Pathway to Japanese Literature

I “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” “Don’t lean out like that.” “The hedge’s fragile.” “Calm down, calm down.” “Heh heh heh.” “Don’t panic, Young Master—you’re the one gettin’ all flustered here.”

“Shh! Quiet—” “This is all backwards.” “Can’t even tell who’s runnin’ the show anymore.” But even so, their voices stayed lower than the muted rustle of autumn grasses brushing together. “Still not?” “Not yet.” “This wait’s killin’ me—goddamn mosquitoes feastin’ on my shins here.” “Patience, Young Master, patience—”

North of Yanaka’s Kankō-ji Temple, a little over two blocks away, stood a modest thatched-roof dwelling with moss-laden eaves. White evening glories twined around its hedge, while four or five *tsubo* of garden lay overrun with wild autumn grasses—patrinia flowers hidden among plume grass, their dreamlike air of unreality as vivid as the brocade prints of Suzuki Harunobu, the celebrated ukiyo-e artist of the day. Gradually brightening under the crescent moon’s light, the surroundings at last gave way to a decayed-leaf-hued darkness, with only the sounds of insects singing in the grasses growing more abundant.

“Matsu.” “Right here.” “There’s no mistake here, right?” “This ain’t no joke, Young Master. If I got this wrong, then Matsu Gorō ain’t even worth a blind dog.” “But you—the crucial Benten-sama hasn’t shown so much as a shadow, let alone her form!” “Patience, Young Master, patience—if you rush, you’ll botch the job.” “We’ve been here near half an hour already. And yet you—” “So didn’t I tell you when we left Asakusa? Even a tayū of Matsu’s rank—if she’s an oiran, she’s merchandise to be bought and sold. From the moles on her ears to the lines on the soles of her feet—I can read ’em whenever I want, but today’s not one of those days. When I emphasized that we might have to wait not just half an hour but one or even two hours, squatting behind this hedge the whole time, Young Master—what did you say then? ‘If I can see the skin of Osen—renowned as foremost among Edo’s three great beauties—then I wouldn’t mind being bitten by mosquitoes or stung by insects in the least! I’d even refrain from my beloved tobacco and hardly utter a sound! So take me there right this instant no matter what!’ In exchange for this, I’d even adjust the reward up to two bu and present you with a haori—didn’t I go so far as to hand over the very haori right here? And yet here you are, spoutin’ such selfishness before even half an hour’s passed—this ain’t what we agreed on. I’ll return every last thing I’ve received from you—so please, Young Master, dismiss this Matsu Gorō already.……”

“Wait—” “I ain’t sayin’ I won’t be patient or nothin’.” “Yeah, I’ll endure it—even if it turns midnight or dawn, I ain’t budgin’ from here. But if *you* got the gate wrong, and this ain’t even Osen’s house…” “Th-that’s why it’s no good. … No matter how much of a fool I am, I ain’t gonna drag you to some stranger’s hedge, Young Master.” “Matsu Gorō’s proud guiding skills—this one here, even if Edo were as vast as—”

“Shh!” “Ugh.” The obi was likely fashionable gauze. Crisply tied at the waist, the waterfall-striped yukata accentuated her slender stature as the eighteen-year-old girl emerged swiftly from the bamboo blind’s shadow onto the veranda. The dew—even more vivid than crimson—clung to the solitary first bloom of a bellflower.

Meiwa, Year of the Dog—eighth month of autumn. In the evening breeze that whispered through, plume grass swayed in silent waves. From the girl’s hand, the round fan fluttered down into the garden.

II

Even a petal of the bellflower that brushed past their faces and fluttered down left them unable to move a muscle—so cautious about making any sound that the eyes of Tokutarō, young master of Tachibana-ya Tokubei’s paper merchant house in Nihonbashi Kayabachō, and Matsu Gorō, carver for ukiyo-e artist Harunobu, remained fixed beneath the evening glories as if riveted there. But she likely never dreamed that two men had conspired to fix their gaze upon her from beyond her own hedge. The girl glanced sidelong at the fallen fan, then placed her hand on her gauze obi. She spun crisply—faster than the images on a revolving lantern—before skillfully slipping free from the sash. After another slow turn, she poised her tiptoe on the veranda edge. At that very moment, as bell crickets abruptly intensified their song, she leaned halfway over the railing, her yukata slipping from her shoulder.

“Homage to the fulfillment of great vows—”

“Shh!” Afterwards, the insects’ voices returned once more.

As for Kyoto’s noblewomen who passed their days shaded by blossoms—who could say? But in Edo’s eight hundred and eight neighborhoods, where the great shogun reigned, from the daughters of daimyō above to those divine performers of song and dance likened to bodhisattvas below, even were one to sift through Yoshiwara’s thousand courtesans, there would be none to rival her—the peerless celebrated beauty. In a corner of Shitaya Yanaka, within the precincts of Kasamori Inari Shrine, stood eleven tea houses with paper lanterns hung—thirty-odd girls gathered there, yet not one among them—let alone in sheer elegance—could rival even a single eyebrow of hers. At the time, Suzuki Harunobu’s single-sheet brocade prints had propelled Osen of Kagi-ya into such renown that she was celebrated everywhere, from children’s bouncing ball chants to the lips of strangers, rumors blooming unchecked. The desires she stirred knew no end to day or night—not merely among hot-blooded youths, but even samurai over fifty, men who seemed to harbor no earthly wishes at all, clacking their geta on pilgrimages to the shrine until the hand towels at the purification font never knew a moment dry.

Tachibana-ya Tokutarō, too, was no exception to this pattern—once daily, he would vanish from behind the accounting lattice as predictably as a stamped seal, his destination being Kasamori-sama in Yanaka with its red torii gate, driven by his singular wish to behold the snow-white skin of Osen glimpsed so elegantly beneath her crimson collar. Yet today of all days, right at the entrance to the hut of Shidōken—who had died that spring—in Asakusa, he happened to collide head-on with the print carver Matsu Gorō. From this Matsu, who swiftly grasped the situation, came the verdict: to fixate on superficial observations was the height of foolishness. Upon hearing Matsu’s unexpected proposition—*“Wouldn’t you rather see the jewel-like skin beneath her loosened obi than watch Osen sip cherry-blossom tea?”*—Tokutarō became utterly ecstatic. Without even asking *where*, he handed over the promised two bu and the haori he wore, his frenzied state soon finding itself beyond this very hedge. Even if a hundred mosquitoes were to land on his calves at once, he would feel neither pain nor itch—so fixed were Tokutarō’s eyes, like those of a wild dog.

“Young Master.” “Quiet—" “Quiet ain’t enough—lower your voice even more.” “I know already.” “Then hurry it up!” “Enough with your meddling—” Likely having descended one step from the veranda to the upper side—where a basin already waited in the shadow of the door pocket, bathwater from the kettle swirling in faint eddies—Osen remained motionless with her upper body exposed, listening intently to the insects’ chorus. Not only did she show no inclination to rise, but she seemed utterly oblivious to the yukata slipping down from her shoulders to her waist. The crescent moon’s pallid light cast broad azure ripples across skin like white coral—its smoothness growing luminous as if clinging to her form until it blazed upon the autumn grasses below. In that instant, Osen suddenly stood. Tearing off her yukata with one swift motion and clutching a hand towel, she retreated two steps up to vanish into the door pocket’s shadow.

“Ah!” “Tah!” Had they completely forgotten shame and reputation? From Tokutarō and Matsu Gorō’s mouths came shrill cries let out in unison.

III

“Osen.” “Yes?” “What was that sound just now?—” “Well, I wonder what it could be.” “It’s probably just a thieving cat after the goldfish.” “Well, if that’s all it was… I thought you might’ve taken a fall and got myself all worked up.” “You’re the reason—no, more than me—Inari-sama thrives because of you. If you were to get hurt even once, the pilgrims would surely drop by half, wouldn’t they?” “With your delicate beauty and filial devotion—not to mention your charm and grace—even if I ain’t just some mother puffing up her own daughter to Kasamori Ichii in everyone’s eyes, how proud I am!…”

“Oh, Mother…” “No—” “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” “Parents who praise their children are a dime a dozen in this world, but every last one of them flaunts their pride like it’s some grand spectacle.” “Unlike theirs, mine isn’t just empty praise—it’s my way of thanking you.” “Come now, I’ll wash your back while I’m at it—hand me that towel over here.” “No, as long as I rinse off the sweat, that’s quite enough…” “What are you saying, silly? “Just turn this way like I said.”

At twenty-two she had given birth to her son Senkichi, and at twenty-six to Osen—then, the very next year, her husband Nakakichi, who had been working as head clerk at the Kura-mae pawnshop Ise Shin, died suddenly of illness. Plunged from fortune into misfortune, she humbly took on sewing work for others to scrape by day after day—and now eighteen years had already passed. The fecklessness of her son Senkichi—who had run away at eighteen and remained missing to this day—was a perennial source of tears for Okishi whenever she recalled it. Yet just as the proverb says *even trampled grass may bloom*, the water teahouse at Kasamori Inari—which she had been permitted to open last year during the plum-blossom season through the efforts of Ise Shin’s retired master—had swiftly become the talk of Edo. With misfortune thus transformed into great fortune, she could do nothing but rejoice through her tears. And lately, when Okishi pressed her palms together in prayer, it was not for Kasamori-sama but for Osen that she did so—for what greater blessing could one hold than a daughter?

“Osen.” “Yes?” “Though it may seem abrupt to ask—with you appearing daily at the teahouse—have you still not found someone you truly fancy?” “Oh! And here I thought it was something serious—Mother! I haven’t got even one person like that!” “Ohoho.” “Are you angry?” “I’m not angry, but I do dislike men.” “What! You mean you dislike men?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never—” Until this spring, Okishi had still thought of Osen as very much a child—a perception that persisted since they no longer shared a basin for bathing—but when she rushed to investigate an unexpected noise and saw Osen’s body for the first time in half a year, it had utterly transformed into something adult. Ever since she was seven or eight, Osen had been celebrated for her fair skin—praised as a crane born from a crow—yet even so, the transformation that half a year’s absence could wrought left one astonished at her newfound allure. The swell of her curves, like those of a Chinese lantern plant, flowed from shoulder to breast in unbroken lines, their exposed undulations all the more pronounced, while the arch from back to waist—like a reclining white Satsuma bottle—possessed such smoothness that one might suspect their fingers would slip right off upon touching it. Even her mother’s eyes could not escape its arresting presence.

Even if there are a hundred disliked customers, a parent with a daughter must wish to ask whether there might be at least one she fancies.

IV

“Young Master.” “What’re you on about?” “It ain’t like that at all. At this late stage, go sticking your head into the hedge? It’s so pathetic it’d bring tears to my eyes, ain’t that right?” “Oh my, this is outrageous—it’s ’cause you pushed my waist that things turned out like that! Trying to pin it on me now, Matsu? I ain’t having none of this!”

“That’s it, Young Master.” “I weren’t behind ya at all.” “Weren’t we peekin’ side by side, Young Master?” “Whether ya tried pushin’ my waist or not, yer hand wouldn’t even reach me in the first place.” “And besides—first off, that voice o’ yours weren’t any good.”

Until they had safely watched Osen’s yukata slip from her shoulder, the moment she swiftly stripped it off and stepped out of it, an eerie sound—a shrill *kyaa!*—reached their ears. “If it were Shidōken, he’d have the whole sky cloud over in an instant—before you could so much as say ‘look here!’—and that celestial maiden’s figure would vanish straight into a washbasin…”

“Hey, Matsu.” “Haven’t you had enough?” “You were the one who made a noise first!”

“Oh no! Even if we’re master and servant, don’t go dumping all the blame on me—that ain’t right!” “What’s so terrible about that? Just when I was about to slowly savor and taste things proper-like, you had to go shoving my back—look at this! Now even my hands’re all scratched up!” “In that case, how ’bout I put some o’ this on ya… Oops! Since the old lady washed it yesterday, there ain’t a lick o’ sleeve snot left.”

“Quit joking! If your sleeve snot gets on it, my damn index finger’ll rot clean off at the root!”

“I ain’t got no pox on me yet.” “As if there’s nothing! Ain’t you heading out every other day to Sanmaibashi and Yokocho to buy prostitutes?—It’s a wonder your nose hasn’t rotted clean off!” “This is a fine how-do-you-do. After making me peek at Osen’s nakedness that nobody knew about, if you go saying it’s a wonder I still have a nose, then Matsu Gorō can’t let that stand. Enough with the jokes, Young Master. Let me tag along to a place that’ll open your eyes—for a change of fortune.”

“A place that’ll open your eyes…” “Quit playin’ dumb. Nyogo Island—where night never falls dark. Once we’re through Negishi from here, you could get there even with your eyes shut.”

“Much as I appreciate the trouble, I’ve come to hate those places starting today.”

“What do you mean?” “Tachibana-ya Tokutarō has decided to take Osen from Kagi-ya as his wife.” “Th-that’s absurd, Young Master.” “Osen ain’t some pushover—.”

“Whoa now—don’t go proclaiming it to the whole world.” “You’re versed in Sun Wu’s strategies.” “Ain’t no profit nor loss here.” “Even if you courted the most famous dutiful daughter for a hundred days—no disrespect—this’d still be a carp trying to climb a waterfall.” …” “Matsu.”

“Oh.”

“Get lost.” “Huh?” “I’ve somehow gotten a headache. I’ve gotten sick of talking with you.” “Wh-what kind of rudeness are you spouting—” “Anyway, I’m just a clumsy oaf. —I’ll even give you this tobacco pouch, so get lost already.”

Under the crescent moon, Yanaka’s night path was dark. In that darkness, walking alone with such reckless steps that he might crush the chirping crickets underfoot, Young Master Tokutarō’s mind was filled with Osen’s image.

V

"Hmph. What a load of nonsense," Matsu Gorō must have seethed. It wasn't like he'd gone begging for this job in the first place. That Young Master had clasped his hands pleadingly—said it was a personal favor—so he'd brought him along, only for the fool to panic on his own damn initiative. All because someone went charging headfirst into that hedge, they'd barely caught a glimpse of Osen's nakedness meant for leisurely viewing—not a damn bit of satisfaction in it. And now they wanted to pin everything on him? Like hell there was any ground left for him to stand on. What lord dreamed up that saying about bowing to authority anyway? Too damn convenient for their side. That Tachibana-ya heir probably swelled up like a bullfrog after hearing that empty flattery about being Yaozō's double—but not even Yaozō himself, let alone some vegetable peddler's brat, had a mug that repulsive. "What a spectacular miscalculation, you utter fool."

Though it was a soliloquy addressed to no one in particular, Matsu Gorō—the print carver who had even been flatly rejected from accompanying Tokutarō to Yoshiwara—must have seethed ceaselessly from the pit of his stomach. Eventually, from behind Tokutarō—who had gone two or three blocks ahead—he was hurling abuse.

“Hey, Matsu.”

“Huh?”

“Ha ha ha! “What’re you mutterin’ about?” “Sir Crescent Moon’s laughin’ at ya, I tell ya.”

“You—”

“It’s me.” “Harushige, I tell ya.” The man who had been stealthily following from behind slowly removed his face covering as he spoke—it was Harushige, known even among Harunobu’s disciples as an eccentric. “Oh, Mr. Harushige.” “Where’d you sneak off to all alone at this hour?” “Asking where I’ve been alone? I’m the one who should be asking you that.—You’ve been tricked by Mr. Toku of Tachibana-ya.”

“I ain’t been tricked, but how’d you know I was with the Young Master?” “Heh heh heh.” “It ain’t some Hiraga Gennai line, I tell ya—Harushige’s eyes can see clear through a ri ahead.” “Where you met Mr. Toku and went—I don’t gotta ask to know all that.” “Oh! So you know where I went?” “That’s right. Shall I take a guess?” “This ain’t no joke! No matter how sharp your eyes are, there’s no way you could’ve figured this out.” “I’ll tell you straight—I ain’t gone to buy some sixteen-mon prostitute.”

“But given that state of yours, you can’t exactly boast much, can you?” “What’s this ‘state’ you’re goin’ on about?” “Leaning against the hedge and doin’ a somersault—that’s your state.” “What’d you say?” “Tryin’ to catch a glimpse of Osen’s nakedness—that’s an admirable scheme, I’ll give you that.” “But gettin’ so carried away you ended up stickin’ your head into the hedge—ain’t that just ruinin’ your own clever scheme, I tell ya?” “Then, Harushige—you saw that scene.—” “I’m sorry to say, but I saw the whole thing.”

“Where’d you see that?” “Where else? In the garden, I tell ya.”

“In the garden.” “I ain’t some thievin’ cat prowlin’ outside the hedge like you lot.—See here?” “Followin’ Kidōmaru’s old trick—not with no stinkin’ cowhide—but wearin’ this dog pelt for my siege at the Autumn Grass fortress.” “Thanks to that, my sketchbook’s in this state.—” From his breast pocket, Harushige produced a sketchbook containing over a dozen nude studies of Osen in various poses.

Six Matsu Gorō stared at the nude depictions of Osen in Harushige’s sketchbook—appearing to float in the crescent moonlight as though seized by a fox—but soon regained his senses and fixed his gaze once more on Harushige’s face. “Harushige, you’re still as sneaky as ever.” “Why’s that?” “Wearing a dog’s pelt, getting your fill of Osen’s nakedness and even sketching it down—ain’t no trick some amateur could dream up even if they stood on their heads, I tell ya.”

“Heh heh heh. That’s a piece of cake for me, I tell ya.” “I tell ya—truth is, I’m doin’ somethin’ even better now.”

“Hmm, what sorta thing?” “Wanna hear?” “You ain’t gonna tell me?” “Can’t have it free—gotta cough up an isshu.” “An isshu’s too steep.” “What’s steep ’bout that? At times it’s a damn bargain.—But seein’ how things look today, you ain’t got ten mon in your wallet, let alone an isshu.” “Quit yappin’ ’bout stingy. With all respect—if we drag this to mornin’, my guts’ll freeze solid, I tell ya. Tonight’s when my wallet’s groanin’.”

“Now that’s grand! While we’re at it, let me have a look, I tell ya.” “Hmph, Harushige. You ain’t closin’ your eyes, right? You good?” “A ship of koban ain’t arrivin’, so you needn’t fret.”

There was no wallet. But he was likely fumbling inside his robe for coins wrapped in a six-foot length of bleached cloth. Matsu Gorō spent a moment making gestures like a mute person digging for bamboo shoots, but soon dexterously gripped five or six small coins in his clenched fist and snapped them open right before Harushige’s nose.

“How about that, Master?” “Well now, this here’s a rare one. Where’d you pick this up?” “Ain’t no joke. In this day an’ age, you won’t find folks droppin’ coins anywhere in Edo, I tell ya. I earned it fair an’ square.” “A printin’ block?” “It’s a block, sure enough—but one with different characters. Last night at Hatamoto Hikimotoda’s place—after I gambled three rounds o’ han an’ hit a lucky streak—sudden-like I wasn’t feelin’ like workin’ this mornin’, what with my windfall. Slept till ol’ Sun himself was damn near blubberin’, then moseyed out with the bats. That’s when I bumped into the Young Master in Asakusa. As for what happened after that—it’s just like you saw, that outcome.—”

“That’s like findin’ a rice cake in a dream.” “If what I pegged as ten mon turns into three ryō, then one shu’s way too damn cheap.” “Takn’ one shu from three ryō ain’t even as hurtful as pluckin’ a single hair.” “This here’s from tonight’s haul, I tell ya.” “Then quit yer yappin’—I ain’t tellin’.” “Ain’t gonna tell ya.” “You coughin’ it up or not?”

“Ain’t no help for it. Guess I’ll cough it up.”

Then Harushige darted his eyes around furtively before suddenly thrusting just his neck forward. “Lend me your ear.” “Here ya go.” “——” “Heh heh. For real?” “Harushige.—”

“Lying’s against the Buddha’s law.” When Matsu Gorō’s eyes returned to Harushige’s face, Harushige slowly drew something from his robe and flaunted it before Matsu’s nose.

Seven

At their feet, the shadow of the plume grass was faint.

“What’s this?”

“Let me get a good look at it.” Deepening his figure-eight frown as he leaned in, what flitted past Matsu Gorō’s eyes was a crimson nuka bag—the latest trend, said to contain nightingale droppings for use. “This here’s just a nuka bag, Harushige. Ain’t it?” “Hold on now.”

“I fork over one shu, and there ain’t no blunder where you show me a damn nuka bag.” “What’d you just say?” “Cut from Osen’s snow-white skin—I’ll let you behold a treasure unmatched under heaven.—” “Shh! Top secret.” “But it’s just a nuka bag…” “It’s not a bag.” “Don’t show anyone the contents of this—it’s mine.” “If you’ve got complaints, save ’em till after you’ve paid your respects.—This here’s the real deal.” “What’s it like to touch?” Harushige ostentatiously thrust the nuka bag toward Matsu Gorō’s outstretched fingertips, but after a moment, he took it back and pressed it against his own forehead.

“I ain’t openin’ it to show ya.” “If *you* wanna pay your respects, *I’ll* let ya. But don’t expect me to share even a single piece—keep that in mind.”

While saying this, Harushige deftly moved his fingertips, untied the nuka bag’s opening, and with an air of reverence, poured about three pieces into Matsu Gorō’s palm as though handling gold dust. “This here’s Harushige.—” “Nails.” “Tch.” “Whoa, that’s dangerous!” “You think I’d let ’em get thrown away?” “Collecting this much took me a full year.”

Harushige, who had covered Matsu Gorō’s palm with his own, hastily flipped over the entirety of the other’s hand and pulled it close before his eyes with a relieved look. “These ain’t nails I just picked up at some bathhouse.” “Fleas and mosquitoes were nothin’—even on snow nights that froze me to the bone, I’d hunker down under the eaves and endure it all to gather these treasures of mine.—But in this light, you can’t even see ’em proper, can ya? Not that you’re lookin’ close enough.” “Even a daimyo’s princess’s nails ain’t got this much luster, I tell ya.”

Harushige pinched a nail—cut into a crescent shape, so small you’d want to cradle it in your eye—between his thumb and middle finger. His face, illuminated by the faint moonlight as he held it up, radiated unmistakable pride, nodding to himself so fervently he seemed to forget Matsu Gorō’s presence beside him. Only when a mosquito bit his shin did he finally snap back to himself. Suddenly slapping his shin with an open hand, he laughed with a ticklish chuckle.

