Pathway to Japanese Literature

Insects

1 “Whoa there! “Don’t lean out like that.” “The fence is flimsy.” “Settle down—settle down!”

“Hee hee hee.” “No need to panic, young master—you’re jumpier than I am.” “Shh! Be quiet. ――” “This is all backwards. Can’t even tell which of us is the boss here.” But even so, their voices remained lower than the hushed rustling of grasses brushing against one another. “Is she not here yet?” “Not yet, sir.” “Damn this wait! The mosquitoes are feasting on my shins!” “Patience, sir, patience—"

A little over two blocks north of Yanaka’s Kangō-ji Temple stood a modest thatched-roof dwelling, its moss-laden eaves framing white evening glories that twined about the fence. In the four-or-five-tsubo garden, autumn grasses grew wild and unkempt—patrinia flowers hidden among plume grass swayed as if dreaming between wakefulness and slumber, their beauty mirroring the very nishiki-e prints of Suzuki Harunobu, the era’s most celebrated ukiyo-e artist. Under the increasingly sharp crescent moon’s light, the surroundings gradually succumbed to decayed-leaf-hued darkness, leaving only the dense chorus of insects singing in the grasses.

“Matsu-san.” “Yes?”

“Surely there’s no mistake about this being the right place?” “This is no joke, young master. If I got this wrong, I’d be worse than a blind dog myself.” “But you—we haven’t seen hide nor hair of Lady Benten herself!” “Patience, patience—if you rush, you’ll botch the whole thing.” “It’s been nearly half an hour since we got here.” “And yet here you are—” “That’s why I told ya when we left Asakusa, didn’t I? Even a Tayū of Matsu’s standing—if she were an Oiran, it’d be a simple transaction. I can read everything from the mole behind her ear to the lines on her soles whenever I please—but today’s job ain’t that simple. When I stressed that we might have to wait—not just half an hour, but maybe even one or two hours—crouched behind this fence, what did you say to me then, young master? ‘If I can see the skin of Osen—foremost of Edo’s Three Great Beauties—then even if mosquitoes devour me or insects bite me, I won’t mind one bit! I’ll refrain from my beloved tobacco, I’ll hardly utter a sound—so take me there right this instant!’ In exchange, you promised me two bu and even said you’d present me with your haori—didn’t you go so far as to hand over the very haori itself? And yet here you are acting so selfishly when barely half an hour has passed—this isn’t what we agreed upon. I’ll return all your gifts—so please grant Matsugorō his leave...”

“Wait—hold on! I ain’t sayin’ I won’t be patient! Oh, I’ll be patient alright—whether it’s midnight or dawn breaks, I ain’t budging from here. But if you’ve got the wrong house and this ain’t Osen’s place at all…” “Th-that’s what I’m sayin’ ain’t right… No matter how much of a fool I am, I wouldn’t drag you to some stranger’s fence, young master. Matsugorō’s pride as a guide—this guy here, even if Edo were as vast as—”

“Shh!” “Huh—”

The obi was fashionable worsted gauze. Her waterfall-tapered yukata—its sash crisply tied—accentuated her slender frame as the eighteen-year-old girl emerged from behind the reed screen onto the veranda. The dew glistened richer than crimson, outshining even the solitary first bloom of the bellflower.

In the eighth month of autumn during the Meiwa Year of the Dog, plume grass rippled in waves under the soft evening breeze. From the girl’s hand, the round fan fluttered down into the garden.

II

Even a petal of bellflower that brushed past their faces as it fluttered down—so anxious were they about making any sound—left Tokutarō, young master of the Tachibana-ya paper merchant house in Nihonbashi Toricho, and Matsugorō, engraver for ukiyo-e artist Harunobu, utterly immobilized; their eyes remained nailed beneath the evening glories, never straying. Yet she likely never dreamed—could not have dreamed—that two men had conspired beyond her fence, their eyes fixed intently. The girl glanced sidelong at the fallen fan, then placed a hand on her Koru gauze obi. With a crispness swifter than the painted figures on revolving lanterns, she spun—deftly slipping free from the sash—before pivoting once more in a languid turn, alighting her toes upon the veranda’s edge. As bell crickets abruptly crescendoed around her, she leaned halfway over the railing, her yukata slipping from one shoulder.

“Namu, may the Great Vow be fulfilled.—”

“Shh!” Afterwards, the insects’ murmurs returned.

As for Kyoto’s high-ranking court ladies who passed their days beneath flowering branches—that world might be left to itself; but in Edo’s eight hundred and eight districts, where the realm’s great shogun held court, from daimyo princesses above to the thousand courtesans of Yoshiwara below—even were one to select those lauded as bodhisattvas of song and dance—there was said to be none who could rival this peerless maiden of repute. In a corner of Shitaya Yanaka, within Kasamori Inari Shrine’s precincts, even if thirty-odd teahouse girls from eleven establishments hung with andon lamps were gathered together, none could rival—let alone in ethereal beauty—even a single eyebrow of Kagiya’s Osen. Extolled from Suzuki Harunobu’s brocade prints to children’s bouncing-ball ditties, rumors about her blossomed unchecked among those who knew her name and strangers alike. The ceaseless desires she stirred—keeping night from yielding to dawn—seized not merely hot-blooded youths but even samurai past fifty who should have harbored no earthly cravings. Clattering their geta sandals on shrine visits, they left the purification basin’s towels perpetually damp without a moment to dry.

Tokutarō, young master of the Tachibana-ya paper merchant house, proved no exception to this pattern—once daily, he would vanish from behind the accounting lattice as predictably as a stamped seal, his destination being none other than Kasamori Inari Shrine in Yanaka with its crimson torii gates. There, he sought to worship the snow-white skin of Osen glimpsed beneath her crimson collar—a devotion no different from religious fervor. Yet today of all days, before the hut in Asakusa where Shidōken had died that spring, he collided headlong with Matsugorō the engraver. And from that very Matsugorō—once he grasped the situation—came the scathing verdict: to settle for merely observing surface adornments was the height of folly. Upon hearing Matsugorō’s unexpected proposition—*“Rather than sipping Osen’s cherry-blossom tea, wouldn’t you prefer to see her jade skin with the obi untied?”*—Tokutarō became utterly ecstatic. Without even asking *where*, he handed over two bu in gratitude along with the haori he wore, and in his frenzied trance soon found himself outside this very fence. Even if a hundred mosquitoes alighted on his shins at once—to the point where he felt neither pain nor itch—Tokutarō’s eyes remained fixed like a wild dog’s.

“Young Master.” “Shut up—” “Shuttin’ up ain’t gonna help. Get lower—” “I know!” “Then hurry!” “Enough meddlin’!—” Likely beneath the door compartment one step down from the upper veranda edge, a basin stood prepared—bathwater from a boiling kettle swirling faint eddies—but Osen, her upper body bared, remained motionless attuned to insect hums. Not only did she show no intent to rise, she seemed oblivious to her yukata slipping from shoulders to waist. The crescent’s pallid light cast broad azure ripples across coral-evoking skin, its clinging luminescence intensifying until it blazed upon autumn grasses. At that instant, Osen suddenly stood—flinging off her yukata with towel in hand—and withdrew two steps upward to vanish into the door compartment’s shadow.

“Ah!” “Tch!” Whether they had completely forgotten shame and reputation, from Tokutarō and Matsugorō’s mouths burst forth a bizarre cry in unison.

III

“Osen,” she called. “Yes?” “What’s that sound just now?—” “Well, what could it be? “It’s probably a thieving cat after the goldfish, I suppose.” “Well, if that’s all it was—but I’d thought you’d gone and tripped again or somethin’, gave me a real fright.” “It’s not so much me—though I’m grateful—but Inari-sama thrives because of you. If you were to get hurt even once, why, the worshippers’ numbers would be halved, wouldn’t they?” “—Delicate beauty, filial devotion, and charm to smooth any situation—not that I’m praising the daughter I bore as Kasamori’s finest just ’cause she’s mine, but I’d be lyin’ if I said my nose ain’t high as a pagoda tower.……”

“Oh, Mother—” “Oh, don’t be like that. Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. Parents who praise their children are a dime a dozen in this world, but every last one of ’em’s just show-off braggin’. Unlike them, mine’s just gratitude I’m tellin’ you. Come on, while I’m at it, I’ll wash your back—hand that towel over here.” “No, if I just wash off the sweat, that will suffice…”

“What’re you saying? “Turn this way already—I’m tellin’ you.”

At twenty-two she bore her son Senkichi, and at twenty-six gave birth to Osen—the very next year, her husband Nakakichi, who had served as head clerk at Kuramae’s Ise Shin pawnshop, succumbed to sudden illness; plunged from fortune into misfortune, she humbly made her way through each day by taking in others’ sewing, and thus eighteen years had swiftly passed. The fecklessness of her son Senkichi, who had run away from home at eighteen and whose whereabouts remained unknown to this day, was a perennial source of tears for Okishi whenever she recalled it. Yet just as the proverb says that even trampled grass may bloom, ever since last year’s plum-blossom season—when through the strenuous efforts of Ise Shin’s retired master they had been permitted to open a teahouse at Kasamori Inari—their ill fortune had transformed into divine blessing as the establishment swiftly became the talk of all Edo. She could only weep with joy at this reversal, and lately when Okishi pressed her palms together in prayer, it was not to Kasamori-sama but to Osen that she offered her devotions.

“Osen.” “Yes?” “This may be abrupt, but working at the teahouse daily—haven’t you found a man you truly fancy yet?” “Oh! And here I was wondering what it was—it’s just you, Mother.” “I haven’t a single person like that!” “Ohohoho.” “Are you cross?” “Not cross, but I do dislike men.” “What’s this about disliking men?” “Yes…” “Well now—” Until spring, Okishi had still thought of Osen as a child—their lives having diverged so completely they no longer shared even a washbasin—and thus imagined her daughter’s form unchanged. Yet when a sudden noise made her rush over, the body she glimpsed after six months had transformed utterly into womanhood. From age seven or eight, Osen had been called a crane born of crows—her snow-white skin a known marvel—yet even so, this half-year’s change staggered. The womanly curves flowing from shoulder to breast like swelling winter cherries, the arc from back to waist resembling a white Satsuma flask laid sideways—the suspicious smoothness that seemed ready to send fingertips sliding away at a touch—not even a mother’s gaze could ignore these transformations.

Even if a daughter has a hundred customers she dislikes, surely there must be one she fancies—such is the heart of a parent with a daughter, they say.

IV

“Young Master.” “What’s that?” “It ain’t just ‘What’s that,’ Young Master, I tell you. At that critical juncture, sticking your head into the fence like that—it’s so pitiful, ain’t it enough to bring tears to your eyes?”

“Well, well—this is outrageous! It’s precisely because you pushed my waist that things ended up like that, isn’t it? And yet, Matsu-san, you’re trying to pin that on me—that’s just beyond outrageous!” “You see, Young Master—I wasn’t behind you. Weren’t I right there beside you, Young Master, peeping in? Whether I pushed your waist or not—first off, my hands couldn’t’ve reached ya anyway. And besides—that voice was the problem.” We’d been watching without incident up to the point where Osen’s yukata slipped from her shoulders, but the moment she swiftly removed it and stepped down, an eerie shriek rang out. “If it were Shidōken, he’d make the whole sky darken in an instant—before you could say ‘look there, look here,’ the celestial maiden’s figure would vanish straight into a basin.……”

“Hey, Matsu-san.” “Haven’t you had enough?” “You were the one who cried out first!” “Oh, damn it all.” “No matter if we’re master and servant, don’t you go pinning all the blame on me like some lowlife scoundrel!” “What’s so terrible about that?” “Just when I was about to slowly savor the moment, because you shoved my waist—look at this! Now even my hands are all scratched up!” “Then how ’bout I put some of this on ya… Oops!” “Since my old lady washed ’em yesterday, there ain’t a speck of sleeve grime left on ’em.”

“You’re joking! If I let your sleeve grime touch me, my crucial index finger would rot right off from the root.” “I ain’t got no syphilis on me yet.” “Don’t give me that! Aren’t you heading out to Sanmaibashi and Yokochō every other day to buy whores? It’s a wonder your nose is still properly attached at all.” “This is quite the greeting we’re having. After making someone peek at Osen’s unseen nakedness only to be told that having a nose is strange—Matsugorō’s got no ground to stand on. Enough with the jokes now. Let me accompany you somewhere that’ll wake you up proper—we need to reverse our luck, Young Master.”

“A place to clear your head?—” “Don’t play coy with me. Nyogo Island—where night never falls dark. Just get us past Negishi from here and we could walk there blindfolded.” “Kind of you to suggest it, but I’ve sworn off such places starting today.” “How come?”

“Tachibana-ya Tokutarō has decided—my wife will be Kakiya no Osen.” “Th-that’s absurd, Young Master! Osen ain’t so soft.—” “Hold it—don’t go proclaiming this to everyone. I am versed in Sun Wu’s tactics.” “There ain’t no such thing as ‘loss-five’ or ‘gain-seven’ here. That Osen’s the very model of a filial daughter these days—even if you courted her for a hundred days, Young Master, with all respect, this’d be like a carp trying to leap up a waterfall.” ……”

“Matsu-san.” “Huh.” “Get out.”

“What?!” “I’ve gotten this headache somehow. I’ve even come to hate talking with you now.” “Y-you’d say such a disgraceful thing—” “Anyway, I’m a disgrace. I’ll give you this tobacco pouch too—so get the hell out of here already.”

Under the crescent moon, Yanaka’s night path lay shrouded in darkness. Through that gloom walked Young Master Tokutarō alone, his desperate stride threatening to crush the chirping crickets underfoot as his mind brimmed with visions of Osen.

Five “Hmph, what a load o’ nonsense.” Wasn’t like I asked you to come here in the first place. Only brought him ’cause the Young Master begged me with clasped hands—then he goes an’ panics on his own. Just ’cause he went crashin’ into that fence, all I got was a blink-and-miss-it peek at what shoulda been Osen’s full naked show.—Ain’t funny one bit. You say it’s all my fault? Every last bit? Then I ain’t got no dignity left to stand on. Don’t know what fancy lord came up with that ‘bend to the mighty’ crap—too damn convenient for their side. That Tachibana-ya Young Master probably puffed up like a peacock when they told him he’s Yaozō’s spittin’ image—what worthless flattery—but even Yaozō himself, let alone some veggie-seller’s brat, ain’t got a mug like that. “What a damn fool mistake!”

Though muttering to himself with no one to address, Matsugorō the engraver—who had even been spectacularly rejected from accompanying him to Yoshiwara—must have been seething uncontrollably from the pit of his stomach. From behind Tokutarō—who had already gone two or three blocks ahead—he showered him with abuse.

“Hey, hey, Matsu-san.”

“What?!”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! What’re you muttering about? Lady Crescent Moon’s laughin’ at ya!” “You...—”

“It’s me. It’s Harushige!” The man who had been following stealthily from behind removed his hood as he spoke—this was Harushige, known even among Harunobu’s disciples as an eccentric. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Harushige? Where are you off to alone at this late hour?”

“Where I’m going alone? I’d rather be asking you that! —You got ditched by Tachibana-ya’s Toku-san, didn’t you.” “I ain’t been ditched, but how’d you know I was with the Young Master?” “Heh heh heh. This ain’t some Hiraga Gennai quote, but Harushige’s eyes can see clear through a ri ahead. Where you met up with Toku-san and where you went—didn’t need to ask to figure that out.”

“Oh! So you know where we went!” “Exactly right—want me to tell you?” “This ain’t no joke—no matter how sharp your eyes are, how the hell could you’ve figured this out? Let me make this clear—I ain’t gone to buy no sixteen-mon prostitute of that sort.” “But given that spectacle, you can’t exactly act high and mighty now.” “What kinda spectacle?!” “Ended up leaning against the fence and flipping head over heels!”

“What did you say?!” “Trying to peek at Osen’s nakedness was a fine scheme, I’ll grant you that.” “But losing your head and charging out like that—ending up shoving your skull through the fence—wouldn’t that wreck your clever little plan?” “Then Mr. Harushige—you saw all that…—” “Afraid I caught every last bit.” “Where’d you see it from?” “Where d’you think?” “Right there in the garden.”

“In the garden?” “I don’t skulk outside fences like some thieving tomcat.—Look here.” “Took a page from Onidōmaru’s book—not cowhide mind you—wearing this dog’s pelt while holed up in Autumn Grass Keep.” “That’s why my sketch bag turned out like this.—”

In the sketchbook that Harushige had pulled from his pocket were over a dozen varied depictions of Osen’s nude form.

Six Matsugorō, as if gripped by a fox’s bewitchment, stared fixedly at the nude figures of Osen—emerging in the crescent moon’s pallid glow—within Harushige’s sketchbook, until at last regaining his senses and turning his gaze anew to Harushige’s face.

“Mr. Harushige, you’re as sharp as ever.” “What do you mean?” “Wearing a dog’s pelt to get your fill of Osen’s nakedness and then sketching it all down—amateurs couldn’t come up with a trick like that even if they stood on their heads, I tell ya.”

“Heh heh heh, that’s a piece of cake.—I’m actually up to something even better, y’know.”

“Oh? What kind of thing?” “Wanna hear?” “Ain’t you gonna tell me?”

“Ain’t doin’ this for free—gotta cough up an isshu.” “An isshu’s too steep, man.” “What’s too steep? Depending on the time, it’s practically a bargain.—But from the looks of it today, you don’t even have ten mon in your purse, let alone an isshu.” “Quit being such a cheapskate. Pardon my saying, but if I put this off till tomorrow mornin’, I’d be stewing all night—I tell ya, my purse is stuffed tonight.” “That’s mighty generous of you. Since we’re at it—let me have a look.”

“Hmph, Mr. Harushige. You sure you won’t close your eyes on me?” “Ain’t no ship of koban coins docking here, so spare me your frettin’.” There was no wallet. But he was likely rummaging through his inner robe for coins wrapped in a six-foot length of bleached cloth. Matsugorō spent some time striking a pose like a mute person digging for bamboo shoots, then skillfully clutched five or six small coins within his clenched fist before snapping them open right under Harushige’s nose. “How about that, Boss?”

“Well now, these are rare. Where’d you scrounge these up?” “Quit jokin’. These days you could comb all Edo and not find a soul droppin’ coin. Earned ’em proper-like.” “Block-printing work?” “Printing’s part of it, but not the letter-carving sort. Last night in Hatamoto Hikimotoda’s chambers—when I kept stakin’ half-coins three rounds straight—fortune smiled for once. Woke up this mornin’ sudden-like hatin’ the very thought of work—slept till the sun was sulkin’ low—then ambled out with the bats. That’s when I crossed paths with Young Master in Asakusa.” “And what followed—well, you saw how that mess played out.—”

“That’s a dreamlike windfall.” “If what you pegged as ten mon turns out to be three ryō, then an isshu’s dirt cheap.” “Taking one isshu from three ryō—that’s not even the pain of plucking a single hair.” “These are from tonight’s haul, so...” “Then stop it. I ain’t telling you.” “I ain’t tellin’.” “So you’ll pay up?”

“Ain’t got no choice—I’ll hand it over.”

Then Harushige darted his eyes around furtively before suddenly thrusting only his head forward. “Listen close.” “This good?” “——” “Heh heh, you don’t say. Mr. Harushige.—” “Lying’s against Buddha’s commandments!” When Matsugorō’s eyes returned to Harushige’s face, Harushige slowly drew something from his breast and flashed it before Matsugorō’s nose.

Seven

At their feet, the shadows of pampas grass were faint.

“What’s this?” “Let me take a proper look.” As Matsugorō—his brow deeply furrowed into the character for ‘eight’—leaned in closer, what fleetingly grazed past his eyes was a red bran bag of recent fashion, said to contain nightingale droppings. “This here’s just a bran bag, ain’t it, Mr. Harushige?” “Nonsense.” “Paying an isshu just to get shown some bran bag—ain’t no such blunder! What’d you just say? ‘I’ll let you behold a treasure unmatched under heaven—cut from Osen’s snow-white skin.’—”

“Shh! Top secret!” “But that’s just a bran bag…” “It ain’t a bag.” “Don’t you dare show what’s inside!” “If you’ve got complaints, take a good look first.—This here’s the real deal.” “How’s it feel to touch?”

Harushige ostentatiously thrust the bran bag toward Matsugorō’s outstretched fingertips, but after a moment, he retrieved it and pressed it against his own forehead. “I won’t open it to show you.”

“If you want to worship it, I’ll let you worship. But I ain’t sharing even a single one, so don’t go getting any ideas.” As he spoke, Harushige deftly worked his fingertips. Untying the mouth of the bran bag, he reverently poured about three pieces into Matsugorō’s palm as though handling gold dust.

“This here’s yours, Mr. Harushige.—” “Nails.” “Tch.”

“Whoa, careful there! You think I’d let you throw these away? Collecting this much took me a full year.” Harushige, who had covered Matsugorō’s palm with his own, hurriedly flipped over the other’s entire hand and drew it close before his eyes with a relieved expression. “These aren’t just nails I scavenged from some bathhouse. Fleas and mosquitoes were nothing—I’ve endured it all, even snowy nights that freeze you to the bone, crouching silent under the veranda to gather this treasure I’ve sweated over.—This light ain’t clear enough to tell proper, but look close. Even a daimyo’s princess’s nails wouldn’t shine half this bright, I tell you!”

Harushige held nails trimmed into crescent moons—so small you’d want to cradle them in your eye—pinched between his thumb and middle finger. As he held them up to the faint moonlight, a look of triumph glowed unmistakably on his face. Nodding fervently to himself as if he’d even forgotten Matsugorō’s presence beside him, he only returned to his senses when the sudden itch of a bush mosquito biting his shin finally brought him back. Suddenly slapping his shin with a flat hand, he giggled sheepishly.

“Mr. Harushige, you’re a complete oddball.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I ain’t never even thought about it. “If you’re saying this is gold dust shaved from a rod or something, maybe it’d be worth picking up—but high and mighty as it is, it’s just a woman’s nails.” “Even if you collected a whole kan’s worth, the best they’d do is make some medicine for boils, ain’t that right?” “Even Master Harunobu called you an oddball, but I never imagined it’d be to this extent.” “Hey, hey, Matsu-san—make yourself clear. “I ain’t the oddball.” “It’s the rest of the world that’s twisted!” “The proof’s right there!” “Even if customers swarm to Osen’s tea house by the mountain-load, I bet not a single man’s ever laid eyes on her trimming her nails.—That’s where these nails come from.”

If counted one by one, the nails would likely number close to a hundred. Harushige gripped the bran bag once more and laughed with a creepy grin.

Morning.

I

Chirp, chirp, chirp-chirp.

