Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

This past New Year, I did not step outside even once. No one came to visit. I spent three days writing a novel about vagrants while leaving the radio on. While writing about vagrants with parched, flaky skin like that of earth-dwelling spiders, I couldn't bear to actually see vagrants during New Year. It wasn't only the vagrants. If I went outside, I didn't want to see—even for just three days—the sorrowful state of society that would inevitably meet my eyes everywhere against my will. But as I listened to revue broadcasts on the radio, Japan's pitiable impoverishment was driven home to me even more acutely than seeing vagrants, burned-out ruins, or black markets.

Lately, there had been many revue broadcasts. Fundamentally, it was absurd to broadcast revues—meant to be seen—as audio-only fare, utterly lacking in artistry. Yet according to letters sent to the broadcasting stations, there were fans who delighted in these revue broadcasts. Was this a reactionary impulse—people wanting to hear what had been prohibited during the war? But as I listened to broadcasts like *Memories of Takarazuka’s Greatest Hits* and tried recalling revues I’d seen in the past, I thought it absurd that such things had been prohibited—but also that there was no need to hastily revive them or start broadcasting them now. If it was just girls wearing short pants, shaking their hips and lifting their legs, there was nothing particularly erotic about it—and it seemed ridiculous that people had made such a fuss, calling it glamorous or a dream of youth. After all, wasn’t it merely a shabby spectacle for children—a cheap trifle neither harmful nor beneficial? To think that even pre-war Japan, which had proudly touted such things as glamorous, was in the end just a stingy, impoverished country—I felt anew how pitiful it all was. Even if we called it glamorous, Takarazuka revues were nothing more than displays of petit bourgeois taste along the Hankyu line. If they were all equally shoddy, places like Shinjuku’s Moulin Rouge, Asakusa’s Opera Hall, or Osaka’s Sennichimae Pier Boys (this one too had drifted over from Asakusa) at least felt marginally better—unpretentiously working-class and free of airs. Takarazuka and Shochiku’s all-female troupes had not a single male actor—it was hardly work that a sensible grown man would devote his life to. There were quite a few men who enjoyed revues enough to handle literary affairs, compose music, or design sets, but I seriously doubted any considered this a lifelong occupation for males. When listening to revue actors who couldn’t deliver their lines without interjecting “Oh!” at every turn, I couldn’t help but feel this truly wasn’t work meant for men.

Speaking of line delivery, I remember feeling perplexed when I first saw kabuki at the age of seven, wondering why they spoke in such a strange manner. After entering high school, I saw a shingeki play, but this time too, I found it strange why the shingeki actors spoke in such a confrontational, argumentative tone and why every last one of them adopted expressions and voices that seemed excessively sensible. However, when listening to revue actors deliver their lines, I found myself exasperated by how utterly devoid of discernment their voices sounded.

However, it was not limited to kabuki, shingeki, or girls' operas that had peculiar conventions in vocal techniques. In the art of voice, there was not a single exception that had escaped falling into their respective peculiar conventions. In fact, those who fully committed to their respective conventions were said to be considered first-rate. Shinpa had its own conventions, Gidayu had its own conventions, female swordplay theater and film actors' live performances had their own conventions, and even Naniwa-bushi had recently seen the emergence of specialized Naniwa-bushi vocalists. Kōdan, rakugo, manzai—these went without saying. When it came to radio, the conventions were particularly pronounced. For example, the oratory techniques of radio announcers adhered to conventions so rigidly unchanged for ten years that every last person in Japan could have grown calluses on their ears. The shingeki actors in radio dramas delivered their lines as usual in pretentiously prudent, sanctimonious voices—plaintively rendering every story sorrowful—and even Tokugawa Musei, hailed as a master narrator, made *Gone with the Wind* sound indistinguishable from *Miyamoto Musashi* by the third iteration, as though even a Buddha's face would have wearied of repetition. The young actresses playing female roles in radio dramas were always overly cheerful, their voices as frayed as socks with holes, leaving one to wonder if they possessed any allure at all—no, the very word *allure* felt too generous for such performances. Government dignitaries invariably spoke in voices that evoked folding screens and potted plants. The participants in panel discussions wandered around in confusion over whether to address their debate opponents or the microphones, and Communist Party members spoke in voices full of bluster but devoid of skepticism. Even the late Nagata Seiran, hailed as a master of broadcast oratory, exasperated listeners with his transparently rehearsed delivery—the same affected tone of "I'm speaking in a relaxed manner" audible every time—while a certain high official who mimicked him lapsed into his native Tohoku dialect, perhaps having grown too casual in his overzealous attempt to sound unguarded.

