sorrowful Last Supper gathering with his disciples, he told them, ‘One of you will betray me,’ and prophesied to a certain individual, ‘Before the rooster crows, you will deny knowing me three times.’” “Jesus already knew of his own death.” “Jesus was dragged away by the officials of that land, the crowd of that country surged in behind, and when the judge asked what should be done with Jesus, the people shouted ceaselessly, ‘Crucify him!’” “It is a tragic ignorance.” “The tragedy of human ignorance from two thousand years ago has not ceased to this day.” “Jesus was condemned to death by the very people he loved—those he believed he had been sent to save.” For the sake of those who had demanded his execution, for the sake of humanity’s sin in demanding that death, he sought to reveal the approaching truth—no, he had already become ablaze with the resolve to atone through his own body for the profound sins of all humankind. It was a solemn death. Moreover, he was a death row prisoner. He was a delinquent youth who led astray the hearts of the poor. The many crowds, the many scholars, the many politicians who had him put to death—how delighted they must have been at the demise of this troublesome death row prisoner.

"They must have thought with great satisfaction that they had now elevated their status. However, the faith of Christ—the embodiment of God’s mission who had dwelt in lifelong solitude—was a living truth that had resided in the hearts of all people since time immemorial. The nation of Judea perished. The politicians, scholars, and crowds who had Christ put to death in those days have now perished completely. Yet that heartrending cry of his—as he was crucified, blood dripping from his flesh, crying out 'Oh God, have you forsaken me?'—still lives on with the power to move human beings to tears. The feelings of Jesus ascending the cross—his single-minded belief in humanity’s eternal future and the sorrowful tears of parting. When we contemplate the solemn and lonely life of Christ, what we feel is loneliness, helplessness, pathos, frustration—and ultimately, a fiery faith. 'It is the faith that we can hope for the realization of the Kingdom of God on earth—the faith that it is indeed being realized even now.' 'And thus, that nation of faith is America alone.'"

From his massive frame—massive lungs, massive trachea, massive tongue—the great eloquence that poured forth was fervently interpreted by Mr. K as well. It was solemn.

Heiichiro keenly felt within himself the life of a young man who had lived in the fields of Judea two thousand years ago. He could no longer hold back the tears that flowed incessantly. Then, “That nation of faith is America alone!” The words that repeated resounded like thunder.

“Why America alone?” “That’s right—why must it be America?” As this torrent of criticism began churning within him, Heiichiro found it utterly discordant and absurd that Mr. A—wiping sweat while managing his massive frame, devouring blood-dripping beef at every meal—should be preaching about “the poor carpenter Christ.” Gold-rimmed pince-nez! The gold watch he’d just checked! The gold ring on his thick finger! (Ah, you hypocrite!) The same spirit that had stirred Christ two thousand years prior now made Heiichiro rise to his feet.

“Mr. K!” “What is it?” Mr. K said, fixing Heiichiro with a piercing look. At Heiichiro’s sudden standing up, the entire assembly fell silent, all eyes gathering upon him.

"I have a question."

“Wait until later.” “No! Letting Mr. A speak any further would be blasphemy against Christ!” “—”

"Why is it that only America believes in the spirit of Christ, humanity's true culture, and the realization of the Kingdom of God?" "I can't understand it." "Here and now, I—Heiichiro Oogawahira, a Japanese—have shed tears at the truth of Christ's life, and I cannot help but believe that the Kingdom of God that Christ believed in will be realized on this earth." "And I am Japanese." "I want to believe that Japan will realize the Kingdom of God." "The declaration that it's America alone proves America doesn't embody Christ's spirit." "To preach about Christ's life while decked in golden ornaments is sheer presumption!" "Rather than preach, I want to shout—you should give that gold ring of yours to the poor with your whole heart!"

Heiichiro trembled and glared at Mr. A’s blue eyes upon the podium. His entire spirit blazed forth with the cosmos. In that moment, he felt an “authority” devoid of dread permeating his entire body. At first, the crowd fell silent at this sudden development, but soon erupted into uproar. These youths were utterly overwhelmed by Heiichiro’s tragic-heroic bearing.

At dusk, Heiichiro Oogawahira returned to Amano's residence carrying a lonely and desolate heart. He was utterly dejected, like a man struck by lightning.

He had cornered a world-renowned Christian in debate. He was the victor, but when he asked himself on his way back from school where he was now returning to, he was overcome with anguish. To Amano! Ah, Mr. A and his gold ring—hypocrite! And yet, wasn't this self who had been able to shout such things an even more despicable hypocrite? The fact that he was under Amano's patronage already weighed on his conscience somehow, and now there was Fuyuko's presence! Mother's admonition!

Heiichiro Oogawahira, cradling a lonely heart abandoned by "God" and devoid of confidence, shut himself in his room without even eating dinner. An agonizing battle churned within him. (Thou must not rely on Amano! Thou must confess all truths to the Amanos—about Fuyuko and Hikari! First, purify thyself! Only after thou hast purified thyself mayest thou fulfill thy mission!)

"That... that's impossible—" (Wouldn't doing that mean the destruction of Fuyuko, mother, Amano, and myself⁈)

Heiichiro cradled his head in his hands at the desk, writhing in anguish.

“Oogawa, you there?” came a hoarse voice as Otohiko entered. Heiichiro had no intention of replying and merely turned around. An instinctive revulsion came surging over him. “Why aren’t you eating?” “Because I’m feeling a bit unwell.” Otohiko had been staring intently at Heiichiro’s face as he answered when suddenly, with a malicious expression, he said, “You really do resemble my mother.”

“Is that so?” Heiichiro replied. In truth, he was in no state for that.

“You look pale. Let’s go cool off at the rooftop plaza of the Western-style building. Come on, Oogawa!”

Otohiko dragged Heiichiro to the Western-style building. Climbing the pitch-dark, narrow spiral staircase, the two of them emerged onto the rooftop. There lay a deep blue summer night sky. The stars shone brightly. The night wind was chilly. The city of Tokyo, enveloping all human sorrow, suffering, and joy in the deep night, appeared below through the night mist, its lights staining the sky crimson like human yearning.

“That black-indigo over there is the Pacific Ocean,” said Otohiko. “I just think it’d be better if the old man dropped dead sooner rather than later.” “Then this mansion, this house, all the money—everything’ll be exactly how I want it!” As he gazed at the city lights burning crimson in the sky, lonely tears welled up in Heiichiro. “Then I could keep a woman I like too.—Oogawa, I know damn well you came here to look after Father’s mistress!”

“Excuse me! I don’t have time for this place!”

Heiichiro ran down from the rooftop like a madman, hurried through the corridor into his room, and slammed the sliding door shut with a bang. Ah, what am I to do? (Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head)—scalding tears could not be contained. Ah, this emotion, this truth—this cannot be mine alone. These tears of mine must be the tears of all people. I must not weep over my own solitary loneliness. Ah, I do not care what becomes of me. I wish to fight for the tears of all people that now press upon me so intensely! Ah, can I not make the faces wet with the sorrowful tears of all people shine with new joy? My life is a lifetime dedicated solely to this purpose, and my mission is nothing other than this! Ah, if this great wish requires my very life, then I shall meet my death when the time comes!

“That Which Lurks Beneath the Earth” End