The andon lamp had been left lit, but outside had already begun to dawn. The insect sounds that had been chirping incessantly by the gutter until now had grown intermittent and faint—no doubt cowed by the sunlight now streaming through the storm shutters. Yet Harushige remained oblivious—to the thinning insect chorus, to the whitening dawn outside, to the footsteps now echoing on alleyway gutters—rooted stubbornly before a terakoya desk on torn tatami. With steam from the brazier-mounted kettle clinging to his cheeks like a cricket’s severed leg, he inhaled rapturously, obsessively.

To that very center unit of the Seven-Unit Row House—said to be inauspicious and universally shunned—he had moved his meager possessions: an earthen stove, portable charcoal brazier, chopsticks, a single bowl and pot. The only item resembling proper furnishings was a tray with chipped edges and bulbous cat-shaped legs, received from Master Harunobu—the best he could manage. It was on the twenty-fifth night at eight o'clock—when people with headbands dragged mochi through the streets as last year drew to its close—that he had moved in this grime-caked widower's body, naked save for threadbare clothes that might as well have bred maggots for all their wretchedness.

Roughly two years.

Harushige lived untethered from yesterday or tomorrow. At twenty-seven summers young—having boasted of knowing nearly a thousand women so thoroughly—ordinary matters could scarcely stir his interest. That dexterous hand which could paint bijin-ga exactly as the Master taught now became its own hindrance, for in his heart lay the conviction that rendering kimono-clad women amounted to futility itself. Save for natural landscapes, his sketchbook brimmed solely with nude figures—a most peculiar circumstance.

The two rooms—a two-tatami and a six-tatami—though seemingly cramped, were in fact spacious for a single occupant due to the complete lack of furnishings. The number of paintings plastered around every wall—over thirty at a glance—was staggering enough, but what truly overwhelmed was how scarcely half depicted figures one could even call men; nearly every last one was devoted to Osen’s myriad poses. Beneath the andon lamp in that six-tatami room, nearly ten paper fragments lay scattered—each depicting only the lower body from the hips down, likely tossed from the desk. While occasionally glaring at them intently, Harushige inhaled the steam from the kettle so deeply his nostrils flared wide. Suddenly, he stirred the lamp’s wick and grinned with eerie satisfaction.

“Hmm hmm hmm.” “Not a bad smell.” “Those fools out there think you can’t smell a woman’s scent unless it’s straight from her skin—how pitiful.” “If only I could make those fools out there smell this sweet scent just once—the scent of these nails boiling and churning in the kettle.” “The scent of rouge and white powder can’t hold a candle to this—this is what makes a soul set off for paradise.” “What’s more, they’re no mere ordinary nails.” “Kasamori Osen’s nails, polished like jewels.” “That Matsugorō fool must be having his hard-won gambling money effortlessly stripped away in Yoshiwara right about now—went there in frustration, didn’t he? Pitiful. But this feeling of mine—sketching Osen’s legs while breathing in this scent—why, even if you erected shachihoko statues to proclaim it, none would ever understand.” “——Hmm hmm hmm.” “Let me add another pinch of these fresh ones and savor the scent to my heart’s content.”

Harushige picked up the red bran bag placed beside him with reverent care, slowly untied its mouth string, and spilled about ten nails into his palm before methodically pinching each one into the roiling kettle. “Hmm hmm hmm. This stuff’s got a sweet scent.” “This scent’s downright irresistible.” I’d love to make those Noroma fools drooling over Osen at Kasamori Tea House drink just half a thimbleful of this brew.—

A thieving cat that had been eyeing someone’s saury must have slipped and tumbled from the eaves into the alleyway. A tremendous crash like storm shutters collapsing resounded beneath the window, yet even so, Harushige’s elongated face remained buried in the steaming kettle—only his eyebrows twitching like an Awa puppet’s in exaggerated motion—his gaze never once shifting sideways.

II

“Otaki.”

“Huh?”

“Looks like he’s started up with his usual madness again. That damn smell—it’s unbearable!” “Truly, what an ill-fated man he is. If you look at his face, he’s as handsome as ten men combined and they say he paints beautifully—but what he does is completely different from ordinary folk.”

“You.” “Go check next door for a bit.” “What for?” “What he does at night—long as we’re asleep—I don’t give a damn about. But once the sun’s up, I want ’em to cut out that stench.” “Even if he goes to work, that godawful stench soaks right into his work coat—it’s downright shameful, I tell ya.”

“A woman won’t do. You go over there and sort it out yourself.” “That’s why I’m sayin’—I know I shouldn’t go myself, just like I told ya before—but after headin’ out to the accounts desk, it’s downright embarrassin’. I ain’t steppin’ into that stench no more!” “I don’t like it either. Smells like a damn crematorium. Didn’t even Oshige-san say yesterday? ‘It’s fine enough goin’ to style the mistress’ hair,’ she said, ‘but catchin’ that funeral stench seepin’ through the neighbor’s wall makes me sick to my bones—better have her come here instead.’ What in blazes d’you think he’s burnin’ over there?”

“You know damn well.”

“What’s that?” “He passes himself off as a painter, but it’s a damn lie.”

“Oh, so he’s not a painter?” “That’s right. He’s a geta repairer.” “Geta repairer...” “Dead on, I tell ya. First off—no decent trade stinks up the place like that! He boils geta leather in a pot. To soften it so the needle slides through smooth-like.” “You think so?” “Ain’t no maybes about it. That’s why when business picks up, he leaves that cursed pot boiling clear through the night—makin’ fools of us all. Go on—stick your nose right here against this wall and sniff. Same as treadin’ on charred geta scraps at a fire site—not a lick of difference!”

“I’ve already got this awful feeling just being here—there’s no way I’m going anywhere near that place.” “Hey, you there—” “I’m begging you here—go settle this yourself!”

“You ain’t goin’.” “But I told you a woman can’t handle this!” “If a man goes, things’ll get ugly—that’s why I’m tellin’ you to go!” “But this sort of thing—isn’t it always the husband’s duty in any household?” “I ain’t goin’.” “What a spineless man you are.” “It stinks—that’s why I hate it!” “I’m a woman, more so than you. You can’t possibly know how much more I hate it.” “Since ancient times, settling public disputes has always been men’s duty.”

“Hmph.” “There ain’t no such custom past or present.” “Neighborhood squabbles are strictly the wife’s duty.” “Get over there and thrash ’em proper—that’s what I mean!”

The plasterer couple just beyond the wall might as well have been autumn flies buzzing at Harushige’s ears—their loud, spiteful remarks over breakfast failed to register with him entirely. Beneath the andon lamp, his face hunched over the kettle grew only more flushed by the moment.

III

“Shige-san.” “Shige-san—you there?” “Whoa there—even the Heavenly Lord’s peering at the wrinkles in your navel in broad daylight! Leaving a lamp burning like this—that’s downright cruel!” “—You asleep?” “If you’re awake, open up!”

He must have stopped somewhere for a drink—his speech was already slurred from intoxication. The voice was unmistakably that of the engraver Matsugorō.

“Heh heh heh.” “So he finally came crawling over.” Shrinking his neck and muttering this under his breath, Harushige nevertheless kept his face close to the kettle boiling nails as he stole a glance toward the storm shutters. The sun seemed to be high in the sky, and through a gap in the storm shutters he had only just noticed, gentle daylight streamed in like a blowgun dart, flowing down to the base of the wall where fine cracks had appeared.

“Harushige-san. “Shige-san.—”

Yet Harushige did not respond. Raising his sickle-shaped head like a coiled serpent, he stealthily crawled toward the entranceway.

“That’s strange. There’s no way he ain’t here… Leaving a lamp on to sleep—either way’s downright careless, I tell ya! It’s me! Lord Matsugorō’s grand entrance, I tell ya!”

“Hey there, Master!”

Suddenly, the voice of the neighbor’s wife Otaki was heard.

“Hey there, mister.” “Is this house empty?” “I can’t tell at all whether he’s asleep or gone.”

“He’s here, I tell ya.” “But Master—not sayin’ nothin’ bad here—so quit fiddlin’ with that door willy-nilly!” “Open that thing and the whole neighborhood’ll be reekin’ of raw hide stench!” “What’s this ‘raw hide smell’ business?” “What’s this? Master can’t smell this?” “This godawful stink…” “Not that I don’t know—this here’s you boilin’ glue!” “Don’t talk rot.” “Ain’t nothin’ half so mild.” “He’s got a pot on the brazier boilin’ geta leather!” “Even now—this whole ‘painter’ act he’s puttin’ on—one big lie… I tell ya.”

With a clatter, the storm shutters flew open, and Harushige’s pained face jutted out abruptly. “Good morning.”

“This ain’t no ‘good morning’.” “What’s got old Matsu comin’ round so damn early?” “Early? Not a chance.” “The Heavenly Lord’s already finished his morning bath and risen that high, hasn’t he?” “Come on now, Shige-san.” “You—whether you were sleepin’ or awake—why the hell didn’t you answer me?” “Ain’t got time for replies.—Just get in here already.” Harushige’s sullen face had stiffened like tung oil.

“Can’t I even say ‘huh’?” “If you’re leavin’, then get out!” “You’re bein’ awfully scary.” “Having the likes of a rejected morning visitor drop by is more than I can handle.” “Heh heh heh. I ain’t been rejected or nothin’.” “As proof of that, I’ve brought a fine souvenir.”

“I don’t need any souvenirs. Once you’ve shut that tight, put the locking bar back properly like it was.” “Shige-san—you still fixin’ to sleep?” “Just do what I told ya already.”

Matsugorō reluctantly fastened the locking bar on the storm shutters, and inside the nine-by-two ken house, the world once again transformed back into its former nocturnal realm. “I ain’t comin’ up!” But Matsugorō, assailed by the increasingly pungent and peculiar odor, stood rooted to the spot.

IV

Although the andon lamp was faintly lit, to Matsugorō—who had just stepped in from the sunlit outdoors—the house’s interior appeared pitch black.

“Matsu-san, why ain’t you comin’ up?” “Too dark—can’t see my feet at all.” “Useless peepers you got.” “That way, you’ll never have no fun.” “Shige-san—what’ve you been doin’ up all this time?” “Heh heh. Get up here and you’ll see quick enough.” “C’mon over by this andon lamp and look.” His eyes must’ve finally adjusted. As the andon’s glow deepened, the cramped room’s details sharpened before Matsugorō like a woodblock print emerging from mist.

“Weren’t you drawin’ pictures?” “I ain’t drawin’ no pictures. Can’t you smell this stench?”

“It’s glue.” “Heh heh. Glue ain’t got no soul.”

“So after all, you’re boilin’ cowhide or somethin’?” “Don’tcha talk nonsense.” “Why the hell would I need cowhide?” “Well, press your nose right up against this medicine pot and take a good whiff.”

“I can’t stand this damn smell.” “What’s the matter now?” “This scent’s got no equal!” “Heh heh heh.” “There’s nothin’ in this world smells half as fine as this! Not your Kyara aloeswood nor Ranjatai musk could hold a candle to it—this here’s a goddamn legendary fragrance! ——Standin’ way over there, you’ll never catch the true scent. Get your ass closer to this medicine pot, flare them nostrils wide open, and take a proper whiff!”

“Goddammit, what’re you boilin’ in there?”

“I’m boiling something you won’t find another of in all Japan—let alone Edo!” “Quit tryin’ to spook me. There ain’t no such thing!” “The hell you mean there ain’t?! Look! You know this bag, don’tcha?”

The red bran bag pressed to the nose-tip danced like a tiny bead in Harushige’s hand.

“Ah. That...” “How’s that? Osen’s nails. If you can’t stand this scent, you ain’t worth being born a man.” “Shige-san. You’re one hell of an eccentric, ain’t ya?” Matsugorō once again studied Harushige’s face closely. “I ain’t no eccentric. You’re the strange one.—Even them stiff-necked samurai—once they’re born men, there ain’t a single one who hates women. Every last one of ’em—the women they’re crazy about—ain’t this the real scent they’re after? There’s the skin smell too. The hair smell too. And no mistakin’ the bosom smell neither. But this here scent—it’s all them womanly smells boiled down into one precious brew! ——No matter how pretty that Takao from Miura-ya is, no matter how they praise Oto from Yōjimise—in the end, ain’t it the truth that customers come reelin’ in drunk on a woman’s stink ’stead of her looks? ——Listen close now. It’s the scent, I tell ya.—This here’s an irresistible damn fine stink, I tell ya.”

“This ain’t no joke. There ain’t no way I’d come sniffin’ round this stench like some damn fool……” “There it is. You still don’t get it at all, do ya? This here’s it. This scent ain’t got no lies or secrets—straight-up woman’s stench, I tell ya.” “You’re crazy, you.—”

“Is that so.” “If that’s what you think, I’ll show you somethin’ right now.” “You’re gonna be shocked for sure, I tell ya.”

Harushige said this and suddenly thrust his head into the pitch-dark cupboard.

Five

The crackling sound of the wick burning down shattered the brief stillness and suddenly brightened the surroundings. But that too was fleeting—soon enough, the oil must have run out. The andon lamp suddenly went out, and the surroundings transformed into true darkness.

“Don’t go messin’ around. “It’s pitch-black—I can’t see a damn thing.” Stretching up to rummage through the three-foot cupboard’s depths, Harushige spoke these words in a heavy voice from the darkness before making another rat-like thud. “This ain’t no prank. “The oil’s run out.” “Ran outta oil,’ you say?! “Then hurry up an’ light it—there’s an oil pot ’n wick next t’the andon lamp.” “Where’s that?”

“It’s to the right of the andon lamp.” Even with this verbal guidance, groping through unfamiliar darkness proved no simple task. Matsugorō crawled uneasily across torn tatami mats. “Hurry it up, will ya?” “Lighting it now.” Guided by faint sunlight through shutter cracks, Matsugorō carried the oil pot he’d located to the dish’s edge. Adjusting the cold brass spout with his middle finger, he watched thick drops fall *plop-plop-plop*. When satisfied, he grabbed the wick found with his toes and—after much fumbling—finally lit the andon lamp.

With a sudden flare, the surroundings brightened as if golden-yellow pigment had been spilled across a lacquer tray. At the same time, Harushige’s uncanny face—grinning eerily—was turned this way.

“Matsu-san. You really think a woman’s scent is just musk, huh?” “Well, ’course it is. How the hell could this raw-hide stench be a woman’s scent?” “Is that so. Then I’ll show you this so you get it good and proper.”

If braided, it would have had the thickness of a burdock root cord. The jet-black bundle carelessly flung from Harushige’s hand writhed like a snake beneath Matsugorō’s knees, then with a heavy thud coiled itself upon the tatami and lay still.

“Gah!”

“Ain’t nothin’ creepy about it. Go on—take it proper in your hands and give it a real sniff.” Matsugorō stared fixedly at the andon lamp’s glow. “This here... Mr. Harushige—ain’t this hair?”

“That’s right.” “You… with something like this…” “Heh heh heh. Does it unsettle you? You’re heartless to dismiss it and say the nail stench disgusts you—that’s why I’m lettin’ you sniff this stuff. But even this here ain’t like some cheap wig hair—ain’t no random trash gathered willy-nilly. Count ’em—tens of thousands of strands. And each one’s different—young women’s hair. —Just bury your face in it without a word. The voices of different women—each one distinct—would reach you one after another. It’s paradise right here in this world. From daimyō’s princesses above to beggars under bridges below—every last strand from women aged fifteen to thirty, every woman worth callin’ a woman, is in here, I tell you. —How ’bout it, Matsu-san? When it comes to this path o’ mine, I’ve got pride that won’t be outdone—not even in Edo, let alone the ass-ends of Ezo or Nagasaki. See? Every last strand o’ this hair’s alive, I tell you.……”

Harushige snatched up the bundle of black hair from Matsugorō’s knees and promptly pressed it against his face; trembling with mounting rapture, he began to laugh in an uncanny voice.

“Haru-san. I’m leavin’.”

“If you’re leaving, at least take a whiff of the scent before you go.” But Matsugorō could no longer keep his seat.

VI

“Ah, that was creepy.” Just ’cause I thought I’d brag about last night’s romantic escapades and dropped by, I wound up in this awful mess. I knew he was an oddball, but never figured he’d be that far gone. Being stuck with a guy like that—I just can’t handle it.

Like a roasted bean spat from a pan, Matsugorō flew out through the shutters. His drunkenness had completely evaporated in an instant—he couldn’t see an inch ahead—but still he dashed across the gutter planks until reaching the tobacco shop at the corner, where he finally sighed in relief and patted his chest to calm himself. "But why on earth does he like such foolish things?" "He seems to get all pleased boilin’ nails, buryin’ his face in hair, actin’ like a madman—but if it’s some bug in his head drivin’ him, that’s takin’ devotion too damn far." “Just can’t wrap my head around his damn mentality.”

Matsugorō, who had been walking along muttering to himself with his head slightly tilted, suddenly jolted when someone gave him a tap on the shoulder.

“What’s wrong, brother?”

“Oh! This here’s Matsusumichō.”

“This ain’t Matsusumichō. It’s not like we’re rehearsing some amateur play first thing in the morning. A fine young man muttering to himself like this—shameful as hell.” The man who placed a four-folded hand towel on his shaven head to block the morning sun, with his buttocks hitched up high, was none other than Hachigorō, another of Harunobu’s printers.

“Might look shameful as hell, but I didn’t think it’d be to that extent.” “What do you mean?” “Harushige.” “What’s Harushige done now?” “There’s no two ways about it—that guy’s Japan’s number one oddball, I tell you.” “Harushige bein’ an oddball—ain’t that what Master’s always sayin’? Now, about him bein’ an oddball—you shouldn’t be actin’ all shocked this late in the game.” “Nuh-uh, that ain’t it. If he were just your run-of-the-mill oddball, I tell ya, even I wouldn’t be this shocked—but seein’ him stay up all night boilin’ nails and suckin’ each strand of some woman’s bundled-up hair… that’s enough to rattle anyone’s nerves, no matter how tough they think they are.……”

“Boilin’ nails? What the hell’s that even about?” “He puts ’em in a kettle and boils a woman’s nails.” “Boiling a woman’s nails.――” “That’s right. On top of that, these ain’t just any woman’s nails. These are Kasamori Osen’s nails—said to be second to none in all of Edo at the time.”

“This ain’t no joke. Osen’s nails—how’d there be enough to boil? You’re too damn softhearted, I tell ya. Get tricked by Harushige into comin’ back all creeped out ’n’ scared shitless, clutchin’ yer head—now that’s prime laughin’ stock material. He was likely just boilin’ picture-makin’ glue ’r somethin’. You done mixed up ’n’ thought—” “Th-that ain’t it! He’s takin’ Osen’s nails—genuine as daylight—out bit by bit from a crimson bran sack ’n’ boilin’ ’em in a kettle. An’ that ain’t half of it—if he were just stewin’ ’em plain-like, fine! But he’s smotherin’ his whole mug over the kettle, huffin’ that risin’ steam like a madman! If it were you—could ya watch that cool as ice? Couldn’tcha? Think on that first!”

“What’re ya gonna do sniffin’ that?” “According to that guy, that godawful stink—he swears up and down it’s the real scent of a woman.” “Think I’m lyin’? Don’t take my word—haul your ass to Harushige’s place and see for yourself.” “Door’s bolted shut, and he’s knee-deep in his twisted little ecstasy right this minute!”

But Hachigorō shook his head. “That ain’t gonna work. I’m on Master’s errand—gotta get over to Osen’s place.”

VII

A solitary fly alighted near Harushige’s flushed cheek—his eyelids sagging as if smeared with kabuki makeup—while the early autumn sun peered out playfully from between the alley’s roof tiles. “Oh crap!” “Harushige’s comin’ this way, I tell ya!” Matsugorō, who had been standing at the tobacco shop’s corner gossiping about nail-boiling, hastily signaled to Hachigorō and retreated into the noren’s shadow. “Ain’t no call to hide.”

“Nuh-uh. ’Cause I just ran away from there. We’d be done for if we’re spotted.” “Then just stay hidden over there. While I’m at it, I’ll pull a fast one on him.—”

Like a frog, Matsugorō—darting his eyes about—had stuck his face out from behind the noren curtain, yet he was still trembling with fear. "Is it safe?"

“Shut it!” “There he comes!” With what seemed like the intention of a chance encounter—or something of the sort—Hachigorō stepped in front of Harushige in an utterly casual tone. “Shige-san, you’re up awfully early.” Harushige stopped on tiptoe as if startled.

“Hachi-san?”

“It ain’t Hachi-san. With that rosy complexion like you’ve been powdered up—where you headin’?”

“To Yanagiyu.” “Morning baths? How refined.” “Nothin’ refined ’bout it. Worked through the night—won’t feel human ’less I soak.” “Hmph! Workin’ all night—what dedication.” “Earnin’ that much coin—must be pilin’ up faster’n you can count!” “That’s why...” “That’s why I’m headin’ to Yanagiyu—gonna toss it out with the bath scum.” “Well now—if you’ve got coin to waste like that, how ’bout sharin’ some our way?” “Me an’ Matsugorō here—marked by the poverty god, maybe—always spinnin’ like pinwheels in a gale.” “But you? Stashin’ Osen’s nails in a bran pouch...” ......”

“What’re you yappin’ about, Hachi-san? You must be dreamin’.” “Nails ’n bran pouches ’n such—that kinda talk don’t make no sense to me at all.” “Oh no you don’t! You ain’t hidin’ nothin’!” “I know every last damn thing from root to branch!” “You say you know.—” “How can you play dumb?” “Shige-san, your all-night grind ain’t coin-hoardin’ work—it’s desire-stokin’ fun, ain’t it?” “Th-that’s… such nonsense…”

“You’re callin’ that a lie? “The evidence’s all lined up proper, I tell ya.” “The smell of boilin’ Osen’s nails must be so savory and nice, huh?” “Who’d you hear that from?” “Don’t need to hear it from nobody—my eyes see right through ya. They say folks are vessels for four hundred and four ailments, but Shige-san, yours might be a custom job.” Harushige glanced around furtively before lowering his voice a notch.

“Why don’t you stop by my place for a bit?” “I’ll show you something interesting.” “Appreciate the offer, but I ain’t got time to linger.” “Gotta hustle straight to Osen’s shop right now.” “Osen’s shop? What business you got there?” “Dunno the details, but Master Harunobu says it’s urgent.”

Hachigorō briefly showed a glimpse of the written message he had received from Harunobu from his pocket.

Crimson

I

Whose skin shall brush the crimson flower of fate?　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Baseo “Whoa there! You mustn’t rush off alone like that.” “First purify your hands at the temizuya.” “If you skip paying respects at Inari-sama’s shrine first, divine punishment’ll strike you blind!”