It is said that Tsuji Hisako, the violin prodigy, when she was eight or nine years old, would cover her ears and cry out, “Ah, my ears hurt! My ears hurt!” upon merely hearing the sound of a tofu seller’s horn. I was not as sensitive to sound as Tsuji Hisako, but perhaps having grown overly sensitive to vocal conventions—whenever I listened to the radio and encountered its stereotyped patterns, unchanged for ten years—I found myself repeatedly wanting to cover my ears and cry out, “Ah, my ears hurt! My ears hurt!”

It was particularly severe during the war. Back when I listened to radio information broadcasts day and night, I found myself fixated more on their stereotyped patterns than the actual content. While one could argue that daily repetition naturally breeds conventions and leaves no room for innovation, hearing the same words, vocal inflections, and formulaic reports every single day left me utterly drained. Shortly after the war ended, there was a live broadcast of an outdoor music concert where the announcer—apparently striving to break from wartime norms—adopted a saccharine tone: "Here above [venue name] Music Hall’s azure sky glides a single red dragonfly, truly an ideal autumn day befitting this outdoor musical event." I listened with admiration for this changing world, yet grew mildly exasperated when red dragonflies were invoked three times during the broadcast. Still, I resolved to credit the announcer’s novel approach. But when I later questioned someone who’d performed at that concert, I learned the day had been heavily overcast without a single dragonfly in sight. My enthusiasm evaporated. The announcer who’d attempted innovation had simply recycled old baseball broadcast conventions—artistry utterly absent.

Introducing new approaches was no easy task. Was there truly nothing new in this world? The artists of voice remained trapped in their decade-old shells of convention, unable to break free—likely fussing over trivial distinctions of skill like counting tatami weaves within those confines. However, this was not limited to the art of voice alone. Art, dance, literature—all without exception had their own set of conventions, and deviating from these patterns was no easy task. Even in art as free in form as the novel, conventions persisted. James Joyce had attempted to shatter these conventions by writing his audacious *Ulysses*, yet even his work contained clichéd phrases like “...” he said—apparently one could not entirely escape the novel’s established framework from start to finish. Even Jean Cocteau—a poet, playwright, composer, band conductor, and designer, like some magician—wrote utterly conventional novels when he turned to fiction. There was description, there was dialogue, there was explanation, there was conclusion—even Jean Cocteau, when it came to novels, could not manage to break free from conventions in any wild or unconventional way.

Life, too, was thus. To go on living, one had to adhere to society’s set of conventions—like it or not. If you said you disliked walking on your feet because it was a convention and tried walking on your hands instead, they’d treat you like a lunatic. An old man who had lived a life of vice once told me, “I’ve known many women, but no matter how many I try, they all end up being the same.” “When you hold them, every woman’s body feels the same—and sex is nothing but the repetition of an old pattern, as unchanging as ten years to a single day.” “Even with perversions—though you’d think there’d only be so many depravities humans could devise—it seems even they have their own set of conventions,” the old man had said, and I, who hadn’t known many women, found myself sharing the bleakness of that sentiment.

In all aspects of life, there exist stereotyped patterns. It’s not that having conventions is inherently bad, but when these patterns are repeated, one can’t help but think ‘here we go again’ and feel utterly wearied—this much is certain. Bergson cites repetition as one element of laughter, and indeed, repeated stereotyped patterns would become objects of laughter. It is comical. It’s not that revue actresses’ line delivery is bad because it comes off as frivolous and shallow. When I found in Simmel’s diary the words “One cannot avoid one of the two without falling into either boredom or frivolity,” I cried out in delight—“How true!”—which should tell you I have not the slightest intention of attacking frivolity. The reason I grew exasperated with revue actresses’ line delivery was that their stereotyped patterns were comical. I thought there must be other ways to phrase it. However, if you were to ask the fans about stereotyped patterns, it might be precisely because they are stereotyped that they hold even greater appeal. Revue fans probably admire those peculiar conventions of line delivery.

II

There was a girl who lost her life out of admiration for the stereotyped patterns of Revue actresses.