“Harushige, you’re a complete oddball.” “Why’s that?” “Never woulda thought.” “If this were shavings from a golden rod or somethin’, there’d be some worth in gatherin’ it, but it’s just a woman’s nails.” “Even if you gathered a thousand pieces, the best they’d do is make some medicine for boils—that’s your limit, ain’t it?” “Even Master said Harushige’s an oddball, but I never imagined it’d be to this extent.” “Hey, hey, Matsu. Be clear about it.” “I ain’t the odd one here.” “It’s the people of the world who’re twisted.” “As proof of that—” “Even if you’ve got customers swearin’ vows to flock to Osen’s teahouse in droves, there ain’t a single man who’s ever laid eyes on Osen herself trimmin’ her nails—not even once. These nails here were born from that.”

If one were to count them one by one, the number of nails would likely be close to a hundred. Harushige gripped the nuka bag once more and laughed with an eerie grin.

Morning.

I. Sizzle, sizzle, sssizzle. The paper lantern had been left lit, but outside had likely begun to dawn. The insect sounds that had been incessantly chirping around the gutter until now grew intermittent and faint—no doubt instinctively cowering from the sunlight streaming through the storm shutters. Yet Harushige remained oblivious to it all—the thinning of insect sounds, the outside growing pale with dawn, the footsteps of people treading the alley’s gutter planks beginning to be heard. Alone and steadfast before a terakoya desk placed on a torn tatami mat, he continued to inhale with rapt intensity the steam boiling from the medicine pot atop the brazier at hand—clinging to his cheek like a severed cricket’s leg.

The very center of a seven-unit row house—a spot deemed unlucky and shunned by others—was where he had settled. As for household goods, there were an earthen stove, a portable charcoal stove, chopsticks, a bowl, and a single pot. The sole item resembling proper furniture was a tray with chipped edges and cat-shaped legs, gifted by his master Harunobu—the best he could muster. It was on the twenty-fifth night at eight o’clock—when the year’s end loomed close and mochi-pulling processions paraded through streets with cloths tied around their heads—that he had moved into this place, a male widower with a grime-caked body, barely clothed in threadbare garments, as if welcoming the prospect of maggots swarming over him for amusement.

Roughly two years. Though Harushige lived without distinction between yesterday and today, his pride lay in having known nearly a thousand women by the youthful age of twenty-seven—a feat that left him unimpressed by mundane matters. His dexterous hand, capable of painting bijin-ga exactly as Master taught, ironically became an impediment; in his heart, he deemed it pointless to depict women merely dressed in kimonos. Aside from depictions of natural scenery, his sketchbook was in such a peculiar state—filled entirely with nude figures.

Though the two rooms—a two-mat and a six-mat—might seem cramped, the lack of furnishings made them spacious for a single-person dwelling. The number of pictures plastered across every wall was staggering—over thirty at a glance. Moreover, those that could be called men were not even half; rather than women, nearly all were devoted to Osen in her myriad poses. Under the paper lantern in that six-mat room, Harushige—while intermittently glaring at the nearly ten scattered paper fragments likely tossed from the desk, each depicting nothing but the area from the base of the hips downward—inhaled the steam from the medicine pot so deeply his nostrils flared wide. Suddenly, he stirred the lantern’s wick and grinned with an eerie leer.

“Heh heh heh.” Ain’t a bad smell. People out there are fools—they think a woman’s scent can’t be smelled unless it’s straight from her skin. Pitiful, ain’t it? If only I could make ’em smell it just once—this sweet stench seething and roiling from these nails in the medicine pot. The scent of rouge and white powder can’t even compare—this is what it must feel like for your soul to take a trip to paradise. And these ain’t just ordinary nails. Kasamori Osen’s nails, polished like pearls. That poor bastard Matsu Gorō—right about now, he’s probably getting all his hard-won gambling money snatched away without a fight in Yoshiwara, where he stormed off in a huff. But pitiful as he is, this feeling of mine—drawing Osen’s legs while breathing in this scent—ain’t something you’d understand even if you stood atop a castle’s golden shachi. Heh heh heh. Let me add another pinch of these fresh ones and inhale to my heart’s content.

Harushige took up the red nuka bag placed beside him with exaggerated care, slowly untied its mouth string, and spilled about ten nails onto his palm—then, one by one, meticulously pinched them into the roiling water of the medicine pot. “Heh heh heh. This here’s a fine smell.” This here’s an unbearable stench. I’d sure like to make Noroma and his lot—those fools drooling over Osen at Kasamori Teahouse—drink just half a cup of this brew.

A thieving cat that had been stalking a Pacific saury must have slipped from the eaves into the alley by mistake. Though a crash like collapsing storm shutters echoed beneath the window, Harushige’s gaunt face—still plunged into the medicine pot—only jerked its eyebrows wide as Awa puppet strings before stiffening motionless again, never turning toward the noise.

II.

“Otaki.” “Huh?” “Looks like the guy next door’s started up with his usual madness again. That stench of his—ain’t no way to bear it.” “Really, what an ill-fated man he is. They say he’s handsome enough for ten men and paints like an angel, but the things he does? Ain’t normal by half.” “You. Why don’t you go have a word next door?” “What for?” “Nighttime’s one thing—we’re asleep then—but once the sun’s up, he’s gotta keep that stench to himself. Even when he goes to work, that mystery stink soaks right through his work coat. Embarrassing as hell—can’t have it.”

“A woman won’t do. You go and talk to him about it.” “So, you see—I know I shouldn’t go, but like I said, once I head out to the shopfront, it’s downright shameful and there’s no way around it. I ain’t steppin’ into that stench, I’m tellin’ you.”

“I don’t like it either.” “It reeks just like a crematory.” “Just yesterday, the hairdresser Oshige-san said so too, didn’t she?” “Going to Oue-san’s to get my hair done would be fine, but when I catch that stench seeping through the neighbor’s wall, it feels so funerary I can’t stand it—so I’d rather have her come here instead. Honestly, what do you think that burning smell is?” “Don’tcha get it?” “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“He’s got folks thinkin’ he’s a painter, but that’s a damn lie.” “Oh, so he’s not a painter?” “That’s right.” “He’s a straw sandal repairman.” “Straw sandal repairman.—” “That’s exactly right.” “Number one—ain’t no business out there that’d make a stench like that.” “He boils straw sandal leather in a pot.” “He softens it so the needle goes through easier.”

“Is that so?”

“There ain’t no gray area here. Because of that, when he’s busy, he leaves the damn pot boiling all night—so we’re the ones left lookin’ like fools. Go on—press your nose against this wall here and take a whiff. It’s just like steppin’ on a half-burned straw sandal at a burned-out fire site—ain’t a damn bit different!” “Just being here already puts me in an unpleasant mood—I absolutely refuse to go near that place.—Hey, you. For pity’s sake, go and talk to him about it.”

“Ain’t you gonna go?” “But I told you a woman can’t handle it!” “If a man goes, things ain’t gonna stay peaceful—that’s why I’m tellin’ you to go.” “But things like this—in any household, isn’t it all the husband’s duty?”

“I ain’t goin’.” “What a spineless man you are!” “It stinks, so I ain’t goin’.” “Compared to you, I’m a woman. You can’t imagine how much more I hate it.” “Since ancient times, settling public disputes has always been men’s duty.”

“Hmph.” “There ain't no such thing in the past or now.” “Neighborhood stuff's gotta be handled by the wife—that's how it's decided.” “Go and give him a good thrashing—that's what I'm sayin'.”

The plasterer couple next door, over their breakfast trays, might as well have been hurling their loud provocations into a void—to Harushige’s ears, they carried no more weight than the wingbeats of an autumn fly. Under the paper lantern, the face hunched over the medicine jar grew increasingly flushed.

Three

“Haru-san. “Hey, Haru-san—you not home?” “Well—the Sun God himself’s peering at your belly button wrinkles! Leaving a lamp burning in broad daylight—that’s downright cruel!” “—You asleep?” “If you’re awake, open up already!” He must have had a drink somewhere—his tongue was slurred from drunkenness. The voice was indeed that of the print carver Matsu Gorō. “Heh heh heh.” “Finally showed up, huh?”

Hunching his shoulders, Harushige muttered this under his breath—yet without lifting his face from beside the medicine jar where he boiled nails, he stole a glance toward the storm shutters. The sun seemed to have risen high, and through a gap in the storm shutters—noticed only now—gentle sunlight streamed in like a blowdart, flowing down to the base of the wall where fine cracks had emerged.

“Harushige-san. “Haru-san.—” But even so, Harushige did not respond; instead, he raised his cobra-like neck and stealthily crawled toward the edge of the raised floor.

“That’s strange.” “There’s no way you’re not here…” “Leaving a lamp burning while you sleep—either way, that’s careless.” “It’s me!” “It’s Lord Matsu Gorō’s grand entrance!”

“Hey, Master.”

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

“Hey there... Master.” “Is this house empty?” “I can’t tell at all whether he’s asleep or not even home.” “’Course he’s here.” “But Master, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad—so quit openin’ the door so damn much!” “If you open that door, the stench of raw leather’s gonna stink up the whole neighborhood, I tell ya.” “What’s this ‘smell of raw leather,’ Master?” “Oh, Master—you can’t smell this stench?” “This unbearable, awful stench…”

“It’s not that I don’t get it, but this here—you’re boilin’ glue, ain’tcha?” “Don’t talk nonsense. “This ain’t no mild stink!” “He’s got a pot on the brazier boilin’ geta leather, I tell ya.” “That whole ‘artist’ act he’s puttin’ on at his place—it’s all one big lie…” With a clatter, the storm shutters flew open, revealing Harushige’s pinched face. “Mornin’.” “Ain’t no ‘mornin’’ here.” “Why’d I go an’ come here so damn early?”

“There’s no way it’s early.” “The Sun God’s already finished his morning bath and risen so damn high, ain’t he?” “Damn it, Haru-san!” “You—were you sleepin’ or awake? Why the hell didn’t you answer?” “Ain’t got time for answers.—Just get in here already.” Harushige’s sullen face had stiffened like tung oil. “You want me to just say ‘Oh?’” “If you’re leavin’, then get out already!”

“You’re being awfully threatening.” “Can’t deal with some dumped morning straggler droppin’ by.” “Heh heh. If I’d been dumped, I wouldn’t come here.” “As proof of that, I’ve brought a fine souvenir.” “I don’t need no damn souvenirs. Once you’ve shut that, put the bar lock back properly like it was.”

“Haru-san, you still plannin’ to sleep?” “Just do what I told ya already.” Matsu Gorō reluctantly fastened the bar lock on the storm shutters, and the interior of the nine-by-two ken house transformed back into its former world of night. “Can’t see a damn thing.”

But Matsu Gorō, assaulted by the increasingly pungent and peculiar odor, found himself rooted to the spot.

Four Although the paper lantern glowed faintly, to Matsu Gorō—who had just come in from the sunlit outside—the house's interior remained pitch black. "Matsu-san, why ain't ya comin' up?" "It's too dark—can't see where I'm puttin' my feet." "What useless peepers you got." "That way, you'll never have any fun." "Haru-san, you been awake all this time—whatcha been doin'?" "Heh heh heh. Get up here and you'll see quick enough." "C'mon over by this paper lantern and take a gander."

His eyes must have finally adjusted. As the paper lantern's ring gradually deepened in color, the state of the narrow surroundings naturally emerged clearly before Matsu Gorō. “Weren’t you drawin’ pictures?”

“I ain’t drawin’ no pictures.” “Can’t ya smell this stench?” “It’s glue, huh?” “Heh heh. Glue ain’t got no heart.”

“So you’re boilin’ cowhide after all, huh?” “Don’t talk nonsense.” “Why the hell would I need cowhide?” “But press your nose right up to this kettle and take a good sniff, why don’tcha?”

“I can’t stand this damn smell.” “What the hell? This scent ain’t no fake.” “Heh heh heh.” “There ain’t another stink like this in the whole damn world—not your precious aloeswood or orchid musk comes close! This here’s divine perfume, wasted on your numb nose!—Standin’ way over there, you’ll never catch the true reek. Get your carcass closer to this kettle, spread them nostrils wide, and take a real whiff!” “Damn it all—what’re you boiling?”

“I’m boilin’ somethin’ you won’t find another of in all Japan—hell, not even in Edo.” “Don’t go scarin’ me. There’s no way such a thing exists, I tell ya.” “What do you mean there’s nothing like that? There, see? You remember this bag, don’t ya?” The red bran bag pressed to his nose tip quivered in Harushige’s hand like a tiny pearl. “Ah—” “That’s…!” “How about that? Osen’s nails. If you can’t stand this scent, what’s the point of being born a man?”

“Haru-san.” “You’re one hell of an eccentric.” Matsu Gorō once more gazed intently at Harushige’s face. “Ain’t no eccentric.” “You’re the one who’s strange.—Even some stiff-necked samurai—once they're born men—there ain't a single soul who hates women.” “Every last man alive—this here's what they're really smellin' when they go crazy for some dame!” “Skin-scent sure exists.” “Hair-scent too.” “And tits-scent—no doubt ’bout that.” “But this stink here? It's all them womanly smells rolled into one holy package! Doesn't matter if Miura-ya's Takao looks like heaven or Yōjimise's Oto gets rave reviews—in the end ain't it this stench that makes men come beggin', not their pretty faces? Listen up good now.” “It's scent.” “This here's scent you can't resist.”

“This ain’t no joke.” “I ain’t gonna go outta my way to smell such a stench, no matter what kinda fool’s errand this is...”

“That’s it—looks like you still ain’t got a clue.” “This here.” “This stink’s got no lies or secrets—it’s a woman’s true scent, I tell ya!”

“You're outta your mind.—” “Oh yeah? If that's what you think，I'll show you somethin' right now．Don't go gettin' all shocked now．”

Harushige thrust his head into the pitch-dark cupboard as he said this.

五

The crackling sound of the lamp wick burning down shattered the brief stillness, suddenly brightening the surroundings. But that too was fleeting—soon enough, the oil must have run out. The paper lantern instantly went out, and the surroundings were plunged into true darkness. “Don’t go messin’ around.” “It’s pitch black—can’t see a damn thing.”

Standing on tiptoe to search the depths of the three-foot cupboard, Harushige spoke in a heavy voice from the darkness and once more made a scuttling noise like a mouse. “It ain’t no prank.” “The oil’s run out.” “The oil’s run out? So then—the oil pot and wick’re next to the paper lantern. Light it already, ain’tcha?” “Where?” “It’s to the right of the lantern.”

“It’s to the right of the paper lantern.” Even being told this verbally, in an unfamiliar darkness where groping around was no easy task, Matsu Gorō crawled uneasily across the torn tatami mats. “Hurry it up already!” “I’ll light it now.” Guided by the faint sunlight filtering through the storm shutters’ gaps, Matsu Gorō carried the oil pot he’d located by touch to the side of the oil dish. Adjusting the cold brass spout with his middle finger, he peered through the thickly dripping oil—*plop… plop*—and once satisfied it flowed properly, he took the wick he’d groped for with his toes and, with great effort, lit the paper lantern.

Suddenly, as if turmeric pigment had been spilled onto a lacquer tray, the surroundings grew bright. At the same time, Harushige’s unnervingly grinning face was turned toward this direction, fixed in place.

“Matsu. You really think a woman’s scent is musk?” “Well yeah. How the hell could this stench reekin’ of raw hide be a woman’s scent?”

“Is that so?” “Then I’ll show you this so you see plain as day.” If braided, it would’ve been thick as a gobō-shime cord. The jet-black bundle flung carelessly from Harushige’s hand writhed like a snake beneath Matsu Gorō’s knees, then thudded onto the tatami—coiling tight before lying still. “Ah!” “Ain’t nothin’ creepy about it.” “Take it proper in your hand—give it a real sniff.” Matsu Gorō stared wide-eyed under the paper lantern’s glow.

“This here’s hair, Harushige, ain’t it?” “That’s right.” “You… with something like this.” “Heh heh heh… Does it creep you out? You’ve got no heart—since you said you hate the smell of nails, I was gonna let you sniff that, but this here ain’t some fake hairpiece. It ain’t somethin’ you can just gather willy-nilly. Tens of thousands of strands if you count them. Moreover, each and every strand is different—young women’s hair. ―Try pressing your face into it without a word. The voices of different women will come to you one after another. It’s paradise in this very world. From the daughters of great lords above to beggars under bridges below—every single strand of hair from women aged fifteen to thirty is in here. ―How’s that, Matsu? When it comes to this path I’ve taken, I’ve got a pride that wouldn’t be outdone even if you went to Ezo or Nagasaki—hell, not even Edo could match it. Look—every last strand of this hair’s alive, see?……”

Harushige, having taken the bundle of black hair from Matsu Gorō’s knees, immediately pressed it against his face and, trembling with mounting rapture, began to laugh in an unnatural voice. “Harushige. I’m gettin’ outta here.” “If you’re leavin’, at least come smell the scent first.”

But Matsu Gorō could no longer keep his seat.

Six “That was so creepy.” “All because I thought I’d let him hear about last night’s romantic boasts and dropped by—ended up in this hell of a situation.” “Knew he was an oddball, but never figured he’d be that far gone.” “Get caught by a bastard like that and you’re done for.” Like a roasted bean spat from a pan, Matsu Gorō—who’d flung himself through the storm shutters—found his drunkenness gone clean away, left squinting blind into the dark ahead. Still he ran across the gutter planks till reaching the tobacco shop’s corner, where he finally pressed a hand to his chest and breathed again.

“But really, why the hell did he like such idiotic things?” He seemed to feel good doing mad things like boiling nails or burying his face in hair, but if it was all because of insects, that was going way too far with the obsession. I just couldn’t figure out his reasoning.

Muttering to himself and tilting his head slightly as he walked, Matsu Gorō was suddenly tapped on the shoulder and startled.

“What’s wrong, Bro?” “Oh, this is Matsusumichō.” “This ain’t Matsusumichō. It’s not like we’re rehearsin’ some amateur play first thing in the mornin’. A young buck like you mutterin’ to himself—plain pathetic, ain’t it?”

The man with a hand towel folded into four atop his shaven head, shielding himself from the morning sun while hiking up his kimono skirt high around his hips, was none other than Hachigorō—another of Harunobu’s printers. “Might look damn shameful, but I never figured he’d be that far gone.” “What’s wrong?” “Harushige’s the one.” “What’s wrong with Harushige?” “There’s no two ways about it—that guy’s just Japan’s number one oddball.” “Harushige being an oddball—ain’t that what the Master’s always saying? At this point, you ain’t the type to get shocked over some oddball, are ya?”

“Nuh-uh, that ain’t it. If he were just some oddball, even I wouldn’t be this shocked—but seeing him stay up all night boiling nails or sucking each strand of bundled women’s hair… No matter how much guts I’ve got…”

“Boilin’ nails—what the hell’s that supposed to be?” “He puts ’em in a kettle and boils women’s nails.” “Boilin’ women’s nails.—”

“That’s right.” “Moreover, this here ain’t just any woman’s nails.” “They’re the nails of Kasamori Osen—said to be second to none in all of Edo at the time.”

“This ain’t no joke. How could Osen’s nails yield enough to boil? You’re way too damn gullible. Getting tricked by Harushige into some creepy shit, then comin’ back clutchin’ your head—you’re a laughin’ stock! He was probably just boilin’ glue for paintin’. You’ve got it all wrong—” “Th-that’s not… He’s takin’ out Osen’s nails—no mistake—from a red-lacquered bran bag and boilin’ ’em in a kettle! If he were just boilin’, that’d be one thing—but he’s coverin’ his face over the kettle, sniffin’ the steam with this crazed look! You think you could watch that feelin’ fine? Huh? Think real hard first!”

“What’re you gonna do sniffin’ that?” “He claims that reek—the one that’s so damn foul—is the real scent of a woman.” “If you think I’m lyin’, see for yourself—go check Harushige’s place.” “He’s sealed everything up tight—right now’s the height of his madness!”

But Hachigorō shook his head.

“That’s no good. I’m on Master’s errand and gotta go to Osen’s place.”

Seven

On Harushige’s flushed cheek—his eyelids sagging like kabuki makeup—a single fly perched solitarily, while the early autumn sun peeked out from the alley’s roof tiles with a ticklish face.

“Oh no. Harushige’s coming, I tell ya!”

While standing at the tobacco shop’s corner gossiping about the nail-boiling rumor, Matsu Gorō hurriedly signaled to Hachigorō with his eyes and withdrew into the shadow of the curtain. “Ain’t no need to hide.”

“Nuh-uh.” “’Cause I just ran away from there.” “We’d get caught for sure.” “If that’s how it is, you’d better stay back there.” “While I’m at it, I’ll throw in a little hook for you.—” Like a frog, Matsu Gorō stuck his face out from behind the curtain, darting his eyes around—yet he still trembled with fear. “You sure ’bout this?” “Quiet!” “Here he comes.”

In an utterly carefree manner—as if staging a chance encounter—Hachigorō stepped in front of Harushige. “Haru-san, you’re up mighty early.” As if startled, Harushige stopped on tiptoe. “Hacchan?” “Ain’t no Hacchan here—lookin’ all refreshed like you’ve had a grand time. Where you off to?”

“Off to Yanagiyu.” “A morning bath? Ain’t you fancy.”

“It’s not like I’m bein’ fancy or nothin’, but I’ve been workin’ all night without sleep, so if I don’t get into a bath or somethin’, I ain’t gonna feel right.”

“Hmph. Workin’ all night, are we? Color me impressed.” “If you’re makin’ that much cash, how come your coin’s pilin’ up with nowhere to go?” “That’s why I’m tellin’ ya.” “That’s why I’m takin’ it to Yanagiyu to toss out with the bath grime.” “Well now, ’scuse me—if you’ve got coin to waste like that, how ’bout sparin’ some our way.” “As for the likes of me and Matsu Gorō—maybe ’cause we’ve caught the poverty god’s eye—we’re always spinnin’ like pinwheels.” “Compared to that, a guy like you’s putting Osen’s nails into a bran bag.” ……”

“What’re you sayin’, Hacchan? You must be dreamin’ or somethin’.” “Nails ’n bran bags ’n all that—I ain’t got a lick o’ clue what you’re yappin’ ’bout.”

“Oh c’mon—quit hidin’ it! I know every last scrap of it!” “You know.—” “What’re you playin’ dumb for? Haru-san—your all-night grind ain’t about stackin’ coin. It’s about hoardin’ those filthy urges, ain’t it?” “Th-that’s not...” “Callin’ me a liar? The proof’s laid out clean! That stink of boilin’ Osen’s nails—must reek real sweet, eh?”

“And who’d you hear that from?” “I don’t need to hear it from anyone—my eyes see right through you. They say humans are vessels for every ailment under the sun, but Haru-san, yours might be a custom-made disease.”