“Goodness, this was too rash of me.” “Oh right—this was Kasamori-sama’s precincts, wasn’t it?” “This ain’t no jokin’ matter.” “If you forget that, there’s no excusin’.— There there—why ain’t you dryin’ your washed hands?” “Osen ain’t runnin’ off nowhere, so settle down now.” “Old Master, you mustn’t tease me so! Mercy now!” “Mercy!” “Ha ha ha! Tokutarō! Your feet ain’t touchin’ ground at all!”

The crickets’ faint chirping marked the passing days and nights. In the wind-tossed miscanthus thicket, three, four, five sparrow chicks flitted about—a scene all the more poignant in autumn. Yet here along Yanaka’s grassy path alone, neither withered fields nor fallen leaves cast even a shadow. Hibiscus flowers, which bloomed in competition regardless of the seasons, had dyed their hues with pristine clarity, shining against Mount Fuji’s snow spread pure across the western sky.

The Kasamori Kannoji Temple, renowned for its flowers. Regardless of how the bitter tea might taste, when Osen offered a bowl with her charming smile from her whitebait-like hands—as if sprinkled with cherry shells—the thrilling allure would seep into one’s very being, and the return trip’s tea money was said to double. In Great Edo’s every corner where women cannot stay awake through the night, when it came to the ballads children sang, these days it was invariably "Osen’s Tea House".

As night whitened into dawn, when Ueno Woods' lovelorn crows still hovered between dreaming and waking, Kannōji Temple's Middle Gate district already hummed with the clack of wooden sandals—amorous men disguising pilgrimages under pious pretenses. Though eleven water tea houses stood along the street, whichever establishment these visitors might pause at, the golden prize remained solely Osen of Kakiya. Among the many patrons, one could often find laughable specimens of misguided gallantry—like some desperate soul spurned in Yoshiwara the night before, now smuggling a shurayu pipe against his spine as return-journey solace to bestow upon darling Osen.

“Good morning to you!” “Ah, I’m parched.”

It was located before the red torii gate. At the Izu stone purification basin where he’d washed his hands but forgotten to dry them, Tokutarō—young master of Tachibana-ya—treated his visit to Inari-sama as secondary and, just as his elderly companion had said, came rushing into Osen’s tea house with feet that scarcely touched the ground. To the veranda bench where he had thudded down to sit, the one who approached with a slight bow was not the crucial Osen but the hired maid Okinu.

“Welcome… Welcome to your pilgrimage so early in the morning.—”

“I’ll have some tea.”

“Right away.” It must have been out of consideration for the three or four existing customers. When Okinu had gone off to draw the tea, Tokutarō abruptly held his breath and lowered his voice.

“That’s odd. She ain’t here.” “That ain’t how it works. No shop runs without its signboard.” “But Old Master—Osen ain’t here! Not hide nor hair of her!” “Quit your frettin’. She’ll come waltzin’ out back any minute now.” “You reckon she’s breakin’ fast?” “Aye—or maybe she heard you comin’ and started dollin’ up special-like.” “Teasin’ her so’s plain cruel—Oh! Miss! What’s become of Osen-chan?”

“She just stepped out for a quick visit——” “Where to?” “To Inari-sama.” “Hmm, right. This here’s Inari-sama’s precincts after all.” Tokutarō finally seemed relieved and chuckled softly under his breath.

II

At the very hour when Tokutarō, young master of Tachibana-ya, was soothing his relieved heart at Osen’s tea house, Osen herself was urging her palanquin ever onward toward the residence of Suzuki Harunobu in Kanda Shirakabe-cho.

“Partner.”

“Right.” “Ain’t got no vigor in this.” “Got it.” “We ain’t hauling some common street mortar here.” “Since we’re carrying Edo’s number one Osen-chan here.” “Damn right.” “When it comes to this, she ain’t some cash-paying customer.” “This here’s our big moment to show off!” “Damn straight.” “I once carried an oiran named Shioi of Hanzo Matsuba all the way to Koume’s pleasure house, and even when I transported that one-star tayu in her prime from Iriyamagata, I never felt this good, I tell ya.”

“That’s fair.”

“Raise the curtains—I wanna show off to our pals out there, I tell ya!” “You ain’t the only one. “I’m feelin’ the same way ’bout that!” “Hey, Miss,” called a voice from behind. “Yeah?” “How ’bout it? “How ’bout lettin’ us raise the palanquin’s curtain for ya, Miss?” “Please bear with us. “I have private matters to attend to...” “After goin’ to all this trouble carryin’ you, haulin’ you ’round with the curtain down feels like such a waste I can’t stand it.” “Pardon me for saying, but us palanquin bearers Take and Senzō are carryin’ Edo’s number one Osen-chan here, and we wanna show you off to everyone...”

“Please，don’t speak of such things anymore.” “You’re the celebrated Osen-chan. If raising both sides ain’t good，how ’bout just one then?” “That’s right—you see， This ain’t just about *our* little show-off act. Whether it’s using Master Harunobu’s pictures to promote me or letting people peek from the palanquin，both end up being the same kind of service to the world，don’t they? Let’s take the plunge and get it over with.” “Please，have mercy...”

“You’re such a selfless soul, aren’t you? Go ahead and raise the curtain. Look there—that’s Osen from the water-tea house.” As whispers spread through the crowd that this was Kasamori’s Osen, by the time they reached Shirakabe-cho, people had gathered thick around the palanquin’s front pole. “Hey, Take.” “Just like Senzō said—if folks could see *the real* Osen-chan alive right here in Edo’s streets, her fame’d know no bounds.—If half-open won’t do… even lifting just partway’d let passersby see how thrilled they’d be—you can scarce imagine!”

“Mr. Palanquin Bearer.”

“Right here!” “I’m getting out now.” “What’re you sayin’?” “If you’re going to make unreasonable demands, then let me off right here.” “N-No way in hell! If we drop you off here of all places, we’ll never work our trade in Edo again—mark my words.—Since you hate it that much, we won’t raise the curtain. So quit squirming and sit still like a proper lady.—But the more I think ’bout it—keepin’ you cooped up like this—it’s such a damn waste, I tell ya.”

The palanquin was now skirting along the plastered wall of Akita Tajima-no-kami’s estate, approaching the shores of Shinobazu Pond where lotus flowers vied in splendor.

III

The sight of the one-ri circumference pond at the foot of Mount Tōeizan’s Kanei-ji Temple had been one source of pride for Edoites since the shogunate’s founding, but above all, the early autumn charm of lotus blossoms floating upon its surface—awaiting wild geese’s arrival—stood alongside Edo Kabuki’s aragoto performances as that which the young and old across eight hundred and eight neighborhoods took particular pride in. Osen—wearing a yellow-striped checkered sheer fabric that had recently become fashionable, fastened with a scarlet crepe obi bearing chrysanthemum-diamond motifs, the crimson silk cord of her protective amulet pouch peeking from neck to chest—sat with her freshly washed hair tied in a pristine Shimada coiffure, both hands properly placed atop her knees, and shifted her gaze from within the palanquin toward the pond’s surface.

Dawn had broken, but there was still some time before the fifth hour. Upon lotus leaves thought large enough to embrace someone, dewdrops placed there all swayed in the morning breeze, their sidelong gazes watching the ripples creeping toward their bases as they reflected in the water's mirror a pure form unlike the red of blooming flowers that beckon pampas grass—this lush scenery of abundance. Last night’s dream must have been unforgettable. A green frog that had peeked out slightly from the leaf cover was squinting to avoid the sunlight on its triangular head, which looked ready to drop at any moment.

“Mr. Palanquin Bearer.” Suddenly, Osen called out.

“Yeah?” “Please raise just this side of the curtain.” “Why’re ya askin’ that?” “I want to see the flowers.” “Got it, ma’am.”

The voices of the front and rear bearers were precisely in unison. As the palanquin touched down upon the earth, the right-hand curtain facing the pond was flung upward with a swish. "My, how lovely!" "That’s why we’ve been tellin’ ya since earlier, ain’t we? Ain’t no way you’ll see such a fine view every mornin’. —Go on and take a look already. The moment you showed yourself, all them closed-up buds burst into bloom just like that!"

“Not at all. “Even the frog rascal perched on the leaf went and opened his eyes so wide!” “Alright then, go ahead and do it.” “Well then, take your time.—If Osen-chan would kindly raise the curtain, you can’t imagine how much broader our shoulders would feel.” “Hey Take.”

“Exactly right.” “Now that it’s come to this, even if you tell me to hurry, my legs won’t listen.” “It’s a perk for me and Senzō, ain’t it?” “Ohoho, in that case, I’ll have you lower the curtain.” “No way in hell. The person ridin’ the palanquin and us bearers—the destination’s still the customer’s, but once we start carryin’, it becomes our own show, ain’t it? Hey Take, don’t walk all stiff-hipped—put some swing in your step so the folks on the street’ll notice us as much as you can.”

“Ah, there’s no need for your worry.” “If the authorities would permit it, I’d have you erect a placard at the palanquin’s pole declaring ‘Kasamori Osen’s Official Palanquin’ or some such.”

Needless to say, this had nothing to do with the size of gratuities or drinking money. The joy of carrying Kasamori Osen—who at that time appeared to single-handedly bear the popularity of Edo’s women—must have been an honor among palanquin bearers. Take and Senzō’s bellies brimmed fuller with pride than if they had been transporting gold ingots.

“Look here! Don’t you go over there—that’s Osen!”

“It’s Osen.”

“That’s right.” “Ain’t no way we got the wrong person.” “The proof’s in that fine dimple!” “No mistake there!” “You’ve gotta go round t’other side to get a look!”

A carpenter hurrying toward the accounts office, no doubt. From the pride of being first to spot her, the two rushed together toward the far side of the palanquin.

Four

"Elegant Picture Calendar Studio: Suzuki Harunobu"

A weathered signboard with faint water stains showed woodgrain patterns like flowing script, while a broken bamboo pole leaned from a decaying roof toward the brushwood fence where grapevines ran wild—their forms reflected in a three-foot-wide stream, composing an elegant scene that made passersby whisper in Shiragabe-chō: "How could such rustic dwellings exist merely ten blocks north of Nihonbashi, at Edo's very heart where even the castle pines might cast their shadows?" In summer, one might have seen supple hands guiding stray fireflies that darted forth with a swish, beckoning them with fans as if to say "Wait there now," but beyond the fence where autumn’s whispers were already heard, only clusters of small grapes bathed in morning sun floated shadows no larger than adzuki beans upon the stream below.

Though unworthy of being called a pond, in this natural puddle spanning just over three square meters where about ten scarlet carps could be counted, an undulating bush clover—its blossoms half-scattered—stretched boldly from the tip of a spreading cluster of branches, letting fall at that very moment a single droplet that plopped onto the carps' backs. The one gazing fixedly at the water's surface while gathering modest rings of ripples—their concentric circles gradually expanding—with a twig's tip was Harunobu: a man of forty-five who appeared a decade younger, his compact frame measuring just under five feet.

He had likely discarded the toothpick he’d been holding and just washed his face. The hand towel still held in his right hand remained heavily soaked.

“Fujikichi.” Harunobu took his eyes off the carps’ backs and, as if suddenly remembering something, called to Fujikichi—his young apprentice sweeping dwarf lilyturf leaves by the veranda edge. “Yes.” “Hatchan hasn’t returned yet.” “Yes.” “Is Osen still not here either?” “Yes.” “And Sakaiya’s Tayu too?” “Yes.” “You there—go check the lattice door.” “Understood.”

Fujikichi released the cleaning brush from the dwarf lilyturf leaves, circled around the hem of the bush clover, and hurried out to the front.

"At this hour, Osen should be here—perhaps that Hachigorō fellow met someone along the way and got himself delayed." "Sakaiya or whoever else—if only they'd come quickly." "—"

After carefully wringing out the damp hand towel once more, Harunobu slowly made his way toward the veranda while muttering these words under his breath. Then, the one who came rushing in while wiping sweat from his forehead was the printer Hachigorō. “I went and did it, sir.” “You’ve done well, you’ve done well. Was Osen there?” “Yessir. She was there, sir. But Master, I was shocked at how many fools there are in this world. When I got there—and it was barely past six—you’d never believe it, sir! There was already a whole crowd bunched up in front of Kakiya’s place, don’t you know? And not a single woman among ’em either. Every last one of ’em’s puffing himself up like he’s Edo’s finest dandy—swaggering around with faces practically shouting it, the whole gang of fools, I tell you. Osen-chan here—even if a thousand men go head over heels for her, she don’t know it’s like carps trying to climb a waterfall, all for nothing. Damn annoying, I tell you.”

“Hatchan.” “What was Osen’s response?” “Did she say she’d come right away or not?” “She’s here already, I tell you.” “Any moment now—you can hear voices around here already, I tell you.” Hachigorō tilted his head slightly with a look of pride and pointed toward the lattice door.

Five

Outside the lattice door, Fujikichi—his face like a heretic’s mask as he stood stockily waiting—had just widened his acorn-round eyes at the disheveled hem spilling from Osen’s palanquin. “Oh, Osen-chan! Master’s been stretching his neck waiting for you since earlier!” Having Senzō behind her adjust the vermilion and navy zōri sandals with their twin straps, Osen stepped quietly from the palanquin while shielding herself from the morning sun with a fan, composed with such grace she might have been the only daughter of a prominent merchant house.

“Fujikichi.” “Were you waiting here for me?”

“That’s right—I stopped halfway through cleaning the vital dwarf lilyturf and have been waiting nearly half an hour for you to come.” “But Osen-chan.” “You’re still as lovely as Master’s paintings, I tell you.”

“My, starting your teasing first thing in the morning?” “Tease you? Far from it.” “I’m just standing here entranced, gazing at you, I tell you.” "Whether it’s your face or your figure—‘A woman as fine as you couldn’t be found even if you searched all of Edo,’ Master always says like a catchphrase, I tell you." “If Onabe from my place is a woman and you’re a woman too, Osen-chan, then how come Onabe’s so homely even though you were both born as women?” "I’ve always thought Onabe was well-named—really makes you admire her old man’s wisdom. But you’re different, Miss Osen—even Benzaiten herself would go barefoot for a woman like you." “No, even if you searched all of Edo—no, the entire country—with gongs and drums…”

“Hey, Mr. Fuji.”

He grabbed his shoulder and yanked him hard. With that hand—the same one he’d used to stroke Fujikichi’s face downward—Hachigorō grabbed his obi once more and dragged him inside the lattice door.

“What are you doing? Hatchan.” “Hatchan.”

“There’s no call for this. Quit yammering nonsense and hurry up taking Osen-chan inside already! Master’s changed his tea three times waiting!” "Oh no!" “Osen-chan.” “I hurried fast as could—hurried!”

“Hohoho… Hatchan and his joking ways again…” Osen, having sent back the palanquin, crossed the earthen bridge spanning the small ditch and disappeared into the lattice door as if fleeing.

“Hmph, that Hatchan—meddlin’ where he shouldn’t.” “I’m Osen-chan’s guide through ’n’ through, I tell ya. —Right then, once Sakaiya’s tayu comes later, I’ll make that lout eat humble pie.” As if robbed of treasure from his very hands, Fujikichi stamped his geta-clad feet and went leaping across the earthen bridge after them. At the hook-curved veranda, Master Harunobu and Osen had already exchanged greetings and were whispering together while eyeing pond carp.

“Hatchan, come ’ere for a sec.” “What is it, Mr. Fuji?” Glaring at Hachigorō who’d stood up and approached, Fujikichi pursed his lips. “You—d’ya even know who’s comin’ later?” “Dunno.” “There y’see? Didn’t know squat, yet still managed t’meddle so damn fine.” “What’s this ‘meddlin’ you keep on about?” “Draggin’ Osen-chan ahead like that—that’s meddlin’!”

“This ain’t no joke. Osen-chan was asked by the Master—so I went to call her—I tell you.—You still ain’t washed your face, have ya?”

He had long since washed his face, but a small, unsightly smudge of sleep crust clung to the inner corners of Fujikichi’s eyes.

Six

The studio where red dragonflies cast distinct shadows on the shoji was as bright as scattered gold dust. Though boasting a spacious garden, the elegant residence—with its mere three rooms designed in a tea house style—was maintained exactly to Harunobu’s preferences, yet compared to the official artists serving feudal lords, it remained truly humble. In the middle of the studio, with a tobacco tray between them, Harunobu and Osen sat facing each other. Osen’s innocent heart must have shown hesitation at Harunobu’s words. Her downcast eyes, touched with faint rouge, had two or three strands of hair drifting dreamily across her cheeks.

“What do you say? This isn’t something I was commissioned by Sakaiya for, but Nakamura Matsue is after all the preeminent tayu of our time—none could rival her standing.” “Now that Sakaiya wants Shigesuke-san to write a new play about you for Kobikichō this autumn and stage it, it’s nothing short of an unexpected blessing—the kind you couldn’t wish for more.” “You can’t possibly refuse this, can you?” “Yes, that’s truly a favor far beyond what someone like me deserves—if I refused such kindness, I might go blind from guilt...”

“Then why hesitate?” “Master, please forgive me. I simply don’t wish to meet unfamiliar actors face-to-face.” “Ha ha ha! What’s this? Your usual foolish bashfulness again? When I invited Sakaiya here, it wasn’t to make you meet privately or have intimate talks—nothing of that sort.” “Matsue’s adored my paintings for years—carves the key blocks himself, even collects the original drawings like a true devotee. Then last night after the play, he drops by with this earnest wish—for the next comic production, he absolutely wants to script Kasamori Osen-chan into the play.” “As for how they’ll structure the plot—that’s something to discuss with playwright Shigesuke-san first—but seeing your likeness that Matsue captured come alive on stage? That’d make for an undeniably fascinating spectacle.” “I agreed straightaway and struck the deal. So taking ‘strike while the iron’s hot’ to heart—we’ve arranged for you to come tomorrow morning and have the actor visit again—what say you, Osen?” “Before me you’ve even bared your skin for painting—haven’t you? No matter who comes, it’s just tea talk here.” “You should meet them cheerfully now, shouldn’t you?”

“Well—” “There’s no need for second thoughts at this stage.” “They might already be approaching while we sit here.” “Oh, Master...” “Ha ha ha! You’ve turned quite shy.” “That’s not it, but I... with actors I don’t know...” “Still on about that?” “Meeting someone new often makes for livelier talk than chatting with half-known faces. And mind you—he’s the finest female-role actor of our age! Simply sharing tea with him would lift anyone’s mood.”

Suddenly, the dragonfly’s shadow detached from the shoji. At the same moment, Fujikichi’s voice came hesitantly from the veranda. “Master, the Tayu has arrived.” “Ah, right,” “Show him in immediately.” Osen, who had been staring fixedly at the tatami mat, flinched and scanned her surroundings.

“Master‚ I beseech you.” “Let me return home as I am.”

“What do you mean?”

Harunobu opened his eyes wide.

Seven

Like two or three water-plantain flowers scattered upon green moss, Osen’s toes—resembling embossed carvings as she began to rise with her hem disarrayed on the tatami—no longer pressed firmly against the mat. “Ha ha ha, Osen! How undignified! What’s gotten into you?” Harunobu’s slightly bewildered gaze chased after Osen toward the shoji, but when he saw her cornered figure crouching at the screen’s edge, an even more incomprehensible emotion spread through his chest, prompting him to hurriedly call out to Fujikichi waiting beyond the shoji.

“Fujikichi, have the Tayu from Sakaiya wait just a little longer.” “Yes, sir.” They had likely already reached the veranda’s vicinity. Fujikichi promptly relayed Harunobu’s message to Matsue, and the traces of him retreating toward the pond became discernible through two shadows cast upon the shoji screen.

“Osen.” “Yes, sir.” “You’ve got some reason for this.” “No reason at all.” “No need to hide—lay out how things stand. Depending on circumstances, I’ll send Sakaiya home without meeting you.” “Then will you grant my wish?” “I’ll listen and grant it—but you’ll tell me why.”

“Well… the reason is—” “Do you still mean to hide it? If you’re determined not to tell me, I’ll let it be—but mark my words, I’ll never paint your picture again from this day forth.” “Oh, Master”

“Ah, it’s nothing. Kasamori’s Osen is Edo’s finest silk. Even if I don’t paint your likeness in my clumsy pictures, customers will swarm like ants from every corner of the capital. —If you don’t want to talk, I won’t ask.”

As if the shamisen string she’d been idly toying with had suddenly snapped, Osen felt loneliness welling up inside her body, her eyelids growing hot before she could stop them. “Master, please forgive me,” she pleaded. “I’d sworn never to tell even Mother... but I’ll say it all now.” Her voice trembled like a plucked string. “Have your fill of laughter at my expense.” “Ah,” Harunobu murmured, his eyes narrowing like an artist assessing brushstrokes, “so there was a reason after all...”

“Oh… I’m so terribly in love with the Tayu of Hamamuraya that it aches.” “What?! “With Kikunojō?—” “Oh. “It’s mortifying to say…”

Osen’s demeanor—wishing she could vanish—resembled autumn begonias blooming in the garden, their alluringly drooping form mirroring her own distress as she hid her face in her sleeve. Harunobu’s eyes remained fixed as if nailed in place, unmoving from Osen’s collar. But soon, his face—having nodded quietly—was suffused with a radiant hue. “Osen.” “Oh.” “You’ve fallen hard.” “What?!” “If it’s Segawa Kikunojō—the foremost young female-role actor of our time—then as your match here in Edo, there should be no shortage of suitability.” “—I understand.” “If your partner is indeed an actor, then meeting Sakaiya would feel awkward.” “I’ll refuse this no matter what they say, so you can rest assured.”

Eight

Nakamura Matsue, who had arrived eagerly by palanquin, was guided by Fujikichi just as he had been the day before, but found himself unable to enter the studio where he should have been admitted immediately—for some reason—and so stood alone near the pond, intently watching carp approach his shadow in the water. Having come to Edo nearly three years prior out of admiration for his teacher Utagawabe, Matsue’s patrons were nowhere near as numerous as those of Edo actors; moreover, in this locale where Segawa Kikunojō II—renowned as the foremost young female-role actor of their time—reigned supreme, his presence remained faint at best. Yet being young and artistically accomplished, playwright Nakamura Shigesuke likely sought to champion him by staging something novel and unconventional—a play that might catch the public’s eye. Having recently schemed to feature Kasamori Osen—whose reputation had soared through Harunobu’s paintings—as the lead attraction, and capitalizing on Matsue’s closeness to Harunobu, they had acted on the adage “strike while the iron is hot,” making their visit here yesterday—which had led to today’s circumstances.

“Tayu, I apologize for keeping you waiting, but please do come over here, partake in some tea, and wait a while longer.” Even Fujikichi couldn’t grasp why his master was making Sakaiya wait, but when he saw the dejected figure standing forlornly staring at the pond—as if the tension that had been building up inside him had suddenly eased—he couldn’t help but call out like this. “Well now, much obliged…” “Tayu, have you not yet had the occasion to meet Osen-chan?”