It had already been ten years since that incident. One morning, the corpse of a young girl was discovered within the boarded ditch behind the dressing rooms of Osaka Theater in Sennichimae. The autopsy revealed she had been dead for four days and showed signs of assault. Of course, it was murder. After committing the crime, they apparently dragged the corpse and hid it in the ditch.

When they investigated her background, they found she was an orphan who had been taken in by her aunt. However, due to her love of revues and being reprimanded by her aunt for frequenting them, she had run away from her aunt’s home, taken lodging at a cheap inn in Sennichimae, and apparently attended revues at Osaka Theater every day. Someone claimed to have seen her walking with a delinquent-looking man, and the police, suspecting him as the perpetrator, meticulously combed through every delinquent in Sennichimae—yet they never found the culprit, and the case went cold. And even today, ten years later, the culprit remains unfound, and the case will likely remain unsolved forever.

According to the innkeeper’s wife, her funds had apparently dwindled by then, her appearance reduced to frayed and wrinkled meisen silk with only a neatly tied rayon obi; it seemed neither theft nor any complicated affair had been the motive. It is presumed that while she was frequenting revue theaters, she had been noticed by delinquent boys, dragged around, assaulted, and then killed out of fear of discovery. “She used to drop by my place now and then.” “No—she was definitely that girl.”

At the time the incident appeared in the newspapers, the owner of a café called Hanaya said this to me.

"Hanaya" was a neat little café located across from Yayoi-za Theater in Sennichimae. Next to Hanaya stood a public bath called Naniwayu. Naniwayu boasted Tokyo-style showers and an electric bath. At that time, lodging at my sister’s house in Nihonbashi-suji 2-chome, I visited this bathhouse daily but always stopped by Hanaya on my return to drink coffee. Hanaya kept its doors open past two in the morning—a convenience for someone like me who kept late hours. Moreover, across the street lay Yayoi-za, a revue theater dedicated to the Pier Boys troupe. When performances ended, revue girls would come streaming into Hanaya, while Shochiku Revue actresses from nearby Osaka Theater arrived with fans to eat omelet rice and tonkatsu. Waitresses from Sennichimae’s upscale restaurants would also drop by after closing. The steamy scent of the sento would waft over. Resembling Asakusa’s “Hatoya” café yet more vibrant, it stood as a quintessentially Sennichimae establishment—nostalgic yet lively.

The murdered girl too must have come to Hanaya in her desire to see the unadorned faces of the revue actresses she admired. Petite, with hunched stocky shoulders and a round face like a rice ball, she would always sit at a corner table, casting timid glances toward the revue actresses yet seeming to lack the courage to ask for an autograph or strike up a conversation. She apparently hesitated even to sit at the same table as the actresses. And yet she would not rise from her seat until they had left.

That she, so enamored with revues, had lain in the ditch behind the dressing rooms for four days after her death must have been some karmic twist of fate. Unaware that a corpse lay within the boarded ditch, the actresses passed over that very spot daily. For the girl, this might have been her final wish.

However, when the incident was reported in the newspapers, the Osaka Theater actresses were unsettled. The actresses who came to Hanaya were all talking about the girl. Since she had always come to the same third-row seat on the first floor, and they had come to recognize her face over time, the reality of her death must have struck them all the more keenly.

“Why don’t we all chip in and enshrine a Jizo statue for her?”

“That’s right—that’s a good idea. Let’s enshrine one for her, let’s do it!”

At the next table over, where such conversations were taking place, the Pier Boys actors were gossiping about a lodging house visible from Yayoi-za’s dressing rooms. Though the lodging house’s second-floor windows had curtains, they claimed that by using a long pole extended from the dressing room window to gently pry open those curtains, they could see inside as clearly as if in the palm of their hands. During breaks between acts, they would come up to the dressing room and peek into the lodging house’s second floor. When they forcibly brought a young revue girl—who knew nothing—to that dressing room window and made her look, one girl burst into tears—they were recounting that incident.

“Chabo’s still a kid, after all.” “You think so? I thought I already knew everything there was to know about Chabo…” “But he’s still seventeen.” “Even if he’s seventeen, that Takasuke bastard’s going around saying stuff like ‘Oh, tonight’s a bust,’ or whatever. That bastard’s gotten hooked on peeping into that second floor—what a lardass amateur.” “That lardass amateur’s got yesterday’s girl. That one’s still under twenty, I tell ya.” “Even if she’s under twenty, she’ll suck off a man.”

