Pathway to Japanese Literature

The dusk hung thick with overcast gloom. After exiting the national railway station, Mitsuko immediately entered the market across the street and bought tonight's side dishes. Clutching them in her right arm, she turned through several narrow alleys and hurried along a valley-like path squeezed between two massive factories. There had been unusually heavy work at the office that day, and her fingertips—still unaccustomed to typing—burned with a raw sting, yet she felt an unexpected buoyancy. How many years had it been since she last tasted such lightness? The reflection surfaced abruptly in her mind. From now on we must better our life even incrementally—these past two or three years have been too wretched—. Yet when Yamada's face flashed suddenly through her thoughts, she found herself gripped by formless dread. Might that harsh existence return? The dark premonition seeped unbidden into her consciousness. She violently smothered the ominous notion and lost herself in calculations—perhaps move to a finer apartment by summer? No—better endure until next year to secure a proper house. Until then, save ruthlessly.

She stopped. Fallen person—the term suddenly rose in her mind. A faint smile formed at her lips as she thought fiercely: My life matters most to me. And she marveled at how those words persisted within her with such unexpected tenacity.

Passing through the factory district, there emerged a small grove where trees grew, and there stood her apartment. It was a flimsy wooden structure built for factory workers, with two or three similar houses clustered in the area. She automatically shifted the newspaper-wrapped package bought at the market to her left hand and began thudding up the stairs. Then from below came— “A letter for you.” —the landlady’s voice calling out. She hurriedly accepted it and turned the envelope over while continuing her ascent. One bore handwriting from a school friend. Though their correspondence had lapsed for nearly four years, Mitsuko had recently resolved to rekindle their connection and sent a letter twenty days prior. This was likely the reply. She had written to two or three other friends at the same time, yet until now none had responded. Though she felt some resentment at the twenty-day delay, pleasure still lingered.

The other bore a completely unknown name, and what's more, not even her own address was written there. "Tsuji Issaku." She clattered the door key noisily, entered the room, and remained standing as she turned the letter over and over, murmuring while examining its front and back. Who could this be? Of course it was addressed to her husband, but she knew most of Yamada's friends. She tried recalling her husband's friends one after another—though truth be told, he had no real friends left anymore—but none of those proper names matched. Then, for no particular reason, anxiety began to well up within her.

She glanced at the clock on the desk. It was nearly time for her husband to return. Leaving the letter unopened for later, she threw it onto the desk, took off her jacket, and went down to the kitchen in just her skirt. She lit the gas to start the charcoal, then began chopping the lotus root she had bought earlier with rhythmic thuds, but her unease about that unknown man still lingered. There was no reason for it, but she thought that man must undoubtedly be one of her husband’s friends from that time, and from that she couldn’t help but feel her life was being threatened. She had long been constantly worrying and feeling on edge, fearing that her husband’s former friends might suddenly show up and cause various troublesome problems.

When the dinner preparations were ready, she spread them out on the dining table, covered them with a white cloth, and looked at the clock again. Six o'clock—Yamada always returned around ten minutes before then. She strained her ears and paid attention to the street below the window, but her husband's footsteps were absent. The thought that he might be drinking again tonight briefly crossed her mind, but when six o'clock arrived, she decided to eat alone first and took up the earlier letter. She had felt somewhat lighthearted wondering what was written, but upon opening it, she was disappointed. The friend wrote in skilled script across a single sheet of letter paper: joy at receiving correspondence after so long, apologies for the delayed reply, gladness that you remained unharmed, and assurances of managing to live peacefully oneself. It was almost bureaucratic in its formulaic wording, devoid of any heartfelt nuance or affection. She felt as though she were looking at the other person’s retreating back. The skilled characters themselves now appeared somehow stiffly aloof, leaving her with the sensation of having been thrown over someone's shoulder. They must think associating with someone like me would bring them nothing but trouble—she couldn’t help harboring such twisted suspicions. She recalled their era of suffering—for she called Yamada’s three-year imprisonment and their subsequent unemployed life by this name—and reflected with bitter resignation how those hardships had warped her into this twisted state. However, when she thought back to those days, this might not have been mere suspicion but accurate criticism.