“Well now, I’ve had tea at Lady Kasamori’s establishment, but you couldn’t possibly know about that.” “But, young sir.” “I wonder if Osen-san won’t be coming after all.”

“Just a moment ago—” “Then perhaps she’s learning painting or some such thing.—” “Well now, I suppose it’s something like that, but either way, it shouldn’t take long. “You’ll find that spot gets plenty of sunlight.” “Please come over here……” He had suddenly turned on his heel and taken two or three steps when— After quietly sliding open the corner shoji and stepping down into the garden, Harunobu turned his pale face toward Matsue, who stood there in his furisode.

“Tayu.” “Oh! Master!” “I’ve been intruding since early on—terribly sorry.” “The one who should apologize is me rather than you—even though I went to the trouble of making you get up early and come all this way when you were sleepy, the crucial Osen…”

“Has something happened to Miss Osen?” “Due to a sudden illness—”

“What?!” “It might be a women’s ailment—no sooner had she arrived than she complained of a headache and withdrew completely, still unable to lift her face. Given this state, even were you to wait half an hour, I fear we shan’t be able to converse this morning. My deepest apologies—it seems we must arrange another meeting instead. Though truthfully, I’m quite concerned about her condition...”

“Well, now…” “Now, Tayu. “You there—I’ll make my apologies time and again, so won’t you return home for today as things stand?” “Well now, I could return at any time, but since Miss Osen has taken ill so suddenly, I’m rather concerned…” “No need to trouble yourself overmuch—after all, it’s a young woman’s sudden ailment. “I’ve felt the world grow a shade darker since morning, you see.”

"I see…" Harunobu’s eyes turned away from Matsue and shifted to the bush clover leaves trailing on the ground.

Rain.

One.

“Hey baldy! The fire’s gone out in th’ brazier!” “Keep woolgatherin’ like this an’ we’ll have trouble on our hands!”

Past the back gate of the Hosokawa residence in Hamacho, turning right for a little over a block, spotting a dyer’s drying area at the corner, then turning beside the pawnshop labeled Iseki to reach the third house—marked by a willow tree with long drooping branches out front—stood the modest dwelling of dollmaker Kameoka Yūsai. Though he had not yet passed forty by more than a few years, at first glance he appeared fifty-four or fifty-five. His topknot and white hairs went unattended; the barber’s lintel had not been passed under in two months, leaving him in a state of grime-coated squalor. Despite being lauded as a master and skilled artisan, his household consisted solely of himself and the seventeen- or eighteen-year-old apprentice he called “baldy”—not even a single cat shared their dwelling.

“You—how many years d’you think have passed since you became my apprentice?” “Yes.” “Don’t just ‘yes’ me, baldy! For a dollmaker, even if you think you half-understand what gofun work entails, you’ll be cursed! This damn rain. If you keep dawdling around like this, you’ll bring in all this damn humidity and ruin everything! Hurry up and get the damn fire going!” “Yes.” “Then what else? Once the fire’s lit, get to cleanin’ the damn andon lamp right away. On days like this, the sun sets way earlier than usual.”

“Yes.” “Hmph.” “No matter what I say, you’re such a lifeless oaf.” “I made sure you had your fill.” “Quit mumbling and answer properly!” “Yes, sir.” “You’re like pounding a nail into bran, you are.—I’m gonna have a smoke while the fire’s gettin’ lit, so hand over that tobacco pouch.” “Yes.” “Why aren’t you bringing the pipe?” “Yes.” “That ain’t even a firefly’s glow of a fire you’ve got there.” “How d’you expect to light tobacco with this?” Though his partner was a taciturn youth, Yūsai seemed constitutionally incapable of refraining from some criticism, even over something as trivial as how one lifts their chopsticks in a hypothetical example. While muttering complaints almost nonstop, he removed the faded pale blue cloth draped over his cross-legged knees, yanked the firebox closer, and clamped the iron long-stemmed pipe gutturally between his teeth.

From the kitchen came the persistent flapping sound of a fan vigorously stoking beneath the charcoal brazier. Listening with ears growing increasingly irritated by the fan’s noise, Yūsai glared at the nearly life-sized female doll propped before him when he suddenly seemed to recall something. He shouted toward the kitchen without restraint. “Baldy. Baldy.” “Yes.” “You—did you wash your face this morning?” “Yes.” “Don’t lie. Someone who’d washed their face wouldn’t make such a sloppy mistake! Get over here and look at the doll’s feet! There’s this much wax dripped on the instep—what’s wrong with you?!”

Trembling, he returned to the workshop. The apprentice’s feet were trembling. “This here’s your handiwork, eh?”

“I don’t know.” “Don’t play dumb! You came into the workshop late last night with a candle, didn’tcha? Ain’t nobody else but you who’d do that. This ain’t just some ordinary doll. This here’s meant to have even Mr. Kikunojō’s soul carved into it! I told you a hundred times there ain’t room for slip-ups!”

Two

The deep eaves hung low over the house hazed by rain, leaving the interior as dark as a storehouse. Though they had only just heard Ishimachi’s eighth bell toll, everything was blurred in mouse-gray shadows thick enough to make one crave an andon lamp. The gutter under the eaves must not have been replaced even once in the past ten years. Moss thickened over each bamboo joint, and through their cracks, rainwater fell unceasingly—just as sand slips through an hourglass’s markings—captivating the ear.

With his lips pursed into a tight へ-shape around the pipe, Yūsai continued to gaze at the doll as if entranced. After giving a firm nod, he transferred the charcoal from the fire shovel to the brazier that the apprentice had just lit, then quietly furrowed his brows alone. “Baldy. “You—can’t you hear the voice out front?” “Is there someone here?”

“They’re here. Go open the door and see.” “Yes.” “But you can’t let ’em through here.” The apprentice stood up half-doubtingly, hunched his back, and peered through a gap in the storm shutters. “Oh my, it’s just me!” “Oh! Miss Osen!”

The apprentice opened the ill-fitting storm shutters and gave a quick bow. There stood Osen, her face wrapped in a hood, with an umbrella resting on her shoulder.

“The master...” “He’s working...” “Please forgive me.” “Ah! You can’t! If I let you in, I’ll get scolded.” “Hohoho, save your worries for another time.” “But if I were to tell the master...” “Baldy,” came a sharp voice from the back.

“Yes.”

“I already told you. No matter who it is, you can’t let them into the workshop.”

“Master,” Osen called out imploringly. “Please, just for today, have mercy on me.”

“Won’t do.” “I knew you’d refuse me, but I couldn’t bear it any longer—that’s why I came through this rain. I beg you...” “Just a little while...” “You’ve come all this way, but I can’t oblige.” “When I took on this doll from you, don’t you remember what we agreed? Hmm, Osen-chan?” “What did you say back then?” “I don’t want some lifeless doll.” “If I was to craft a living doll brimming with soul, didn’t you swear you’d endure any hardship? I’m carving a lifelike effigy of Edo’s top female-role actor—Segawa Kikunojō himself—exactly as he stands on stage!” “You know full well this ain’t some trifling work.” “Till now I’ve made seven, ten dolls I thought special—but this one? Finish this and I could die content. Never poured my soul into a piece like this.” “But this job ain’t alone in that.” “Once I finish this living doll, even if I drop dead tomorrow spewing blood, I’ll have no regrets—this here’s a fight I’ve staked my life on.” “You say you want to see its progress.” “From my gut’s depths I understand that feeling—but no good. I ain’t slapping paint on some toy here.” “I’m ripping my soul bloody raw in this life-or-death work—that’s why.”

While listening to Yūsai’s voice, Osen had been backing away step by step until she stood frozen by the storm shutters as if crucified.

III

Driven by an unbearable, fervent longing—*just one glimpse would suffice, just one glimpse*—Osen had deliberately abandoned her palanquin near Ryōgoku Bridge and, hiding her face beneath a hood to avoid prying eyes, made her way to Yūsai’s workshop behind the pawnshop. In her heart raged emotions more torrential than the ceaselessly pouring rain.

Though there was a five-year age difference between them, Osen and her childhood friend Kikunojō—both born in Ōji—had been enviably close since their days as toddling playmates. When pretending to be husband and wife during make-believe games, they would declare, "Yoshichan is my master!" and "Osen-chan is my lady!" These repeated phrases eventually spread among their playgroup without either needing to say them aloud, until the two found themselves awkwardly cast as a perfect married pair. At times they even deliberately sat back-to-back to avoid the presumption. But when Yoshichan began appearing onstage and gaining acclaim as a child actor, their parents left Ōji—his settling in Yoshichō, hers in Kuramae—and so days where they might meet and talk vanished entirely. Two years turned to three, three became five, and time rushed onward. Though she might glimpse his vibrant figure in long-sleeved robes on kabuki playbills posted at crossroads, never again would there come an opportunity to call each other "Yoshichan" and "Osen-chan"—those childhood days had slipped away forever.

When speaking of onnagata—whether Nakamura Tomijūrō, Yoshizawa Ayame, Nakamura Kiyojūrō, Nakamura Kumetarō, or Nakamura Matsue—all ten out of ten were uniformly Kamigata transplants. Amidst them stood Yoshichika alone: Edo-born and Edo-raised, who rose meteorically to fame while overshadowing other female-role actors. After inheriting the name of the second Segawa Kikunojō, his "supreme good fortune" reputation reviews only further inflamed public adoration. The name Ōji Rokō had become firmly established as the foremost young female-role actor of his time, and once word spread that a production was one of Kikunojō’s plays, failing to see it became tantamount to social disgrace.

Consequently, the various rumors swirling around the popular actor reached Osen’s ears day after day—that a certain daimyo’s mistress had gifted him a silk robe, and so on. The widow of such-and-such shop had an obi sewn for him, they said. The daughter of a sake wholesaler embezzled ten ryō from her parents because she wanted the hairpin he wore on stage, they said. The incidents involving over a hundred women coming and going—even among those resting at Osen’s tea house—spread without being actively heard or spoken, these events, a mix of truth and lies, only served to elevate Kikunojō’s fame higher with each passing day—yesterday to today, today to tomorrow.

But the feelings of longing hidden deep in Osen’s heart only continued to grow day by day, paying no heed whatsoever to those rumors. And no wonder. The Kikunojō whom Osen yearned for was not the actor Kikunojō who shouldered Edo’s adoration, but rather her childhood companion from Ōji—Yoshichan himself.

Though there had been no shortage of marriage proposals—five or ten were hardly enough to count them—for a tea house girl like her, including even two or three proper offers from high-ranking hatamoto who sent stewards as envoys, each time Osen would shake her head sideways. People lamented her foolishness in missing her chance to ride in a jeweled palanquin, yet not a single soul knew of the ardent longing for Kikunojō she harbored in her heart.

Ever since Osen had bared her heart to master craftsman Yūsai six months prior and commissioned him to create a living doll replicating Yaoya Oshichi’s stage appearance exactly as she had seen it three years earlier at the Nakamura-za Theater, she had waited with unbearable anticipation—day after day—for its completion. Yet knowing this was work demanding every ounce of his soul, she had sworn not to visit until the day it was finished, no matter what might happen. But after enduring patience upon patience until her limits frayed, the tumult of a woman’s heart proved too overwhelming—thus she found herself driven to secretly visit this workshop twice in succession, yesterday and today. Beneath the hood, her wide eyes harbored dewdrops of tears.

“Master… Oh Master.” Once more, Osen turned toward the back and called out to Yūsai. But all that reached her ears was the faint sound of raindrops trickling down the gutter. The willow at the eaves, as if suddenly remembering, lightly brushed against the storm shutters as it passed by.

IV

“Young Master… Hey, Young Master.” “Quiet! Walk properly and keep your mouth shut.” “But if I stay silent about this, who knows what scolding I’ll get from you later.” “What?!” “Look over there.” “That’s definitely Osen-san from Kasamori.” “Osen’s here? Wh-where?!”

On his return from fulfilling a vow at Yakkenbori’s Fudō Myōō shrine, Tokutarō—young master of the Tachibana-ya paper merchant house—stood gazing through the rain with feverish eyes. Clad in a half-length raincoat of navy-lined black silk and carrying a servant’s snake-eye umbrella in the Mimasu Daigorō style, he had his young apprentice Ichimatsu in tow.

“It’s over there—that hooded figure passing under the money exchange sign from in front of that brush shop.” “Hmm. Quickly now—go and make sure of it.” “Understood.” To Ichimatsu, who had leapt out sideways without a care for the mud splattering up to his crown, the rain likely felt no heavier than stage-prop snow. Darting straight past the dark snake-eye umbrella scurrying seven or eight yards ahead, he wheeled about moments later and came charging back triumphant—as though he’d captured a demon’s head himself.

“What happened?” “As I saw with my own two eyes, it’s undoubtedly Osen-san.” “Hey now—why’re you making such a shrill racket? Even in this rain, if someone hears you, it’ll cause trouble!” “Yes, sir!” “You—follow after me.” His keen eyes must have been his greatest asset above all else. While being chosen as the young master’s attendant by peers like Ichidōn was customary—a role that occasionally earned him a bowl of soba—for Ichimatsu, sitting in the shop and neatly stacking paper edges would have been immeasurably more comfortable.

Yet Tokutarō—who gave no more thought to his apprentice’s hardships than to a fly on his back—plunged forward in single-minded pursuit at Osen’s mention. Even the blue veins bulging on his deathly pale shins beneath the raincoat betrayed his obsession. The road’s condition and sideways-lashing rain now seemed like another world’s affairs, utterly absent from his mind. “Hey there, Miss.” “Wait—isn’t that Osen-chan heading over there?”

The voice with which Tokutarō called out to her trembled faintly from nervous agitation. “Oh?” Osen whirled around, her eyes alone brimming with charm beneath the hood as she stole a fleeting glance at Tokutarō’s face. Upon recognizing him as the young master who frequented her tea house, she bowed deeply once more. “Oh my, Young Master! Where might you be headed?” “I just went to pay respects at the Fudō Myōō over there.” “—And then you...”

"I went to Hamamachi to buy medicine for my mother." “Hamamachi. “That’s hardly ordinary in this downpour. You didn’t have to go out of your way. Had you just said a word, I would’ve had my apprentice buy it for you anytime.” “I thank you for your kindness, but to entrust another with medicine meant for my mother would surely incur Inari-sama’s punishment.” “Ah, I see—still playing the dutiful daughter.” Tokutarō said that and gulped audibly, swallowing one hard lump of anticipation.

V

Though Young Master Tokutarō—with his dandyish affectation so thick it compelled all who saw him to feel shivers of disgust—had settled into his role as a pretty boy ever since some flatterer once told him he resembled Mimasu Daigorō, the era’s most popular actor, there now appeared in his eyes an uncharacteristically tenacious seriousness as he fixed Osen with an earnest gaze, using talk of filial piety as his opening.

“Do you have some urgent business now?” “Oh, since I’ve slipped away from my crucial duties at the tea house, if I don’t return posthaste, I’ll cause Mother needless worry—and what’s more, I’ll have no excuse for our honored guests.” “As for the customers’ worries—that’s hardly something to trouble yourself over.” “But when you mention your mother…” “Is there some business you require, may I ask?” “Ah, it’s nothing. When you bump into someone in such an unexpected place with perfect timing—well, you don’t get chances like this even if you pray for ’em. How ’bout you join me for a meal somewhere?”

“Oh my, that’s terribly kind of you, and I thank you for it, but as I’ve just said, there’s my mother with her cold and the customers waiting at the tea house—” “It’s pouring like this. No matter how you look at it, the customers won’t be coming in such numbers for you to worry. Or perhaps you have someone you’ve made a promise with?” “Oh, why would there be such a person—” “Then there’s no need to fret even if you’re delayed an hour or two.”

"My mother is eagerly awaiting the medicine." “Now listen here, Osen-chan.” “Oh, but—” “It’s nothing that would trouble you. “There’s something I’d like to discuss if you’d just spare a moment.” “It’s just up ahead—won’t you spare me a moment?”

“Well, you see…” “You—that story about going to buy your mother’s medicine—is that really true?” “Eh?!” “I’m asking if it’s true.” “Why on earth would I tell such a lie—” “Then show me that medicine bag.” “A bag, you say...—” “You don’t have it—that’s what you’d say.” “Heh heh heh.” “So it’s true after all—you lied through your teeth to save face in front of me! You’re just coming back from meeting some man you fancy!” “Now that I know that, all the more reason I won’t let you go back! Resign yourself!”

“Hey now, Young Master—”

“No, I won’t let go! Even if women were as plentiful as falling rain across Edo, you’re the only one I’ve set my heart on. To think we’d meet here—this must be the divine favor of Fudō-sama, whom I’ve prayed to day after day. Today of all days—I won’t let you go without keeping me company! Not even for half an hour!...” As Osen twisted her body to shake free from the gripped sleeve, in that very instant, it was the engraver Matsugorō—drenched from head to toe in tung oil, umbrella left unused—who seized Tokutarō’s wrist and smirked.

“Young Master, that’s downright cruel.” “Ugh, shut up! Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong—get lost!” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Not that I mean to interfere, but take a good look here.” “Osen-chan’s sayin’ she’s dead against it—ain’t that plain enough?” “Young Master, that pretty-boy mug o’ yours is ’bout to get smashed.” He must’ve thought he was settling an old score. With these words, Matsugorō thrust his blue-tinged jaw—still shadowed by beard stubble—aggressively toward Tokutarō.

Six “Ha ha ha! Young Master, that’s quite impossible.” “Osen’s a model of filial piety—when she says she went to buy medicine, there ain’t no lie or deception about it.” “Even if you’ve caught her in this once-in-a-century encounter and try to woo ’er by force—it’s not that simple, y’know. Even the ladies at the archery hall don’t realize—you’re messin’ with Osen, the top beauty in Edo, that’s who she is!” “No matter how much pull you’ve got, Young Master, this one ain’t gonna budge so easy.”

In the rain where he had successfully let Osen escape, Matsugorō—half his face emerging from the tung oil—said this mockingly to Tokutarō, then rubbed the tip of his own nose two or three times with the flat of his hand. Suppressing tears of frustration as he glared at Matsugorō, Tokutarō’s thin eyebrows twitched incessantly. “Ichimatsu!” Over the head of Ichimatsu—the bewildered apprentice who had bowed low at this unexpected turn—the Young Master’s voice quivered like a cricket’s chirp.

“Idiot!” “Y-yes?” “Why didn’t you stop Osen?” “It was you who let her go, Young Master.” “Ugh, shut up! Even if I let go, catching her was your job.—I’ve no more use for the likes of you.” “I’m letting you go right here, so get lost wherever you please.” “Ha ha ha. Young Master,” interjected Matsugorō. “That’s layin’ it on a bit thick, ain’t it?” “The apprentice ain’t done nothin’ wrong.” “Ain’t all this ’cause of your selfish ways?”

“Matsu-san—this isn’t your place to interfere.” “Just keep quiet.” “That may be so, but it’s poor Ichimatsu here who’s caught in the crossfire." “Just because he tagged along without knowing a thing and happened to run into Osen—losing his position over that’s worse than any bad fortune-teller’s curse.” “Show some mercy—there, Ichimatsu.” “You better stand your ground—don’t go apologizing to the Young Master.” “Young Master, I beg you to show mercy.”

“No! You’re no longer a servant of our house or my attendant—so get the hell out of my sight as fast as you can!” “But Young Master, even if you order me to leave…” “If you don’t understand, then quit! Dig yourself into the mud or wherever the hell you want and vanish!” “Y-yes?” Rain mercilessly poured down on the hunched back of Ichimatsu—his kimono hiked up to his tailbone and caked high with mud—and as the crowd gathered around them took shape before he knew it, Tokutarō instinctively shrunk his neck like a turtle.

“Excuse me, Young Master.” From within the encircling crowd emerged only a head thrust forward—a portly fishmonger in his fifties with excessively deferential posture, hands lowered below his knees. Tokutarō furtively raised his face. “This humble one here,” he said. “I am Ichimatsu’s father.” “What?!” “Though merely passing by to pay my respects, it seems my son has committed an egregious blunder. I shall take him home at once and discipline him until his spirit reforms. I beg you—please entrust him to me now.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” “Old man, that ain’t gonna fly.” “Since I ain’t gonna make it look like my fault, you should stay out of it.”

While Matsugorō was restraining the old man, Tokutarō’s figure had vanished into the crowd.

Seven

“Masakichi! Tatsuzō! Kamehachi! Bunta! Umekichi! Kōbei!―” Tokutarō—who had called out names in near one breath, from eight-year-old Masakichi who had entered service just days prior all the way up to manager Kōbei, half in reckless desperation—stumbled in through the middle gate and, as if oblivious to the mud caking his entire back up to the tips of his topknot’s bristles, stamped his wooden clogs at the curtained entrance of the corridor and began tearing at his own raincoat. “Why, Young Master, you’ve returned quite early.”

The manager Kōbei threw down his accounting brush and hurriedly stuck his head out through the curtained entrance, but upon catching sight of Tokutarō’s state, he must have immediately concluded that the young master had gotten into some sort of scuffle along the way. From the crown of his head down to the tips of his toenails, he looked him up and down, then stammered out. “Wh-what has occurred?” “Manager, have Ichimatsu dismissed right away.” “H-has Ichimatsu d-done something improper?”

“Whatever it is, just do as I told you.” “I’ve never been as humiliated as I was today.” “It’s so infuriating—so infuriating…” “Wh-what... could that possibly be about?” “The apprentice’s blunder is this manager’s blunder. From this humble self, I shall offer apologies in any manner required. If you could find it in your heart to show mercy, I beg you to spare this Kōbei…” “Don’t say anything unnecessary.”

“Yes… That may be so, but—as Kōbei, who has been entrusted by the master with full authority over shop management—when later the master inquires, I cannot simply plead ignorance.” “Please tell me the reason for this.” “You don’t need to know the reason, do you? “Just do exactly as I said—as long as you dismiss him, that’s all that matters.” Like a spoiled child who had overturned his toy box, Tokutarō—throwing an unmanageable tantrum—suddenly heard Matsugorō’s laughter reach his ears from the shopfront.

“Ha ha ha! Young Master—still goin’ on about that, are ya? I’ve got some juicy news for ya. Since I’m offerin’ ya a smart plan here, why don’tcha just let the kid’s screw-up float away downstream?” From the head clerk down to the apprentices, every face in the room swung toward Matsugorō as one. But Tokutarō kept glaring through the shop curtain without answering. “Hey now, Young Master. Ain’t suggestin’ nothin’ shady. Heard some sweet news that’ll puff up your pride real nice—how ’bout it? If ya say we can’t jaw here, I’ll mosey over yonder for a proper chat. My threads ain’t even damp. Whaddya say? Or should I just skedaddle?”