“But since she wasn’t wearing a single stitch, he’s a total lardass amateur.” “She might be a whore.” “Idiot! Would a whore ever do such dissolute, indecent things? She’s obviously an amateur!” “Obviously,” he jeered, “this guy’s got a memory of her not wearing a single stitch.” “Lardass bastard.”

As I listened to such lewd talk, I was suddenly reminded of the murdered girl. To claim that lying dead in that ditch behind the dressing rooms might have fulfilled her revue-loving heart was nothing but irresponsible conjecture. To remain sprawled in that shameful state of violation must have been more agonizing than the killing itself... When I left Hanaya, I wandered down Sennichimae Avenue with the hand towel still draped over my shoulder and bought cigarettes at Sendodo in front of Tokiwa-za.

Sendodo sold tobacco too, but it was fundamentally a candy store. The shop with its sprawling frontage had a sign on its roof reading "Everything 50% Off," though it became better known by this nickname of Gowari Yasui. In summer they sold chilled sweets and in winter grilled rice rolls, but since their candies had become the store’s specialty—selling from early morning until late at night—there was never time to close the shutters, making it Sennichimae’s sole establishment that stayed open around the clock.

At Sendodo too, they were talking about the murdered girl.

“She came to buy candy every day.” “No—it’s definitely that girl.” As I pictured her sucking on the candy she’d bought, curled up in a flophouse rice-cracker futon while gazing at revue programs, I couldn’t help but feel pity.

That "Gowari Yasui" candy was something I too had bought as a child. At that time, Tokiwa-za across from Sendodo was showing Onoe Matsunosuke’s moving pictures in Sennichimae. When I lived in Uemachi, whenever Tokiwa-za changed its program lineup, I would fidget restlessly as I descended Genjoji-zaka slope, crossed Suehiro Bridge over the Nishiyokoborigawa River, rushed through Kuromon Market to reach Sennichimae, and first bought a two-sen shiso-flavored candy at Sendodo before entering Tokiwa-za. Sucking on that candy would release sudden wafts of shiso fragrance—like some faraway nostalgia made tangible.

Shiso-flavored candy holds a memory. On one autumn night during the year I entered high school in Kyoto, I spent my first night in Miyagawacho's pleasure quarters. Having heard that arriving after midnight would let me stay for three yen and fifty sen, I wandered through the late-night streets of Kyōgoku and Shijō-dori to pass the time, then turned into the dark alley along the river beside Minamiza when midnight struck. After walking a block down the dark road and turning left five or six houses along, I found myself in a Miyagawacho alleyway. The moment I saw a prostitute clutching a red handbag shuffle into the brothel with the listless clack of geta, I nearly turned back—but by then, the hem of my black cloak had already been

“Kan'ichi-san, please come up.”

The hem of my cloak had been grabbed. Thinking she had called me by the name of Konjiki Yasha’s protagonist because I was a high school student, I was dragged along without resistance. “Do you have a regular…?” “No.” “Alright then, shall I take care of it?” “Yeah.” I said in a dry voice and drank tea that tasted of salt. “Alright then, I’ll go call a nice quiet young girl, so please wait in the room.”

“Yeah.” The room I was led to was a narrow, dingy three-tatami space on the third floor facing the Kamo River. A dull bare light bulb glowed dimly. “Please sleep here and wait.” “I’ll be right back.” On the grime-covered white futon mattress lay a red-patterned coverlet spread flat and thinly soiled. It was a bed resembling a cat’s corpse flattened by a car. “Yeah.” Though I’d answered, I couldn’t bring myself to climb in; instead I stepped onto the river-facing corridor, smoked a cigarette, and waited for the prostitute to arrive.

From there, the Kamo Riverbed was visible, the lights of Shijo-dori enveloped in mist and hazily blurred—a distant view where night seemed to have suddenly deepened. As my heart warmed with remorse and nostalgia for the self that would soon grow sullied, I stood there endlessly, buffeted by the cold river wind. The headlight of a Keihan train ran past before my eyes. At that moment, I heard footsteps ascending the stairs.