Harushige darted his eyes around the area, then lowered his voice a notch. “Why don’t you drop by my place for a bit? I’ll show you somethin’ interesting.” “I appreciate the offer, but I ain’t got time to drop by. I gotta hurry over to Osen’s teahouse right now.” “Say you’re goin’ to Osen’s teahouse—what business you got there?” “I don’t know what the business is, but Master Harunobu suddenly has urgent business.” Hachigorō briefly flashed a glimpse of the written message he’d received from Harunobu, pulling it partway from his pocket.

Crimson

One

Whose skin shall touch the crimson flower of futures yet to come?　　　　　Baseo

“Whoa there! You can’t go rushing off alone like that.” “First, cleanse your hands at the purification basin.” “If you don’t pay respects to Lord Inari first, divine punishment’ll strike—you’ll go blind for sure!” “Indeed, this was too hasty.” “Wait—this is Lord Kasamori’s shrine grounds, isn’t it?”

“This ain’t no joking matter.” “If you forget that, there’ll be hell to pay.—There you go—why ain’t you wipin’ your washed hands?” “Osen ain’t runnin’ away, so settle down, settle down.” “Old Master, you mustn’t tease me like this. Have mercy, have mercy.” “Have mercy, have mercy.” “Ha ha ha! Tokusan! Your feet ain’t even touchin’ the ground!”

The chirping of crickets faded faintly into dawn and dusk, and amidst the pampas grass swaying in the wind, three, four, five young sparrows flitted about—all the more poignant in autumn. Yet there along Yanaka’s grassy path, neither withered fields nor fallen leaves cast their shadows, while hibiscus flowers that bloomed regardless of season stood vivid in their hues, mirroring the snows of Mount Fuji gleaming clear across the western sky. The Kasamori Kannon-ji Temple of famed flowers. However bitter the tea might taste, when Osen—with her charming dimpled smile—offered a serving from hands as pale as whitefish, speckled like scattered cherry blossom shells, its erotic allure sent a shiver through their very bones, and the tea fee for their return trip would surely double. In the sleepless nights only women endure, throughout every corner of Great Edo, when it came to the ballads children sang, lately it was always “Osen’s Teahouse.”

As night paled into dawn—when the love-struck crows of Ueno’s forest still hovered between sleep and waking—the town before Kannon-ji Temple’s middle gate already buzzed with the clatter of wooden-soled geta sandals: men versed in love’s ways, cloaking their visits under pilgrimage’s name. Of the eleven teahouses lining the street, no matter which one these patrons rested at, the true golden prize remained Osen of Kagi-ya alone. Even among the many patrons, it was hardly rare to find some reckless soul—rejected in Yoshiwara the night before—who’d hidden a Shurado pipe against his back for the return trip, absurdly intending this as an act of kindness for “dear Osen,” becoming quite the laughable spectacle.

“Good morning.” “Ah, my throat is parched.” It stood before the red torii gate. The young master of Tachibana-ya—Tokutarō—who had washed his hands at the Izu stone purification basin yet forgotten to dry them, made his visit to Lord Inari secondary and rushed into Osen’s teahouse as his retired companion had said, feet scarcely grazing the ground. To the bench where he had dropped heavily, the figure that approached with a slight bow was not the anticipated Osen but her maid, Okinu.

“Welcome.” “Welcome so early for your pilgrimage.” “——” “I’ll have some tea.” “Right away.” It was likely out of consideration for the three or four customers who had arrived earlier. Once Okinu had gone to fetch the tea, Tokutarō held his breath with a start and lowered his voice.

“This is strange. She’s not here.” “That can’t possibly be. There ain’t no teahouse without its signboard.” “But Old Master. There’s neither shadow nor form of Osen to be seen!” “Just wait without fussin’. She’ll come out from the back soon—that’s the plan, right?” “Has she gone to take her morning meal?”

“Right.” “Or maybe she’s takin’ her time with her makeup, knowin’ you’d come?” “Teasin’ like that’s downright cruel, Miss.—Oops.” “What’s happened to Osen-chan?” “She’s just stepped out for a quick visit.” “——” “Where to?” “It’s to Lord Inari.”

“Hmm, no doubt about it.” “So this here’s Lord Inari’s shrine grounds after all, isn’t it?” Tokutarō let out a soft chuckle to himself, as though finally relieved.

Two

At the very moment when Tachibana-ya Tokutarō was soothing his relieved heart at Osen’s teahouse, Osen herself was urgently hastening her palanquin toward Suzuki Harunobu’s residence in Kanda Shirakabe-chō. “Partner.” “Oh!” “You ain’t got no vigor in ya!” “Righto!” “This ain’t some common mortar we’re hauling around here. ’Cause we’re carryin’ Edo’s number one Osen-chan!” “Damn right.” “At this point, we ain’t just some fare-paying customers. This is our big show!”

“That’s right.” “I once carried a courtesan called Hanzo Matsuba no Shōoi all the way to Kōme’s brothel—hell, even when I had that single-star tayū in her prime from Iriyamagata ridin’ with me, I never felt this good.” “Damn right.” “We oughta raise them curtains and show ’em off to every last pal out there!” “Ain’t just you.” “Same here.” “Miss,” a voice called from behind.

“Aye.” “How ’bout it?” “Would ya kindly let us raise the palanquin’s curtains?” “Please bear with me.” “It’s my private business.”

“It’s such a waste—us carryin’ you all this way with the curtains down. Can’t stand it,” he said. “Pardon me for sayin’ so, but we palanquin bearers Take and Senzō wanna show everyone that we’re carryin’ Edo’s number one Osen-chan here.……” “Please don’t speak of such things anymore,” she replied. “But you’re Osen-chan, the famous girl,” he persisted. “If raisin’ both curtains ain’t good, how ’bout just one side?” “That’s right… Miss,” another joined in. “This ain’t just some show for us lowly types. Whether it’s promotin’ you through Master Harunobu’s prints or lettin’ folks peek from the palanquin—either way, it’s all the same good deed for the world, ain’t it? Let’s just bite the bullet and do it!”

“Please bear with me.…” “You’re such a selfless one, I tell ya.” “Just try raisin’ the curtains, I tell ya.” “Look there—that’s Osen from the teahouse!” “Word that it was Osen of Kasamori spread from mouth to ear without anyone even saying it, and by the time we reached Shirakabe-chō, a crowd had formed around the front of this palanquin.” “Oy, Take.” “That’s exactly what Senzō said—no doubt about it! If folks’ve seen the living Osen-chan right here in Edo’s streets, her fame’ll soar even higher. If raisin’ one side ain’t doable, then even half—just think how thrilled passersby’d be! You can’t even imagine…”

“Palanquin men.” “Yeah?” “I’m getting out right here.” “Whaddya mean by that?” “If you’re going to make unreasonable demands, then let me out right here.” “Th-that’s outrageous! If we were to let you out here of all places, why, we’d never be able to work our trade in Edo again! —If you hate it that much, we won’t raise the curtains, so quit thrashin’ about and sit nice and quiet for us.” “But the more I think about it—keepin’ you cooped up like this? What a damn waste.”

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

III

The act of viewing the pond spanning one ri around the base of Mount Tōeizan’s Kanei-ji Temple had been one of Edoites’ enduring prides since the shogunate’s founding. Yet it was the early autumn scene—lotus blossoms floating on the water’s surface as they awaited wild geese’s arrival, paired with Edo Kabuki’s vigorous aragoto performances—that the men and women of all ages across Edo’s eight hundred and eight neighborhoods cherished most dearly. Osen sat with both hands resting properly on her knees, her freshly washed hair arranged in a Shimada chignon that exuded crisp elegance. Clad in a thin yellow-checkered garment—recently fashionable—and fastened with a scarlet crepe sash bearing chrysanthemum-diamond patterns, she let the crimson silk cord of her amulet bag trail from neck to chest. From within the palanquin, she shifted her gaze to the pond’s surface.

Dawn broke, but it was still some time before five o’clock. Upon lotus leaves thought large enough to embrace someone, dewdrops swayed in the morning breeze; while watching with sidelong glances the ripples creeping up to their bases, their pure forms—unlike the crimson of blooming flowers that beckoned miscanthus—reflected in the water’s mirror with lush grace. She must have found last night’s dream impossible to forget. The green frog that had peeked out briefly from behind the leaves kept avoiding the dazzling sunlight on its triangular head poised to drop.

“Palanquin men.” Suddenly, Osen called out. “Yeah?” “Please raise just this side’s curtain.” “Whaddya mean by that?” “I’d like to see the flowers.” “Got’cha.” The voices of the front and rear carriers were perfectly in unison. As soon as the palanquin was lowered to the ground, the right-hand curtain facing the pond was swiftly flung up. “My, how beautiful!” “That’s what we’ve been tellin’ ya all along, ain’t we? A view this good ain’t somethin’ you can see every mornin’—take a good look, why don’t ya? Once your figure came into view, all those closed-up buds burst into bloom at once, just like that!”

“Not at all.” “Even that frog fellow perched on the leaf went and opened his eyes so wide.” “Alright, enough already. Just do it.” “Well then, let’s take it nice and slow.—If Osen-chan would raise them curtains for us all, you can’t even imagine how much prouder we’d be.” “Oy, Take.” “That’s right, that’s right.” “Now that it’s come to this, even if someone asks us to hurry, my legs just won’t listen.” “It’s my and Senzō’s perks as carriers, ain’t it?”

“Hohoho, in that case, I’ll have you lower the curtains.” “That ain’t happenin’. The customer ridin’ in the palanquin and us carriers—the destination’s still theirs, but once we’re carryin’ it, it’s our way now, ain’t it?—Hey Take, make sure to twist those hips good when ya walk so every soul on the street notices.” “Whoa there, no need for your frettin’. If the bigwigs’d give their okay, I’d wanna plant a sign at the post station sayin’ ‘Kasa Mori Osen’s Official Palanquin’ or some such.”

Needless to say, it had nothing to do with the amount of tips or gratuities.

The joy of carrying Kasa Mori Osen—who seemed to bear the popularity of Edo women singlehandedly at the time—must have been a mark of honor among palanquin carriers. Both Take and Senzō swelled with pride, their bellies fuller than if they’d been transporting gold ingots. “Look here!” “Don’t go over there—it’s Osen!”

“It’s Osen!”

“Exactly! No chance it’s someone else. Those dimples don’t lie—proof plain as day!” “No mistake here!” “Gotta circle ’round t’other side for a proper look!”

A carpenter was likely hurrying to the accounts office. From the pride of being the first to spot her, the two of them rushed together toward the other side of the palanquin.

IV “Suzuki Harunobu’s Elegant Picture Calendar Studio”

A signboard with raised wood grain—its faint traces of brushwork inscribed as though flowing ink had trailed across it—stood beside a stream some three feet wide. A snapped bamboo branch stretched from a rotting roof to a brushwood fence, while untamed grapevines cast their sprawling forms upon the water’s surface: a scene of such refined elegance that passersby in Shirakabe-cho whispered in disbelief—how could this rustic dwelling exist just ten blocks north of Nihonbashi, in Edo’s very heart, where even the castle pines might have trailed their shadows here? In summer, one might have glimpsed a supple hand luring stray fireflies with a fan—as if awaiting their sudden darting flight—but now, with autumn’s murmur already rustling beyond the hedge, all that remained outside were clusters of tiny grapes bathed in morning light, their shadows no larger than adzuki beans adrift upon the stream below.

Though not grand enough to be called a pond, a natural water hollow a little over three square meters in size held about ten scarlet carp. Over their backs, a cluster of bush clover—its flowers half-scattered—stretched from the tip of a vigorously spreading branch and let fall a single droplet that rippled outward. Gazing fixedly at the water’s surface while using a small branch’s tip to gather the modest rings of ripples gradually expanding outward was Harunobu—a man of petite build just under five feet tall who looked a full decade younger than his forty-five years.

Having likely just discarded the toothpick he’d been holding in his mouth and washed his face—the hand towel still clutched in his right hand remained soaked through. “Fujikichi.” Harunobu took his eyes off the carp’s backs and, as if suddenly remembering something, called out to his young apprentice Fujikichi, who was sweeping the omoto plant’s leaves by the veranda. “Hmm.” “It seems Hachi hasn’t returned yet.” “Hmm.” “Is Osen still not here either?” “Hmm.” “Is Master Sakaiya not here either?”

“Hmm.”

“You there—go take a quick look out at the brushwood gate.” “Very well.” Fujikichi released the cleaning brush from the omoto leaves and circled around the base of the bush clover before hurrying out to the front. At this hour Osen couldn’t possibly be absent—so perhaps that rascal Hachigorō had run into someone along the way and was dawdling about. Whether it was Sakaiya or whoever else—if only they’d hurry up and come—

Harunobu carefully wrung out the soaked hand towel once more and muttered this under his breath as he slowly made his way toward the veranda. Just then, Hachigorō the printer came rushing in while wiping sweat from his brow. “Got ’er done.” “Fine work, fine work. Was Osen there?”

“Hmm.” “She was there.” “I tell ya, Master—it’s amazin’ how many damn fools there are in this world.” “When I got there—and mind you, it was just past six—you wouldn’t believe it! There was already a whole crowd bunched up in front of Kagi-ya, I tell ya.” “And not a single woman among ’em!” “Every last one of ’em’s struttin’ around with faces that practically scream, ‘I’m Edo’s finest ladies’ man!’ Buncha damn fools, I tell ya.” “Osen-chan don’t realize that even if a thousand men were head over heels for her, it’d be like carp tryin’ to scale waterfalls—how maddenin’!”

“Hatchan.” “How did Osen respond?” “Did she say she’d come right away or not?” “Yessir.” “Right about now—you can hear voices ’round here already.” Hachigorō tilted his head proudly and pointed toward the brushwood gate.

V

Fujikichi, who had been standing stockily outside the brushwood gate with a face like a demon mask, had just goggled his acorn-shaped eyes at the disarray of Osen’s hem spilling from the palanquin.

“Oh! Osen-chan.” “Master’s been waitin’ with his neck stretched out for ya since earlier, I tell ya!” Having had Senzō arrange her two pairs of vermilion and navy sandals with thongs behind her, Osen quietly stepped out of the palanquin while shielding herself from the morning sun with a fan—composed with such refinement, she might have been the only daughter of a grand merchant household.

“Fujikichi-san. Were you waiting here for me?” “You bet. I stopped halfway through cleaning the omoto plants and had been waiting for you for half an hour now.” “But Osen-chan.” “You’re still as beautiful as Master’s paintings, I tell ya.” “Oh my, teasing me first thing in the morning?” “Teasing? Not at all.” “I’m just standing here staring in awe.” “Whether it’s your face or your figure—Master’s always saying there’s no woman in all of Edo as fine as you, like it’s his catchphrase.” “If Onabe’s a woman and Osen-chan’s a woman too, how come Onabe’s so unrefined even though they’re both born women?” “I’ve gotta say—Onabe’s old man had some wit naming her that, but you’re the opposite, Osen-san—a woman who’d make even Benzaiten go barefoot in admiration.” “No—even if you combed all of Japan, let alone Edo, with bells and drums…”

“Hey, Fuji-san.” He grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked sharply. With that same hand—the one that had just stroked his own face upside down—Hachigorō seized Fujikichi’s obi once more and dragged him inside the brushwood gate. “What’re you doin’, Hatchan?” “Hatchan!” “Ain’t no call for this fuss.” “Quit yappin’ nonsense—why ain’tcha hustlin’ Osen-chan inside already?” “Master’s gone through three cups o’ tea waitin’, I tell ya!” “Oh hells, my blunder!”

“Osen-chan! Not a lick faster? Get movin’, get movin’!” “Hohohoho.” Hatchan and his comical way of talking again… Osen’s figure, having sent back the palanquin, crossed the earthen bridge over the small ditch and vanished into the brushwood gate as though fleeing. Hmph. That Hachigorō bastard’s meddlin’ where he ain’t needed. As for guiding Osen-chan—every last bit of it’s my job, got it settled. Alright—when that Sakai-ya tayu comes later, I’ll make that bastard eat humiliation then.

As if the treasure in his grasp had been snatched away, Fujikichi stomped the ground hard and went flying across the earthen bridge in pursuit.

On the veranda that curved like a hook, Master Harunobu and Osen had already exchanged greetings and were whispering together while glancing at the carp in the pond. “Hatchan, get over here.” “What is it, Fuji-san?” Fujikichi pursed his lips and glared at Hachigorō, who had stood up. “You—know who’s comin’ after this?” “Dunno.” “See there? You didn’t even know yet went meddlin’ like that.”

“What’s this ‘meddlin’’ you’re on about?”

“Taking Osen-chan ahead like that’s just meddlin’.” “This ain’t no joke. Osen-chan was asked by Master, so I went to call her.—You still ain’t washed your face yet, have ya?” Though he’d long since washed his face, sleep crusted unpleasantly in the inner corners of Fujikichi’s eyes.

Six

The atelier, where a red dragonfly cast a sharp shadow onto the shoji screen, was as bright as if sprinkled with gold dust. Though it had a spacious garden, the tasteful residence—reminiscent of a tea room and measuring a mere three ken—was simply well-maintained according to Harunobu’s distinctive preferences, and compared to the residences of official painters serving feudal lords, it was truly humble. In the middle of the atelier, with a tobacco tray between them, Harunobu and Osen sat facing each other. Osen’s naive heart must have been hesitating at Harunobu’s words. Her downcast eyes were tinged with a faint rouge, and two or three strands of hair drifted dreamily against her cheek.

“How about this—it’s not like Sakai-ya put me up to this or anything, but Nakamura Matsue’s an unrivaled master performer these days, no two ways about it. Since that Sakai-ya wants to have Mr. Shigesuke write a play about you in autumn Kobikichō and put it on stage, it’s practically a stroke of luck you couldn’t wish for. Surely there’s no reason to refuse, is there?” “Yes, truly—such an extravagant favor for someone like me, indeed it might even blind me…”

“Then why?” “Master, please forgive me.” “I do not wish to meet face-to-face with actors I don’t know.” “Ha ha ha! What’s this? Your usual foolish bashfulness again? It’s not like I invited Sakai-ya here to make you meet face-to-face or let you two talk alone or anything like that.” “Matsue has always been a huge fan of my work—isn’t just someone who buys prints but a true enthusiast who’s been collecting even the original sketches. Last night after the play he dropped by unexpectedly with this earnest request: for the next kyogen production he absolutely wants to work Kasamori Osen-chan into the play’s storyline.” “As for how they’ll work it into the plot—well that’s something they need to discuss with playwright Shigesuke first so he said it’s still not entirely clear—but if Matsue’s depiction of you could be seen on stage well that’d be quite the entertaining prospect no matter how you look at it.” “I agreed immediately and settled it all.—So strikin’ while the iron’s hot we’ve made an arrangement: since we’ll have Osen come here tomorrow mornin’ we’ll also ask the tayu to come out here once more.—Right Osen?” “In front of me you show even your skin and let me draw you—so no matter who the other party is it’s just a brief tea chat here.” “You should meet them in good spirits I tell you.”

“Well…”

“There’s no use deliberating now. While we’re sitting here like this, he might’ve already arrived nearby.” “Oh, Master…” “Ha ha ha! You’ve grown quite timid, haven’t you?” “That isn’t the case, but I… I don’t know these actors…” “Hey, still going on about that? Meeting someone new for the first time tends to spark livelier conversation than sticking with familiar faces. —And besides, the man’s the finest onnagata of our time—just being in his presence ought to lift your spirits, isn’t that right?”

Suddenly, the dragonfly’s shadow left the shoji screen. At the same time, Fujikichi’s voice was heard from the veranda, tinged with hesitation.

“Master, the tayu has arrived.” “Ah, I see.” “Show him in at once.” Osen, who had been staring fixedly at the tatami, falteringly looked around. “Master, I beg you.” “Please let me go home as I am.” “What do you mean?” Harunobu opened his eyes wide.

Seven

Like two or three water hyssop blossoms scattered upon moss, Osen’s toes—as if sculpted in relief as she began to rise with her hem disarrayed upon the tatami—no longer pressed firmly against the mat. “Ha ha ha, Osen.” “How unseemly! What’s come over you?” Harunobu’s slightly perplexed gaze followed Osen toward the shoji screen, but when he saw her cornered figure crouching at the screen’s edge, an even more incomprehensible feeling welled up within him, making him urgently call out to Fujikichi beyond the shoji.

“Fujikichi, have the Tayu from Sakai-ya wait a little longer.” “Right.” Most likely, he had already come near the veranda. The sign of Fujikichi promptly conveying Harunobu’s message to Matsue and heading back toward the pond became apparent through two shadows cast on the shoji screen. “Osen.” “Yes.” “You’ve got some reason for this, haven’t you?” “No, there’s no reason at all.” “There’s no use hiding—just tell me how things stand. Depending on what you say, I’ll have Sakai-ya leave without meeting you.”

“Then, will you listen to my wish?” “I’ll listen.” “And I’ll grant it.” “But you’ll have to tell me why.” “Well, the reason is…” “Still keeping secrets?” “If you’re dead set against telling me, I’ll let it drop—but know this: I’ll never draw you again. Not one stroke.” “Oh, Master…” “Ah, enough.” “Kasamori Osen is Edo’s finest jewel.” “Even without my crude sketches, customers’d come swarming from every corner of the capital like ants.—Don’t want to talk? Fine by me.”

Just as the string of the shamisen she had been idly toying with snapped with a pop, Osen felt an accumulated loneliness well up within her, and her eyelids grew hot before she knew it. “Master, please forgive me.” “I had firmly resolved in my heart not to tell even Mother, but I shall now speak of everything.” “Have your fill of laughter at me.” “Oh—so there was a reason after all…” “Yes... I’m desperately in love with Hamamuraya’s Tayu.”

“Wh—.” “To Kikunojō.—” “Yes.” “It’s so embarrassing…”

Osen’s demeanor—wishing she could vanish—hid her face in her sleeve, as though the autumn begonias blooming in the garden had transmuted their alluring, cascading form into the very substance of her distress.

Harunobu’s eyes remained fixed on Osen’s collar, as though nailed there. But soon, his face—now nodding quietly—was suffused with a serene brightness.

“Osen.”

“Yes.” “You’ve really fallen for him.” “Wh—?” “If it’s Segawa Kikunojō—the foremost young onnagata of our time—then he should be more than a match for Edo’s finest beauty.” “I understand.” “If your sweetheart’s an actor, no wonder meeting Sakai-ya would chafe.” “I’ll turn them down flat no matter what they say—you needn’t fret.”