In truth, back then, everyone had avoided them. Ever since her husband Yamada had branded his own forehead with the mark of a convert upon leaving prison, they had been forced to endure even fiercer insults and cold stares. Of course her school friends and teachers had distanced themselves from her; even her father—the village mayor back home—refused to let her into his house. An aunt in Yotsuya whom she had visited had gone so far as to sprinkle table salt at the entranceway toward her. On top of that, hunger closed in. Yamada took on temporary jobs where he would work ten days only to have to take twenty days off, and she commuted to a celluloid factory with a daily wage of thirty sen. One New Year, Yamada had taken work as a New Year’s mail deliveryman, but the sight of her husband standing on the dirt floor wearing gaiters and a coat with torn elbows remained impossible for her to forget. Yamada had only begun commuting to his current company about half a year prior, driven to desperation in their life to the point where he tearfully begged his uncle to get him in. Yamada’s uncle was an executive at that wireless telegraph company, a man whose relationship to Yamada was nearly equivalent to that of an archenemy. Yamada had been arrested when leading a labor dispute at that company. As for what humiliations Yamada had to endure when he went to request employment for that reason, even Mitsuko understood some of it. That said, it was she who had made Yamada go to his uncle; she had begged him to do so while crying all night. When her husband had been in prison, the social climate had supported her ideology, and that ideology had sustained her spirit. However, as those social currents were swept away, her ideology was swept away along with them. Now, when she thought about it, there had been no ideology within her at all. It seemed there had been nothing but the tides of society and her love for Yamada. But such reflections no longer mattered. Improving their living conditions even slightly had become her foremost task. No matter what happened, their current life must never be lost; for that purpose, she endured even unbearable contempt.

She learned typing after Yamada had found work; if she kept her job, even should Yamada lose his, they wouldn't immediately face starvation. Moreover, if Yamada didn't lose his position, she could save everything she earned. This would form the foundation for future stability—with that secured, she might even nurture the joyful hope of wanting a child. Until now she had felt nothing but anxiety about whether she could conceive. Or rather, she had constantly smothered the desire for a child within herself. This undeniably left her desolate. Given how their married life had borne no children thus far, she might never bear one—yet how blissful it would be if she could still think "I want a child," for that would mean tranquil days and a heart brimming with fullness.

After graduating from the Japanese department there in four months, she entered a partnership company managed by a German in Marunouchi. Though she had not yet been there even two months, she felt as though her years of hardship had finally come to an end. Even so, she could not forget the impression of her first day at that company, and even now there were still insults and humiliations— The truth was, she had failed the employment exam there. Fresh out of school, she was practically an amateur as a typist, and with two or three others who had long toiled in the same field also seeking employment, she was effortlessly eliminated. But when she was informed of this in a room—it was a Japanese man—she suddenly burst into tears with a voice so loud it startled even herself. Of course Yamada also had a job, so her not securing employment shouldn’t have been cause for such concern—but the moment they informed her of her failure, memories of past unemployment suddenly surged back with vivid clarity, plunging her vision into darkness. It was nearly equal to physical pain. Her chest tightened violently, and her throat suddenly spasmed.

“How pitifulsh, how pitifulsh,” came the German’s voice at that moment. This was how she had secured employment, but to put it harshly, it was tantamount to having won the foreigner’s sympathy through tearful pleading despite her lack of skills. From that day onward, how they would look at her and what attitudes they would adopt had already been decided by the people at that company. Moreover, there was also an older typist there who handled European documents.

However, she endured all manner of contempt and humiliation. There were times when tears would start streaming down the moment she entered the toilet, but she resigned herself, thinking it was still better than their previous life. Not only that, but she also somehow felt revived by things like the sound of high-heeled shoes she hadn’t heard in a long time and the hurried rhythm of boarding and alighting from trains. When she finished reading her friend’s cold letter, it was galling that the other still thought she remained in the same wretched state as before. Recalling the wording of the letter she had written earlier, she grew furious at herself for having believed she still felt toward this friend as she had during their girls' school days. She picked up another letter, hesitated briefly, but with such anger also welling up, she resolutely tore open the envelope.