“Thank you kindly for waiting.” “I’m Kaoru-san.” When I turned toward the voice, there stood a petite, pale-faced prostitute who must have hurried up the stairs—panting heavily, still bent at the waist— “Thank you kindly…” she bowed her head. A cloying odor of cheap face powder wafted through the air.

“Well now, you came out to the corridor after all…” “It’s freezin’.” “Hurry up and close it—come inside now.” Then, as the matron said “Well then… take your time” and went downstairs, the prostitute drifted out to the corridor, stood beside me, took a candy from her sleeve, and wordlessly laid it on my palm.

“What’s this? —Ah, candy.” “I bought this in Kyōgoku during the day.” “Did you go to Kyōgoku to see the pictures?” “No.” She shook her slender head, “I went to buy candy, you see.”

“To buy candy…?” “Did you only go to buy candy?” “Ahaha…” It had an air of sudden relief. The remorse for my debauchery vanished, warmed by a childlike heart, I put that candy in my mouth. It tasted of shiso.

"Oh, this has shiso in it." "Is it good?"

The prostitute sidled closer. I suddenly pulled her close and transferred the candy to the prostitute’s mouth.

...I woke to the sound of the river. When I glanced beside me, the prostitute still seemed unable to sleep, sucking on a piece of candy as she gazed at the frontispiece of a women’s magazine.

"You really like candy, don't you." "I do." "When you come next time, could you bring some candy with you?" "Yeah. I'll bring some."

I said I would, but after that, I never met that prostitute again— When I heard that the girl who had been murdered behind Osaka Theater had come to Sendodo to buy candy, I was reminded of that prostitute. That prostitute’s limbs were thin and dark-skinned. The murdered girl too had been dark-skinned. Though I had bought her with money, I had violated that prostitute. I had deceived the heart of that kind prostitute who had given me candy. My remorse had transferred itself onto the murdered girl; in her act of buying penny candy instead of Western sweets or chocolates to ease the loneliness of her bleak lodging’s makeshift bed, I felt as though I could sense her sorrowful nostalgia—and suddenly, it was as if I were listening to a lullaby.

The fact that she had lain undiscovered for four days after her death was a sadness so characteristic of that girl. When I heard that the actresses of Osaka Theater had soon enshrined a Jizo statue in a corner of the vacant lot behind the dressing rooms to lay to rest that girl’s spirit, I made a special trip to offer incense.

III

When the war began, Sennichimae too fell abruptly into decline. The Pierrot Boys of Yayoi-za—once a famed attraction in Sennichimae—had already disbanded before the war began. Afterward, Yayoi-za became a second-run movie theater, then a news hall, then a third-rate youth kabuki troupe’s regular venue, until at last it settled into the shabby state of decline befitting a small theater on Sennichimae’s outskirts. The once-tidy "Hanaya" had transformed into a dingy gruel canteen.

"Naniwayu public bathhouse had many days when it was closed, and both the electric baths and Tokyo-style shower stalls disappeared." "Sendodo no longer sold candy; instead, it sold water caltrop seeds and corn sweets, renting out a corner of its wide-fronted shop to street vendors who peddled elastic waistbands for pants and hemp rope cords there." "Across the street, Tokiwa-za had become a Yoshimoto Kogyo-managed manzai comedy theater." "At the Jizo statue behind Osaka Theater, incense smoke rarely rose anymore, and the murdered girl had become a distant memory."

At night, Sennichimae was desolate, with no one passing through except Civil Defense Corps members—not even a single kitten. I had been living in the southern suburbs of Osaka since before the war began, but that Sennichimae now felt somehow too distant.

However, on the night of March 13th last year, Yayoi-za, Hanaya, Naniwayu, Osaka Theater, Sendodo, and Tokiwa-za all burned down—yet the Jizo statue alone remained unburned. However, what remained unburned only seemed all the more poignant.

About ten days after that day, when I went to Sennichimae, the owner of Hanaya was diligently digging through the ruins, and upon seeing my face, “Even if I burn to ashes, I won’t leave Sennichimae.”