Matsugorō flung his paulownia-oil rain hat into a corner of the shopfront, deftly packed his kiseru pipe with straw-bag tobacco retrieved from his breast pocket, then—as he darted his hand toward the tobacco tray—smirked and stared fixedly at the curtained entrance. “Matsugorō.” “Huh?” “Young Master is coming over here.” “Well, that’s somethin’—”

“Wait a second!” “We can’t have you tracking that in here.” “Tatsudō, fetch water to the basin in the back.”

Manager Kōbei stared fixedly at Matsugorō’s shins—caked with mud like rough plaster on a wall—his face grim. “Heh heh heh. Matsugorō here’s a more loyal retainer than he looks, I tell ya.”

Matsugorō—who muttered to himself and thrust out his chin—had a face that was the very image of Matsushima Moheiji the comedian.

Eight

It was not long after this that Matsugorō—who had scrubbed himself as thoroughly as if performing a full ablution, all the way up to the base of his thighs—sat facing Tokutarō in the north-facing back room, listening to the drizzle of rain outside. The autumn rain was absorbed over and over into the tile surfaces, occasionally soaking willow leaves that flew from the neighboring house—making them cling wetly before vanishing—appearing to the eye like the scattered splash patterns that had recently come into fashion. Tokutarō’s hand gripping the silver kiseru pipe had stiffened as if nailed to the brazier’s frame, unmoving.

“So Osen’s got herself a proper lover, and they say she’s been visiting there every day lately—right?” “Well, that’s more or less how it is…” “Just who exactly is this lover of Osen’s? Matsugorō, tell me clearly.” “Well, that’s…” “What are you talking about? You go that far spilling the beans, then leave the rest as vague as a ghost’s footprint—what kind of nonsense is that? —What exactly did you mean earlier? Didn’t you declare so grandly in the shopfront that it was news to make the Young Master puff up like a shachi-hoko? It galls me, but I’m listening. If you came here with that intention anyway, then lay it all out plainly—start to finish. Until I hear the man’s name—I’m sorry, Matsugorō—I won’t budge an inch here.”

“W-wait just a second, Young Master. If ya go pushin’ unreasonable demands like that, I can’t help ya!” “What’s unreasonable ’bout it?” “What’s this ‘unreasonable’ you’re on ’bout? Truth is, I don’t know the bastard’s name at all…” “You don’t know his name?!” “That’s right…” “Then forget the name—just tell me what sorta man he is. Samurai? Merchant? Or some lowly artisan?—” “Still don’t know that part neither.—”

“Matsugorō.”

Tokutarō's voice grew shrill.

“Huh?” “Enough of this! It’s not like I invited you up here on some drunken whim! Wasn’t it precisely because I wanted to uncover who this man Osen’s been sneaking off to meet that I brought you upstairs—without a care for how it looks to the shop’s people? Not knowing his name I could stomach—but not even knowing whether he’s samurai, merchant, or artisan? Don’t mock me beyond all decency! —I’ve no more use for the likes of you! Get out of my sight this instant!”

“If you’re ordering me to leave, I’ll be on my way—but is it really alright for me to go just like this?”

“What did you say?” “Young Master. “Now, Young Master—sure as day, I don’t know who Osen’s man is or where he’s from. But if you’re set on findin’ out, I could track him down proper in less’n half a day.” “But more importantly, Young Master.” “Ain’t there somethin’ more important for you to be worryin’ about?” “What’s that?” “Well, if that’s how it is…” “If you’re tellin’ me to scram, then I’ll make myself scarce ’fore things get too hot underfoot—how’s that sound?” “—Well now, I’ve gone and troubled you here.”

“Wait.” “You got business with me?” “Since you claim it concerns my important matters—out with it.”

But Matsugorō deliberately puffed out his cheeks and pointed his nostrils toward the ceiling.

Obi

I

From the three-shaku noren curtain dyed in uguisucha olive-brown with the Gionmori crest came a fleeting glimpse of a four-and-a-half tatami room. The begonia arranged in the alcove cast an alluring shadow in the Imari vase, while the flame of the andon lamp rose like incense smoke, rendering hazy the silhouette of a wig foundation in the mirror stand placed at the room's center.

The place was Ishichō’s Kashadōshinmichi.

Like a single drop of peach-colored paint spilled on blank paper, Nakamura Matsue’s cheeks—still clad in full theatrical costume and standing with poised elegance—flushed crimson, likely from the brazier’s heat. They burned so red one might have thought her drunk—if not on sake, then perhaps on rich food. “Okono—here, Okono.” Keeping her eyes fixed on her mirror-reflected form, Matsue called for her attendant who ought to have been in the adjacent room. But wherever the woman had wandered off to, no reply came.

“Ah, it seems she isn’t here,” Matsue murmured, her eyes still fixed on the mirror’s surface where her own figure shimmered. “I wanted you to see how well this pose shows.” Twisting her slender frame into a dancer’s stance, she addressed her reflection once more: “You ought to come quickly—see how Osen holds herself when preparing tea.” “Madam Tayū?” The deferential voice came not from Okono her attendant, but from Shinpachi crouched beneath the noren curtain. He kept one finger pressed against the tip of his topknot brush as he bowed his head.

“Shinpachi, is it?” “Yes, ma’am?” “What is Okono doing?” “Well…” “What’s she done?” “Madam Okono went out over an hour ago and isn’t here at present.” “She’s out, you say?” “Yes, ma’am?” “Where did she go?” “She said she was going to Mr. Harunobu’s residence in Shirakabe-chō—” “What’s this now?” “She went to Mr. Harunobu’s residence?” “Now Shinpachi—is that truly so?” “It is indeed true, ma’am.” “What business could Okono possibly have in Shirakabe-chō this time?” “Tell me quickly!”

“I am not privy to the nature of her errand, but she mentioned she was going to handle something regarding an obi.” “The obi. “Shinpachi—open that chest of drawers.” Shinpachi, flustered, reached for the chest of drawers’ handles and, just as Matsue had instructed, began flinging open every drawer one after another. “Take out all the kimonos and haori jackets and show them here.” “Like this, ma’am?”

“More.” “This one too?” “Must you ask about every little thing? Just open them all at once!” After Shinpachi had spilled every last garment from the tightly packed drawers onto the tatami mats, Matsue frantically tossed through them until, steadying her gaze, she commanded: “You must go straight to Shirakabe-chō—chase Okono and bring back that obi!” “Which obi would that be?”

“You fool! It’s Osen’s obi.” “Without that cursed thing, our whole play’ll go to ruin, I tell you!”

Matsue's freshly shaved eyebrows twitched with a bluish cast.

II

At that very hour, Okono herself was urging the palanquin bearers onward, racing along the moonless embankment of Yanagihara. The obi, wrapped in a turmeric-dyed cloth and held securely on her lap, was none other than Osen’s notorious obi—the very one Matsue had borrowed from Harunobu’s residence through daily visits in preparation for staging Moritaya’s “Osen” play. Her teeth, jet-black with freshly applied ohaguro, clenched firmly on her right sleeve.

Though the daughter of Kasamori’s tea house—reputed then as Edo’s finest—might have possessed peerless grace, Okono, born to Konishi the drug wholesaler near Tenman Tenjin’s bridge in Osaka and raised without want or restraint, clung to unshakable self-assurance: even if ill-suited to be an actor’s wife, in poise and elegance she would yield to none. Even if Edo held thousands of women, she would never let them so much as touch the hem of our Tayū’s robe—this unshakable conviction had anchored itself in the depths of her heart from the moment she left Osaka shortly after their wedding three years ago.

For this autumn's play, her husband had selected "Osen," which Mr. Shigesuke was newly composing. As his spouse, she naturally had no objections to this arrangement. Once the script reading concluded and rehearsals began in earnest over four or five days, she performed her wifely duties without fail—attending in the next room with tea and sweets, even cutting into her sleep time. But when the rehearsals had accumulated and her own preparations became earnest, she suddenly noticed it: a woman’s obi scattered with maple leaves, tenderly folded and kept in her husband’s private quarters.

If it were merely a purchased costume, there should be no reason to hide it from anyone's eyes—yet his peculiar attachment to that obi alone, keeping it close even by his pillow at night, seemed to her anything but ordinary. Perhaps this unconscious suspicion marked the beginning of it all. The culmination of Okono's secret scrutiny—day and night—was this: the obi wrapped around her husband's chest as he secluded himself in a four-and-a-half-tatami room, immersing himself in Osen's form, was none other than the treasured possession of Osen that Harunobu had depicted.

This was no impulsive act born of momentary passion. After two days and nights of agonizing deliberation—from yesterday through today—she had executed her plan flawlessly: pretending to prepare tea in the adjacent room before slipping away unnoticed, emerging onto the main road to hail a palanquin. That not a soul could have discerned her scheme might be called an oversight, yet never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Shinpachi would come pursuing her.

“Palanquin men— “Sorry ’bout this, but make it quick, will ya?” “Right away, I tell ya! “Even without the moon, there’s starlight—so there ain’t no missteppin’. Rest easy, I tell ya!” “The tip’ll be as fat as ya want, so keep that in mind when ya work.”

“Partner!” “Ah!” “You hear that?” “I heard you!” “As expected of Sakaiya’s Madam—now in her prime.” “I’d love to let those Edo ladies hear that line—it’d make ’em real happy!” “That’s right—Madam. “The Tayū’s popularity’s somethin’ else!” “From here on out, there ain’t nothin’ to fear—we’re ridin’ the sunrise’s momentum!” “Exactly so—it’s not just about the tip! They say our Tayū’s got more class than any of ’em.” “Edo actors ain’t got no heart—and no class to speak of.”

“Oh now, palanquin men—if ya go sayin’ that, you’ll make enemies of Edo folks, I tell ya!” “That’s nonsense! Anyone who’d praise the Tayū then resent her ain’t nothin’ but beasts, I tell ya!” “That’s right!”

Turning left at Yanagihara Embankment, the palanquin soon approached the great ginkgo tree of Mikawa-chō.

The hour was precisely four bells of the night.

III

At Harunobu’s residence in Shirakabe-chō, Harunobu was consulting with the engraver Matsugorō about color matching for the preliminary sketch of *Sagimusume*—a work soon to be carved into blocks for Kakusendō—when his disciple Tōkichi suddenly appeared. Widening his acorn-shaped eyes even rounder, Tōkichi jerked his chin up two or three times in quick succession. “Master, there is a guest.” “Who has come?” “It’s Madam Sakaiya—she’s here.”

“What? Madam Sakaiya, you say? That’s absurd. Isn’t this some kind of mistake?” “This is no mistake—she’s the genuine article—Madam Sakaiya herself, I tell you!” “What business could Madam Sakaiya have that brings her here so late?” Upon merely hearing that Nakamura Matsue’s wife—who had never once visited before—had come calling, Harunobu likely couldn’t bring himself to take it seriously right away. He looked up from his paints and studied Tōkichi’s face anew.

“I don’t know what brings her here, but she says she needs to see you with utmost urgency—something she desperately wishes to request...” “Hmm... Well then, regardless of purpose, show her in since she’s come.” When Tōkichi scurried off, Harunobu reluctantly gathered the preliminary sketches spread before Matsugorō onto his desk and clicked his tongue softly. “Just when matters couldn’t worsen—meddlers intruding. Most vexing.”

“No need for that—anyway, I ain’t got business elsewhere.” “…If you’d prefer, I could go wait over there…” “Nah, no call for that.” “This’ll wrap up quick—stay right where you are.” “In that case, I’ll just hunker down in this corner like a proper squatter and have myself a smoke.” It was just as Matsugorō—grinning that sly grin of his—had curled up in the shoji screen’s corner. Tōkichi-guided Okono emerged at the veranda’s edge, her figure cutting a shadow-puppet silhouette.

“Master, I have brought her.” “Beggin’ yer pardon.” “Come now, right over here.” Clutching the turmeric-dyed bundle, Okono’s heart was nevertheless in disarray—or so it seemed. With her flushed face still lowered, she bowed her head at the threshold. “I’ve come at such a late hour, so rudely…” “Please feel free to come right in and state your business without hesitation.” “No, really—here is perfectly fine.” The andon lamp cast a long shadow. Wrapped in that ashen hue, a few strands of Okono’s stone-stiff hair quivered eerily in the night breeze, while a faint sweat glistened around her slightly bluish cheeks.

“And so, Madam—what brings you here at such a late hour?” “I have come to return the borrowed obi of Miss Osen.” “What? Osen’s obi—” “Yes.” “And why ever would that be?” Harunobu’s eyes widened involuntarily at Okono’s unexpected words. “As it is such a precious item, I thought it best to return it promptly to avoid any mishap—that is why I resolved to come here.” “Then does the Tayū intend not to use this obi in the play?”

“Yes… Though it’s such a shame…”

Okono bit her lip hard.

Four “Heh heh heh, Madam.” Harunobu, who had been staring intently at Okono’s face, twisted his lips into a wry smile. “Yes.” “Don’t you have any mind to reconsider once more?” “Are you telling me to reconsider?” “Hmm, well...” “Why do you ask?”

“Why don’t you ask your own heart about that? You’d surely understand.—This obi was indeed painted by me, Harunobu, at Osen’s request. But before I could deliver it to her, the Tayū came pleading to borrow it, insisting that without this very piece, their crucial play couldn’t proceed—and in the end, he took it against all protest.” "As for Osen—it was an item lent privately from the start. If you were now to suddenly return it in such haste, he wouldn’t have taken it in the first place." “Madam.” “You’d do well not to bring up such petty notions.”

“In that case... if it’s merely my own notions...” “Exactly. “If this weren’t Osen’s obi, you surely wouldn’t have troubled yourself to come all this way down night roads just to return it. “Just because the Tayū wore it while dancing doesn’t mean Osen’s charms would transfer to him. If an entertainer’s spouse nurses such narrow-minded ideas, they’ll never rise in station. “This may be meddlesome of me, but by now the Tayū must be searching for the obi’s whereabouts. “Since I’ll keep your visit strictly confidential, you may take it back as it stands.”

“Ohoho, Master.”

Okono laughed coldly.

“Oh.” “Though your kindness is most appreciated—even if I were to borrow again this obi I brought here intending its return—I shall return it tonight.”

“So you’re determined to leave it here after all?” “Yes.” “Is that so?” “If you insist that much—fine—I’ll keep it.” “But mark this: even if that Tayū comes begging again—not once more will I lend it out! That I swear plain!”

“I understand perfectly. “I won’t cause you any further trouble, so…” “Ha ha ha!” Matsugorō, who had been sitting silently in the corner of the room until now, suddenly grabbed his kiseru pipe and burst into loud laughter. “What’s gotten into you, Matsu?” “Ain’t this or that—just couldn’t stomach such damn fool talk no more.—Master, let this humble one speak his piece here, won’t ya?”

“What’s this now?” “This ain’t your problem. Since I figured it was someone else’s business, I kept my mouth shut and listened—but Madam of Sakaiya, if you’re gonna get jealous over trifles, best not stoke that fire at all.” “What nonsense are you spouting?” “Crabs got nothin’ to do with this! If crabs can take shortcuts by scuttling sideways, men ain’t got that luxury. The world may seem vast, but it’s a cramped place. Just keep walkin’ straight ahead, will ya?”

“And who might you be?” “Name’s Matsugorō—just a cheapskate artisan, see?” “Your way o’ handling things was too damn pathetic—had to stick my nose in.” “Let me school ya—Kasamori’s Osen girl’s known far ’n’ wide as a man-hater.” “Even if your precious Tayū rolls up in a gold-nailed palanquin now, that wench wouldn’t twitch a hair. Rest your jealous bones.” “If lover’s squabbles splash this far, even Master here’ll catch hell, got it?”

Matsugorō said this and fixed Okono with a glare.

Five

Shinpachi, the manservant of Sakaiya who had dashed headlong through the darkness like a rat, found himself hurrying along Yanagihara Embankment toward Yatsujigahara just as Okono had done—likely because he kept running in such a frenzy. Having mistakenly turned left where the road to Shirakabe-cho branched right, Shinpachi became utterly disoriented—as if bewitched by a fox—just as he sensed a woman running headlong from the shadow of Honda Buzen’s plastered wall. The instant he widened his eyes in disbelief, the hazy silhouette that blurred into his vision was unmistakably Okono.

Shinpachi startled and leapt up.

“Oh, Madam!” “Ah.” “Where are you going?” “It’s not about where I’m going. Madam, where have you been at this hour?” “I, as you know, went to Master Harunobu’s residence.”

“So you really did go to Master Harunobu’s residence after all.”

“And what do you think you’re doing, asking such things again?” “I’ve come at the Tayū’s orders to fetch you, Madam.” “To fetch me.— —...”

“Huh.—And what did you do with that obi?”

“What’s this about an obi?”

“Yes. As for Osen’s obi... Madam must have taken it, I presume.” “What do I know about such things?” “No. You must know. When you left earlier, Madam, you mentioned something about the obi—Shinpachi heard it clearly with his own ears.” “I don’t know, I don’t know. The reason I went to see Master Harunobu had nothing to do with any obi or garments. It’s about the painting of Sagimusume that Kakusendō is having the woodblocks carved for this time. Enough now—step aside!”

“No, I cannot allow that. “Madam must have taken it with you without a doubt. “Please return once more with me to the residence in Shirakabe-cho.” “What are you talking about? “Even if I were to go back, there’s no way they wouldn’t know! “I cannot remain like this any longer. “Get out of my way!” The force of Okono’s swung hand must have slipped from her shoulder. The moment she released her sleeve, Shinpachi found himself struck across the cheek by Okono with such violence that it brooked no protest.

“Ah!”

“You struck me, did you?” “I didn’t strike you—you’re the one who grabbed my hand!...” “Enough! I can’t endure this any longer. Come with me at once to Master Harunobu’s residence!” In Shinpachi—who now tightly gripped Okono’s wrist—there remained no trace of deference between master and servant. Driven by obstinate resolve to drag her back at all costs, he roughly seized her shoulders.

“Hey, Shinpachi—what are you doing?”

“There’s nothing of the sort. That obi is an essential costume the Tayū cannot do without in the upcoming play—even if you were to go alone, Master Harunobu would never hand it over. By all means I’ll take you with me—”

“No—I ain’t going.” “Not another word—I ain’t budging!”

Under the starry sky where only stars shone, the two figures were entangled like dogs.

“Hmph hmph hmph.” “What an eyesore.” “Knew this’d happen—that’s why I followed you. But Madam, this’ll shame the Tayū himself.” “What?!”

“It’s me. Matsugorō the engraver.”

VI

In the studio left behind after Matsugorō—raging like wildfire—had stormed out, Harunobu sat alone before the obi Okono had abandoned, clutching the kiseru pipe absently between his teeth. Then, as if suddenly remembering something— He jerked his head up and barked Tōkichi's name like spitting out a seed.

“Tōkichi.—Hey, Tōkichi.” “Yes, sir?”

Startled by his master’s uncharacteristically harsh tone, Tōkichi rushed out from the adjoining room and bowed deeply once more at the threshold. “Do you require something, sir?” “Bring out the haori.” “Hmm… So you’re going out somewhere, sir?…” “Don’t talk back—just hurry up.” “Yes, sir.” Utterly bewildered about what was happening, Tōkichi turned back to the adjoining room and returned while rattling the chest, reverently holding Harunobu’s favored nightingale-brown haori.

“Is this to your satisfaction, sir?…” Without answering, Harunobu snatched the haori from Tōkichi’s hands—his feet crossed the threshold and stepped down onto the veranda. “Master, I shall accompany you.”

“I’ll go alone.”

“Alone… Then take a lantern—” But Harunobu’s mind must have been racing ahead unreasonably. Normally, even when taking Tōkichi along for nighttime walks, he would always make him carry a lantern; but now, too impatient to wait for it, he vanished beyond the wicket gate while still struggling into his haori—one sleeve barely slipped through.

“Tōkichi.—Tōkichi.” “Yes?” The voice from the inner quarters had spent fifteen long years in service at a samurai residence in Banchō until this spring. It was Harunobu’s sister Kajime. “Come here.” “Yes, ma’am.” It must have been what one might call the discernment of a mansion resident. Despite her lameness, her face—nearing forty—was thickly coated with white powder that would flake off if touched, and she always kept a long kiseru pipe on her lap, one she rarely released except when sleeping.

“Where has my brother gone?” “Well now, where has he gone off to? He didn’t say a word about it, you see…” “What are you dawdling about for? Do you think pleading ignorance will suffice? Why did you not accompany him?” “I did mention that, but Master was in such a hurry that he didn’t even tell me where he was going.…” “Go at once!” “Huh?” “Take the lantern and go after him at once—that’s what I’m telling you!”

“Even if you say that, I can’t tell which direction he went.” “He just left.” “Go there and you’ll spot him.” “No time for hesitation.” “Quickly.” “Move!” If he delayed any longer—with her gripping that kiseru pipe ready to crack his skull—even Tōkichi knew he couldn’t stay put. Grabbing lantern and candle separately in each hand like their very forms demanded, Tōkichi bolted from Kajime’s glare like a chased animal.

Seven

Nakamura Matsue, who had been sitting there going over her irritation with deep furrows shaped like the character "eight" between her brows reflected in the mirror, suddenly sensed someone’s presence beyond the lattice door and strained her ears. “Good evening.—Good evening.” (Ah! So it’s truly him after all.) Having thought this, Matsue stood up and went to the next tatami room, calling up to the back second floor where the apprentices were. “Tomie! Matsushiro! Is no one here? It seems a guest has arrived.”

However, while she had been occupied sending Shin-shichi after Okono earlier, both apprentices must have slipped away nearby. When Matsue tried calling again, no reply reached her ears. “What in the world—what’s happened here? There’s a guest waiting!—” Muttering complaints to herself, Matsue went and stood by the lattice door, then deliberately altered her voice to ask in a low tone: “Who might this be?”

“It’s me.” “Oh?” “Harunobu from Shirakabe-cho.” “What?!” Her gasp and dash down to the earthen-floored entryway came nearly at once. “Was it truly you, Master? “Well now...” Beyond the storm shutters flung open with a clatter stood Harunobu alone—lanternless, pallid-faced, his features shadowed in darkness. “I’ve no right to show my face here. “Yet... you’ve come all this way...” “Hmm. “Not exactly proper, but there was a matter I couldn’t leave unsettled.”

“We can’t speak properly out here.” “…Please come this way.” “But is it all right for me to come up?”

“What do you mean? It may be cramped, but please endure it...” “Then I’ll accept your invitation without reserve... Tayū.” “...Tayū.” Upon entering the tatami room and kneeling down, Harunobu fixed his eyes sharply on Matsue. “Though it’s uncouth to ask this now—the one you call Okono-san is indeed your wife, yes?” “What are you implying?” A shadow of profound anxiety fell across Matsue’s face.