8

Nakamura Matsue, who had arrived energetically by palanquin, was guided by Fujikichi just as he had been the day before; but being unable to enter the studio where he should have been admitted immediately due to some unexplained reason, he stood alone near the pond, intently watching the carp approach the human figure. Having moved to Edo out of admiration for his master Utaemon just under three years prior, Matsue—even with his patrons—hardly numbered among Edo’s established actors. Moreover, in this city where Segawa Kikunojō II, hailed as the era’s foremost young onnagata, reigned supreme, his presence was far from prominent. However, given that he was young and his artistry was accomplished, it was likely out of a desire that Nakamura Shigesuke, the playwright, was vigorously championing him to stage some novel play that would catch the eye. It was today that Nakamura Shigesuke—seizing on Matsue’s closeness to Harunobu and resolved to strike while the iron was hot—had orchestrated matters yesterday: using Kasamori Osen, whose reputation had recently soared through Harunobu’s paintings, he aimed to position her as the main attraction for Matsue’s benefit.

“Tayu, I apologize for keeping you waiting—please do come over here, partake of some tea, and await your meeting.” Even Fujikichi couldn’t grasp why his master was making Sakai-ya wait, but when he saw the figure standing forlornly by the pond, staring at the water with an air of suddenly deflated tension, he couldn’t help calling out like this. “Oh, thank you kindly…”

“Have you not yet had the chance to meet Osen-chan, Tayu?” “Well, I have had tea at Lady Kasamori’s establishment, but what would you know of such matters.” “—But young sir.” “Might Ms. Osen no longer be coming at all?” “Just now.—” “Then perhaps she’s taken up painting lessons or some such.—” “Ah, I suppose that’s likely the way of it, but regardless it shan’t take long.” “That spot catches the sun rather well.” “Do come over here...”

Just as he suddenly turned on his heel and took a few steps— Harunobu, who had quietly opened the corner shoji and stepped into the garden, turned his pale face toward Matsue in his long-sleeved kimono. “Tayu.” “Oh! Master!” “I’ve intruded so early—please forgive me.” “The one who should apologize is me… Despite rousing you from sleep and making you come all this way, the crucial Osen—”

“Has something happened to Ms. Osen?” “Due to a sudden illness—” “Wh—?” “It may be women’s troubles, but the moment she arrived here she complained of a headache and has remained withdrawn, still unable to even lift her face. Given this state, even if we were to have you wait half an hour I fear she won’t be able to speak this morning. It’s truly regrettable, but I believe there’s no choice but to arrange another meeting at a later date—though I must admit I’m quite concerned…”

“Well, that’s…”

“Tayu.” “I shall make ample apologies on my part—might you not return home today as matters stand?” “Oh, I could depart at any time… yet I’m troubled about Ms. Osen’s sudden illness…”

“Ah, it’s likely nothing to agonize over—but then again, a young woman’s sudden illness.” “I feel as though the world’s grown dimmer since morning.” “Oh.”

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

Rain

1

“Hey Bōzu, the brazier’s fire’s gone out. “Quit daydreamin’ and get to work!”

Past the back gate of the Hosokawa residence in Hamachō, turning right for a block or so, seeing the dyer's drying area at the corner, then turning at the side of the pawnshop labeled Iseki to reach the third house—marked by a willow tree with long drooping branches out front—stood the modest residence of dollmaker Kameoka Yūsai. Though he had just passed forty and was not yet far into his forties, he looked to be in his mid-fifties at first glance. He paid no heed to his chignon or white hair; the barber's lintel was thinly soiled with grime to the extent that he hadn't ducked under it in two months. Despite being reputed as a master and virtuoso, apart from a disciple called Bōzu—a lad of seventeen or eighteen—there was not even a kitten; theirs was a life of just two people.

“How many years d’you think it’s been since you became my disciple?” “Oh.” “Don’t ‘oh’ me! If a dollmaker don’t even grasp how crucial gofin work is, he’ll get his comeuppance, damn it. It’s this rain. If you keep dawdlin’ around, you’ll bring in all this dampness, and everything’s gonna go to hell! Hurry up and get it lit!” “Oh.” “And then what’s next? Once the fire’s lit, clean the paper lantern right away, y’hear? On days like this, the sun sets way earlier than usual, so…”

“Oh.” “Hmph.” “No matter what I say, you’re a lifeless bastard.” “That meal should’ve filled your belly.” “Can’t ya give a proper reply?” “Understood.” “Like talkin’ to a brick wall, you are.—I’ll have a smoke while the fire’s gettin’ lit, so hand over that tobacco pouch.” “Oh.” “Why ain’t you fetchin’ the pipe?” “Oh.” “That ain’t even a firefly’s worth of flame!” “Why you lightin’ tobacco with that?” Though faced with a silent boy, Yūsai had a temperament that couldn’t resist nitpicking even how chopsticks were raised or lowered. Muttering complaints nonstop, he tossed aside the faded indigo cloth draped over his crossed legs, dragged the firebox closer, and clamped the long iron pipe between his teeth.

In the kitchen area came the clattering of a fan vigorously fanning beneath the charcoal stove. While listening to this grating sound with peculiarly irritated ears, Yūsai glared at the nearly life-sized woman doll propped before him—then suddenly seemed to recall something. He shouted toward the kitchen in a voice that brooked no restraint.

“Bōzu. Bōzu.” “Oh.” “Did you wash your face this morning?” “Oh.” “Don’t lie!” “Someone who’d washed their face wouldn’t make such a blunder!” “You come here and don’t even look properly at the doll’s feet.” “The hell’s with all this wax drippin’ on the instep?”

He timidly returned to the workplace. Bōzu’s feet were trembling. “This here’s your doing.”

“I don’t know.” “Don’t give me that ‘I don’t know’! You were the one who came into the workshop with a candle late last night—there’s no one else but you who could’ve done it! This ain’t just some doll! This is a doll meant to carve even the soul of Mr. Kikunojō! I told you a hundred times there shouldn’t be any slip-ups!”

II

The depth of the eaves loomed over them, leaving the rain-hazed interior as dark as a storehouse. Though they had only just heard the eighth bell of Ishimachi toll, the surroundings were already blurred into mouse-gray dimness that made one long for a paper lantern. The gutter under the eaves had likely not been replaced even once in the past ten years. Moss swelled thickly over the bamboo joints, and rainwater falling through their gaps—like sand slipping through an hourglass’s measure—ceaselessly seized the ear.

With his mouth pursed into a small, tight curve and his tobacco pipe still clenched between his teeth, Yūsai continued to stare fixedly at the doll as though entranced. After giving a deep nod—as if affirming something to himself—he poured the charcoal fire Bōzu had just lit from the ash shovel into the brazier, then quietly furrowed his brows alone.

“Bōzu. Can’t you hear the voice out front?” “Is someone here?” “They’re here. Go open the door and check.”

“Oh.” “But don’t you go bringin’ ’em back here.”

Half-convinced, Bōzu stood up and went over, hunched his back, and peered through a gap in the storm shutters. “Why, it’s only me.” “Oh, Osen-san.” Bōzu opened the ill-fitting storm shutters and bowed his head deeply once. There stood Osen, her face wrapped in a hood, shouldering an umbrella.

“The Master...” “He’s working.—” “Please forgive me.” “No! If I let you bring her in, I’ll get an earful.” “Ohoho, let’s put those worries aside now.” “But if I were to ask the Master—”

“Bōzu,” came a sharp voice from the rear. “Oh.” “As I just said—even if it’s anyone, you mustn’t let them into the workshop.” “Master,” Osen called out imploringly. “Please, just for today, bear with me.” “Damn it.” “I came here in this rain, knowing full well you’d refuse me, because I couldn’t bear it any longer—I beg of you. Just for a little while longer…”

“Much obliged, but I’ll have to refuse.” “I bet you don’t even remember what promise I made when I took on this doll from you.—Right, Osen dear?” “What’d you say back then?” “‘I don’t want a dead doll.’” “‘If you’re gonna have me make you a living doll with a soul in it, didn’t you swear up and down you’d endure any hardship?—I’m tryin’ to carve a lifelike doll of Segawa Kikunojō, Edo’s top female-role actor, exactly as he appears onstage!’” “‘This ain’t no half-hearted work—you oughta know that.’” “‘I’ve crafted seven, maybe ten dolls I thought were something special up till now, but ain’t never poured my soul into a work so much that I’d be ready to die once this one’s done.’” “‘But it ain’t just this current job.’” “‘Once I finish this lifelike doll, even if I collapse tomorrow vomiting blood, I’ll have absolutely no regrets—this is a life-and-death battle I’ve steeled myself for.’” “‘You want to see how far I’ve gotten.’” “‘I understand that feeling from the bottom of my gut, but it ain’t happenin’. I ain’t just paintin’ a doll here.’” “‘I’m battering my soul to a pulp in this life-or-death work here.’”

While listening to Yūsai’s voice, Osen had been stepping backward one foot at a time—until before she knew it, she stood frozen by the storm shutters as if crucified.

Three

Unable to endure her fervent desire—a desire so strong she thought even a single glance would suffice—Osen had deliberately abandoned her palanquin near Ryōgoku Bridge and, hiding her face beneath a hood to avoid notice, made her way to Yūsai’s workshop behind the pawnshop. In her heart raged emotions more violent than the drenching rain.

Though there was a five-year age difference between them, Osen and Kikunojō—childhood friends both born in Ōji—had been enviably close since their days as toddling children. Even when playing house, their roles as “Yoshichan the husband” and “Osen-chan the wife” became so entrenched among their playmates through repeated proclamations that the two grew self-conscious about being treated like an actual couple without verbal confirmation, sometimes deliberately sitting back-to-back. But when Yoshiji began rising in fame as a child actor onstage, their parents’ relocation—his to Yoshi-chō and hers to Kuramae—meant opportunities to meet and converse vanished entirely. Time flowed inexorably: two years became three, three became five. Though she might catch glimpses of his vivid furisode-clad figure in street performance rankings, chances to exchange “Yoshichan” and “Osen-chan” slipped away completely, lost to the relentless passage of years.

When it came to female-role actors—whether Nakamura Tomijūrō, Yoshizawa Ayame, Nakamura Kiyosaburō, Nakamura Kumetarō, or Nakamura Matsue—ten out of ten were uniformly Kamigata-transplanted artists. Yet among them stood Yoshiji alone: born and raised in Edo, his meteoric rise eclipsed the others. After inheriting the name Kikunojō II, critiques declaring him "supremely auspicious" likely fanned his popularity to unprecedented heights. The name "Ōji Rikō" had become unshakably established as the era's foremost young onnagata, reaching such renown that failing to see any production—regardless of its merits—once it was billed as "Kikunojō's theater" had become tantamount to social disgrace.

Consequently, the various rumors surrounding the popular actor reached Osen’s ears day after day—how some daimyo’s mistress had gifted him a kosode; how the widow of such-and-such shop had sewn an obi for him; how the daughter of a sake wholesaler had taken ten ryō from her parents desperate for the hairpin he had worn on stage. If counted, these incidents involving over a hundred women—even among patrons at Osen’s teahouse—were passed along without being actively heard or spoken, a blend of truths and falsehoods that with each passing day only served to elevate Kikunojō’s fame higher still.

But the feelings of longing hidden deep in Osen’s heart only grew stronger with each passing day, utterly indifferent to those rumors. That was only natural, of course. For the Kikunojō whom Osen yearned for was not the actor bearing Edo’s adoration, but Yoshichan from Ōji—her childhood companion of yore.—

For Osen, the teahouse waitress, there had been no shortage of marriage proposals—not just five or ten—that seemed almost too good for her station: sons of dignitaries, young masters of prominent houses, even two or three proper offers from hatamoto who sent retainers as envoys. Yet each time, she would shake her head in refusal—a spinelessness that made people lament how she might have missed her chance to ride in a jeweled palanquin. And yet, not a soul knew of the ardent feelings for Kikunojō she harbored in her heart.

Ever since she had confided her innermost feelings to Master Yūsai half a year prior—beseeching him to craft a living doll replicating Yaoya Oshichi’s stage appearance at the Nakamura-za theater three years earlier—Osen could hardly wait for its completion, wondering daily whether it might be finished today or tomorrow. Yet knowing this was work demanding total spiritual devotion, she had sworn never to visit until the day it was done, no matter what might happen—a vow she clung to through relentless patience. But in the end, overwhelmed by the unbearable turbulence of a woman’s heart, she resolved to secretly visit the workshop twice in succession: yesterday and today. In the eyes that stared wide beneath the hood, tears welled up.

“Master… Master,”

Once again, Osen turned toward the rear and tried calling Yūsai. But the only sound that reached her ears was the faint drip of rainwater trickling down the gutter. The willow at the eaves, as if suddenly remembering, lightly brushed against the storm shutters as it passed by.

Four

“Young Master… Young Master!” “Quiet! Keep walking for a bit.” “You say that, but if I stay silent about this, who knows what scolding I’ll get from you later.” “What?!” “Look there.” “That’s definitely Ms. Osen of Kasamori!” “Osen’s here? Where?!” Returning from Yagenbori Fudō temple where he’d made a vow, Tachibana-ya Tokutarō—young master of the Tachibana paper merchant house—wore a half-length raincloak of navy-blue cloth with a black *hachijō* collar, clutching a servant’s snake-eye umbrella in the Sojūrō style. His eyes burned through the rain as he stared, apprentice servant Ichimatsu trailing behind.

“It’s over there.” “That hooded figure passing under the money exchange sign in front of the brush shop—” “Hmm.” “Quickly, you—hurry over there and check.” “Understood.” Unmindful of the mud splattering up to the crown of his head, Ichimatsu darted sideways and charged forward—to him, the rain likely felt no more substantial than the paper snowflakes used in theater productions. He dashed straight past the figure with the dark snake-eye umbrella—who was taking small steps some seven or eight ken ahead—and no sooner had he turned on his heels than he came running back, triumphant as if he’d captured a demon’s head.

“What happened?” “As I saw with my own two eyes, it’s definitely Ms. Osen!” “Hey! Why are you making such a racket? Even in the rain, if someone hears us, that’s trouble!” “Right away.” “You, follow after me.” His sharpness of observation was, first and foremost, his greatest asset. As for being the Young Master’s attendant, while the customary practice of being singled out by peers as “Ishidon” might occasionally earn one a bowl of kake soba, for Ichimatsu, sitting in the shop and neatly arranging the edges of paper was far more comfortable than he could have imagined.

But Tokutarō—who cared no more for the apprentice’s hardships than a fly on his back—now walked in a trance at the mention of Osen. Even the blue veins bulging on his pale shins, visible beneath his raincloak, betrayed his single-minded haste. The road’s roughness and the rain’s sideways spray seemed wholly absent from his awareness, as though they belonged to another world altogether. “Hey there—isn’t that Osen heading over there?”

The voice with which Tokutarō called out to her trembled, apparently from his own awkwardness. “Huh?” Osen turned sharply—beneath her hood keeping charm solely in her eyes—and stole a glance at Tokutarō’s face. Upon recognizing him as the young master who frequented the teahouse, she bowed deeply again. “Oh my, Young Master! Where might you be going?” “Just paid respects at Fudō-sama over there. And you—”

“I went to Hamachō to buy medicine for my mother.” “Hamachō? In this rain—that’s no small errand. You needn’t have gone yourself. Had you simply mentioned it, I’d have sent my servant to fetch it anytime.” “Thank you kindly, but to ask another for medicine meant for my parent would invite Lord Inari’s wrath.” “Ah yes—still your same devoted filial piety.” Tokutarō said this and gulped down a mouthful of tense saliva.

Five Young Master Tokutarō—whose carefree dandyism, born from the supreme delight he took when some sycophant once told him he resembled the era’s popular actor Sojūrō, made all who saw him feel nauseous to their core—now fixed Osen with a gaze that, having seized upon talk of filial devotion, displayed an uncharacteristically earnest resolve, strangely tenacious in its intensity.

“Do you have any urgent business now?” “Well, since I’ve slipped away from my crucial duties at the teahouse, if I don’t return as quickly as possible, I’ll cause Mother unnecessary worry—and what’s more, I’ll have no excuse for neglecting our valued customers.” “As for worrying about customers—there’s no need for that.” “But when you mention your mother…” “May I ask if you have some business with me?” “Oh, it’s nothing.” “Meeting you here by chance like this—it’s such perfect timing you couldn’t wish for better—so I figured why not have you join me for a meal somewhere.”

“Oh my, that’s very kind of you—thank you ever so much—but as I said earlier, there’s Mother who’s caught a cold and customers waiting at the teahouse.—” “This rain.” “No matter how you look at it, customers wouldn’t come in numbers worth worrying about.” “Or perhaps there’s someone you’ve made a promise with?” “Oh, why would there be such a person—” “In that case, even if you’re delayed by an hour or so, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

“My mother is eagerly waiting for the medicine.” “Hey, Osen.” “Oh, but—” “It won’t take up your time.” “Just a moment—there’s something I’d like to discuss.” “Just over there—won’t you keep me company for a little while?” “Well, you see…” “Is it true you went to buy medicine for your mother?” “Huh?!” “I’m asking if it’s true!” “Why would I tell such lies?—”

“Then won’t you show me that medicine pouch?” “The pouch…—” “You can’t very well say you don’t have it.” “Heh heh heh.” “As I thought—you tried to save face in front of me by telling some baseless lie. You probably went off to meet some man you fancy and are just coming back now.” “If you knew that—all the more reason I can’t let you leave like this. So resign yourself!” “Oh, Young Master—” “No, I won’t let go—even if women in Edo were as countless as falling rain, you’re the only one who’s truly fixated.” “We’ve met here—it’s surely Fudō-sama’s divine favor at work, answering the daily prayers I’ve offered.” “Today of all days—I won’t have you leaving without keeping me company, even for half an hour.……”

As Osen shook off the gripped sleeve and twisted her body—in that very instant, the one who seized Tokutarō’s wrist and smirked was the print carver Matsu Gorō, standing without an umbrella, drenched from head to toe in tung oil. “Young Master, that’s cruel, ain’t it?” “Ugh, you’re bothersome.” “Don’t meddle where you’re not wanted—get lost.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “I ain’t meddlin’, but take a look here, will ya?” “Osen-chan’s sayin’ she don’t want to—ain’t that plain enough?” “Young Master, you’ll ruin that pretty face of yours, eh?”

He must have thought he was avenging a past slight. With these words, Matsu Gorō thrust his blue-tinged jaw—still bearing the shadow of a beard—forcefully toward Tokutarō.

Six

“Ha ha ha.” “Young Master, that’s impossible, see?” “Osen’s a model of filial piety—went to buy medicine indeed. There ain’t no lie or concealment here, see?” “Even if you call this a once-in-a-century meetin’ and try to grab ’er to sweet-talk, the wholesalers won’t deliver, see?—Not even the attendant at the archery range ’round here’d fall for that, let alone you dealin’ with Osen—the most famous beauty in Edo, ain’t she?” “No matter how much clout you’ve got, Young Master, this one ain’t gonna come easy, see?”

In the rain that had helped Osen escape, Matsu Gorō—half his face emerging from tung oil—mocked Tokutarō with these words, then rubbed his nose tip two or three times with an open palm. Barely containing tearful frustration, Tokutarō glared at Matsu Gorō, his slender eyebrows twitching without pause. “Ichimatsu!” Above the deeply bowed head of Ichimatsu—the apprentice servant frozen in bewildered shock—the Young Master’s voice quivered like a cricket’s rasp.

“You idiot!” “Yes, sir.” “Why didn’t you catch Osen?” “It was you, Young Master, who let her go.” “Ugh, you’re so annoying. Even if I let go, it’s your job to catch her!—I’ve no more use for the likes of you. I’m letting you go right here and now—go wherever you please and be done with it!” “Ha ha ha. Young Master,” interjected Matsu Gorō. “That’s layin’ it on a bit thick, ain’t it? The kid ain’t done nothin’ wrong. Ain’t all this comin’ from your own selfishness?”

“Matsu, this ain’t your scene to butt into.” “Just shut your trap.” “Maybe not—but Ichimatsu here’s caught in the crossfire.” “Tagged along clueless, runs into Osen by chance, messes up his duties—even for a street oracle’s curse, that’s too harsh, eh?” “Give the kid a break.—Hey Ichimatsu.” “You better straighten up and beg the Young Master’s pardon.” “Young Master, I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“No.” “You’re not even my household servant anymore—not my attendant either—so get out of my sight as fast as you damn well can!” “Even if you tell him to disappear…” “Quit playing dumb. Go crawl into the mud or wherever the hell you want and disappear.” “Huh.” The rain poured mercilessly onto the hunched back of Ichimatsu—his hakama hitched up and mud caked as high as his tailbone—and as he took in the scene of the crowd that had now gathered around them, Tokutarō instinctively drew his neck in like a turtle.

“Excuse me, Young Master.”

From within the encircled crowd, suddenly thrusting out only his head with an exceedingly deferential manner and hands lowered below his knees was a stocky fishmonger around fifty. Tokutarō raised his face furtively. “This humble one.” “I am Ichimatsu’s father.” “Huh?!” “This is but a passing greeting, and I deeply apologize for the intrusion, but it appears that rascal Ichimatsu has committed an outrageous blunder.” “I shall take him back immediately and thoroughly discipline him until his disposition mends.” “Please, allow this.” “Please grant him to this humble one.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Old man, that ain’t gonna fly. I ain’t makin’ it look like my fault, so you just stay put over there.”

While Matsu Gorō was restraining the old man, Tokutarō’s figure vanished into the crowd.

Seven

“Masakichi! Tatsuzō! Kamehachi! Bunta! Umekichi! Kōbei!—” Tokutarō—who had rushed in through the middle entrance while half-resignedly calling out names from Masakichi, the eight-year-old servant who had joined the household just two or three days prior, all the way up to manager Kōbei in nearly a single breath—now stomped his geta at the noren entrance of the corridor as if oblivious to the mud caked thick across his back up to the tips of his oiled topknot brush, tearing at his own raincoat.

“Ah, Young Master—you’ve returned early today.” Manager Kōbei threw down his accounting brush and thrust his head through the noren entrance in haste. But upon glimpsing Tokutarō’s disheveled state, he must have instantly concluded the young master had brawled along the way. From oiled crown to mud-caked geta tips, he scrutinized every inch of him while his words stumbled forth. “Wh-what has occurred, sir?” “Manager—dismiss Ichimatsu this instant.”

“D-did Ichimatsu commit some blunder?” “Whatever it is, just do as I told you.” “I’ve never been this humiliated in my life.” “It’s so mortifying—so mortifying.……”

“Wh-what could that be about?” “The apprentice’s blunder is this manager’s blunder—I shall offer any apology required from this humble self. If Your Mercy could find it possible to grant forgiveness, please let this Kōbei take his place in dismissal instead.……” “Don’t speak of unnecessary matters.” “Yes… That may be so, but as Kōbei, who has been entrusted by the Master with full authority over this establishment, I cannot simply plead ignorance should the Master inquire later.” “Please kindly tell me the reason.”