He was living in an air-raid shelter with his family of four, or so I heard. “It’s a cramped place like an eel’s burrow, but the garden’s plenty spacious, I tell ya.” The owner of Hanaya had always been fond of witty remarks—he now declared that all of Sennichimae was his garden. After chatting awhile with the owner of Hanaya and parting ways, I arrived in front of Osaka Theater when someone called my name. Turning around, I saw San-chan from Namiya. Namiya was a bookstore across from a manzai theater on Nankai-dori, the avenue connecting Sennichimae and Namba. I had been buying books there since my middle school days and was old acquaintances with San-chan. San-chan had originally worked as a clerk at Namiya but later took over the store from its owner to become proprietor. His full name was Shibamoto Sanji, but he’d gone by the nickname San-chan since his apprentice days. San-chan too had been affected by the disaster.

As soon as I saw San-chan’s face, even before offering condolences for the disaster,

“Since your shop burned down, I can’t buy magazines anymore.”

When I said this, San-chan pursed his lips and “Ain’t nothin’ like that! Just you wait an’ see. I’m gonna open up the bookstore again, so you buy from us now, ya hear? I’ll never let nobody make me quit bein’ a bookseller my whole life,” he said. “Where you plannin’ to set up?”

When I asked this, San-chan looked at me as if to say, "Don’t ya get it already?"

“I’m gonna do it in Minami.” “I’m gonna do it in Minami.”

he answered immediately. Minami refers to the "Minami" in the phrase "go to Minami" often used by Osaka people, collectively encompassing the areas of Shinsaibashi-suji, Ebisubashi-suji, Dotonbori, and the Sennichimae district. The fact that this Minami had burned down overnight had plunged me into a Wakayama Bokusui-style sentimentality—“How dear are things that have perished”—and precisely because I found heartening the owner of Hanaya and San-chan’s attachment to Sennichimae, I wrote about these two in an article titled *Rising Osaka* that I had been commissioned to write for a weekly magazine. Yet when I considered whether Osaka could truly rise from its scorched earth—and that the owner of Hanaya and San-chan were the only material I could write about in *Rising Osaka*—I felt an inexplicable unease, and that grandiose title like *Rising Osaka* struck me as nothing more than an empty incantation.

However, about a month later, one day after getting off the Nankai train at Namba and walking straight north along Ebisubashi Street, on the right side before reaching the Ebisubashi stop, I saw that a partially burned sign shop had turned one half of its space into a bookstore—and there was San-chan’s face.

“Oh, you’ve finally started it, huh?” As I entered—San‑chan— “In all of Minami, we’re the only ones handling new releases.” “Even the Nippai said yours is the only shop around here, and they went and encouraged me, you know.” He said this, then listed two or three big bookstores that had been in Minami—declaring in a voice so loud it startled the customers entering the shop, speaking rapidly all the while—that while all those stores had gone under, ‘Namiya’ alone was still standing just as you see here.

However, the books and magazines arranged sparsely were even more paltry than a middle schooler's bookshelf. The large sign reading "Namiya Shobo Provisional Office" standing at the shop's center occupied over two-thirds of the space, looking almost like a sample product from a signmaker's catalog. "Oh right! You wrote about me the other day, didn'tcha." "That was downright cruel of ya!"

San-chan said this as if suddenly remembering, but there was no sign of anger in his demeanor. “I showed that magazine to the owner of Hanaya too.”

“Oh?” “You showed it to him?” “The owner of Hanaya also put up corrugated iron over his air-raid shelter and lived inside it,” he said. “If you write it like that—he told me even if he wanted to leave Sennichimae now—he couldn’t.” Hearing this, I found myself paradoxically unable to face meeting Hanaya’s owner and began avoiding Sennichimae altogether. I felt no desire to see what remained of that fire-surviving Jizo statue. With Japan’s defeat now looming imminent—when both Namiya’s revival and Hanaya’s tin-sheet existence might collapse at any moment—I walked on with bowed head and heavy steps.

On the train home, as I read the evening paper, there was an article about the formation of the Shimanochi Revival Alliance under the headline “The Spirit of Naniwa’s Sons,” but something about that headline’s wording felt deeply unpleasant. I dislike the term *Edokko*, but I loathe the term *Naniwako* even more. Seizing upon a story from a corner of the scorched earth and labeling it *the spirit of Naniwa’s sons*—I wanted to tell them to quit this hollow cheerleading already. The phrase *Rising Osaka* that I had used now struck me as precisely the sort of facile exaggeration writers slip into—and a wave of self-loathing welled up.