“I don’t care about deeper matters—I simply want you to answer that one thing. If that woman truly is your wife, Tayū, then I’ve resolved never to meet with you again from this day forth.” “Huh?! So it’s true after all…” “Tayū. I don’t say this to criticize, but you’ve been blessed with a fine wife.—The obi will indeed be returned to Osen through my own hands, so you needn’t have the slightest concern.”

“Please forgive me.” “I didn’t come all this way alone so late at night just to make you apologize.” “Spare me the apologies.” "How could this possibly be an apology?" “Because of my foolish Okono’s thoughtlessness in meddling where she shouldn’t have, I’ve made you endure such unpleasantness, Master.” “If there were a hole, this Sakai-ya would crawl right into it!”

Matsue remained motionless for a while, her own hands covering her face. They must have been crickets that had already withered away before the frost could come. From beneath the floorboards came faint, labored sounds.

Moon

I

“Step right up, step right up! Tsuchihei’s candy here!” “Come one, come all—coins in hand!” “The legendary Tsuchihei’s sweets of our time!” “Sweet to taste, smooth as silk—pretty as Kasamori Osen’s satin skin dyed rouge-red! Tsuchihei’s famous candy!” “Buy now, eat right away!” “Carrot candy straight from India’s shores!” “What do you say to that, good people?!”

By now, the sun had set, and even the moon hung in the sky. Beneath the glow of the evening moon, stepping on his own faint shadow while spinning amusing wordplay and dancing his way into view came Tsuchihei the candy seller—he who since early spring had been traversing every corner of Edo. He could not yet be thirty. Though his face bore a jesting quality, there remained an unassailable dignity to his features—so much so that rumors spread he might be a disgraced samurai selling sweets incognito. His popularity soared beyond measure, joining Edo’s most celebrated figures: Kikunojō among actors, Kasamori Osen among tea house waitresses, Tsuchihei himself among confectioners, and Harunobu among artists—all then regarded as the era’s foremost luminaries.

“Look! It’s Tsuchihei! Tsuchihei!” “Come on, everyone! Gather ’round!” “Mama, give me some coins!” “Father, give me some coins too!” “Me too!” “I want some too!” Like a swarm of mosquitoes hovering at the eaves, a crowd of children gathered from nowhere to surround Tsuchihei on all sides—whether buying or not, they all cheered noisily in equal measure with such clamor that even the housewives who had been polishing rice with single-minded focus at the tenement’s well-side now wiped their hands on aprons and trailed out in droves. The sight made even the duty officers’ eyes roll in astonishment—indeed, Edo was a place of spectacle-lovers through and through.

“Step right up, step right up! Come over here—no need to fret over high or low prices! If you’re gonna fret over prices, take your worries to Yanaka! In Yanaka, that fine place—at Osen’s tea house, let’s have some tea! Let’s smoke our pipes! Let’s smoke our pipes and fill the air with haze—peer through the smoke at Osen, and there she’ll be: a vision of loveliness not yet eighteen. Her allure just right, dimples faintly visible through the haze. Giving a playful poke to those hazy dimples—hey there, Miss Osen! Though I may be but a humble peddler here, I’ve thought of you so much my neck’s near stretched to breaking—there may be days when crows don’t crow, but without seeing you, sleep won’t come—not a wink! If you glance sideways at the clattering geta—are those blooming cherry blossoms, hibiscus flowers, or perhaps the splendid sight of Mount Fuji itself? Come on now, buy it! Go on and buy! It’s Tsuchihei’s prized carrot candy! No need to hold back! Buy it! Buy it and fall for Osen!”

Tsuchihei’s song, now complete with gestures, grew ever more entertaining as the moonlight brightened—so much so that not just children, but the majority forming a ring around him were filled with passing adult onlookers. “Ha ha ha! So this is the famous Tsuchihei they’ve been talking about.” “Well now, I’m impressed! Truly impressed!” “Even Monji Tayū wouldn’t stand a chance with this voice!” “Why, indeed, Master Retired Gentleman.” “He is indeed the extraordinarily renowned Tsuchihei.” “A voice this fine—you could search with bells and drums and still rarely find its like.”

“Master Retired Gentleman, is this your first time hearing Tsuchihei’s voice?” “Indeed.”

“Outrageous! This candy peddler Tsuchihei’s become the talk of Edo these days!” “No—I’d heard the rumors before, but this is my first time seeing him with my own eyes. Truly remarkable. I’m quite put to shame.” “Ha ha ha! When it comes to famous figures, you still prefer Osen above all, don’t you?” “That’s absolutely not—” “Don’t play coy! It’s written right there on your face.” It was just as one spectator pointed at the retired gentleman’s face that someone suddenly shrieked.

“Here comes Osen!” “Osen has returned over there!”

II

“What? Osen’s here?”

“Where? Where?” The crowd, who had been utterly absorbed in watching Tsuchihei the candy vendor’s buffoonish antics, all swung their heads eastward in unison upon hearing the sudden cry of “Osen’s here!” that seemed to erupt from thin air.

“Where?!” “There she is! She’s coming to that pine tree below!”

At the corner of a diagonally winding road, beneath a massive pine tree whose trunk would take two arm spans to encircle, a faint figure moved quietly forward—like a single white chrysanthemum blooming in a wild field—bathed in the gradually intensifying light of the evening moon. That was unmistakably Osen returning from the teahouse.

“No mistake.” “It’s definitely Osen.” “After her!”

Apprentices dashed off with their sandals dangling as the thongs snapped the moment they broke into a run; artisans tripped over stones and tumbled head over heels in their haste. Then came the neighborhood’s corrupt monks, leering with lowered eyes as they chased after her, putting even the laypeople to shame. Regardless of gender—though this must have been an immense nuisance to Osen—they cast aside all pretense of courtesy and surged forward with even greater fervor than gawkers shamelessly drawn to a chained dog.

“Stop it, Naosan! If you push like that, we’ll all fall over!” “Since when do we hold back just ‘cause folks might trip? If ya don’t hurry up an’ get to ’er, Osen-chan’s gonna head back!”

“Back off, back off!” “This ain’t no show for bantaro!” “Don’t you look down on us!” “Even a bantaro’s a man!” “We wanna see the pretty lady!” “Back off, back off!” “Fire! Fire!” People’s excitement fed off each other, growing all the more spirited. Was this mischief born from the chance to save on tea money and the hope of even brushing her fingertips?

The one watching over the breathlessly rushing crowd with a wry smile was none other than candy-seller Tsuchihei.

“Heh heh heh. They rushed off to Osen-bō without even buying candy—how fancy! Compared to this rusted iron mug o’ mine, you’re better off chasing Osen-bō fresh outta an oil jar—who knows how much better! I tell ya—in this floating world, nothin’ matters more’n women. Next time around—even if I come back a mutt—I’ll make sure to be born a woman. Achoo! This ain’t good. Must be ’cause everyone scattered so sudden-like—got my nose runnin’ like a faucet. Catchin’ cold’d be trouble. Reckon I’ll head back soon.”

“Hey, candy man!” “Yes yes, and why ain’t you headin’ over there yerself?” “’Cause I don’t wanna.” “Don’t wanna, eh?” “That’s right. Even a fella like me’s got some shame.” “Amusin’. For folks, knowin’ shame’s ’bout the best thing there is.” “Better’n anythin’—better’n knowin’ shame itself, eh? It’s ’cause I got shame that I ain’t gettin’ nowhere in this world.” “And what might yer ‘noble profession’ be?” “I paint.”

“Your name?” “What name? I ain’t got one.” “Whose disciple are you?” “I’m my own disciple. Masters and teachers for painters? They’re nothing but dead weight—don’t do a lick of good, I tell ya.”

While saying this, the one who rubbed the tip of his nose was none other than the eccentric Harushige.

III “Whoa there, Osen-chan.” “What’s the rush?” “Everyone’s makin’ such a commotion, I tell ya.” “You ain’t even showin’ us a single smile.” “Yeah, yeah!” “There’s no tellin’ how long we’ve waited!” “If you go rushin’ back home like this, there’s no point in us waitin’ around!” Now aware of her vulnerability, the multitude that had surrounded Osen along the way—as if they’d long since forgotten about candy-seller Tsuchihei’s dumbfounded state—vied to press forward first, taking advantage of the gathering dusk’s dimness to thrust their noses ahead.

But Osen, who was usually the first to charm others without needing prompting—what had come over her today? Not only did she withhold her dimples, but her curt demeanor—hurrying ahead like a different person altogether—left even the crowd without courage to block her path openly. They could only work their tongues skillfully, desperate to detain her even a moment longer.

“Kindly step aside from there.” “If we step aside, you’ll just go home.” “Ah, never mind that—just stay here and have some fun with us.” “I must hurry ahead.” “Kindly forgive me today.” “Even if ya go ahead, there ain’t no path beyond headin’ home. Or have ya found some sweetheart elsewhere?” “Or have ya found some sweetheart elsewhere?” “How could such a thing…” “If that ain’t it, then what’s the harm?” “But Mother—”

“You’ve seen your ma’s face since the day you were born, ain’t ya? You’ve seen enough of that face to be sick of it by now, ain’t ya?” “That’s right, Osen-chan. When ya go back, we’ll all escort ya—so why not tell us ’bout today’s tea house happenings?” “I have nothing at all to say about the tea house.—Please let me pass.” “There’s no shortage of stories—whether about the young master of the paper shop or the magistrate’s good-for-nothing son—ain’t there?”

"I don't know. Mother has caught a cold and lies ill alone, so if I don't return quickly, I'll be beside myself with worry." "Your ma's got a cold, huh?"

“Yes.”

“That ain’t gonna work. Then I’ll go check on ’er myself!” “I’m comin’ too!” “I’ll go too.” “No, there’s no need for that anymore.—” Their human impulse to detain Osen even a moment longer made their tongues ever more nimble, and the ring of people encircling her showed no sign of breaking apart.

Then suddenly, a belly-deep guffaw—as if wrung from the pit of someone’s stomach—surged up around the crowd’s ears, “Ha ha ha! How ’bout you lot quit your shameful antics and let Osen-chan go home already?” “You’re Harushige, ain’t ya?” “Quit your damn meddlin’ and back off, back off!” “Heh heh heh. You lot are bein’ too thick-headed by half. Osen-chan’s got her own business to mind. ’Stead of blockin’ her path like fools, you oughta let her go home a single moment sooner.” “You lot are bein’ too thick-headed by half.” “Osen-chan’s got her own business to mind.” “’Stead of blockin’ her path like fools, you oughta let her go home a single moment sooner.”

“Don’tcha talk such crap!” “I ain’t takin’ any of your meddlin’!”

While the crowd’s gazes were still gathering upon Harushige, Osen had already concealed herself in the shadow of the moon.

IV

“Mother.” “Oh, Osen? Is that you?” “Yes.” At the sound of Osen’s voice—rushing in like a mouse chased by a cat—her mother Okishi, who had been hurrying to prepare the evening meal, threw open the kitchen shutter with a clatter, some ominous premonition rising in her chest. “Please come inside.” “No.” “But you’re so out of breath.” “It’s not like I was doing anything improper, but just now Kuro from the brush shop jumped up at me, so…”

“Hohohoho. “When Kuro wags his tail and plays, it’s because he’s so fond of you. “I thought someone had played a nasty prank on me again—gave me quite a start, didn’t it? “Kuro isn’t some beast that’ll bite you—you don’t need to come fleeing back here. You’re safe as a golden short sword, you know.—Come here. “I’ll smooth your hair for you.……”

“Oh, my hair’s all…” —” Without going to her mother, Osen entered her four-and-a-half-mat sitting room and immediately opened the mirror’s cover, gazing intently into it in the dim light of dusk. After swiftly tucking back two or three strands of hair that had strayed at her collar, she then carefully surveyed her surroundings once more. “Mother.” “Yes?” “While I was away, didn’t anyone come in here?” “Goodness gracious, what nonsense! Not even a single mouse would dare come in here.—Has something strange happened to you?”

“Oh, just a little something…” “Now, what’s this about.—” Osen hurriedly intercepted her mother, who had peeked half her face through a gap in the shoji screen.

“It’s nothing to worry about. Please go wait over there.” “Goodness gracious, I shouldn’t have come in here after all, should I?” Ever since that night three days prior—when a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy claiming to be a messenger from Hamachō had delivered a woman by palanquin—Okishi had been sternly instructed by Osen herself: *“Due to a vow made to the bodhisattva Kannon, no matter what happens these next thirty days, you must never enter the four-and-a-half-mat room.”* Ever since being warned that *“if you set foot here while I’m away, Mother’s eyes will go blind,”* Okishi had obeyed her daughter’s strange request with bewildered devotion, treating the room like an ill-omened direction one must never face. Yet hearing someone might have trespassed during her absence, even she—normally so steadfast—seemed unable to stay composed, abandoning her half-made clam soup on the charcoal brazier to peer through the screen with one anxious eye.

In the room, the faint moonlight streaming through the window barely allowed objects to be distinguished, yet even on the freshly replaced blue tatami mats, dark shadows stretched diagonally, and her gaze fixed upon them was as deep as the sea. Her mother must have immediately returned to the kitchen, for the erratic sound of the stiff paper fan agitating beneath the charcoal brazier resumed.

In the dark room where nothing could be seen clearly, Osen once again stared intently into the mirror. In the mirror glowing faintly from within, her own face gradually faded palely away—the more intently she gazed, the more ethereal it became—until even her proud crescent-shaped eyebrows thinned to silken threads and vanished. “Kicchan.—” Suddenly, Osen’s lips—having released their gaze from the mirror’s surface—twitched faintly. At the same time, her body slid closer to the cupboard.

“I’m sorry. Leaving you all alone... I made you wait so long.—” As she spoke these words, Osen’s trembling hand pressed against the sliding door’s handle.

V

The room grew increasingly dark. What Osen had just carried out to the corner of that dark room—cautiously surveying her surroundings while clutching it to her chest—was none other than Segawa Kikunojō’s living doll: an exact replica of Yaoya Oshichi’s stage appearance, delivered three nights prior from Yusai’s workshop via palanquin. Osen stood the doll she was clutching in the center of the tatami room, facing it eastward—likely to let it catch the pale moonlight directly. She began to slowly slide open the shoji screen, careful not to make a sound.

In the garden, not an insect's chirp could be heard; the distant passage of geese across the sky echoed hollowly in her ears.

“Kicchan.—No, Tayū, I’ve been wanting to see you.” As if speaking to a living person, Osen gazed up at the doll with such longing—her eyes holding dewdrops of affection that seemed to dwell in vain—and whether imagined or not, her voice trembled with single-minded intensity. “—From morning till night—no, more than that—I wish to be with you all my life, Tayū. Yet no matter what I say, you remain Edo’s foremost onnagata, celebrated in this very hour.” “In contrast, I’m just a tea house waitress—no different from the discarded, broken straw sandals littering the roadside.” “Even if I walked a hundred nights’ road to meet you, our old promises would never come true.” “That’s why, as a small token of my heart, I had Mr. Yūsai craft the Oshichi you always appear as in my dreams and secretly had her brought here.” “Compared to your residence, this dwelling isn’t even fit to be a storage shed—but here alone, there’s no one to intrude upon our world for just the two of us.” “Please endure and keep me company—whether in Ōji where I grew up ten years past, or these days attending the theater, there’s not a hair’s breadth of change in my heart.” I cannot forget that spring day when we were teased during our pretend play—“Kicchan and Osen-chan are married!”—nor the countless nights I soaked my pillow with tears until dawn.

Though Mother occasionally fretted that even someone like me—being of marriageable age—must have at least one admirer among my patrons*,* her concerns went through my ears like wind through bamboo slats*. "I’ve always envied* *Oshichi who burned at* *the stake*," I continued thinking*. *Tayū* *you* *keep* *a splendid wife* *and two separate residences* *beyond* *that*. *Even with countless admirers vying* *for your favor* *though* *were I* *to pine away* *to death* *still* *would I remain your wife*."

Startled by the tears she’d unknowingly shed—tears that had dampened her own sleeves—Osen jerked her head up with a sharp “Hah!”, but it seemed her mother in the kitchen hadn’t heard her after all; only the lingering cold’s remnants—two or three coughs in quick succession—were what reached her ears.

For a while, Osen remained with her head bowed, eyes closed. Through the depths of her eyes, memories of childhood streaked like lightning. “Osen.” Her mother’s voice could be heard. “Yes.” “It’s so dark in here—you haven’t even lit the lamp.” “Yes.” “It isn’t so very dark.” “I don’t know what you’re up to in there, but supper’s ready—let’s eat, I tell you.” “Yes, I’ll be right there.” “If you stay alone in a dark place like this, the rats will get you.” In the adjacent room, her mother must have trimmed the lamp wick. The shoji screens abruptly brightened, and the sounds of meal preparation drew near.

Osen staggered to her feet and placed a hand on the window's shoji screen. And in that instant, a low, unfamiliar voice rose from beneath the window.

“Osen.” “Huh?!” “No need to be startled. It’s me.” Osen stood frozen like fire tongs.

VI “Wh-Who’s there?” “Shh! Keep quiet! Ain’t nothin’ suspicious here. It’s me.” “Ah! You’re Brother—” “Damn it—I told you to be quiet! If Mother hears, things’ll get complicated.” While saying this, he leaned an elbow on the bay window ledge, slipped his body upward with ease, and—while skillfully removing the straw sandals he’d been wearing with his right hand—tucked them into his three-shaku belt at his waist before landing on the blue tatami like a cat. It was Senkichi, her brother who had left home three years prior and hadn’t even let rumors reveal his whereabouts since. His indigo-flecked plain lined kimono and abacus-bead patterned three-shaku belt were clearly not the attire of an upstanding citizen—and especially in the way he gripped the hand towel that had been loosely draped over his cheeks, there was a hatefully composed air.

Utterly unprepared for this event she had never even dreamed of, Osen remained seated where she was, unable to immediately find the next words.

“Osen. “How old’re you now?” “I am eighteen years of age.” “Eighteen...” Senkichi nodded with a bitter smile as he said this, but while keeping an eye on the adjacent room, he lowered his voice even further.

“Ain’t nothin’ to fear, so quit backin’ up—just settle down right there.” “I ain’t fixin’ to eat my own sister I ain’t seen in years.” “Let me light the lamp.”

“Hey—you go and do somethin’ like that, I’m done for.” “Might see clear as day in this dark, but I ain’t some square-obi’d merchant who came here all proper-like.” “Ain’t got no pride—just a third-rate yakuza.” “Got no face to show you or Ma—but there’s this little thing someone asked me to do, so I’m here ’cause I got roped into it.” “Osen, sorry ’bout this—you gonna hear me out?”

“Well now, Brother—what sort of matter could that be?” “All this back-and-forth—if I start explainin’, it’ll drag on forever. Let’s cut to the chase: I need cash.” “Money, you say?” “That’s right.”

“I... I don’t have money or anything like that...”

“Hold on there. When this comes burstin’ outta my mouth like a stick through bushes, ’course you’d shake your head. But I ain’t come here flyin’ blind neither.” “There’s this little thread I got my eye on—see?” “So listen, Osen.” “You know that young master from Tachibana-ya in Tōyu-chō, yeah?” “What d’you mean?” “Tokutarō—that damn nuisance of a young master.”

“Well… I suppose I do, and yet I don’t…” “This ain’t no interrogation chamber here—no need for concealment.” “You say you don’t know, but that line ain’t gonna fly.” “Ain’t it true he’s so besotted with you he’d sell off the family storehouse without blinking?” “Oh, Brother...” “No cause for bashfulness.” “It’s not like I’m the one panting after you—he’s the fool who’s lost his head. That’s his own affair.—Osen.” “So here’s my proposition—couldn’t you put on a show of interest from our side?”

“Wh—?!” “You’re eighteen yourself now, ain’t ya? Even if you could pull off that trick, it’d only bring you shame.”

Senkichi, sitting squarely, leaned in closer while staring at Osen as she faltered.

Seven “Brother...”

The moon must have been obscured by clouds.

In the room where not even light leaked through the shoji screens, only the faint shadows cast by the neighboring andon lamp dimly revealed their half-lit figures—and even after three years apart, Osen could not clearly discern her brother’s face.

In that partial darkness, Osen’s voice quavered lowly.

“Brother...”

“Huh?” “Please go home.” “What the hell? You tellin’ me to go home?” “Uh-huh.” “This ain’t no joke. It’s precisely ’cause I’ve got business that I came all this way. How’m I s’posed to just turn tail? Quit that—why not hear me out straight? Just nod yes, an’ there’s nothin’ to fret over. Listen here, Osen—even some stranger you laid it all out for proper-like wouldn’t up an’ refuse. I’m your brother—your own flesh ’n’ blood! And I ain’t askin’ for a full hundred neither. Twenty-five ryō—just a quarter of that—settles everything.”

“Twenty-five ryō.—”

“Ain’t nothin’ shameful ’bout it. Ain’t even that big a sum.” “But… that kind of money…” “So I’m tellin’ ya.” “Like I said from the start—I ain’t lookin’ to pry into your or Mother’s savings.” “That young master I’ve got lined up—Tokutarō of Tachibana-ya, that layabout.” “Heh heh heh.” “Ain’t no skin off your nose.” “If you’d just say one little word here.” “Drop somethin’ sweet like ‘How I’ve missed you,’ and they’ll have to hear me out—simple as that.” “Easier than Buddha curin’ eye sickness with amacha tea!”

“Even so, I—” “To say something I don’t mean...” “Th-that’s where your thinkin’s all wrong.” “Whether it’s in your heart or not—samurai have their stratagems, monks their expedient means! There’s times and places where folks’ll slit a sleeping man’s throat, ain’t there?!” “Here—the brush and paper are right here.” “Just scribble down the ‘i’ and ‘ro’ of iroha and give him a sweet reply.” What Senkichi pulled from his breast pocket was a scroll and a writing set. Osen hurriedly pulled back her hand.

“Please forgive me.” “There ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.” “If you’re sayin’ it’s too dark to write, then ain’t no help for it.” “I’ll light the andon lamp for you.” “Wait.—”

This time, Osen grabbed Senkichi’s hand. "What are you doing?!" "I ain’t doin’ this." "Then must I bow my head and plead so desperately?" "This ain’t like other matters—even as some damn lie or joke—I won’t stomach doin’ what grates my soul ’bout that bastard I loathe most ’mong all these fancy patrons." "Osen. You plannin’ to let your own brother die?" "What are you saying?!" "If you keep shakin’ your head sayin’ no, then I’ll get trussed up tomorrow—no way around it—for losin’ that money someone trusted me with." "Fine then—that’s just dandy." "You ain’t laughin’ behind my back."