“There’s no need to hear the reason.” “Just do exactly as I said—all you need to do is dismiss him.” Into the ears of Tokutarō—who was throwing an unmanageable tantrum like a spoiled child who’d overturned a toy box—suddenly came Matsu Gorō’s laughter from the shopfront. “Ha ha ha, Young Master, are you still going on about that, sir?” “I’ve got some juicy news for ya.” “I’ll lend you a clever idea, so just wash away the apprentice’s blunder completely.”

From the middle manager down to the apprentices, all their faces turned at once toward Matsu Gorō. But Tokutarō continued glaring toward the shopfront from the noren entrance and did not respond. “Excuse me, Young Master.” “No harm intended.” “Since I’ve heard some delightful news that’ll have you strutting like a shachi in joy.” “If you say we can’t talk here, then I’ll go over there to discuss it properly.” “Your kimono isn’t getting wet either.” “How’s about it?” “Or should I just head back like this?”

Matsu Gorō—having flung the tung oil-treated hat he’d been wearing into a corner of the shop, skillfully packed straw-wrapped tobacco into the hatchet-shaped pipe he’d pulled from his breast—swiftly reached for the tobacco tray while grinning slyly and fixed his gaze on the noren entrance. “Matsu.” “Yeah?” “The Young Master is coming this way.” “Well, that’s something.” “——”

“Hold on! I can’t have you tracking mud in here with those feet. Tatsudon—draw water to the back basin.” Manager Kōbei stared sternly at Matsu Gorō’s shins, caked with mud like rough daub on a wall. “Heh heh heh. Ain’t Matsu Gorō here the loyal one through ’n’ through?” Matsu Gorō’s face—muttering to himself with jutting chin—mirrored comedian Matsushima Moheiji’s exact likeness.

Eight Not long after that, Matsu Gorō—who had washed himself as thoroughly as one performing ritual ablutions, scrubbing up to his groin—sat facing Tokutarō in the north-facing back room of the second floor while listening to the drizzle of autumn rain. Upon the roof tiles, the rain kept being absorbed again and again—now and then soaking willow leaves that had flown from the neighboring house until they clung wetly before vanishing—a sight that began appearing like those scattered ikat patterns recently coming into vogue. Tokutarō’s hand gripping the silver pipe had stiffened as if nailed to the brazier’s frame and refused to move.

“So you’re saying Osen has a proper lover and has been visiting him every day lately?”

“Well… that’s roughly how it is.……” “Just who exactly is this lover of Osen’s? Matsu, tell me clearly.” “Well, that’s… complicated—”

“What are you going on about?” “You spill that much only to leave the rest like ghost tracks? What exactly did you mean earlier?” “Didn’t you declare right in the shop that this was news to make the Young Master puff up like a roof ornament?” “It’s humiliating, but I’m listening.” “If you came here intending to talk, lay it all bare—every last detail.” “Until I hear that name, Matsu, I won’t budge from this spot—not one inch.”

“H-hold on a moment, Young Master.” “If you press me like this, Young Master, I’ll be in a real bind.” “What ‘unreasonable’?”

“What do you mean? Truth is, I really don’t know the lover’s name…” “You don’t know the name?” “That’s how it is…” “Then never mind the name—just tell me what kind of man he is.” “A samurai? A merchant? Or an artisan?—” “That’s exactly what I still don’t know.—” “Matsu.”

Tokutarō’s voice turned shrill. “Yeah?” “Enough already.” “I didn’t bring you up here out of some eccentric whim.” “Wasn’t it precisely because I wanted to know the man Osen’s been secretly meeting that I went out of my way to bring you up here—disregarding how it looks to the shop’s people?” “Not knowing the name is one thing, but you can’t even tell if he’s a samurai, merchant, or artisan—you’re taking this mockery too far. I’ve no use for someone like you anymore, so get the hell out of here.”

“If you’re ordering me to leave, I’ll go, but do you really think it’s wise to let me walk out just like that?” “What’s that?”

“Young Master.” “Now, Young Master—sure, I don’t know who Osen’s lover is or where he’s from. But if I wanted to find out, I could track ’em down proper without even half a day’s work.” “But more importantly, Young Master—ain’t there somethin’ even bigger you oughta be worryin’ about?” “What’s that supposed to be?” “Well, if you say so...” “If you’re tellin’ me to scram right quick, then I’ll make a reasonable exit ’fore the tatami gets too hot underfoot.” “Well then, thanks for havin’ me.”

“Wait.” “Was there something you needed?” “Since you say it concerns my important matter—let me hear it.” But Matsu Gorō deliberately puffed out his cheeks and aimed his nostrils ceilingward.

Obi

I

Through the three-foot curtain dyed with the Gionmori crest in olive-drab, a four-and-a-half-mat room could be glimpsed. The autumn begonia arranged in the alcove cast an alluring shadow in the Imari vase, while the flame of the lamp rose like incense smoke; at the mirror stand placed in the center of the room, the silhouette of a wig base appeared faintly.

The location was Bell Tower Alley in Ishichō. Nakamura Matsue’s cheeks—as if a single drop of peach-colored paint had been dripped onto blank paper as she stood elegantly in full stage costume—were likely flushed from the fire bucket’s heat. They were so red one might have thought she was drunk. “Okono… Hey, Okono?” While staring at her own reflection in the mirror, Matsue tried calling for her wife, who should have been in the adjacent room. But no immediate reply came; she must have gone somewhere.

“Hmm, she doesn’t seem to be here. “I wanted to show you how well this reflects my appearance... “...” Matsue twisted her slender body into a dance-like pose as she spoke, then called out once more to the mirror’s surface.

“You’d best hurry up and see Osen’s tea-pouring form.” “Pardon me, Madam.”

The one who crouched beneath the curtain, pressing the tip of his topknot brush with a finger while bowing his head deferentially was not Okono, the wife—it was Shinchichi, the male servant. “Shinchichi, is it?” “Yes?” “What is Okono doing?”

“Well…” “What did she do now?” “Madam left over an hour ago and is not here at present.” “She’s out, you say?” “Yes?” “Where did she go?” “She said she was going to Mr. Harunobu’s residence in Shirakabe-cho, and—” “What’s that? “She went to Mr. Harunobu’s residence.” “Is that really so, Shinchichi?” “It is indeed true.” “What business did Okono have going to Mr. Harunobu’s place in Shirakabe-cho this time?” “Tell me at once.”

“I do not know the particulars of her errand, but she had mentioned something about handling an obi.”

“Obi.” “Shinchichi—open that chest of drawers and check inside.” In a fluster, Shinchichi reached for the chest’s handles and began yanking open each drawer one after another as Matsue had instructed. “Take out all the kimonos and haori there and check them.” “Like this?” “More.” “This one too?” “Must you confirm every single thing? Open them all at once!” Matsue frantically rummaged through the clothes—every last garment spilled onto the tatami from the tightly packed drawers—then fixed her gaze and commanded Shinchichi.

“You—go straight to Shirakabe-cho, pursue Okono, retrieve the obi, and return at once.” “Which obi would that be?” “You fool! It’s Osen’s obi.” “If that’s gone, the whole play will go to waste, I tell you.”

Matsue’s freshly shaved eyebrows twitched palely.

Two

At that very moment, Okono was urging her palanquin bearers into a frantic race along the moonless Yanagihara embankment. What she held firmly on her lap, wrapped in a turmeric-dyed cloth, was none other than the notorious obi of Osen of Morita-ya—the very one her husband Matsue had made daily visits to Harunobu’s residence to borrow for staging this kyogen play.

Okono’s teeth—their blackened lacquer freshly applied that morning—clamped down hard on her right sleeve. The daughter of the Kasamori water teahouse—renowned as Edo’s finest—might have possessed peerless grace, but Okono, born to the Kokonishi pharmaceutical house near Tenman Tenjin Bridge in Osaka (Naniwa) and raised in pampered indulgence, clung to unshakable pride: though ill-suited to be an actor’s wife, in refinement and elegance she would yield to none. Even if there were thousands of women in Edo, she had resolved deep in her heart—ever since departing Osaka shortly after their wedding three years prior—that not a single one would lay even a fingertip upon her Master.

For this autumn’s kyogen play, her husband had selected a piece titled *Osen*, which Mr. Harushige was composing. Naturally, as his dutiful wife, she had no objections to this. Once the script reading concluded and rehearsals began in earnest, she spent four or five days attending to every wifely duty—tea, sweets, and all—without the slightest lapse, even cutting into her sleep to remain in the adjoining room. But as the rehearsals intensified and her own contributions grew more earnest, what suddenly caught her eye was a single woman’s obi, carefully folded and kept in her husband’s study—adorned with scattered maple leaves.

If it were merely part of purchased costumes, there would be no harm in showing it to anyone—yet his singular fixation on that obi alone, drawing it close even to his pillow at night, struck her as no ordinary attachment. This suspicion, unvoiced yet undeniable, might well have been the spark that ignited the affair. The culmination of Okono’s secret surveillance—day and night—was the obi wrapped around her husband’s chest as he secluded himself in a four-and-a-half-mat room, assuming Osen’s form: the very obi Harunobu depicted, Osen’s treasured possession.

It was no mere impulsive act of snatching [the obi] and fleeing—after two days and two nights of agonizing deliberation, she had devised this plan: pretending to prepare tea in the neighboring room before slipping away unnoticed, emerging onto the main road to hail a palanquin. She believed no one could possibly know of these arrangements—a miscalculation, perhaps—but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Shinchichi might pursue her.

“Palanquin bearers.” “My apologies, but do make haste!” “Right away, ma’am!” “Even without the moon, there’s starlight—you needn’t worry about your footing.” “The tip will be as generous as you like—so I’m counting on you.” “Partner.” “Oh—” “Did you hear that?” “I heard you.”

“As expected of Sakai-ya’s Madam—now in her prime.” “That’s the sorta line I wanna make every Edo woman hear!” “Exactly.—Madam.” “The Master’s fame’s unmatched.” “From here on out, nothin’ll stop ’im—he’s got the unstoppable momentum of sunrise itself!” “Right y’are—not that we’re sayin’ this ’cause o’ the tip—but folks say the Master’s got more class than any.” “Edo actors? No heart in ’em—and no class neither, I swear.”

“Oh, palanquin bearers. If you say such things, you’ll earn the resentment of Edo’s people.” “Ain’t nothin’ absurd about it! Anyone who’d praise the Master one moment and hate him the next ain’t nothin’ but beasts, I tell ya!” “Exactly.”

Turning left at the Yanagihara embankment, the palanquin soon approached beneath the great ginkgo tree in Mikawa-cho.

The hour was precisely the fourth of the night.

Three

At Harunobu’s residence in Shirakabe-cho, Harunobu was consulting with the carver Matsu Gorō about color matching for the preparatory sketch of *Heron Maiden*—soon to undergo block printing at Kakusendō—when his apprentice Fujikichi suddenly appeared in the doorway. Widening his acorn-shaped eyes even further, Fujikichi gave two or three rapid nods of his chin. “Master, there is a visitor.” “Who has come?” “The Madam of Sakai-ya has arrived.”

“What? The Madam of Sakai-ya?” “That’s absurd.” “It must be some kind of mistake.” “This is no mere mistake.” “It’s the genuine Madam herself!” “What business could possibly bring her here so late?” Upon hearing that Nakamura Matsue’s wife—who had never once visited before—had come calling, Harunobu found himself unable to take it seriously at first. When he looked up from his pigments, he studied Fujikichi’s face anew.

“I do not know what her business may be, but she says she really and truly wishes to meet with you as soon as possible—she’s in a great hurry to make her request—…”

“Hmm... Well, if they’ve come regardless, just show them in here.” After Fujikichi scurried off, Harunobu reluctantly gathered the preparatory sketch he’d laid before Matsu Gorō onto his desk and clicked his tongue softly. “What wretched timing for an interruption—most unfortunate.” “No need for such formalities—it’s not like I’ve got any business elsewhere anyway.” “...If you’d rather, I could go wait over there...”

“No, no—there’s no need for that. This’ll be over quick enough, so stay right where you are.” “In that case, I’ll just hunker down like a turtle in this corner here and have my smoke.”

It was just as Matsu Gorō, grinning slyly, had curled up in the corner by the shoji screen. Guided by Fujikichi, Okono’s figure appeared on the veranda like a silhouette. “Master, I have brought her.”

“Pardon me there.” “Now, come right this way.” Okono, clutching the package of turmeric, must have been in some turmoil of heart nevertheless. With her flushed face still lowered, she bowed at the threshold.

“To call upon you so late and with such discourtesy...” “Whatever your business may be, please do not hesitate to come straight through.” “No, truly—here is perfectly sufficient.” The lamplight cast elongated shadows; enveloped in mouse-gray hues, two or three strands of Okono’s hair—stiffened like stone—quivered unnaturally in the night breeze, while faint perspiration glistened across her faintly bluish-tinged cheeks. “So then, Madam—what brings you here at this late hour?”

“I have come to return the borrowed obi of Miss Osen.—”

“What? Osen’s obi.—” “Yes.” “And what reason could there be for that?”

Harunobu involuntarily widened his eyes at Okono’s unexpected words. “As it is a most precious item—and lest any mishap befall it—I concluded that returning it promptly would be the wisest course. Thus I resolved to come here.” “Then Master doesn’t intend to use this obi in the play?” “Yes. Though it pains me to say…” Okono remained motionless, biting her lip hard.

Four “Heh heh heh, Madam.” Harunobu, who had been staring fixedly at Okono’s face, twisted his lips into a wry smile. “Yes.” “Don’t you have any mind to reconsider this once more?” “Are ya tellin’ me to reconsider?” “Well now…” “Why’s that?” “Why? If ya were to ask yer own heart, you’d likely see clear.—That obi’s one I painted at Osen’s askin’, no doubt ’bout it. But ’fore I could hand it over, the Master comes beggin’—says he can’t put on his show without it—and walks off with it whether I liked it or not.” “As for Osen—if she meant to return somethin’ lent private-like all sudden-like now, she wouldn’t’ve taken it in the first place.” “Madam.” “Best not go spoutin’ such petty notions.”

“Then… if it’s just my own idea—” “Exactly. If this weren’t Osen’s obi, you certainly wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of coming all this way through the night to return it here. Even if the Master were to wear it and dance, that doesn’t mean Osen’s allure would rub off on him—and with such narrow-minded ideas, you’ll never rise above your station as an entertainer’s spouse. This may seem like unwanted meddling, but by now, the Master must be searching for the obi’s whereabouts. I’ll keep your visit here completely confidential, so you should just take it back as it is.”

“Hohoho, Master.” Okono laughed coldly from her brow. “Huh?” “Though it is your gracious kindness, this obi I brought here intending to return once and for all—even if I were to borrow it again, I would still return it tonight.” “So you insist on leaving it here no matter what, then?” “Yes.” “I see. If you insist that much, there’s no help for it—I’ll take custody of it. In exchange for that—even if the Master comes to borrow it again, I won’t be lending it out a second time—that much I’ll make damn sure of.”

“Understood.” “So I won’t be causing any further trouble…”

“Ha ha ha!” Matsu Gorō—who had been silently huddled in the corner of the room—suddenly grabbed his pipe and erupted in raucous laughter. “What’s the matter, Matsu-san?”

“It’s neither here nor there—this talk’s so damn foolish I couldn’t bear it any longer. Master, let this humble one speak his piece for a moment.”

“What’s this?”

“This ain’t your problem to fret over.” “I kept my trap shut thinkin’ it was others’ business, but—” “Madam of Sakai-ya—quit stewin’ over fool’s jealousy and we’ll all breathe easier.” “What nonsense are you spouting?” “Ain’t no crabs here worth mentionin’.” “Crabs scuttle sideways for shortcuts—folk like us can’t pull that trick.” “The world’s tighter than it looks.” “Best keep your eyes front and walk straight.” “And who might you be?”

“I’m Matsu Gorō—a lowly craftsman, see.” “Your way of handling things was too pathetic, so I had to speak up.” “Let me tell you since you don’t know—Kasamori’s Osen-bō’s made her name hating men.” “Even if your Master comes parading in a gold-nailed palanquin now, she ain’t the sort to twitch a hair—so settle yourself.” “If lovers’ squabbles start splashing over here, even Master’ll catch hell.”

Matsu Gorō said this and glared fiercely at Okono.

Five

Shinchichi, the manservant of Sakai-ya—who had been scurrying like a rat through the darkness—had likely been hurrying along Yanagihara’s embankment toward Yatsujigahara just like Okono, but his single-minded dash left him utterly disoriented. Having mistakenly turned left at the road to Shirakabe-cho, he became as bewildered as if bewitched by a fox spirit—and in that moment of confusion, from beyond the plastered wall of Honda Buzen’s estate came the sound of a woman racing toward him. When he strained his eyes through the gloom, the blurred silhouette resolving before him was unmistakably Okono.

Shinchichi started and leapt to his feet. “Oh, Madam!” “Ah—” “Where are you going?” “Where I’m going is beside the point.” “Madam, where have you been at this hour?” “As you well know, I’ve been to that artist Harunobu-san’s residence.” “Then you truly did go to Master Harunobu’s residence after all.”

“You’re asking such things again—what exactly are you after?” “By the Master’s orders, I have come to fetch you, Madam.”

“To fetch me.” “—” “Hmm… And what did you do with that obi?” “What? The obi?” “Yes. Ms. Osen’s obi—it must be that you took it, Madam.” “How would I know about such a thing?”

“No.” “You cannot claim ignorance.” “When you left earlier, Madam, you mentioned something about the obi—Shinchichi heard it clearly with these very ears.” “I don’t know, I don’t know! “The reason I went to see Mr. Harunobu wasn’t about any obi or garments.” “It’s about the Sagimusume painting that Kakusendō will be carving the blocks for this time.” “Enough—step aside there.” “No, that won’t do.” “Madam, you must have taken it without a doubt.” “Kindly return once more with me to the residence in Shirakabe-cho.”

“What nonsense are you spouting? Even if I were to go back, do you think there’d be anyone unaware? I cannot linger like this. Step aside there!” The momentum of Okono’s swiping hand must have inadvertently caused it to slip from her shoulder. The moment she released her sleeve, Shinchichi had his cheek struck hard by Okono.

“Ah!” “You hit me, didn’t you?” “I didn’t hit you. You grabbed my hand...” “You’re the one who grabbed my hand...” “Enough—I can’t stand this anymore.” “Come with me again to Harunobu-san’s residence—now.” By now, Shinchichi—who had firmly seized Okono’s wrist—must have abandoned all sense of master-servant propriety. Driven by stubborn determination to drag her along no matter what, he roughly gripped her shoulder.

“Here, Shinchichi—what do you think you’re doing?” “There’s nothing more to discuss. That obi is essential attire Master cannot do without for this upcoming performance. Even if you were to go alone, Harunobu-san would never hand it over. No matter what, I’m taking you with me.—” “No, I won’t go. No matter what you say, I won’t go!” Under the starlit sky, two forms were entangled like dogs.

“Heh heh heh heh.” “What a disgrace.” “Knew it’d come to this—that’s why I followed ya here. But Madam, this’ll disgrace the Master.” “Huh?!” “It’s me. Matsu Gorō, the carver.”

Six

In the studio left behind after Matsu Gorō—who couldn’t be restrained—had stormed out like fire, Harunobu sat alone before the obi Okono had left behind, blankly clenching his pipe between his teeth until he seemed to recall something at last. When he suddenly raised his face, he called out to Fujikichi as though spitting the name. “Fujikichi.—Hey, Fujikichi!” “Yes?”

Startled by his master’s uncharacteristically harsh tone, Fujikichi hurriedly rushed out from the adjoining room and bowed politely once more at the threshold.

“Do you require something?” “Bring the haori.” “Yes... Might you be going out somewhere...” “Less chatter, more haste.” “At once.” Utterly bewildered, Fujikichi doubled back to the adjoining room. Rattling the chest open, he returned holding out Harunobu’s preferred warbler-brown haori as though making an offering. “Will this suffice...?” Without response, Harunobu wrenched the haori from Fujikichi’s grasp—his feet having already crossed the threshold to descend the veranda.

“Master, I shall accompany you.”

“I’ll go alone.” “By yourself... Then a lantern—” But Harunobu’s mind must have been racing ahead. Ordinarily, even when taking Fujikichi along as an attendant for nighttime walks, he would always make him carry a lantern—but now he found waiting for it too vexing. With one sleeve of his haori still half-on, his figure had already vanished beyond the lattice door. “Fujikichi.—Fujikichi!” “Yes?”

The voice from the back had spent fifteen long years in service at samurai residences in Banchō until this spring. It was Harunobu’s sister Kajime. “Come here.” “Yes.” Was this what they called the discernment of a mansion dweller? Despite her disabled legs, her nearly forty-year-old face bore white powder so thick it would flake at a touch, and she always kept upon her knees a long-stemmed pipe that rarely left her grip except when sleeping. “Where had Brother-sama gone?”

“Well, where he went… I’m afraid he didn’t say a word about it...” “What are you dawdling about for? Do you think you can feign ignorance? Why did you not accompany him?” “I did say that, but the Master was in such a terrible hurry—he didn’t even tell me where he was going...” “Go at once!”

“Huh?” “Take a lantern and go after him at once—that’s what I’m telling you to do.” “But even if you say that, I don’t know which direction he went—not a clue.” “He’s only just left. If you go that far, you’ll know right away. This is no time to hesitate. Hurry. Hurry.” If he hesitated any longer under this threat of having his head struck with her raised pipe, even Fujikichi couldn’t remain seated. Clutching the lantern in one hand and the candle in the other as separate entities, Fujikichi fled from Kajime’s sight as though pursued.

Seven

Nakamura Matsue—who had kept a deep figure-eight crease between her eyebrows reflected in the mirror’s surface while persisting in her irritation—suddenly sensed someone’s presence beyond the lattice door and strained her ears intently.

“Why, good evening—good evening.”

(Oh, so it was you after all.) Having thought this, Matsue stood up and walked to the next room, then called out toward the back upstairs room where her apprentices were. “Tomie, Matsushiro—isn’t anyone here? It seems a guest has arrived.”

But while she had sent Shinchichi after Okono earlier, the two must have slipped away into the neighborhood during that interval. When Matsue called out again, no reply returned readily to her ears. “Good grief—what have you done here?” “And here we have a guest!” “—” Grumbling under her breath, Matsue herself walked over to the lattice door and deliberately lowered her voice to inquire. “Who might this be?”