IV

However, on the second day after the war ended, when that same weekly magazine for which I had previously written *Rising Osaka* requested I write an uplifting story about postwar Osaka, I once again wrote about the owner of Hanaya and San-chan. Freedom of speech was not yet permitted, and at that time—just two or three days after the war’s end—the prospects for Osaka’s recovery remained utterly unclear; with no way to write beyond expressing relief at being freed from the long war’s nightmare, I resorted to trivialities—how Hanaya’s tin-sheet shelter had finally lit a bright electric lamp that dazzled one corner of Sennichimae, or how San-chan never ceased selling books, that nourishment of culture, no matter what hardships he faced—stories as harmless as they were insipid.

And I had grown utterly sickened by myself for being able to write only such stories. I have never had any fondness for true accounts or uplifting tales. I detest articles and speeches that drag out historical facts to force parallels with the present—that trot out exceptional cases as if to say “here’s an example” while pretending to gauge the whole. Yet I ended up writing a shoddy, makeshift piece that emphasized Hanaya’s story and San-chan’s story, straining to suggest Osaka’s bright future. To put it plainly, it was an article devoid of reality—one that saw only half of things. Hanaya’s tin-sheet shelter and Namiya’s storefront under the eaves couldn’t simply be called “bright.” If anything, they might have been a sorrowful portrait of Osaka. I had grown sickened by my own tendency to craft feel-good stories while turning a blind eye to that sorrow.

Then four months passed, and amidst rumors of homeless people, inflation, and the black market, Showa 20 hurriedly came to an end, bringing with it a strange New Year.

Even I, who hadn’t stepped outside for three days—once those three days had passed—finally ventured out and headed to Minami for the first time in three months. Perhaps hearing that revue broadcast had reminded me of the girl murdered behind Osaka Theater; or perhaps I simply wanted to visit Namiya to buy the newly released inaugural issue of a magazine. To reach Namba normally required transferring to the main Koya Line at Kishinosato Station—but finding that transfer bothersome—I instead rode all the way to Shiomibashi’s terminus and took a city streetcar straight to Ebisubashi.

The street from Ebisubashi Station to Namba was lined on both sides with black-market vendors; makeshift eateries bearing unfamiliar shop names had been built, and before one knew it, it had become a black market. When, pushed along by the crowd, I came in front of the sign shop, I thought, “Ah!” The “Namiya” that was supposed to have rented part of the sign shop was gone. Thinking that a bookstore even shabbier than a middle schooler’s bookcase could hardly stay in business, and wondering if they had perhaps switched trades, I found myself feeling forlorn as I was jostled by the bustling crowd.

Having reached the end of Ebisubashi Street, I turned toward Nankaido. Nankaido too was lined with garishly painted makeshift eateries, black-market vendor stalls, and street gambling booths; struck by how pitiful it was to see this as Nankaido, I tried to hurry through toward Sennichimae—when twice in quick succession, my name was called. When I glanced toward the source of the voice, from inside a makeshift shack where Namiya once stood, San-chan was calling out with a grin. He had returned to his old haunt and was running his bookstore again. On the eaves of the makeshift shack hung a sign that read Namiya Shobo Shibamoto Sanji.

“Well, look who’s back!”

Indeed feeling nostalgic, when I entered, San-chan removed his hat, “Thanks to you, I was finally able to return.” “Since you wrote about me twice, I figured I had to keep pushing on—started rebuilding right after the war ended and finally made it back here at the end of last year.” “’Cause I was the first around here to come back, see?” he said, looking delighted. Madam was there too, saying, “Since you wrote ‘San-chan this, San-chan that’ in the magazine, even when I go to Nippai, it’s all ‘San-chan, San-chan’—he’s quite popular now.”

And before I could bring it up, they brought out the revival issues of *Kaizo* and *Chuo Koron*. “What about *Bunshun*…?” “I’ve already received *Bungei Shunju*, so it’s fine.” “Ah, right—I did write for *Bungei Shunju*.” “I read the novel in *Graph* too.” “I wrote for that new something-or-other... Oh, right! It was titled something like ‘Semba’...” Madam had always loved novels, and whenever something I wrote long ago appeared in a magazine, she would invariably bring it up—embarrassing me in front of other customers. But now, seeing that old habit of hers felt nostalgic, and the sensation of having returned to the original *Namiya* sweetly tingled within me. The number of books and magazines was also far greater than during their days under the sign shop’s eaves.