“Brother.” “I ain’t askin’ nothin’ more.” “I’ll go home now and get myself trussed up.”

Senkichi deliberately and vehemently stood up and stomped over to the window.

Suddenly, from the neighboring room, Okishi’s muffled sobs could be heard through the shoji screen.

Letter

I

“Young Master—hey, Young Master of Aburachō!” “Oh—you’re Senkichi-san!”

“Where you rushin’ off to in such a hurry?” “Your place.” “What? My place? My hovel ain’t no place fittin’ for your visit, Young Master—not some grand abode you’d lower yourself to grace.” “Just a matchbox-sized row tenement, see…” “Small or grand—I ain’t got time to mind such trifles.” “What’s that you’re sayin’?” “Ain’t I just goin’ to hear that reply I asked you for?”

“Ha ha ha!” “So you’re goin’ to all this trouble just for that, eh?” “I’m much obliged.” “As for that matter, please do me the favor of putting your worries to rest.” “Oh! Then Senkichi-san—Osen’s reply.—” “With all due respect—once Honest Senkichi’s taken on a task, he ain’t one to go breakin’ promises.”

“I’m sorry. I figured as much myself, but is this what they call lovesickness? I wanted to hear her reply so badly I must’ve paced between the account counter and the second floor ninety-nine times till I couldn’t take it anymore—that’s why I came all the way here. Now that’s settled, just give me her favorable reply straightaway!” “Now, now—hold your horses there, will ya? Even if you weren’t in such a rush, I’d let you hear Osen’s reply quick enough—but we’re right here in the middle o’ the road. Can’t promise nobody’s watchin’. Why don’t we find us a proper spot and let you have a proper look at it in peace?”

“Of course I’ll look it over proper later—maybe even while we’re sharing a meal—but for now, can’t you just let me peek at the letter’s address here?” “Rest easy now. The address matters second or third—from contents to seal, there’s no mistaking Osen’s hand.” “She’s been crowing ’bout her penmanship since seven or eight—never took second place even ’mong calligraphy brats.” “Me—I can’t write nothin’ but ‘shi’ for pawnshop and ‘tan’ for pills. But Osen here—she writes Young Master’s name proper in square characters. Hand so fine it’s wasted on some tea house wench.” “See here—I’ve got it safe in my pocket, so come along like you’re boardin’ a lordly ship, eh?”

“I am reassured, but isn’t it only human to want to see it quickly? Don’t be so stuffy—just for a moment, show it to me here.” “Please forgive me. This here’s a firm request from my sister—so we ain’t showin’ it roadside-like.…” “Well now, what an utter lack of refinement!” “Please do me the favor of understanding. From Osen’s perspective, writing a letter herself for the first time—it might as well be called her first love, so to speak. Embarrassment heaped upon embarrassment—that’s only human nature, I tell ya. If that letter were spread open right here on the roadside and happened to be seen by someone—well then, Young Master, who knows what might become of poor timid Osen? It’s beyond reckoning, I tell ya. I’m well aware it’s tactless. Please do me the favor of understanding this part…”

Along the single path running from Yanaka to Ueno, flanked by Kan'ei-ji Temple’s earthen walls where young cherry leaves reminiscent of Kōrin’s paintings carpeted the ground, Young Master Tokutarō and Senkichi—Osen’s brother—stood bathed in the evening sun. For a time, their minds were agitated by the quarrel over whether to show or withhold Osen’s letter bearing her favorable reply, but they must have concluded that further dispute would be futile.

At last, Tokutarō hunched his slender neck.

“I’m too impatient—no matter where I need to go, I just can’t bear to walk.” “Senkichi-san, have a palanquin called for right away, won’t you?” “Right ’tis.”

Senkichi nodded without hesitation.

II

It was not long after that Tokutarō and Senkichi had their palanquin stop at Shunsōtei by Shinobazu Pond.

Tokutarō did not wait for the maid’s guidance; grabbing Senkichi’s hand as if rushing in, he pulled him into the inner room.

“Now, Senkichi-san.”

“Huh.” “Hurry up and show me!” “What d’ya mean?” “Oh, what else could it be? “Isn’t it Osen’s letter?” “Oh right. “I’d gone and forgotten all about this.” “You’re the one who said we couldn’t show it roadside—that’s why I rushed the palanquin here!” “Now hand over that precious letter quick!” “I’ll show it.” “Quit yappin’ and just show it already!” “I’ll show it—but hold your horses a sec, will ya?” “Before that—there’s one little favor I gotta ask of you, Young Master.…”

“What’s this—gettin’ all stiff and formal?” “Well… truth be told… it’s from Osen herself.” “What? A request from Osen to me?” “Mm.” “Then why the hell didn’t you spit it out sooner?”

“There are mountains of things I wish to convey, but as it’s a rather impertinent matter through and through, you see—well now—it ended up being difficult for me to bring up from my own lips under such circumstances.”

“Don’t be absurd! Such pointless reservations are just being standoffish! I don’t need such courtesies—out with it already. If it’s within my power, I’ll grant any request you have...” “Mighty kind of you, sir. Why, if I told Osen this, there’s no telling how she’d rejoice! Now then, Young Master—” “What?” “About that favor she mentioned—”

“This request you mentioned—” “Money—” “What’s all this about? Money? With all due respect—I am Tachibana-ya’s Tokutarō, known throughout Edo. If it’s Osen’s request, I’ll never refuse. Speak freely. No matter how vast the sum—if it’s for her sake—I won’t shake my head in refusal.” “Oh ho ho, much obliged indeed! Well now, Osen! You’ve really hooked him good! Who’d have thought she’d land such a prize rat?!...”

“What are you saying, Senkichi? Calling me a mouse—…” “Wh-why, whatever do you mean? I’d never call you a mouse or such! What I said was that from now on, you should continue to devote yourself with mouse-like loyalty, Young Master.” “You’re smooth-tongued—…” “I’m terrible with words—a man who can’t hold a proper conversation in front of others—but somehow with you, Young Master, I don’t feel like we’re strangers, so I end up chattering away without a care. Hey there, Young Master. Please, won’tcha do us a favor and lend Osen just twenty-five ryō?”

“What? Twenty-five ryō—” “Young Master of Edo’s renowned Tachibana-ya—twenty-five ryō is but a trifling sum for you.” As he said this, Senkichi produced Osen’s letter from where it lay hidden deep within his kimono folds.

I remain ever grateful for your kindness. Respectfully, From Sen

Dear Young Master

The front of the letter contained only this much.

III

At Yanagiyu Bathhouse in the early morning, a hand towel's worth of unabashed nudity unfurled—young locals mingling with a toothpick-whittling samurai and dawn-returning pleasure-seekers, their vigor and lethargy entwined about the pomegranate-shaped entrance. In such moments, identical chatter spilled from every mouth: which gambling den Nan-kichi had conquered, which neighborhood miss now pined for whom—if not theater gossip, Yoshiwara scandals, or tales of Kannon’s tea house girls—all likely born from prideful urgency to parade one’s knowledge the instant lips parted. While jewel-like beads of sweat pooled on their foreheads, there was an amusing quality to how they all kept chatting away in such high spirits. Among them were a leisurely retiree who—declaring “I’ve no use even washing my face!”—stubbornly planted his barrel-like body at the washing area’s center, bending this way and stretching that to splash suds on neighbors, alongside a semi-invalid flaunting a plaster-covered back while indiscriminately proclaiming the virtues of Kōbō-style moxibustion to all within earshot. The bathhouse had been bustling like a town hall since morning.

“Eldest Brother! Did you hear?” “What?” “What d’ya mean ‘what’? I’m talkin’ ’bout Senkichi rakin’ in a fortune!” “Nah. Ain’t heard.” “Ain’t heard.” “Clueless bastard.” “But if you don’t know, there’s nothin’ to be done.” “Damn—where’d that layabout scrounge up such coin?”

“No matter where he did it—ya see—that guy’s runnin’ one helluva scam.” “Hmm, so that bum’s actually got such slick moves?” “The mark’s prime.” “A pigeon?” “A dyed-in-the-wool Edoite through ’n’ through.” “Hold up—ain’t it queer an Edoite’s gettin’ snared in that scoundrel’s trap?”

“You see, this scam ain’t no dice game.” “Oh? So it ain’t dice?” “A woman’s the bait.”

“Woman.—”

“He lured the mark and made a killing, I tell you.” “That’s even more news to my ears.—So who exactly is this mark?” “The young master of Tachibana-ya, the paper merchant in Aburachō.” “Well, that’s a curious one.”

“Here’s how it went.” “The curious one’s in for a rough time, I tell ya.” “Senkichi used his sister Osen as bait and swindled twenty-five ryō clean off that Young Master.”

“What? Twenty-five ryō?” “How ’bout that? Pretty slick move, eh?” “Quit jokin’! Twenty-five ryō means twenty-five gold coins! If it were two ryō or two ryō two bu, maybe I’d buy it—but twenty-five? That’s beyond crazy. You couldn’t borrow that much even if you pawned his damn head! Stop pullin’ my leg already!” “Hmph—can’t play dumb just ’cause you’re clueless. I’m tellin’ ya—these two eyes saw it myself not five minutes back! Twenty-five pieces of yamabuki gold—you won’t see that kinda score in a lifetime!”

“Heh heh heh… Gold coins, eh? Ain’t ya gonna tell me that story in a bit more detail?” As he spoke these words, the one who slid his head out from the bathhouse entrance was none other than the artist Harushige. “Harushige-san—you were here all along?” “’Cause I was here—that’s why I stuck my head out, ya know. Seems like a pretty interestin’ story, don’t it?”

Harushige grinned slyly once more.

Four

“Heh heh heh… Gold coins—why’d you all suddenly clam up like mutes?” “Ain’t ya gonna tell me?” “It ain’t like it’s gonna cost you a damn thing anyway.” Harushige’s manner, as he emerged from the bathhouse entrance to the washing area, carried its usual viscous quality—a presence that couldn’t help but cast an unsettling shadow over Kanzō the umbrella maker’s heart, sending a chill down his spine. “It’s not even that interesting a story, I tell ya.” “What’s not fascinatin’ about that?” “Twenty-five ryō—hell, for a pauper like me, if you lollygag around, that’s more gold than you’ll ever glimpse in your whole cursed life.” “Hearin’ you’ve strung up some swindle or sham and made it stick—not that I’m Shidōken preachin’ here—I gotta ask how the lie took root.” “So you’re sayin’ the mark was Tachibana-ya’s Young Master—that true?”

“What’re you plannin’ to do with that information?” The one who frowned and watched Harushige was Nagakichi the plasterer, whom Kanzō called “Brother.” “Ain’t plannin’ nothin’ special. If that’s true, then I’m thinkin’ I’d like to borrow a bit from the Young Master myself.” “You mean borrow from the Young Master?” “Well, first off. But rest assured. The way I’m plannin’ to borrow ain’t some grand scheme of twenty-five or thirty ryō. A mere two bu or one ryō at most. And I ain’t talkin’ ’bout no stingy tricks or schemes to get it either. I’ll bring along this splendid item—a genuine article beyond doubt—and while watching the Young Master’s delighted face, I intend to make my humble request.”

“That’s no good.” “What?” “It’s no good. Even if you brought armor bestowed by a feudal lord himself, the Young Master of Tachibana-ya wouldn’t lend you a single coin.—The only thing that man wants in all Japan—and I mean the only thing—is Kasamori Osen’s affection. There’s nothing else for him.” “So that’s why I’m gonna go have him buy something straight from Osen’s own body—a genuine article.” “Something from her very body.—”

“That’s right. If it were anyone else askin’, this item’d be worth a hundred ryō easy—but since it’s the Young Master who’s head over heels for Osen, I figure I’ll hold back and start with just one ryō.” “Harushige-san. So you’ve gone and made another one of your slapped-together contraptions, eh?”

“This ain’t no joke—what I’m talkin’ ’bout ain’t some slapped-together thing! It’s leagues apart from heaven itself!” “Leagues apart or not—you think somethin’ like that’s just lyin’ around everywhere? Don’t make me laugh!” “But here’s the kicker—it does exist! Ain’t that a hoot?” “What the hell’s that s’posed to be?” “Nails.” “Huh?” “It’s nails, I tell you!”

“Nails.” “Exactly. These are Osen’s own fingernails—straight from her body, not a shred of falsehood in ’em, I tell ya.” “Don’t—don’t you mock me! No matter how much it’s Osen’s, nails ain’t worth a damn. Quit your jokin’ already.” “Hmph, can’t deal with someone who don’t know value. On a woman’s body, only hair ’n’ nails grow year-round without rest. ’Specially nails—leave ’em three days unlooked, they’ll sprout like weeds. Three hundred nails across all fingers—stuff ’em in a rice bran bag ’n’ you’ve got half full. If Osen’s pure nails went for just one koban, that Young Master’d pounce faster’n a cat seein’ its reflection in a polished mirror—clear as day, I tell ya.”

Around Harushige had formed—unnoticed—a circle of naked onlookers.

Five

“Sen.” “You’ve gotten real slick at this, huh?” “Heh heh heh.” “This ain’t no jokin’ matter, dammit. Twenty-five ryō—helluva haul you pulled, ain’t it?” “Where’d you hear that?”

“Walls have ears.” “Just now at the Kanda bathhouse I ducked into on my way past, some umbrella shop guy called Kanzō was braggin’ to everyone like it was his own damn story.” “Did that bastard already go spoutin’ all that useless crap?”

“Ain’t about whether he blabbed or kept his trap shut.” “Conning the paper merchant’s Young Master.—”

At the midpoint of Ryōgoku Bridge—said to mark the border between Shimousa and Musashi provinces—Senkichi leaned absently against a bridge girder, staring at the bobbing heads of turtles being sold by a grimy old woman for five mon each, when Hosokawa’s stablehand Takegorō happened by and gave his back a light tap, promptly regaling him with news of the Tachibana-ya affair that Kanzō had been blabbing about at Yanagi bathhouse. But just as Takegorō sniffed again and grinned in that instant, Senkichi—who had spotted Onishichi questioning Inoue Tōkichi, the Hatchōbori inspector approaching from the opposite direction—swiftly silenced his companion with a sharp look.

“Quiet!” “Damn it!” “Don’t you dare run off!” “Understood.”

No sooner had Takegorō slipped away than Onishichi was already bearing down before Senkichi’s eyes. “Senkichi.” “What’re you doing loitering around here?” “Oh. “Today’s my old man’s grave-visitin’ day. “I was just on my way back from that...”

“Grave visit.” “Oh.” “Since when’d you start cultivating such fine habits?”

“Please forgive me.” “Never mind forgiveness—showed up at just the right time, you did. Got a few things to ask—come along.” “Oh.” “Ain’t no call to be nervous. This here’s me askin’, so quit your frettin’ and follow.”

Though called Onishichi, his appearance differed entirely from what the name suggested—a clean-cut handsome man with his freshly tied topknot stirred by the river breeze, his bearing undeniably dashing.

At high tide, the Sumida River—swollen with autumn’s boundless waters—stretched clear as far as the eye could see, seemingly reaching to the distant foothills of Mount Tsukuba. Square sails and lateen sails ascending from Ayase toward Senju threaded the river’s breadth in silence, like plovers skimming the surface. Gazing sidelong at the riverside scenery that spread before them like an unfurled picture scroll, Senkichi and Onishichi walked shoulder to shoulder in silence across the bridge toward Asakusa Gomon. “Senkichi, you’ve been going over to Osen’s place, haven’t you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” “Haven’t laid eyes on my sister once in three damn years!”

“Heh heh heh. Why don’t you quit this pointless hiding game? Like I told you before—I ain’t here to drag you through the coals. Got some questions of my own to ask. Won’t bite, so lay it out plain.” “What business would that be?...” “Heard tell Kikunojō’s been slipping over to Osen’s place every night—you know ’bout that, don’tcha?”

As he asked this, Onishichi’s eyes gleamed strangely.

Six

Onishichi’s question came completely unexpectedly to Senkichi. Though it went without saying how desperately Osen had been pining for Kikunojō—whom she had loved since childhood rather than disliked—where could this rumor have sprung from that Kikunojō, now hailed as Edo’s foremost female-role actor, would visit her of his own accord each night? Even for a half-baked counterfeit print, the story was far too inconsistent—Senkichi couldn’t help but turn and stare back at Onishichi’s face.

“Why’re you makin’ such a suspicious face?” “Why do you ask, sir? It’s just that I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re inquiring about…” “You say you don’t get my questions.—What exactly don’t you get?” “Hamamuraya could beg with his life on the line, but Osen wouldn’t let him through her door.”

“You’re still hiding something, ain’t ya.” “I would never—there’s no lie or concealment here. I’ve been telling nothing but the truth all along...” “Senkichi.”

“Huh?” “When you went there two-three days back—who was Osen talkin’ to? Try spittin’ *that* out.” “Talkin’? What d’you mean?”

“That’s right. Osen wasn’t alone there, was she? There was definitely someone else with her.” “Besides her mother being in the next room, there wasn’t anyone you’d call a proper person there.” “Heh heh heh. Wasn’t Oshichi there?”

“Oshichi!” “Well? There should’ve been one person there—Hamamuraya dressed in Oshichi’s costume. You saw ’em with your own eyes, didn’tcha?” “That’s… Master.—”

“There ain't any of that. I'm askin' about that particular thing.” “Couldn't it have been a doll?” “Don't play dumb with me. I ain't so senile yet that I'd mistake a living person for a doll. That's Kikunojō—no doubt about it.” “I can't rightly confirm that's the case...” “You're gettin' above yourself. Understood.—Go on home now.” “Thank you kindly, but—Master, if that truly was Hamamuraya... what'll come of it?...”

“It don’t mean a damn thing.”

“If it don’t mean nothin’… then never mind.—” “Wanna hear it?” “Please—do me the kindness of telling me.” “Hamamuraya’s gotta quit bein’ an actor.” “Why’s that?” “Even if my lips were sewn shut, I couldn’t tell ya.” “Lady Ren—sister to Lord Shinano-no-kami, Magistrate of Minami-Gofukumachi—is Hamamuraya’s foremost patron in all Japan.”

“Then, about that… regarding Lady Iki’s return.—” “Silence! Don’t you dare speak of such nonsense!” “Oh…” “Now scram.” “Thank you kindly.”

Senkichi, still mindful of the gold koban coins in his breast pocket, bowed with relief.

The autumn sun grazing collars shone with an amber glow.

Forced like a writing pupil made to grip their brush, Osen had been compelled to pen a mere two-line letter containing those eleven characters—"ever grateful for your kindness"—that now plagued her thoughts. Having passed the night without a wink of sleep, finding even her tea devoid of its usual refreshment, she rode swaying in a palanquin through sunlight that had risen barely half an hour earlier, making her way to Harunobu’s residence in Shiragamimachi.

Forced like a writing pupil made to grip their brush, Osen had been compelled to pen a mere two-line letter containing those eleven characters—"ever grateful for your kindness"—that now plagued her thoughts. Having passed the night without a wink of sleep, finding even her tea devoid of its usual refreshment, she rode swaying in a palanquin through sunlight that had risen barely half an hour earlier, making her way to Harunobu’s residence in Shiragamimachi. Upon hearing from his disciple Tōkichi that Osen had come, Harunobu—who had just risen and not yet washed his face—nevertheless ushered her into the studio and gazed intently at her face, clear as porcelain.

“It’s rather early.” “Yes. I found myself quite at wit’s end over a matter and have come to beg your counsel.” “So you want me to lend you wisdom? Ha ha ha! How amusing. Though I daresay you possess far more wisdom than I do.” “Oh, Master...” “No, no—that was in jest. But tell me, what matter has arisen?” “Well... The brother I often speak of returned quite unexpectedly last night.”

“What? Your brother has returned?” “Yes.”

“According to what I’ve heard you say before—this brother of yours, Senkichi—he’d been missing three full years.” “And now he’s suddenly returned?—” “—” “To my deepest shame, he declared himself—he came back solely because he craves treasure.” “Treasure? But he can’t possibly think you’re some moneyed patron.” “He used me as decoy bait to borrow funds from another young master.”

“Oh? How exactly did he borrow it?” "He forced me—though I resisted—to write a letter, then snatched it up claiming he’d get twenty-five ryō for it and vanished off somewhere. And who do you think that man turned out to be? None other than Mr. Tokutarō of Tachibanaya in Tōyu-chō—a fellow so detestable it makes my skin crawl." “In that case, Senkichi borrowed the money from Toku of Tachibanaya and—” “Yes. “By now, my brother is likely gambling at some daimyo’s stable as he pleases—but if the Young Master believes that letter truly came from me and lends such a hefty sum... whatever unreasonable demands he makes of me... I shall have no means to refuse them.—Master.” “What am I to do?”

She must have been utterly at her wit’s end. Osen’s eyelids, lifted to meet Harunobu’s gaze, glistened like petals cradling dewdrops. “Well now…”

With arms crossed and chin pulled in, Harunobu stared at his own knees for a while before slowly shaking his head.

“Mr. Toku isn’t such a fool that he can’t read people’s intentions.” “I don’t know what sort of letter you wrote, but he’s unlikely to hand over a fortune like twenty-five ryō for just that single note.” “Even so, my brother insisted that as long as he took away a letter I’d written—even if it were just two or three characters—the money would pass from right to left as a matter of course.” “When was that supposed to happen?” “Last night.”

It was when Osen raised her face once more. Suddenly, Tōkichi’s low voice came from beyond the shoji screen. “Osen-san, something terrible’s happened! The Master of Hamamuraya has taken suddenly ill!” Osen gasped, her chest tightening, and she couldn’t immediately find her voice.

Dream

One

Dengiku, proprietor of the Kanagashira shop, had been sitting alone on the step where no customers came, counting off the zodiac signs on his fingers—Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake—when suddenly someone struck his back so roughly with a fist that it knocked the breath out of him. “Ouch! Wh-who’s there?” “It’s not about who’s here—somethin’ terrible’s started! Rat, Ox, Tiger—none of that matters now! From tomorrow on, our theater might not even open!”

The one who came rushing in breathlessly like a fire brigade standard-bearer was Chōbei, gatekeeper of Ichimura-za theater from the same neighborhood. Dengiku started and took another look at Chōbei’s face. “Wh-what happened?” “This ain’t about crabs or nothin’—if things go sideways, it’s gonna blow up into one hell of a mess! You—your whole trade’s scrapin’ up theater scraps—ain’t no way you’re clean in this. Too busy tallyin’ saury counts or some shit—this ain’t the time for finger-countin’!”

“Hey! What the hell’s happened, Chō-san?” “You still ain’t figured it out?” “If I ain’t heard nothin’, I can’t know nothin’.” “What kind of thick-headed fool are you? The Master of Hamamuraya collapsed right in the middle of dancing on stage!” “What the hell do you mean—you—is that true?” “I ain’t one to lie through my teeth.—We’re theater folk, ain’t we? You think I’d go spoutin’ nonsense that never happened? Otherwise they’d wrap you in a mat and toss you right into the middle of the Sumida River, y’hear?”