“It is I.” “Ah, yes?”

“It’s Harunobu from Shirakabe-cho.” “What?!” Her surprise and her rushing down into the earthen-floored area were nearly simultaneous.

“Was it you, Master? Well, this is…” Outside the storm shutters thrown open with a clatter, Harunobu’s face—pale and solitary without even a lantern—appeared dark in the night. “I’ve no excuse to offer. But still… you’ve come all this way—” “Heh heh. It’s hardly proper, but there was something I couldn’t leave unattended.”

“We can’t talk here... Please do come this way.” “But is it all right if I come up?” “What are you saying? It may be cramped beyond measure，but pray endure it...” “Then I’ll accept without reservation—show me through... Well now，Tayū—”

Upon entering the zashiki and sitting down, Harunobu’s eyes fixed sharply on Matsue. “It may be boorish to ask this now after all this time, but the one you call Okono-san is indeed your wife, correct?” “What are you implying about Okono-san?” A shadow of deep unease fell across Matsue’s face.

“I don’t care for deeper matters—I just wanted you to confirm that one thing.” “If that woman is your wife, Tayū, then I’ve firmly resolved never to meet you again from this day forth.”

“What?! “So it’s true…”

“Tayū.” “I’m not saying this to pick a fight, but you’re fortunate to have such a fine wife.—The obi will indeed be returned from my hands to Osen, so there’s no need for concern at all.” “Please forgive me.” “I certainly didn’t come all the way out here alone so late at night just to make you apologize.” “You can spare the apologies.”

“How could this possibly count as an apology? That foolish Okono—through her thoughtless meddling where she shouldn’t have—has made you endure such unpleasantness, Master. If only there were a hole for Sakai-ya… I’d crawl right in.”

Matsue remained still for a while, her own hands covering her face. It must have been a cricket that had already perished before the frost could arrive. A faint, gasping sound was heard from beneath the floor.

moon.

I

“Come one, come all! It’s Dohei’s candy!” “Adults and children alike—bring your coins!” “This here’s the famous Dohei’s candy!” “Tasty and filling it is, with a texture so fine—a beautiful candy like Kasamori Osen’s silk-smooth skin dyed with safflower.” “Buy it now, eat it now!” “Carrot candy imported from India itself!” “Well now folks—convinced yet?”

The sun had already set, and even the moon hung in the sky.

Under the light of the evening moon, stepping on his own faint shadow while spinning clever turns of phrase in amusing fashion, came dancing and twirling none other than Dohei the candy peddler—the very man who since early spring had been roaming every corner of Edo. He was probably not yet thirty. Though his features were playful, there remained something unapproachable in his countenance—so much so that rumors spread he was a disgraced samurai hiding his status through candy peddling, which only grew his popularity all the more. At that time, the undisputed celebrities were: among actors, Kikunojō; among teahouse women, Kasamori Osen; among candy sellers, Dohei; and among artists, Harunobu.

“Wow, it’s Dohei! Dohei!” “Hey, everyone! C’mon over here, all of ya!” “Mom, gimme some coins!” “Dad, gimme me some too!” “Me too!” “Me too!” Like mosquitoes swarming under eaves, children materialized from nowhere to encircle Dohei—cheering wildly whether they bought candy or not—while even the mistresses scrubbing rice at tenement wells came shuffling out wiping their hands on aprons, a spectacle so quintessentially Edo that the patrolmen could only roll their eyes at the townsfolk’s insatiable thirst for novelty.

“Come one, come all—over here! No need to fret over prices being high or low.” “If you’re gonna deliberate, head to Yanaka!” “Yanaka’s a fine place—let’s have tea at Osen’s teahouse.” “Let’s smoke tobacco.” “Smoke tobacco and blow out smoke—if you look at Osen through the haze, she’s as cute as not yet eighteen.” “Dimples soften into a haze, just alluring enough.” Poking the hazy dimple—“Hey there, Miss Osen!” “Though I play the fool here, I’m head over heels—there may be days when crows don’t caw, but never a day I sleep soundly without glimpsing her!” “If you glance sideways at the clattering geta—blooming cherry blossom or hibiscus flower—what a splendid Mount Fuji she is!” “C’mon, buy it now, buy it quick!” “It’s Dohei’s prized carrot candy!” “No need for hesitation!” “Buy it quick!” “Buy it and fall for Osen!”

Dohei’s song, now accompanied by gestures, grew increasingly entertaining as the moonlight sharpened its clarity—so much so that not just children, but most adults forming a ring around him were passersby who had stopped to watch. “Ha ha ha! So this is the famous Dohei they keep talking about.” “My word, that’s impressive!” “With pipes like that, even Mojidayū would kick off his sandals!”

“Oh, but you’re too kind, sir.” “That is none other than the supremely renowned Dohei.” “A voice this fine—even if you searched with gongs and drums—is not something you often find.” “Is this the first time you’re hearing Dohei’s voice, sir?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“This is utterly absurd! Dohei’s become quite the spectacle in Edo lately!” “Well, I’d heard the rumors before, but seeing him with my own eyes is a first. Truly astonishing! I’ve no honor to speak of, I assure you.” “Hahahaha! If we’re talking celebrities, sir, I’d wager you still favor Osen over all!” “That is not the case at all…” “Don’t try to hide it—it’s written plain on your face!”

It was just as one of the spectators pointed at the face of a nearby elder that someone suddenly shouted in a shrill voice. “Osen is here!” “Osen’s come back over there!”

II

“What? Osen, you say?” “Where? Where?” The people who had been utterly engrossed in watching Dohei the candy seller’s comical gestures turned their heads in unison toward the east upon hearing the sudden cry of “Osen is here!” that seemed to spring out of nowhere. “Where is she?”

“There she is!” “She’s coming under that pine tree!”

At the bend of a diagonally winding road, beneath a massive pine tree with a trunk so thick it would take two men to encircle it, a faint figure moved forward alone—bathing in the gradually sharpening light of the evening moon—advancing as quietly as a single white chrysanthemum blooming in the wild. That was unmistakably Osen returning from the teahouse. “That’s her, no mistake.” “That’s certainly Osen.” “There, go!” As soon as they broke into a run, their sandal straps snapped—apprentices dashing off while still clutching their geta, craftsmen tripping over stones and tumbling head over heels. Then came the neighborhood’s worldly priests, their eyes narrowed in pursuit, leaving even the common folk in their dust—such was the spectacle. In the end, whether men or women, they must have been an immense nuisance to Osen; casting aside all restraint and decorum with shameless boldness—more spirited than going to see leashed dogs—they surged forward in a great wave.

“Cut it out, Naosan! If you push like that, we’ll fall!” “Why should I care if people fall? Holding back won’t get me anywhere! If we don’t hurry over and get close, Osen-chan’ll go back home!” “Whoa there! Back, back! Ain’t no night watchman’s business to look at her!”

“Don’t take me for a fool.” “Even a night watchman’s still a man.” “A pretty lass like that’s worth seein’!” “Back, back!”

“Fire! Fire!”

People’s hearts rode on hearts, spurring them to ever greater fervor. The fact that they didn’t have to pay for tea, combined with the chaos of the moment—was this mischief born from thinking that even a fingertip’s touch might be within reach? It was Dohei the candy seller who watched with a wry smile as the crowd rushed over breathlessly, seizing their chance.

“Heh heh heh.” “They didn’t even buy any candy before rushin’ off to Osen-bō—how damn extravagant.” “Compared to someone like me with a face like rusted iron, who knows how much better that Osen-bō is—slick as if she’d just crawled outta an oil jar.” “Ah well, in the floatin’ world, nothin’ matters more’n women.” “In my next life, even if I’m born a mutt, I’ll come back as a woman.” —Achoo! “This ain’t good.” “Must be ’cause everyone scattered all sudden-like—got snot drippin’ outta me now.” “Catchin’ a cold’d be trouble. Reckon I oughta pack up ’n head back, I s’pose.”

“Hey, candy seller!” “Yeah, yeah—you there, why ain’tcha headin’ over?” “’Cause I don’t wanna.”

“So you don’t wanna go?” “That’s right.” “Even someone like me knows shame, y’know.” “Interesting. “For humans, knowing shame is the best thing there is.” “More than anything? More than trifles? You think you know best?” “It’s precisely because I know shame that I can’t get anywhere in life.” “What might your honorable trade be?” “I’m a painter.” “And your name?” “A name? Like I have one!” “Whose disciple are you?” “I’m my own disciple.” “Masters and teachers ain’t nothin’ but dead weight for painters—they don’t do a lick of good.”

As he said this, Harushige, the eccentric, rubbed the tip of his nose.

III

“Whoa there, Osen-chan! What’s got you rushing like this? Everyone’s making this much of a commotion here, you know! Won’t even show us a single dimple, huh?” “That’s right! That’s right! You’ve no idea how long we’ve been waitin’! If you go hurrying back like that, there’s no point in us waitin’!” The crowd, now fully aware, had surrounded Osen midway—as if they had long forgotten about Dohei the candy seller standing there dumbstruck—each vying to be first under cover of the evening’s deepening gloom, thrusting their noses forward like hounds on a scent.

But Osen, who would usually show her charm without needing prompting—what could have come over her today? Not showing her dimples was one thing, but her brisk, almost brusque manner—as if she were a different person entirely—left even the crowd without courage to spread their arms and block her path. They could only wag their tongues with practiced skill, growing increasingly frantic in their attempts to detain her even a moment longer.

“If you would, please step aside there.” “If we step aside, you’re just gonna leave.” “Ah, never mind—just stay here and entertain us!” “I’m in a hurry.” “Please bear with me today.” “Even if you go ahead, there’s no path forward except going home.” “Or have you found yourself a lover somewhere?” “Why would you say such a thing?…” “If that ain’t it, then there’s no problem, right?” “But Mother…—”

“You’ve been seeing your mother’s face since the day you were born.” “You must’ve gotten sick of seeing her face by now.” “That’s right, Osen.” “We’ll all escort you home later—why not tell us about today’s teahouse happenings?” “I have nothing to say about the teahouse.—Please let me through.” “Whether it’s stories about the paper shop’s young master or tales of the magistrate’s worthless son—there must be plenty to talk about, don’tcha think?”

“I don’t know.” “Mother has caught a cold and is lying ill all alone, so if I don’t hurry back, I’ll be worried sick.” “Your mother’s got a cold, huh?” “Yes.” “That ain’t good.” “If you want, I’ll go check on her for ya.” “I’m comin’ too!” “I’m coming too.” “No, there’s no need for that—” The very human desire to detain Osen even a moment longer made their tongues ever more frivolous, yet the encircling wall of people showed no sign of dispersing easily.

Suddenly, a laugh—Ha ha ha—wrenched from the depths of someone’s gut surged through the crowd’s ears. “Ha ha ha! Everyone—quit these disgraceful antics and let Osen-chan go home already, why don’tcha?” “You’re Harushige, ain’t ya?” “Quit your worthless yappin’ and back off, back off!”

“Heh heh heh.” “You all lack any tact.” “Osen-chan’s got her own business to take care of.” “Instead of makin’ boorish attempts to stop her, you should’ve sent her home quick as can be.” “Quit your nonsense!” “We ain’t takin’ your meddlin’!” While the crowd’s gazes were still gathering upon Harushige, Osen had already slipped away to hide in the shadow of the moon.

Four

“Mother.” “Oh, Osen—is that you?” “Yes.” At the sound of Osen’s voice—rushing in like a mouse pursued by a cat—her mother Okishi, who had been hurrying to prepare the evening meal, now harbored some ominous premonition in her breast and slid open the kitchen shutter with a clatter. “Do come in now.” “No.” “But you’re so out of breath.” “It’s nothing serious, but Kuro from the brush shop was playing around there just now.…”

“Oh ho ho ho.” “When Kuro wags his tail and plays like that, it’s because he’s fond of you.” “I thought someone had played another nasty trick on me and got all startled, didn’t I?” “Kuro isn’t the type to bite—there’s no danger with the golden short sword here. You didn’t need to come fleeing back.—Come over here.” “I’ll smooth down your hair for you, so…”

"Oh, my hair is so..." —— Without heading to her mother’s side, Osen entered her own four-and-a-half-mat sitting room, immediately removed the mirror’s lid, and peered intently at herself in the twilight. After swiftly tucking back two or three strands of hair that had strayed at her collar, she once again looked all around her.

“Mother.” “Right here.” “While I was away, did someone come in here?” “Oh my! What nonsense! Ain’t no rat gets in there much. Has something unusual happened, perhaps?” “Well, just a little…” “What’s this all about—” Osen hurriedly blocked her mother, who had peered through a gap in the shoji with half her face visible. “It’s nothing worth worrying about. Please go stay over there.”

“Oh dear, I really shouldn’t have come here.” Ever since that night three days prior—when, around the fourth hour, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy claiming to be a messenger from Hamachō had delivered a woman in a palanquin—Okishi had been told by Osen that, due to a vow made to Kannon, she must not enter the four-and-a-half-mat room for thirty days to come, no matter what occurred. Even during my absence, Mother had been strictly warned that if she so much as set foot in here, her eyes would be gouged out—and so, without fully understanding why, she had rigidly adhered to my request, fearing this room as if it were a taboo direction. Yet upon hearing that someone might have entered while I was away, even she couldn’t help but panic, abandoning the half-prepared clam soup on the brazier to peer inside abruptly with one eye.

The room’s interior, dimly lit by faint moonlight streaming through the window, allowed shapes to be barely discernible—yet even upon the newly replaced tatami mats, dark shadows stretched diagonally, and the gaze fixed upon them was as deep as the sea. Mother must have immediately returned to the kitchen, for once again the sound of the coarse fan stoking beneath the brazier grew erratic. In the dim room where nothing could be clearly seen, Osen stared into the mirror once more. In the mirror’s faintly glowing depths, the more she focused her gaze, the fainter her own face grew—gradually dissolving into paleness—until even her crescent-shaped eyebrows, once a point of pride, thinned to silken threads and vanished into shadow.

“Kicchan.—” Suddenly, as Osen looked away from the mirror’s surface, her lips parted slightly. At the same time, as if drawn by some force, her body approached the cupboard. “I’m sorry.” “I’ve made you wait all alone like this.—” While saying this, Osen’s trembling hand pressed against the sliding door’s handle.

Five

The room's interior grew increasingly dark.

What Osen had just carried out to the corner of that dark room—holding it close to her chest while warily scanning her surroundings—was Segawa Kikunojō’s living doll: delivered three nights prior via palanquin from Yusai’s workshop, exactly replicating Yaoya Oshichi’s stage appearance. Osen positioned the doll she held facing east at the room’s center, likely intending for it to catch the faint moonlight directly. Without a sound, she gradually began sliding open the window’s shoji.

In the garden, no insect voices chirped; the distant cries of wild geese crossing the sky echoed hollowly in her ears. “Kicchan.—No, Master, I wanted to meet you.” As if speaking to a living counterpart, Osen looked up at the doll with every semblance of longing—her eyes holding dewdrops of affection that only seemed to lodge in vain—and whether imagined or not, her voice trembled with single-minded intensity. “From morning till night—no, more than that—my whole life, I want to be with you, Master. But no matter what I say, you are Edo’s foremost female-role actor now.” “In contrast, I’m just a teahouse tea-server—no different from broken straw sandals discarded along the roadside.” “Even if I walked a hundred nights’ path to meet you, our old tales would never come true.” “That’s why—out of this meager devotion—I had Mr. Yusai complete your Oshichi from my dreams and secretly brought her here.” “Compared to your residence, this place isn’t even fit to be a storage shed—but here alone is our world without intruders.” “Please endure this and keep me company—whether ten years ago when I grew up in Ōji or now when I frequent the theater, not a hair’s breadth has changed in my heart.” I could never forget that spring day when they teased us during make-believe play—calling Kicchan and Osen-chan husband and wife—nor were there just one or two nights I spent weeping till dawn. Osen being of marriageable age—Mother’s occasional worries about suitors—all such talk goes through my ears like empty wind. I’ve always thought how I envy Oshichi who perished in flames. Master—you keep two villas besides your splendid wife. “You may have countless admirers and patrons, but even if I pine away like this, I’ll still be your wife.”

Startled by the tears she had shed without realizing—dampening her own sleeves—Osen jerked her head up with a gasp. But whether her mother in the kitchen had heard remained unclear; only two or three lingering coughs from her not yet recovered cold echoed one after another.

For a while, Osen kept her eyes closed, face still bowed. Within the depths of those eyes, memories of childhood days flashed like lightning. “Osen.”

Mother’s voice was heard.

“Yes.” “It’s so dark—and you haven’t even lit a lamp.” “Yes. It’s not particularly dark.” “I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but dinner’s ready—let’s eat, you know.”

“Yes, I’ll be right there.” “If you stay alone in the dark, the rats will get you.” In the neighboring room, Mother must have trimmed the lamp wick. The shoji suddenly brightened, and the sound of setting the meal drew near her ear.

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

“Osen.” “Wha—?” “No need to be startled. It’s me.” Osen froze in place like fire tongs.

Six

“Wh-Who might you be?” “Shut it—keep quiet.” “Ain’t nothin’ shady here.” “It’s me.” “Ah! You’re Brother—” —” “Damn it, I said keep your voice down!” “If this gets to Mom’s ears, things’ll turn sour.” As he spoke, he braced his elbow against the bay window’s edge, hoisted himself up smoothly, and—while skillfully slipping off the zori on his right foot with his hand and tucking them into his three-foot sash—landed on the blue tatami like a cat. This was Senkichi, her brother who had left home three years ago without even letting rumors hint at his whereabouts. His deep indigo-speckled unlined kimono and abacus-bead-patterned obi clearly weren’t a respectable man’s attire; particularly infuriating was how composed he looked, roughly clutching the cloth wrapped around his head and cheeks.

Utterly unprepared for this unimaginable turn of events, Osen remained rooted to the spot, unable to muster a single word in response. “Osen.” “You—how old are you now?” “I am eighteen.” “Eighteen…” Senkichi nodded with a bitter smile as he said that, but while keeping an eye on the neighboring room, he lowered his voice further. “Ain’t no reason to be scared—don’t go backing away now, just stay put.” “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ like eatin’ my own sister I haven’t seen in ages.”

“Please let me light the lamp.” “Whoa there—if you go and do that, I’ll be in a real fix.” “Even if it looks damn dark out here, I ain’t some upstanding merchant who came here with a square obi tied proper in the back.” “No shame in admittin’ it—I’m a 5-1-3-6 yakuza.” “I ain’t got no face to show you or Ma, but I got a little favor someone asked me to do—got caught up in obligations and came here.” “Osen, I’m sorry, but won’t you listen to my request?”

“Brother, what sort of matter might that be?” “If I start explainin’ all the whys and wherefores, it’ll be a damn long story—but to cut it short, or rather, I’m in need of money.” “Money...?” “Yeah.” “As for me, money…” “Now hold on.” “I know it’s sudden—comin’ outta nowhere like this from my mouth—and you’re right to shake your head, but I ain’t just barged in here without some kinda plan.” “There’s a little vine I noticed there.” —Hey, Osen. “You know the Young Master of Tachibana-ya in Tōyu-chō, don’t you?”

“What…?” “A young master named Tokutarō who ain’t easy to handle.” “Well… I might know him, or I might not…” “This ain’t no magistrate’s court—no need for hidin’ nothin’.” “Even if you say you don’t know, that excuse won’t wash.” “Ain’t they sayin’ he’s so smitten he’d sell off the family warehouse without battin’ an eye?”

“Oh, Brother…” “Ain’t no call to be shy.” “It’s not like I’m the one goin’ moon-eyed here—if he’s sweet on you, that’s his own doin’.—Osen.” “So here’s the thing—how ’bout you play along like you’re interested?” “Huh?!” “You’re eighteen too, ain’t ya?” “Even if you could swing that kinda act, it’d just bring shame, y’know.” Senkichi stared at the faltering Osen and, sitting square-shouldered, pressed closer.

Seven “Listen, Brother…”

The moon must have been covered by clouds. In the room where not even light leaked through the shoji screens, only the faint glow from a neighboring lamp dimly revealed the two figures’ upper bodies; even after three years apart, Osen could not clearly discern her brother’s face as they sat facing each other. In that darkness, Osen’s voice quivered softly.

“Brother.” “Huh?” “Please go home.” “What do you mean? You’re tellin’ me to go home?!” “Yes.”

“This ain’t no joke. It’s precisely ’cause I’ve got business that I went outta my way to come here. How’m I s’posed to just leave like this?! Instead’a that, why don’tcha listen straight up? If you’d just nod yes, there ain’t no problem at all. Hey, Osen. Even some stranger—if you laid out the situation proper—wouldn’t flat refuse. I’m your brother.—Your blood kin, your only brother. And it ain’t like I’m askin’ for a full hundred neither. Twenty-five ryō—just a quarter-piece—and we’re square.”

“Twenty-five ryō.—” “How disgraceful.” “Ain’t even some jaw-droppin’ sum.”

“But, that kind of money…” “So there.” “Like I’ve been sayin’ from the start—I ain’t above yankin’ it out from your ma’s womb or yours.” “That Young Master’s got his sights set on you—Tokutarō of Tachibana-ya, that useless lump.” “Heh heh heh.” “Nothin’ complicated about it.” “All you gotta do here’s say one word.” “Just mutter ‘How I’ve missed you’ or some such tripe, an’ they’ll hear my plea.” “Even Buddha curin’ eye rot with amacha tea weren’t simpler than this, eh?”

“Even so, I…” “...saying things I don’t mean...” “Th-that... That’s exactly where you’re thinkin’ wrong.” “Whether it’s in your gut or not—samurai have their stratagems, monks their expedient means. Depending on the time and place, folks’ll even slit a man’s throat as he sleeps, won’t they?” “Now, here’s brush and paper.” “Just scribble a line or two—ain’t like you’ll get yourself a nice reply otherwise.” Senkichi pulled from his breast pocket a roll of paper and a writing set. Osen hurriedly pulled back her hand.

“Please forgive me.” “There ain’t nothin’ you gotta apologize for. If you’re sayin’ it’s too dark to write, then ain’t no help for it. I’ll light the lamp for you.” “Wait.—” This time, Osen restrained Senkichi’s hand. “What’re you doin’?” “I simply cannot bring myself to do it.” “Then even after I’ve bowed my head this much to beg you, it still ain’t enough?” “This isn’t like other matters—even among all my customers, he’s the one I dislike most. Whether it’s a lie or a joke, I simply cannot bring myself to do something that leaves me unsettled.”