As I exited Namiya and tried to turn onto Sennichimae Street, a man coming from ahead suddenly grabbed my arm. When I looked, it was the owner of Hanaya.

The owner of Hanaya released my arm and then bowed his head with uncharacteristic formality. “Thanks to being allowed to keep at it, I’ve finally managed to restart my old café.” “We’re still mid-renovation, but I’ll have it open by mid-month.” He then said he wanted to invite me without fail on opening day and asked for my address. When he’d noted it down, “You’ve got to come now.” “If you’re not the first one there...”

He hadn’t mentioned the magazine, but his intent seemed to be expressing gratitude for the encouragement he’d received through it. Both were articles I myself found unpleasant to recall, but when it occurred to me that through some strange twist I had served to encourage San-chan and the owner of Hanaya, I too,

“I will certainly come.” With my voice buoyant, I soon parted ways with Hanaya’s owner and walked alone down Sennichimae Street—now feeling like my true hometown. That I had encountered both men simultaneously might have been mere coincidence, yet precisely this made Sennichimae seem to draw nearer still. The scorched Osaka Theater had been restored within, once again screening films and staging revues. Tokiwaza Theater too no longer resembled a charred shack, having regained its original form to host Yoshimoto’s productions.

When I was pushed along by the New Year’s bustle typical of Sennichimae all the way to the front of Tokiwaza Theater, I was stopped once again. Looking over, from a shack across from Tokiwaza Theater, the Madam of Sendodo was guffawing as she beckoned me.

“Well, look who’s back…” When I went in and remarked, “So you’ve come back too…,” “Got folks just passin’ by without stoppin’?” “You’re a beanpole—spotted you right off.”

The Madam of Sendodo, who had always been prone to laughter, said it was because only my head was sticking out from the crowd.

“Ahaha….” “We’ve turned into a *zenzai* shop now, haven’t we?” “Five yen a bowl—it’s sweet.” “Have some before you go.”

“Alright.” “How’s it taste? How’s it compare to others? Is five yen a bowl worth it?” “It does.” “It’s sweet.”

But it wasn’t the taste of sugar. When I mentioned that,

“We’re usin’ Dulcin in it.” “At five yen a bowl, usin’ sugar wouldn’t turn a profit.” “Even these tiny mochi run ya eighty sen apiece.” “Azuki beans have gone up to 120 yen now.”

In Kyoto’s black markets, a bowl cost ten yen. “Your place has always been fifty percent cheaper.”

When I said that, Madam of Sendodo looked pleased, “Since we’ve got Sendodo’s reputation to uphold, we can’t go pulling any funny business.” “Well, take a good look at this building.” “In all of Sennichimae, ours is the only tin-sheet shack with proper roof tiles.” “We started workin’ on it last August and finally got it done by December thirty-first.” “We’d planned to open from New Year’s Day, so you can imagine the flurry we were in!”

Whether it was due to the good location, being a long-established shop, or its affordability, it was thriving. "Why don't you serve coffee as well? Five yen with cake—why don’t you change the entrance curtain? That thing looks just like a diaper." I left Sendodo after speaking like an investor. “Drop by now and then, will ya?”

“Yeah. I’ll come.”

I told her how coming to Sennichimae had become something I looked forward to, and with my steps lightened by the joy of meeting old acquaintances, I made my way home. However, when I looked at the newspaper one morning four or five days later, there was a statement from the Osaka Prefectural Health Department warning that Dulcin and perilla sugar contained poisonous substances that destroyed red blood cells and adversely affected the brain, advising people to be cautious of sweet goods sold on the black market. I worried about Sendodo—would they use sugar? Could they afford to use sugar? First of all, could they even obtain such a large quantity of sugar? I heard Hanaya was reopening its original café, but I wondered if they too would use Dulcin—and found myself worrying about Hanaya as well.

However, when I went to Sennichimae again the next day, people ignored those newspaper articles and swarmed around sweets. When I tried Sendodo’s zenzai, the aftertaste remained just like before. Yet people kept eating it nonchalantly. I felt almost no fear of Dulcin’s dangers. Had our nerves grown so numb we no longer feared something like Dulcin? Had the world become a place where you couldn’t survive with nerves still sharp enough to fear it?

Every time I went to Sennichimae, I thought I should visit that girl’s Jizo statue once, but I always ended up carelessly forgetting.