“Chō-san.” “What’s got you so damn startled? Don’t go raisin’ your voice all sudden-like.” “What’re you talkin’ about? You think this is some whispered secret we can keep under wraps? When I say I fancy someone, there ain’t no other actor I care for ’cept the Master of Hamamuraya. The man’s got skill, charm, and a pride that’s no medicine for the soul—so where’d it go wrong? How’d he collapse? C’mon, give me every last detail.”

Having been struck, Dengiku completely forgot the pain in his back and, without even noticing that his hair tie had come undone and scattered around his feet, frantically scrambled on his knees toward Chōbei.

“I’d say it was just around when the curtain was about to fall on the second dance piece.” “As you know, this play’s got San-gorō playin’ Yoritomo, Hazaemon as Kajiwara, and the Master himself as the Heron Maiden—all set to Bungo’s jōruri narration. That’s what makes it the main attraction of this production, ain’t it?” “Even with the curtain near closin’—not a single soul in that crowd would’ve dared get up.” “The stage was buzzin’, every last spectator leanin’ forward tryin’ to catch an extra glimpse.” “You could say there wasn’t a hair’s breadth between ’em.” “No tellin’ how it happened—the Master’s dancin’ foot seemed to catch, made him stagger, and before you knew it, he’d gone down face-first on the boards.—Then from the seats came shouts of ‘Hamamuraya!’ sharp as flint sparks, and next thing you know, patrons were weepin’ and wailin’, their voices swirlin’ up into a proper storm. In all that ruckus, the stagehands pulled the curtain down quick—but this ain’t some tall tale I’m spinnin’. The whole theater turned upside down like a kicked beehive.” “Then the theater manager comes runnin’, disciples swarmin’ round—they carried the Master straight to the green room still in his Heron Maiden silks. But since they ain’t got Dr. Gen’an’s say-so yet, they gotta leave him laid out there—can’t even take him home proper.”

“Alright, Ohan, get my haori out for me.”

Dengiku suddenly said this and stood up.

Two “Where do you think you’re going?” “If you leave the shop empty in broad daylight like this, how will you face our customers?” “If you’re visiting the Master, wait till nightfall—I mean it!” She must have reasoned that leaving only one apprentice would harm their livelihood. Ohan—who had grudgingly pulled his good haori from the chest—clutched her husband Dengiku’s sleeve and stared into his face, straining to restrain him.

But Dengiku threw a punch like he was spitting out bile. “You idiot! What the hell are you sayin’? A woman shouldn’t be stickin’ her nose into her husband’s business—shut up and get back inside! Outside matters I could let slide, but if I leave the Master’s sudden illness be, what d’you think folks’ll say about me? ‘That Dengiku from Kana-doko’s always braggin’ ’bout bein’ Hamamuraya’s number-one fan—look at ’im now!’ They’ll all be callin’ me a stingy bastard too cheap to pay respects—I know that clearer than Lord Kaga’s front gates! Quit your yappin’ and help me put this damn haori on! In this mess, I ain’t got time to wait a single moment!”

Dengiku snatched the haori from Ohan’s hands, draped it over his two-sun-bent back, wrenched his hand free once more, and bolted out of the shop like a fighting dog in a frenzy. “Hold up, Deng!”

Chōbei called out from behind. “What do you want?” “Ain’t urgent business, but seein’ how the missus is carryin’ on, why not wait till evenin’? Ain’t like you’ll get to see him even if you go now.—”

“Hmph—even *you* gotta butt in? Quit your meddlin’.” “I’ll walk on my own two feet.” “Wherever I go’s my own damn business!”

“Well, look who’s makin’ a grand exit!” “Didn’t we just have a chat? And I’m the one who did the talkin’!” “If you’re goin’, at least give my beard a quick rub before you leave, won’t ya?” “The beard can wait till I get back.” “If you wait till you get back, it’ll be too late for that.”

“If it’s too late, just go wherever and have someone else do it for you.” “Ah, enough already! If we keep quibblin’ like this, the sun’ll set ’fore we know it.”

Kicking up sand with the stiff front tips of his sandals, Dengiku dashed off at full speed—but when he reached the lantern shop’s corner, he suddenly stopped and tilted his head slightly. "Wait." Before heading to Ichimura-za, there’s somewhere more important I need to go. That’s it. Osen-chan might not know yet. Showing compassion in times like these is where a true Edokko proves their mettle. "Alright, I’ll hail a palanquin and make a dash for Yanaka!"

Dengiku gave a firm nod, hailed a passing street palanquin that happened to be nearby, and climbed aboard after promising a generous tip for a ride to the grounds of Kasamori Inari Shrine. “Hurry up, will ya!” “Right away.”

“I’m goin’ to deliver news about a sudden illness, see?” “Got it!” Their reply was spirited enough, but the crucial palanquin showed no sign of speeding up.

“Tch.” If it were Yoshiwara they’d be showin’ off and dashin’ in style, but hearin’ it’s news ’bout some sickly patient in Yanaka, they’re likely mockin’ me. Dengiku ain’t no ordinary barber, I tell ya. “Back in Edo days, when it came to shavin’ the nape of the famous Kasamori Osen, there weren’t two folks in all wide Edo who could do it better’n me!” Even Dengiku’s lone rant inside the palanquin—complete with a snorted scrunch of his nose—didn’t seem to faze the bearers one bit, as their pace stayed just as leisurely as before.

3

Around the time Dengiku the barber arrived at the grounds of Kasamori Inari Shrine, Osen—having heard of Kikunojō’s sudden illness at Harunobu’s residence—had already crossed the threshold of her own home in a frenzy. “Mother.” “Oh, you... What’s wrong? Did something happen at the theater?” Okishi, who had never imagined her daughter would return at such an hour, stared at Osen’s frantically rushing figure as if trying to bore holes through her, checking for injuries before quietly placing a hand on her shoulder—but Osen, behaving unlike herself, shook off her mother’s hand and dashed into her room with rough steps that disturbed the tatami.

“What’s wrong, Osen?” “Mother, what should I do?” “Oh, child…” “Kichan—Mr. Kikunojō—has fallen suddenly ill.” “What in the world...?” “Master Tayū has taken ill—.” “Yes.—I... I can’t bear to go on living like this.” “What nonsense are you spouting?” “What good is such faint-heartedness?” “People’s tongues can wag however they please.” “Even if they call it a sudden illness, there’s no telling how much of that is true...”

“No, no—it’s neither a lie nor a dream.” “I definitely heard it with my own ears.” “I must go pay my respects at the Ichimura-za green room at once.” “Mother, would you kindly remove this Oshichi costume for me?” “Huh? You want me to take this off you?” “Last year, after the play ended, Kichan had this Oshichi costume delivered to me without a word—a riddle meaning I should wear it.”

“Even so, this—” “Mother.” Osen walked over to the doll propped in the corner of the room and, without warning, placed her hands on its obi. As if undressing a theater costume in reverse, she began carelessly removing its garments.

“Stop this at once.” “No, please don’t say another word.” “With the same heart as Oshichi, I must go meet Master Tayū.”

The Oshichi obi, loosened with a rustle, held within it the sorrowful fragrance of aloeswood incense burned each night, which now began to drift quietly through the room.

“Ah—” Osen hugged that obi tightly to her chest. “Osen...”

Okishi lowered her gentle eyes. “Yes.” “You intend to go alone?” “Yes.” After having her costume removed and her undergarment taken off, Osen slipped behind the folding screen and swiftly changed into her own kimono. Just then, as if erupting from nowhere, a man’s voice boomed loudly from beyond the lattice door. “Miss Osen, it’s Dengiku from the hairdresser’s. When Master Tayū of Hamamuraya heard about the sudden illness, wanting to inform you before all else, they had a palanquin rushed over. Since you weren’t at Lady Kasamori’s, we ended up coming around here. Not quick at all—should’ve gone straight to Fukiya-chō right away!”

“Master, please have that palanquin wait.” “You got it!” Osen’s voice was unusually high-pitched.

4

To avoid prying eyes, Segawa Kikunojō’s paralyzed body was placed in a physician’s palanquin with its reed blinds deliberately hung low, accompanied only by two male attendants and disciples, then transported to his Ishichō residence around noon that day. But the rumor that Kikunojō—already at the peak of his popularity—had collapsed onstage spread from person to person in an instant, until now even the remotest corners of Edo considered those unaware of it the height of ignorance. The palanquin’s surroundings, which to any onlooker could only be perceived as a physician’s visit, had before anyone knew it been surrounded by five or ten men and women like a millionfold prayer, and the more they pursued it, the more their numbers only continued to grow.

“Hey you—why’re stuck trailing after that doctor’s palanquin like some lost pup?” “What’s this—you ain’t Kanda Myojin’s stone torii, yet you’re blinder than one! That ain’t no ordinary doctor’s rig!”

“But O-Tatsu-san, no matter how you look at it...” “Shh! Keep it down, will ya? Master Tayū of Hamamuraya’s inside that one, I tell ya.” “Master Tayū of Hamamuraya...” “That’s right. He collapsed onstage yesterday and’s been lying in the green room ever since, ain’t he? Then he starts bawlin’ about wantin’ to go home no matter what, so they finally fixed it up like this—makin’ out it’s a doctor’s visit—and now they’re headin’ back.” “Oh mercy! Then get outta the way there!”

“Why?” “I need to get closer to the palanquin—at least to say one word of concern to Master Tayū...” “What nonsense are you spouting? Master Tayū is gravely ill! If you make even a bit of a fuss, it’ll harm his condition. It’s fine if you want to tag along, but you’re not allowed past this point!” “Just get out of the way already!” “Ouch! You don’t need to pinch me!” “’Cause I’m not movin’!” “Oh! You pinched me again!”

While O-Tatsu the hairdresser and O-Kame the tofu seller’s daughter were arguing over what was permissible and what wasn’t, the palanquin—now surrounded by an even greater crowd—turned left onto Yoshichō Avenue, crossed Oyaji Bridge, and advanced at a pace slower than an ox’s plodding.

About a block behind Kikunojō’s palanquin walked a procession—Ichimura Hazaemon, manager of the Ichimura-za theater; Bandō Hikosaburō; Onoe Kikugorō; Arashi Sanjurō; and Onoe Matsusuke, newly come-of-age—all bowing their heads as mournfully as if attending a funeral, their steps heavy with each stride. All of them kept their faces deeply hidden beneath woven sedge hats, blinking their eyes without exchanging a single word—until suddenly, someone must have remembered something. Hazaemon sorrowfully furrowed his brows.

“Mr. Matsusuke.” “Yes.” “You’d best turn back from here now—though it pains me to say.” “Why do you say that?” “I hate to speak ill-omened words, but Master Hamamuraya may not last much longer if things continue this way.” “No, that’s absurd! How could such a thing be possible?” It was Arashi Sanjūrō who widened his eyes at these words. “I too earnestly wish for Master Tayū’s recovery, but judging by his condition thus far, I fear it may prove difficult. Though it brings no luck to say so, last night I dreamed all my teeth—upper and lower alike—fell out completely. Regrettable though it is, I believe Master Tayū will not survive.”

With that, Hazaemon sorrowfully furrowed his brows.

5

Segawa Kikunojō, who had been wandering from dream to dream and drifting further into that world of visions, suddenly opened his heavy eyes at the sound of a wind chime left hanging from the summer eaves and looked around.

Around his bedside sat Gen’an the physician, his wife Omura, theater manager Hazaemon, Sanjūrō, Hikosaburō, and others in a circle, their hushed voices sounding to him like events from a distant land. “Oh, you...”

Omura was the first to speak. But in Kikunojō's mind, the owner of that voice had yet to register clearly. He looked around once with darting eyes, then closed them again.

Gen’an slowly waved his hand. “Please remain quiet, everyone—” “Yes.” In the room that had suddenly fallen as silent as still water, only the scent of incense lingered, creeping low along the floor. Gen’an slid his hand beneath the night quilt, lightly grasped Kikunojō’s wrist, and tilted his head. “Doctor, how is he?” “The pulse seems to have gained strength, but…” “That’s... such a relief.” “But you must not let your guard down.” “It’s impossible to know when a turn might come, you know.”

“Yes.” “Perhaps those paying their respects should retire to the next room—I think it would be best if we let the invalid rest as quietly as possible.” “Yes, yes,” Hazaemon nodded emphatically. “That is most reasonable.—Then I shall entrust this matter to Madam and have everyone withdraw to the next room.” “That is well. Though my skills may be meager, as long as this old man tends to him, you may rest assured there will be no negligence in his care.”

“By all means, I humbly entreat you.” The group exited to the next room, muffling their footsteps and taking care with the sliding doors. For a time, only the bubbling of the iron kettle remained, vivid against the room’s silence. “Madam.”

Gen'an's voice was low and heavy. "Yes." "It is deeply regrettable, but Master Tayū has but a brief time left."

“What?!” “Hush now. “Earlier, I reported that his pulse seemed to have gained strength, but in truth, that was merely for the sake of the others present.” "His heart, too, retains only a faint warmth." “Then he’s already—” From Omura’s eyes, which had endured with patience upon patience, jewel-like tears overflowed and streamed down her cheeks.

Before long, it was the disciple Kikuya who timidly poked his head out from between the sliding doors, disturbing the incense smoke. “A guest has arrived.” “Who is it?”

"Miss Osen of Yanaka." "That Kasamori woman...?" "Yes." "Tell her Master Tayū cannot receive visitors due to his illness." At that instant, Kikunojō's eyes snapped open, his reedy voice cutting sharply through the air.

“It’s fine. Enough—show her in here—”

Six

A white chrysanthemum—likely brought up onto the veranda the previous night to escape the first frost—stood with petals withering from the lower leaves upward, around which a lone horsefly danced quietly. The shadow of a cat playfully batting at it with an incessantly wagging tail stood out sharply upon the shoji screen. Absently listening to the horsefly’s buzzing as she sat at Kikunojō’s bedside, gazing intently at his sleeping face, was Osen—dressed in the resplendent Oshichi costume. A plume of purple incense smoke rose straight upward, leaving the south-facing room as warm as a glass-paneled enclosure.

Meeting in their seventh year—a world of just two. From Kikunojō—who had lost nearly all vitality overnight—a single threadlike tear trailed from his half-open eyes down his cheek, dampening the pillow. “Osen-chan.” Kikunojō’s voice was barely audible, so low it could scarcely be heard.

“Ah.” “You came…” “Master Tayū.” “Don’t call me Master Tayū or such—please go on calling me Kichan like you used to.” “In that case, Kichan.—”

“Yes.”

“I’ve so wanted to see you.” “I too wanted to see you.—If I say this, you must think I’m uttering empty words—but it’s neither lie nor flattery.—As you know, though I’ve somehow gained popularity and the world speaks of me this way and that, my heart remains just as it was ten years ago.” “More than a wife taken from obligation, more than women I’ve dallied with—it’s you I’ve truly held in my heart.” “Through sweltering heat and biting cold, my aching heart always reached toward Yanaka’s skies—but now that you’ve become such a celebrated beauty, I’ve endured until this day, fearing that if I carelessly visited you, it would stir scandalous rumors and surely bring you trouble.”

“You’re too kind, Master Tayū.—” “No—more than undeserved kindness, it’s my heart that should beg forgiveness. The hardships of an actor’s life—no matter how much I loathe them—when summoned by my patrons... When told it’s a banquet room engagement, I had to go at least one out of three times and force a smile each time. Every time, I’d think ‘Oh how I hate this—should I quit this profession today? Tomorrow?’ Yet my lingering attachment to the stage held me back. If I were to withdraw like this now, the sorrow of having to abandon all the art I’ve painstakingly honed—root and branch—would be unbearable. Therefore... I’ve lived days more fleeting than insects singing in autumn fields... Osen-chan. All of this—all of it—now fades away like yesterday’s dream. Just when I had resigned myself to never meeting you again—you truly came. Even if I were to die now like this... I’d have no regrets.—”

“Oh, Kichan…” “Oh…” “Stay strong.” “Though ashamed to admit it—without you, who in this world would I live for?—it’s you alone I’ve kept hidden in my heart.” “If you bid me die, I’ll become your substitute this very moment.” “Oh, Kichan...” “Even if we never shared a bed for a single night, I am your wife, I tell you.” “Here, Kichan.” “No response—is that a refusal, Kichan?”

Osen leaned forward one knee at a time until her cheeks nearly touched his face, peering into Kikunojō’s countenance—until her eyes grew as still as a Buddha statue’s gaze. “Kichan... Master Tayū...” “O... Osen—” “Oh, if only—” Osen collapsed weeping over Kikunojō’s face as his lips faded to pallor. From the neighboring room came the sudden stir of people rising.

Seven

The death of Segawa Kikunojō II was announced near dusk that day. Edo's populace sank into deeper despair than during last year's Great Fire of Yoshiwara—yet those who plunged to sorrow's nadir, as if robbed of a jewel from their very hands, were not Kikunojō himself but rather the maidservants in daimyo and hatamoto mansions who now mourned without cease day or night. Foremost among those struck by earth-shaking astonishment at this news was Honda Ren, sister to Minamimachi Magistrate Honda Shinanokami. As Lady Ren was settling before her evening meal, she suddenly let fall her chopsticks and—as if seized by madness—rose unsteadily to her feet before running barefoot out into the garden.

Two or three maidservants immediately chased after her.

“Oh, my lady! You’re in danger!” “What are you doing? Unhand me!”

“Where might you be going, my lady?” “That much should be clear. I shall go immediately to Hamamuraya’s residence.” “Oh, my lady—such an improper notion!” “What improper notion? I shall go and have Hamamuraya’s illness cured. Do not interfere—step aside at once!” “That cannot be allowed.” “Enough! I said move! Will you not move?!”

One of the maidservants who had been roughly shoved aside, even as she stumbled, firmly grasped the hem of Ren’s robes. “My lady. “Please calm yourself, my lady.” …” “This is unnecessary!” “Let go!” “No, we cannot release you.” “If you were to go out at this hour, it would compromise your standing.” “Moreover, if you insist on going out again, we shall have no choice but to inform the chief retainer of this matter ourselves.…” “Enough! I said let go—won’t you release me?!” “I said let go—won’t you release me?!”

In her frenzy, one of Ren’s sleeves tore away like a rice sheaf in the maidservant’s grasp, her alabaster feet—kicking up earth without restraint—glimmered faintly white in the twilight.

“Oh, my lady.—”

Circling the pond and running along the foot of the artificial hill, Ren moved as swiftly as a fox.

“There, from over there!—”

“Her Ladyship has gone around to the other side.” In the inner garden devoid of men, the maidservants—their numbers having swelled—must have feared catastrophe should they lose sight of Oren. Young and old alike scrambled toward the garden gate. Yet when they desperately reached it, there was no sign of Oren. “My lady.—” “Pray wait.”

Moreover, Honda Ren—who had never run even once in a year—had indeed made it past the garden gate, but her legs had grown so exhausted they threatened to cramp. Muttering Kikunojō’s name between labored breaths, she now forced her unbearable steps forward with desperate determination, directionless yet driven ever onward.

“—Hamamuraya, wait! Leaving me behind—where do you think you’re going alone? I won’t allow it! I’m coming with you. Be it even hell’s deepest pit—if that’s where you go, I’ll follow without complaint. Take me. Take me at once!” She had wed Sakabe Ikinokami at twenty-one and returned in the eighth year of marriage. Though thirty years old now, Honda Ren—hailed since her mid-teens as “Honda Komachi” for her matchless beauty—still appeared no older than twenty-four or five. With a figure of bewitching proportions and eyes burning with fervor fixed ahead, her silent advance through the twilight carried an eeriness that chilled the bone.

Eight

No matter what commotions might arise in the mansions of daimyo and hatamoto, these events seemed like occurrences from an entirely separate world as Kikunojō’s house remained quiet and solemn. The theater manager, all kabuki practitioners, patrons, and miscellaneous visitors—over a hundred people in total—flooded in unrestrained, crowding even this opulent residence until it seemed cramped. Yet in the eight-mat room where Kikunojō’s cold remains lay enshrined, only Osen sat alone with her head bowed, silently gazing at her lap—a space not even his wife Omura could enter.

Suddenly, from Osen’s tightly closed lips escaped a low, faint voice. “Kichan.” “I begged the mistress and others to let me stay alone by your pillowside because I can’t forget our game of playing house ten years ago.—Back when we all went cherry-blossom viewing at nearby Asukayama, just like always, you and I pretended to be husband and wife.” “We wandered into some grand mansion draped with curtains all around—you remember that, don’t you?” “After being treated to all sorts of delicacies by that beautiful young lady—like something out of a painting—we ended up in a curtained corner for makeup retouching. There I did your makeup, and you did mine, and that lady praised us with flattery—saying these children would surely grow into breathtaking beauties in another ten years. That dream-like day remains clear in my eyes even now… Kichan.” “I want to do your makeup now with all my soul.” “As for the rouge and white powder—I wrapped them in a silk cloth when leaving home and brought them here.” “Though it’s well-worn from my use, this red brush is the one you gave me when you crossed Oji.” “It’s now a memento.” “It may not be to your liking like the actors’ [work], but please bear with it.” “At least let this be my humble offering.”

Pillowed to the north, Kikunojō’s beautifully clear face—so lovely it might stir envy even in women—lay with eyes quietly closed, cold as porcelain skin. Osen’s hand holding the white powder brush traced over it as meticulously as a master executing fine brushwork. Eyes, mouth, ears. ――When those forms painted pure white were soon wiped clean with a damp cloth in deliberate strokes, then crimson rouge applied to the lips, Kikunojō’s face revived with such vividness that one might suspect it would speak at any moment.

Osen gazed intently at that face. "Kichan.—Hey, Kichan."

Gradually, Osen's voice rose. His lips—which seemed as though they might answer if called—somehow appeared to tremble forlornly. “—I shall surely continue living together with you from now onward. “Please, you too—let even just your soul stay by my side forever. “Even if thousands upon thousands of people court me, I will not waver until death.—Oh, Kichan…”

A tear from Osen fell and wet Kikunojō’s cheek. “Oh dear—after all the care I took with your makeup...” Osen once more took hold of the white powder brush. Then, from the next room came the voice of his wife, Omura.

“Miss Osen.”

“Y-yes.—” “The guests for the incense offering have arrived.” “If you’re ready, I shall usher them in.” “Yes, please.—” In Osen’s eyes—as she hastily withdrew from the bedside—appeared the yasha-like figure of Lady Ren, sister of Lord Honda Shinano-no-kami, her face caked with makeup so thick it seemed ready to flake off. Osen (End)