“Osen. You plannin’ to let your own brother die?” “What’re you sayin’?!” “If you shake your head sayin’ no, then I’ll be tied to a post tomorrow whether I like it or not—all ’cause I lost the important money someone entrusted to me. —That’d be just fine too. You ain’t laughin’ behind my back.”

“Brother.”

“I won’t ask anything more of you.” “I’ll just go home and let myself be tied up now.”

Senkichi deliberately stood up with excessive force and stomped over to the window.

Suddenly, from the neighboring room, Okishi’s sobbing voice could be heard through the shoji.

**Letter**

1

“Young Master—pardon me, Young Master of Aburaya.” “Ah! You’re Senkichi.” “Where you rushin’ off to in such a hurry, sir?” “Your place.” “What, my place? Hah!—My hovel ain’t no place fittin’ for your visit, Young Master. It’s naught but a brazier-box—a cramped tenement row house split into cubbies, see…” “Small or grand—I’ve no mind for such trifles.”

“What do you mean?” “Aren’t I just headin’ over to have you let me hear that reply I asked for?” “Ha ha ha.” “So you’re goin’ outta your way to come all this way for that, sir?” “Well now, ain’t that mighty kind of you.” “As for that matter, kindly spare yourself any further concern.” “Oh! In that case, Mr. Senkichi—Osen’s reply.—” “If I may say so, once Honest Senkichi here’s taken on a task, he ain’t about to go breakin’ no promises.”

“I’m sorry.” I had thought as much, but was this truly love after all? I couldn’t wait a moment longer to hear her reply—I’d paced between the accounting lattice and the second floor ninety-nine times until finally losing all patience and coming here. “If that’s settled, then please let me hear her favorable reply at once.” “N-now hold on there, sir.” “Even if you weren’t in such a hurry, I’d let you hear Osen’s reply straightaway—but here we stand roadside. Can’t guarantee nobody’ll spot us.” “Why don’t we find a proper place to sit down proper-like and have a look?”

“Sure, we’ll eventually go over it properly while having a meal, but first—just let me take a quick look at the letter’s address here, won’t you?”

“Set your mind at ease.” “The address is secondary—from contents to seal, there’s no mistakin’ it’s Osen’s own work.” “She’s prided herself on her penmanship since she was seven or eight—never once took second place among her calligraphy mates.” “Me? I can barely scratch out the ‘shi’ for ‘pawnshop’ and the ‘tan’ in ‘Mankintan,’ but Osen here writes your name proper in square characters—handwriting too fine for a teahouse girl.” “Here’s how it stands—I’ve got it safe in my pocket. So step aboard this trusted vessel of mine, won’tcha?”

“I’m reassured, but isn’t it only human to want to see it right away? Don’t play the fool—just a quick peek here will do. Show me right now.” “Beggin’ your patience. This here’s my little sister’s firm request—not to show it out on the roadside like this...” “Well now! What astonishing boorishness!” “Do try to understand. From Osen’s view—writin’ her first letter herself, like it’s her first blush of love and all. Bein’ twice-shy’s only natural, ain’t it? If some busybody saw us unfurlin’ this on the street—Young Master, our timid Osen’d be beside herself beyond reckonin’. I know I’m bein’ crude about it. Please... just grasp this bit here...”

Along a narrow path from Yanaka to Ueno that followed Kan’ei-ji Temple’s earthen wall—where young cherry leaves resembling those in Kōrin’s paintings lay scattered across the ground—stood Young Master Tokutarō and Senkichi, Osen’s brother, bathed in the evening sun. Their minds had been agitated by their quarrel over whether to reveal or conceal Osen’s letter containing her favorable reply, but they must have sensed further argument would prove futile. At last, Tokutarō hunched his slender neck.

“I’m too short-tempered—no matter where I go, I simply can’t bear to walk. Senkichi, why don’t we have you call a palanquin right away?” “Right you are.” Senkichi nodded without hesitation.

II

It was not long after that when Tokutarō and Senkichi had the palanquin stop at Shunsōtei by Shinobazu Pond. Tokutarō, not waiting for the maid’s guidance, rushed in as if dashing, took Senkichi’s hand, and led him into the inner parlor. “Now, Mr. Senkichi.” “Right.” “Show me quickly.” “What would that be?” “Oh? What else could it be?” “Isn’t it Osen’s letter?” “Oh right.” “I’d completely forgotten about this.” “Because you said you couldn’t show it on the roadside, I went to the trouble of hurrying the palanquin and came all the way here.” “Well then, let me see this important letter as soon as possible.”

“I’ll show it—” “Don’t just flap your mouth—show it already!” “I’ll show it—but hold on just a sec there, sir.” “Before that, Young Master—I’ve got one little favor to ask of you, so…” “What’s this, getting all formal—?” “Well, the thing is… from Osen herself…” “What? Osen has a request for me?” “Right.”

“Then why didn’t you say so sooner?” “There’s no end to what I’d like to tell you, but seeing as it’s a rather presumptuous matter, well… truth be told, even I found it difficult to bring up.”

“Nonsense!” “Such pointless reservations are just standoffish!” “No need for such reservations—just spit it out.” “If it’s within my power, I’ll surely grant any wish—so…”

“Well, thank you kindly.” “If I were to tell Osen, there’s no telling how overjoyed she’d be.” “Now then, Young Master—”

“What’s that?” “As for that request I mentioned—” “And this request of hers—?” “Money.—” “What’s this all about? Money? If I may say so—I am Tokutarō of Tachibana-ya, known throughout Edo. If it’s Osen’s request, I’ll never refuse. So go ahead and say it.” “No matter how vast the sum may be—if it’s for her sake—I don’t intend to refuse.” “Oh ho ho, I’m most obliged.” “Well now—Osen! You’ve really snared him good!” “Who’d have thought she’d snag such a rat…?”

“Now, Mr. Senkichi—what are you saying? Comparing me to a rat...” “Wh-what are you saying—I ain’t called you no rat.” “What I said was that I’d keep servin’ you loyal as a rat from here on out, Young Master.” “You’re quite the smooth talker...” “My tongue’s terribly poor leather—ain’t a man who can hold proper chatter in front o’ others. But with you, Young Master—somehow don’t feel like no total stranger—end up blabberin’ loose all casual-like.” “—Hey, Young Master.” “Please, Young Master—just lend Osen twenty-five ryō.”

“What, twenty-five ryō.—” “Young Master of Tachibana-ya, renowned in Edo.” “Twenty-five ryō is but a trifling sum for you, Young Master—isn’t it?” As he said this, Senkichi retrieved Osen’s letter—which he had concealed deep in his kimono—and produced it. I gratefully acknowledge. Respectfully yours, From Sen

Young Master sir

The front of the letter contained only this.

III

At Yanagiyu Bathhouse in the early morning, a motley crowd—young locals, a low-ranking samurai who carved toothpicks, and pleasure-seekers staggering home at dawn—had coiled around the pomegranate-shaped entrance and its outer perimeter, their vigor ranging from robust to spent. For a fleeting hour, they unfurled a naked human scroll requiring only a single hand towel, heedless of shame or reputation. In such moments, the same topics inevitably spewed forth from every mouth: which gambling den Nan-kichi had won at lately; which woman from such-and-such place had lately grown infatuated with whom; if not that, then theater gossip, Yoshiwara scandals, or tales of teahouse women near Kannon Temple—all likely born from the universal urge to flaunt one’s knowledge the instant lips parted. Beads of sweat pooled on their foreheads as they all chatted away in high spirits—there was something amusing about it. Among them were retirees who—declaring they had no need to even wash their faces—planted themselves at the center of the washing area, bending and stretching their barrel-like bodies this way and that, splashing foam onto their neighbors; and others, semi-invalids flaunting plaster-covered backs, who indiscriminately proclaimed the virtues of Kōbō Daishi’s moxibustion. The bathhouse had been bustling like a meeting hall since morning.

“Oi, Chōkei! Didja hear?” “What about?” “Quit playin’ dumb—I mean Senkichi cleanin’ up big!” “Nah.” “Nah. Ain’t heard.” “Thick as mud, you are.”

“But you—if ya don’t know, ya don’t know.” “Damn—where’d that lazy bum manage t’rake in that much cash, huh?”

“No matter where ya look—that bastard’s runnin’ one helluva scam.” “Hmm, he’s capable of somethin’ that elaborate?”

“It’s the mark that’s good.” “A sucker?” “A dyed-in-the-wool Edoite!” “Now hold on—ain’t it strange for an Edoite to fall for his scam?” “Even if it’s a scam, it ain’t no dice game, I tell ya!” “Oh, so it ain’t dice?” “The woman’s the bait.” “Woman…” “They lured the mark and made a killin’.” “That’s even more news to me.—So who’s this mark from where?” “The young master of Tachibana-ya—the paper merchant in Aburachō.”

“Huh, that’s a good one.” “That’s the one. It’s a good laugh—but a damn shame. Senkichi used his sister Osen as bait and swindled a whopping twenty-five ryō from the Young Master, that bastard.” “What? Twenty-five ryō?!” “How about that? That’s one hell of a score, ain’t it?” “This ain’t no joke! Twenty-five ryō—I mean, that’s twenty-five koban coins! If this were two ryō or two ryō and two bu, I could still make sense of it—but twenty-five ryō? Ain’t no way. Even if someone traded that guy’s head for cash, you couldn’t borrow that kinda money. Gimme a break with the jokes already!”

“Hmph, you can’t just say you don’t know and leave it at that.” “I saw it myself—right now, with these two eyes!” “Twenty-five golden koban—when’ll you ever see that kinda haul again?” “Heh heh... golden koban.” “Won’t you tell me that story proper-like?” As he spoke, Harushige the eccentric artist slithered his head out from the bathhouse’s split-gourd entrance. “Harushige-san—you were here all along?” “Course I was—that’s why I poked my head out.” “Sounds one hell of an interesting tale, don’t it?”

Harushige grinned again.

Four

“Heh heh heh... Golden koban—why’d you suddenly go mute?” “Ain’t ya gonna spill it?” “It’s not like your guts’ll twist from talkin’.” Harushige’s demeanor—slithering out from the bathhouse entrance to the washing area—clung with its usual uncanny stickiness, casting a chill through Kanzō the umbrella maker that he couldn’t shake off. “Ain’t even worth tellin’,” muttered Chōkichi. “The hell you mean ‘not worth tellin’?” “Twenty-five ryō—for a dirt-poor wretch like me, dawdle around and that’s more gold than you’ll ever see ’fore you croak.” “Hearin’ someone wrangled that much by hook or crook—ain’t no Shidōken tall tale, but even if it’s bullshit, I gotta hear how it ends.” “So they say the mark was Tachibana-ya’s Young Master—that straight?”

“What the hell are you plannin’ to do with that information?” The one who frowned and watched Harushige was Chōkichi the plasterer, whom Kanzō called “Brother.” “Well, I ain’t plannin’ nothin’ special... If that’s really true, I’d like to borrow a bit from the Young Master myself.” “Borrow from the Young Master?”

“Well now…” “But rest assured.” “The way I’m borrowin’ ain’t some big-shot sum like twenty-five or thirty ryō.” “Just two bu or one ryō tops.” “And I ain’t usin’ no cheap tricks or schemes neither.” “I’ll bring a proper fine item and borrow it proper-like while watchin’ the Young Master’s happy face.”

“That ain’t gonna work.” “What do you mean?” “It ain’t gonna work. The Young Master of Tachibana-ya ain’t gonna lend you money even if you brought him armor bestowed by a daimyo.—The only thing that man wants in all of Japan is Kasamori Osen’s affection—there ain’t nothin’ else to it.” “That’s why I’m gonna go get someone to buy that thing from Osen’s own body!” “A part of her very body—”

“That’s right. If others wanted it, this ain’t the kinda item you’d trade for less than a hundred ryō—but since it’s the Young Master who’s head-over-heels for Osen, I’ll grit my teeth and settle for one ryō to start.” “Harushige-san. You went and made another one of your worthless trinkets again, didn’t you?” “Ain’t no joke—what I’ve got here’s heaven and earth apart from some slapped-together trinket!” “Even if you say it’s different, stuff like that ain’t exactly plentiful as pebbles now, is it?”

“But there is one, and that’s what makes it so damn interesting, ain’t it?”

“That—what’re you even goin’ on about?” “Nails.”

“Huh?” “It’s the nails, I tell ya.” "Nails." “That’s right.” “They’re genuine nails that were attached to Osen’s own body—no lies about ’em.” “Don’t—don’t take me for a fool. “Even if they’re Osen’s, nails ain’t good for nothin’.” “Quit jokin’ around already.” “Hmph, I can’t deal with someone who don’t know the value of things.” "The only things on a woman’s body that grow nonstop all year round are her hair and nails." "And outta those, nails are the ones that’ll grow noticeable if ya don’t look at ’em for three days.—Three hundred on all the fingers, and when ya put ’em in a bran bag, that’s about half." “If these pure nails of Osen’s were priced at just a single koban, the Young Master’d pounce on ’em like a cat—clearer than seein’ his own mug in a polished mirror, I tell ya.”

Around Harushige had formed a circle of naked onlookers.

5

“Sen. You’ve really honed your skills, huh?” “Heh heh heh.” “This ain’t no laughin’ matter. Twenty-five ryō—you’ve made a hefty bundle there.” “Where did you hear that?”

“Walls have ears.” “Earlier, at the Kanda bathhouse I rushed into on my way by, some guy named Kanzō the umbrella maker was boastfully telling everyone all about your business as if it were his own doing.”

“That guy’s already gone and blabbed about all that unnecessary stuff?” “It ain’t a matter of whether he talked or kept his mouth shut.” “You wrapped up the young master of the paper shop—”

At the midpoint of Ryōgoku Bridge—said to mark the border between Shimousa and Musashi provinces—Senkichi leaned absently against the bridge girder, staring at the bobbing heads of turtles sold for five mon each by a shabby old woman. Then Takegorō, a Hosokawa clan stablehand passing by, tapped him briskly on the back and quickly told him about the Tachibana-ya affair—how Kanzō had been blabbing about it at Yanagiyu bathhouse. But just as Takegorō sniffed his nose and grinned again, Senkichi—spotting Onishichi approaching from the opposite direction while inquiring about police inspector Inoue Fujikichi’s business—silenced him with a swift look.

“Shut it!” “Crap.” “Don’t you dare go blabbin’.” “Got it.” As Takegorō slipped away smoothly, Onishichi was already closing in on Senkichi’s position.

“Senkichi.” “You—what’re you loiterin’ round here for?” “Oh...” “Went to pay respects at my old man’s grave today.” “Just passin’ through on my way back, see...”

“Grave visit.” “Oh.” “Since when did you develop such noble intentions?” “Please, have mercy.” “Spare me the excuses—I’ve just run into you at the perfect spot. Got a couple things I wanna ask—so come along with me.” “Oh.” “No need to get all jittery. No need to fret—since I’m the one askin’ ya to come along.”

Though called Onishichi—a name meaning "demon seventh"—his appearance was anything but sinister: a freshly tied topknot tousled by the river breeze framed his handsome, clean-cut features, giving him a dashing air.

At high tide, the Sumida River—cradling vast autumn waters—stretched with crystalline clarity that made one imagine it reaching as far as Mount Tsukuba's distant foothills. Square-sailed boats ascending from Ayase toward Senju threaded through the river's breadth in silence, like plovers skimming water. While stealing glances at this riverside vista unfurled like a picture scroll, Senkichi and Onishichi walked shoulder-to-shoulder across the bridge toward Asakusa Gate. "Senkichi—you went to Osen's place, didn't you?"

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” “Haven’t met my sister once these past three years.” “Heh.” “Cut the worthless lies.” “Told ya already—ain’t here to sweat you.” “Got my own business to ask.” “Won’t bite ya none, so spit it straight.” “What sort of business...” “Heard tell Segawa Kikunojō’s been sneakin’ to Osen’s place nightly—you know ’bout that, don’tcha?”

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

6

Onishichi’s question struck Senkichi as utterly unexpected. That Osen had cherished Kikunojō since childhood—had never harbored dislike—and how completely she devoted herself to him went without saying. But that Kikunojō—now celebrated as Edo’s foremost female-role actor—would visit Osen of his own volition every night? Where could such a rumor have sprouted? Even accounting for the smudged half-baked prints circulating through town, the story’s contradictions ran too deep—Senkichi found himself involuntarily scrutinizing Onishichi’s expression.

“Why’re you making such a suspicious face?” “Why do you ask... It’s just that I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re inquiring about, Master...” “You say you can’t make heads or tails of what I’m askin’—what part ain’t clear?” “Even if you begged Hamamuraya with your life, he wouldn’t deign to visit Osen’s place.” “You’re still hiding something.” “Not at all—there’s no lie or anything hidden. I’ve been telling you nothing but the truth...”

“Senkichi.”

“Huh?” “When you went there a few days ago—who was Osen talking to? Tell me that.” “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s right. Osen wasn’t alone, was she? There must’ve been someone with her.” “Aside from my mother being in the neighboring room, there was indeed no one else who could be considered a proper person.” “Heh heh heh—wasn’t Oshichi there?” “Oshichi?!” “Well? There should’ve been Hamamuraya wearing Oshichi’s costume, properly dressed. You saw it with your own eyes, didn’t ya?” “That’s… Master—” “There’s no such thing—none of that. I’m asking about that.”

“Couldn’t it have been a doll?” “Quit playin’ dumb.” “I ain’t so far gone I’d mistake a livin’ soul for some doll.” “That was Kikunojō—no two ways about it.”

“I can’t rightly say for certain…” “You’ve gotten above yourself.” “Got it.—Enough now, scram.” “Much obliged, but—Master, supposin’ that really was Hamamuraya… what’d you have me do?...” “Ain’t a damn thing to do.” “If there’s nothin’ to do… then nothin’.—” “Wanna know?” “Please, Master—be so kind as to tell me.”

“Hamamuraya’s gotta quit bein’ an actor.” “What do you mean?” “I ain’t sayin’ even if my lips get torn off.” “Lady Ren, younger sister of Lord Shinano no Kami of the Minami-machi Magistrate’s office, is Hamamuraya’s foremost patron in all Japan.” “Then, uh... regarding Lord Iki’s return—” “Shut it. Ain’t your place to ask ’bout that.” “Ain’t your place to blather ’bout unnecessary shit.” “Oh.”

“Go on, get out.” “Thank you kindly.”

Senkichi bowed his head in relief, though he remained mindful of the koban in his breast pocket. The autumn sunlight striking the collar glistened with a tawny hue.

Seven Having been forced to write—as if making a calligraphy pupil clutch a brush—those mere two lines containing the eleven characters of "Most humbly and gratefully received," which she could not refuse to compose, Osen had spent the night without closing her eyes once. With even the tea's taste lacking its usual refreshing quality, she rode swaying in a palanquin through sunlight that had barely risen—still nearly half an hour early—to visit Harunobu in Shiromachi Town. Upon hearing from his disciple Fujikichi of Osen's arrival, Harunobu—who had just gotten up and not yet washed his face—nonetheless had her ushered into his studio and stared fixedly at Osen's visage, clear as porcelain skin.

“You’re quite early.” “Yes. There’s a matter that has weighed on me somewhat, so I’ve come to seek your counsel.” “So you want me to lend you some wisdom?” “Ha ha ha.” “This is amusing.” “Wisdom is something you likely possess in greater measure than I do, though.” “Oh, Master.” “Ah, that was but a jest—now, what precisely is this matter you say has arisen?”

“Um… My brother—the one I’ve often spoken of—returned quite suddenly last night.” “What? Your brother has returned?” “Yes.” “From what I’ve often heard you say—that brother of yours, Senkichi—he’d been missing for a full three years.” “And why now so abruptly?—” “I’ve no right to show my face… but my brother himself declared he returned solely because he craved wealth.”

“He wants money? But surely he doesn’t think you’re some wealthy patron.” “Brother used me as bait to borrow money from another house’s young master—that’s what he did.” “Hoh—how’d he manage that borrowing?” “He forced me—though I fought it—to write a letter, then snatched it up like he meant to sell it for twenty-five ryō before vanishing somewhere. And who do you suppose that ‘young master’ was? None other than Tachibana-ya Tokutarō of Tōyu-chō—a man so loathsome it makes my flesh creep.”

“Then Senkichi-san borrowed that money from Tachibana-ya Toku-san—” “Yes. By now, he’s likely off gambling at some daimyo estate’s stables as he pleases—but if Young Master, having seen that letter, truly believes it to be my earnest request and has lent such a fortune, then from this day forth… whatever unreasonable demand he makes of me, I’ll have no words to refuse. Master—what am I to do?”

She must have been utterly at her wits’ end. Osen’s eyelids—which had looked up at Harunobu’s face—appeared moist, like flower petals holding dew. “Well now...” Harunobu, crossing his arms and pulling in his chin, gazed for a while at his own knees before eventually shaking his head slowly. “Toku-san isn’t such a fool that he can’t read people’s hearts. “I don’t know what kind of wording that letter had, but with just that single document, he surely wouldn’t hand over a large sum like twenty-five ryō.”

“Even so, Brother insisted that as long as he took a letter I’d written—even just two or three characters—the money would flow from right to left.”

“When was that?” “Last night.”

It was when Osen lifted her face once more. Suddenly, Fujikichi’s low voice came from beyond the shoji. “Osen-san, something terrible has happened, I tell you. “The Master of Hamamuraya has taken suddenly ill!” Osen gasped, her chest tightening, and for a moment she couldn’t speak.

Dream

I

Dengichi, proprietor of Kanadoko—who had been sitting on the deserted entrance steps counting off the twelve zodiac signs one by one on his fingers: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake—was suddenly struck so violently on the back with a fist that it knocked the breath from him. “Oww! — W-who’s there?” “It ain’t about who’s there—somethin’ terrible’s kicked off.” “Rat, Ox, Tiger—there’s nothin’ to any of it.” “From tomorrow on, our theater might not open at all.”

The one who came rushing in breathlessly like a fireman to a blaze was Nagabee, gatekeeper of the Ichimura-za theater who lived in the same neighborhood. Dengichi was startled and looked at Nagabee’s face once more. “Wh-what’s happened?” “It ain’t about this or that—if things go south, it’ll turn into one hell of a mess.” “Your place too—if your trade’s pickin’ up theater scraps—it ain’t like you’ve got no involvement at all.” “You ain’t tallyin’ mackerel here, and this ain’t the time to be countin’ on your damn fingers!”

“What the hell’s happened, Nagasan?” “You still ain’t figured it out yet?” “I can’t know if I don’t hear it, I tell ya.” “What terrible circulation you’ve got in that head of yours.” “—The Master of Hamamuraya collapsed right in the middle of dancing on stage!” “What’d you say s’that?! You for real?!” “I can’t lie any more’n a monk’s got hair on his head—even if we’re theater folk, I wouldn’t go spoutin’ somethin’ that never happened.” “If that were the case, they’d have me rolled in a mat and tossed right into the middle of the Sumida River, I tell ya.”

“Nagasan.”

“You scared the hell outta me! Don’t go shoutin’ sudden-like with that big voice, I tell ya.” “What’re you yappin’ about? You think this’s some whispery secret? When it comes to who I fancy—ain’t no actor I love ’cept the Master of Hamamuraya! A man all skilled in his craft, charm oozin’ out his pores, ’n’ so damn proud it makes you wanna puke medicine—now spill it! What part went bad? How’d he collapse? C’mon, lay every detail on me!”

Having been struck, completely forgetting the pain in his back, Dengichi scrambled on his knees toward Nagabee so frantically he didn’t even notice the hair ties slipping from their loops and scattering at his feet.

“I’d say it was right around the time of the second act’s dance scene curtain.” “As you know, this play’s got Mr. Sangorō as Yoritomo, Mr. Hazaemon as Kajiwara, and the Master himself as the Heron Maiden—all paired up with Mr. Bungo’s jōruri narration. Ain’t this production the main attraction these days?” “Even as the curtain drew near, there wasn’t a soul in the audience thinkin’ of standin’ up.” “The stage was hoppin’; every last patron leaned forward tryin’ to gain an inch.” “You could say there wasn’t room for a slip of paper between ’em.” “Then—don’t know how—the Master’s dancin’ foot seemed to catch, he staggered like he’d tripped, and before you could blink, he’d gone down face-first on them boards. From the seats came shouts of ‘Hamamuraya!’ sharp as flung stones, then all them patrons started wailin’ and hollerin’ till it swirled up into a proper tempest. ’Fore that storm could break proper, the stagehands had the sense to drop the curtain—but this ain’t no tall tale I’m spinnin’; the whole theater turned upside down in chaos, I tell ya.” “Soon enough the troupe leader came runnin’, disciples gathered round, and they hauled our Master back to the greenroom still wearin’ that Heron Maiden costume—but seein’ as they ain’t got Dr. Soan’s say-so yet, he’s still laid out there in the greenroom, can’t even go home neither.”

“Alright, Ohana, fetch me my haori.”

Dengichi suddenly stood up after saying this.

II “Where do you think you’re going?” “If you go leaving the shop unattended right in the middle of the day, how can we face our customers?” “If you’re going to visit the Master, at least wait until after dark.—I’m telling you!” She must have thought that leaving only one apprentice behind would interfere with their family business. Ohana, who had reluctantly fetched his best haori from the wardrobe, grabbed her husband Dengichi by the sleeve and peered into his face in a desperate attempt to stop him.

But Dengichi suddenly threw a punch as though vomiting up his words. "You idiot! What the hell are you saying? A woman's got no business meddling in her husband's affairs—shut your mouth and get back inside where you belong! Other matters I might let pass, but leaving the Master's sudden illness unaddressed—what do you think those bastards out there will say? That Dengichi from Kanatoko—the one who's always bragging about loving Hamamuraya and flapping his big mouth—look what a pathetic mess he is! They'll all chant in unison—'That cheap bastard won't even lift a finger to visit'—I know it clearer than I know Lord Kaga's damned gate! Quit your useless yapping and help me into this haori already! In times like these, I can't wait one fucking second!"

Dengichi snatched the haori from Ohana’s hands, threw it over his hunched back—still bent two suns’ worth—then once more wrenched his hand free from hers and bolted out of the shop like a fighting dog, consumed by frenzy. “Wait up, Densan!”

Nagabee called out from behind. “What’s your business?!” “Ain’t business, but since th’missus is like that, how ’bout waitin’ till evenin’? Even if ya go now, there ain’t no way you’ll get t’meet ’im.—” “Hmph—even you ain’t gotta stick yer nose where it don’t belong. I’ll walk on my own two feet. Where I go ain’t none o’ yer damn business!”

“Well now, goin’ all out ain’t ya.” “You been talkin’—but it’s me here.” “If you’re leavin’, at least trim this beard first.” “The beard waits till I’m back.” “Waitin’ till you return won’t make it in time!” “If it ain’t in time, go find some other fool to do it.” “Enough jabberin’—you’ll make dusk fall with this yappin’!” Dengichi kicked up sand with his stiff straw sandals and dashed off, only to stop short at the lantern shop’s corner, tilting his head like a puzzled bird.

"Wait," he thought. Before heading to Ichimura-za, there was a more crucial place to go. That’s right—Osen-chan might not have known yet. Demonstrating compassion like this was where a true Edoite showed their grit. Alright—he’d splurge on a palanquin and make a mad dash to Yanaka!

Dengichi gave a firm nod, hailed a street palanquin that happened to be passing by, and climbed aboard after specifying the precincts of Kasamori Inari Shrine as his destination and slipping the bearers a generous tip. “Quit dawdlin’ already!” “Right away.” “I’m goin’ to deliver news about a sudden illness, I tell ya!” “Got it.” Their replies were spirited enough, but the crucial palanquin showed no sign of speeding up. “Tch.” If it were Yoshiwara, they’d rush in style, but hearing it’s news of a patient in Yanaka, they’re probably mocking me. Dengichi ain’t just some barber! “Back in those days, there weren’t even two people in all of Edo—’sides me—who could shave the nape of Kasamori Osen’s neck, famous as she was!”

Even Dengichi’s solo tirade inside the palanquin—wrinkling the tip of his nose in frustration—seemed to have little effect on the bearers, as the palanquin’s pace remained as unhurried as ever.

Three

At the very moment Dengichi the barber reached Kasamori Shrine's precincts, Osen—who had learned of Kikunojō's sudden illness at Harunobu's residence—was frantically crossing the threshold of her own home.

“Mother!”

“Oh dear, what’s happened? Did something occur at the teahouse?” Okishi—who had never imagined her daughter would return at this hour—stared as though trying to bore through Osen with her gaze when she saw her rushing in. First checking for injuries, she quietly reached for her daughter’s shoulder. But Osen—acting unlike herself—shook off her mother’s hand and dashed into her room with such force that her geta scraped harshly against the tatami.

“What’s gotten into you, Osen?” “Mother, what should I do?” “Oh, you…” “Kicchan—that Mr. Kikunojō—has fallen suddenly ill, I’ve heard.” “What? Master Kikunojō has fallen ill?—” “Master has fallen ill?—” “Yes.—I… I’ve no will left to live.” “What nonsense are you spouting?” “What do you expect to accomplish with such faint-heartedness?” “People will say anything they please.” “Even if they call it a sudden illness, one can’t possibly know how much of it is true…”

“No, no—it’s neither a lie nor a dream. I heard it with my own ears. I must go right now to visit him backstage at Ichimura-za and return. Mother, please remove Oshichi’s costume for me.” “What?! You want me to take this off you?!” “This Oshichi costume that Kicchan quietly delivered after last year’s play ended—it’s his mysterious instruction for me to wear it, isn’t it?” “Even so, this—”

“Mother!” Osen walked over by herself to where the doll stood propped in the corner of the room, suddenly seized her obi, and began stripping off her costume with all the casual indifference of a stagehand removing theatrical garments.

“Stop that!” “No, please don’t say anything more. With the same heart as Oshichi, I want to go meet Master.” The obi of Oshichi, untied with a rustle, held within it the sorrowful lingering of kyara incense that had been burned nightly, which now began to flow quietly through the room. “Ah...” Osen clutched that obi tightly to her chest. “Osen, dear,” Okishi lowered her gentle eyes. “Yes.” “You mean to go alone?”

“Yes.” After having her costume removed and undergarment taken off, Osen slipped behind the screen and swiftly changed into her own kimono. And just then, as if it had erupted from nowhere, a man’s voice boomed loudly from beyond the latticed door. “Miss Osen, it is Dengichi from Kanatoko. “Upon hearing that Master of Hamamura-ya had suddenly fallen ill and wanting to inform you before all else, I’ve gone and rushed a palanquin here.” “Since you weren’t at Kasamori-sama’s place, we ended up coming around here.” “Don’t you go rushing off to Fukiya-chō now!”

“Master, please have that palanquin wait.” “Understood!” Osen’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched.

IV

To avoid prying eyes, Kikunojō’s paralyzed body was placed in a physician’s palanquin with its straw matting deliberately lowered deep, and accompanied only by male attendants and two disciples, he was transported to his Ishimachi residence around noon that day. But Kikunojō—already at the zenith of fame—had collapsed onstage. This rumor raced from mouth to mouth until now, in every corner of Edo, not knowing of it was considered the height of foolishness. To outside eyes, the palanquin—which could only be perceived as a physician’s visit—had somehow become surrounded by five or ten men and women swarming like a million prayers, their numbers only growing the more they were driven away.

“Hey you—what’re you trailing after that doctor’s palanquin for?” “What’s this? It’s not like we’re gaping at Kanda Myojin’s stone torii—you’re being downright dense! That’s no ordinary doctor’s palanquin!” “But Tatsu, no matter how I look at it...” “Quiet now! Master of Hamamura-ya’s riding inside there, I tell you!”

“Master of Hamamura-ya...” “That’s right.” “He collapsed onstage yesterday and was lying in the dressing room until now, wasn’t he?” “And you—throwing a tantrum about wanting to go home no matter what—they finally made it look like a doctor’s visit and were on their way back in that arrangement, I tell you.” “Hey! Then get out of the way there!” “Why?”

“I want to go up to the palanquin and at least say one word of greeting to Master…” “What’re you saying?! Master’s gravely ill. Make even a peep and it’ll harm him. You can follow along if you want, but you ain’t gettin’ past here!” “Just move already!” “Ow! Didn’t have to grab me like that!” “I’m not budgin’!”

“Oh, you grabbed me again, didn’t you?” While Tatsu the hairdresser and Okame, the tofu seller’s daughter, were arguing over what was permissible and what was not, the palanquin—now surrounded by an even greater crowd—turned left onto Yoshichō Avenue, crossed Oya Bridge, and advanced more slowly than an ox’s pace.

About one chō behind Kikunojō’s palanquin walked a group with heads bowed as if attending a funeral—their steps heavy with each movement. Among them were Ichimura-za’s manager Hazaemon, Bandō Hikosaburō, Onoe Kikugorō, Arashi Sanzaburō, and Onoe Matsusuke, who had only recently come of age. All kept their faces deeply concealed beneath woven hats, blinking repeatedly without exchanging a single word—until suddenly, as if remembering something. Hazaemon furrowed his brows with melancholy.

“Mr. Matsusuke.” “Yes.” “It’s a shame, but you’d best return from here, I’m afraid.”

“Why do you say that?” “Though it may sound ominous, Master of Hamamura-ya might possibly not make it as he is now.” “Good heavens! Could such a thing truly be?” “Could such a thing truly be, sir?”

It was Arashi Sanzaburō who widened his eyes at those words. “No—I too earnestly wish for the Master to return to his former self,” said Hazaeon, “but given his condition thus far, I fear it may prove impossible. “It may be an ill omen,” he continued, “but last night I dreamed that every single one of my upper and lower teeth fell out. “It’s pitiful,” he concluded, “but in the end, the Master won’t survive.”

Hazaemon said this and frowned forlornly.

Five

Following dream after dream, wandering ever deeper through the world of dreams, Kikunojō—startled by the sound of a wind chime left hanging from summer eaves—opened his heavy eyes and looked around.

Around his bedside sat Gen’an the physician, his wife Omura, theater manager Hazaemon, Sanzaburō, Hikosaburō, and others in a circle, their hushed voices sounding like events from a faraway country. “Oh, you…” Omura was the first to speak. But in Kikunojō’s heart, the owner of that voice had not yet clearly registered—or so it seemed. He darted his gaze around once, then closed his eyes again.

Gen’an slowly waved his hand.

“Everyone—please be quiet…” “Yes.” The room fell into a sudden hush as if water had been thrown—now holding only the scent of incense creeping low along the floor. Gen’an slipped his hand beneath the nightclothes, lightly grasped Kikunojō’s wrist, and tilted his head pensively. “Doctor—how is he?” “The pulse seems to have gained some strength…” “Ah… that is most welcome.” “But take no comfort.” “For we cannot tell when a critical turn may come.”

“Yes.” “Perhaps it would be best if the visitors withdrew to the adjoining room—the patient should be allowed to rest as quietly as possible.” “Yes, yes,” Hazaemon nodded deeply. “You are absolutely correct.—Then, we shall entrust matters here to Madam and withdraw to the next room.” “That is well. Though my skills are meager, as long as this old man is attending to him, you may rest assured there will be no negligence in his care.”

“By all means, we humbly entrust this to you.” The group left for the adjoining room, muffling their footsteps and taking care with the sliding doors as they opened and closed them. For a while, only the sound of the iron kettle boiling remained bright in the room’s silence.

“Madam.” Gen’an’s voice hung low and heavy. “Yes.” “I grieve to say this—the Master now clings to life by the barest thread.” “What?!” “Hush now.” “When I said his pulse had strengthened earlier—that was but courtesy for the others.” “His heart retains only the faintest warmth.” “Then you mean...”

From Omura’s eyes—which had endured and endured until now—jewel-like tears overflowed and streamed down her cheeks. Before long, causing the incense smoke to waver, it was Kikuya, the disciple, who timidly poked his head out from between the sliding doors. “There is a guest.”

“Who is it?” “Miss Osen of Yanaka.”

“What? That Kasamori one…?” “Yes.” “Since the Master is ill, tell them he cannot receive visitors.” At that instant, Kikunojō’s eyes snapped open, his reedy voice cutting sharply through the air. “It’s fine. Let her through—right here.”

VI

The shadow of a cat—its tail wagging eagerly as it played with a lone fly quietly circling around a white chrysanthemum that had likely been brought onto the veranda the previous night to escape the first frost, its lower leaves gradually withering—was sharply outlined on the shoji screen. Listening half-consciously to the buzzing of that fly, seated at Kikunojō’s bedside and gazing fixedly at his sleeping face, was Osen—adorned in Oshichi’s splendid costume. Purple incense smoke rose in a single straight plume, and the south-facing room was as warm as if enclosed in glass.

A world of just the two of them, meeting in the seventh year. From Kikunojō’s half-open eyes—he who had lost nearly all vitality overnight—a single thread-like tear streamed down his cheek, wetting the pillow. “Osen dear.” Kikunojō’s voice was so low it could barely be heard. “Ah.” “You came…” “Master.” “Don’t call me Master or such—please, just call me Kicchan like you used to, as in the old days.”

“Then, Kicchan.—”

“Yes.” “I’ve been wanting to see you.” “I wanted to see you too.—If I say this, you must think I’m speaking empty words, but it’s neither a lie nor flattery.—As you know, though I’ve somehow gained fame and people say all manner of things about me, my heart remains exactly as it was ten years ago.” “More than my wife taken out of duty, more than the women I’ve trifled with—the one I truly care for is you.” “Through heat and cold, my aching thoughts always reached toward Yanaka’s skies—but now that you’ve become a celebrated beauty, I feared careless visits would spark unwarranted rumors and trouble you. That’s why I’ve endured until this day.”

“You’re too kind, Master.—” “No—more than undeserved, it’s my heart that feels remorseful.” “However much I loathed the hardships of this acting life—when patrons summoned me,” “I had to attend at least one out of three engagements, forcing myself to show even a semblance of a smile. Each time I’d think—‘How I detest this! Should I abandon our family trade today? Or tomorrow?’ Yet when it came to it, my lingering attachment was to the stage.” “The sorrow of discarding all this hard-won artistry root and branch if I withdrew—” “Thus I spent these fleeting days—more transient than autumn field insects—…Osen dear.” “All of it now vanishes like yesterday’s dream.” “Just when I’d resigned myself to never meeting you again—you truly came.” “Even were I to die now…I’d have no regrets.—”

“Kicchan—” “Oh—” “You must stay strong.” “Though ashamed to say it—without you, who in this world would I live for?—I’ve kept only you hidden in my heart.” “If you tell me to die, I’ll become your substitute even now.” “You know… Kicchan.” “Even if we’ve never shared a bed for a single night—I’m your wife, hear me?” “Here now, Kicchan.” “No answer—does that mean you refuse?”

Leaning forward one knee at a time until her cheek nearly touched his face, Osen peered into Kikunojō’s countenance—but soon her eyes settled like those of a Buddhist statue.

“Kicchan.—Master.—” “O... se... n—” “Ah—no—” Osen collapsed in tears onto Kikunojō’s face as his lips continued fading.

From the adjacent room came the sudden sense of people rising.

VII

The death of Segawa Kikunojō II was reported near dusk of that day. The people of Edo sank into an abyss of disappointment greater than that caused by last year’s Great Fire of Yoshiwara, but those who fell into the very depths of sorrow—as if a jewel had been snatched from their hands—were none other than the maidservants of various daimyo and hatamoto households, who could neither sleep at night nor rest by day without Kikunojō. Above all, she who felt a shock as if heaven and earth had overturned upon receiving this news was likely Honda Ren, sister of Honda Shinanokami, Magistrate of Minamimachi. Just as Honda Ren was about to sit down for the evening meal, she suddenly dropped the chopsticks in her hand and, as if possessed by madness, staggered to her feet before running barefoot out into the garden.

Two or three maidservants immediately chased after her. "My lady—!" "You're in danger!" "What are you doing? Release me!" "Release me!" "Where might you be going, My Lady?" "It's obvious." "I will go immediately to Hamamuraya's residence." "Good heavens, My Lady—what an improper thing to suggest!" "What's improper about it? I shall go and cure Hamamuraya's illness myself." "Do not interfere—step aside there!" "I cannot allow that."

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I said step aside—why won’t you?!” One of the maidservants, roughly thrust aside even as she stumbled, firmly grasped Lady Ren’s hem.

“My Lady.” “I beg you to compose yourself, My Lady.” ……” “That’s unnecessary.” “Release me!” “No, I will not release you.” “Were Your Ladyship to venture out at this hour, it would reflect upon your standing.” “If you insist on going out again, we must inform the chief retainer of this matter….” “You’re tedious! I said release me—won’t you obey?!” In her frenzy, one of Ren’s sleeves—torn away like a rice stalk—remained in the maidservant’s grasp, while her wax-pale feet, heedlessly kicking up dirt, glimmered faintly white in the twilight.

“My lady—!” Circling the pond and running along the base of the artificial hill, Ren moved with fox-like swiftness.

“There—that way!—” “Her Ladyship has gone around to that side.” In the secluded inner garden devoid of any masculine presence, the maidservants—their numbers swelling by the moment—must have believed that losing sight of Ren would spell catastrophe. Old and young alike scrambled in disarray toward the garden gate.

But by the time they desperately reached the garden gate, there was no longer any sign of Ren. “My Lady—” “Wait.” Though Honda Ren—who had never run even once in a year—had managed to exit the garden gate, her legs were already exhausted to the point of cramping. Muttering Kikunojō’s name under her breath, she now forced her unbearable steps onward, directionless yet compelled to push forward. “Hamamuraya—wait. Leaving me behind—where do you think you’re going alone? I won’t allow it! I’m coming with you. If where you go is hell’s deepest pit, I shall not hesitate. Take me with you. Take me quickly!”

She had wed Sakabe Ikinokami at twenty-one and returned in her eighth year. Though thirty years of age now, Honda Ren—who had been hailed as 'Honda Komachi' since her fourteenth year—still appeared scarcely twenty-four or twenty-five. With a figure of unearthly allure and eyes ablaze like smoldering coals, her soundless passage through twilight's gloom struck terror profound enough to freeze marrow—a specter gliding through dusk's veil.

Eight

No matter what disturbances might arise in the mansions of daimyo and hatamoto across the city, Kikunojō’s home remained quiet and solemn, as though those events belonged to an entirely separate world. From the theater manager to every kabuki practitioner—not to mention patrons and all manner of visitors—over a hundred people had crowded in without restraint, rendering even that opulent residence cramped. Yet in the eight-mat room where Kikunojō’s cold corpse lay encoffined, only Osen remained—her head bowed, silently staring at her lap—where not even his wife Omura was permitted entry.

Suddenly, from Osen’s tightly pressed lips escaped a low, faint voice. “Kicchan. I begged the landlady and everyone else to let me stay alone by your bedside because I couldn’t forget our game of playing house ten years ago—that time we all went cherry-blossom viewing at nearby Asukayama. Just like always back then, you and I were husband and wife. We had wandered into some grand mansion draped with curtains all around—surely you remember that too. After being treated to various delicacies by a young lady as beautiful as one from a painting, there in the corner of the curtained area for touch-ups—I did your makeup, and you did mine—we were flattered by her compliments that in another ten years, these children would surely blossom into breathtaking beauties. That dreamlike day remains vivid in my eyes even now… Kicchan. I wanted to give you my utmost effort in applying your makeup now. The red and white powder—I had wrapped it in a silk cloth when leaving home and brought it here. Though it’s well-worn from my use, this rouge brush is the one you gave me when you crossed Ōji. Now it’s a memento. It likely won’t be done to your liking as with the actors, but please bear with it. At least… this is my humble act of devotion.”

With his head pillowed to the north, Kikunojō's face—so beautifully clear it could make women envious—was cold as porcelain skin. Osen's hand, holding the white powder brush, traced over it with the meticulous care of a master applying hairline strokes. Eyes, mouth, ears. The forms that had been painted pure white were soon wiped clean with a damp cloth in a deliberate manner; then crimson rouge was applied to the lips, and Kikunojō's face revived with such vividness that one might suspect it would speak at any moment.

Osen stared intently at that face.

“Kicchan.—Hey, Kicchan.” Gradually, Osen’s voice grew louder. The lips—which seemed as though they might answer if called—appeared to tremble forlornly. “I will surely live on with you from now on.” “And you too—please let your soul stay by my side forever.” “Even if thousands upon thousands of people proposition me, I will not waver until death.—Hey, Kicchan.…”

A tear from Osen fell with a plop, moistening Kikunojō’s cheek. “Oh dear—after all the trouble I took with your makeup…” Osen once again took hold of the white powder brush in her hand.

Then, from the next room came the voice of Omura, his wife. “Ms. Osen.” “Y-yes…”

“A guest has come to offer incense.” “If you wish, I will show them in.” “Yes, please…” To Osen, who had hastily withdrawn from the bedside, there appeared before her eyes like a yasha the figure of Honda Ren—sister to Honda Shinanokami—her thickly caked makeup flaking away.

Osen (End)