It has been a long time since we last met. How have you been? We are somehow carrying on safely here. Having come to Tokyo after so long, I wish for an opportunity to see you. If it would not trouble you, I shall wait at X Station from 6:00 PM for thirty minutes on XX day. As our reunion would follow many years' absence, I earnestly desire this meeting. All else may be addressed when we meet—Tsuji

Compared to the previous one, this letter was terribly brief, yet she felt something ominous looming over her. The presence of the phrase 'It has been a long time since we last met' suggested there must have been a rather close association between them in the past. The characters were soft and slender like a woman's hand, each stroke meticulously rendered in regular script and beautiful, yet to her they seemed like writing she couldn't warm to. Moreover, upon closer inspection, there was something unsettling about this letter. If one wished to meet someone, it was customary to visit them directly; summoning another would require being exceptionally occupied. Yet just as the characters were written in regular script with deliberate care, there was no indication of urgency anywhere. It had undoubtedly been composed with stark simplicity and unhurried ease. Feeling an eerie foreboding, she couldn't suppress the thought that this letter would crack the fragile stability of their life that had just begun to solidify, if not shatter it completely.

Even after six o'clock passed, Yamada had not returned, so she began eating dinner alone. The meal tasted good since her stomach had been growling hollowly from hunger at times, but thinking he would undoubtedly come home dead drunk again made her anger gradually rise. No matter how she tried to protect their livelihood, it felt like her husband kept gouging gaping holes through its edges—this was the mounting irritation she felt toward him lately. It wasn't that she didn't understand her husband's suffering at all. Yet in this society where everything was clear as day—encircled by thick walls on all sides without a single path of escape—and when this should have been perfectly obvious even to her husband, why wouldn't he stop tormenting himself? That point remained utterly beyond her comprehension.

“Do you even know what honesty means?” When she protested to her husband the other day as he returned home dead drunk, Yamada suddenly said such a thing. “Honesty? How should I know? Is being constantly drunk like you what you call honesty? Is tormenting a wife what you call honesty? I don’t need that kind of honesty. I—”

“Livelihood matters most—that’s what you mean to say, isn’t it.” “Hmph, I know exactly what you’re thinking.” “You’re the fortunate one—able to deceive yourself without feeling a shred of pain.” “Then aren’t you deceiving yourself?” “Does destroying our livelihood make you happy?” “Oh, you must be happy—you’re the one drinking.” “But I can’t endure this.” “Don’t get clever with me.”

“I’ll say it.” “Shut up!” And then Yamada twisted his face into a pained expression, then suddenly grinned creepily, “Everything you say is right.” “I’ve got nothing to say.” “I’ll always bow to you.” “But you’ve got no right to beat me down with that kind of rightness.” “Listen—the more right that rightness gets, the more stupid it becomes.” “Enough.” “I’m tired.”

And letting out a big yawn, he dropped his raised arms onto her shoulders, suddenly planted a rough kiss, then clamped his mouth shut and didn’t utter another word.

She recalled her husband as he once was. In those days, Yamada moved with brisk gestures and speech, his slender, supple body lashing like a whip. His eyes shone sharp and clear, embodying both fierce intellect and deep affection. But her present husband retained no vestige of those qualities. His eyes now stayed perpetually clouded, every word laced with sarcasm that made her feel mocked whenever she spoke. There had been times when her former husband would leave her breathless, moments that made her blush secretly like a maiden, but now each thought of him only stirred up vexing irritation, bitter dissatisfaction, and acrid resentment.

When the wall clock hanging in the corridor struck twelve, Mitsuko could no longer stay in bed and rose wearing nothing but her flannel nightgown. Yamada had still not returned by ten o'clock, so she had gone to bed alone first, but filled with anger as she was, sleep proved impossible. Even so, when she closed her eyes and tried to force herself to sleep, her anger gradually transformed into lonely desolation. This was a common occurrence. At first she felt such fury over Yamada's lateness that she wanted to bite him, but as the night deepened, she was overcome by indescribable loneliness and an anxiety gnawing at her chest—as if everyone had abandoned her. This was no different from how the desolate feelings of that unemployment era—the sense of being a stray cat tossed into an alley with nowhere to go—had seared black stains into her heart. Even when sleeping beside Yamada, she would sometimes startle awake from nightmares of those days, sitting bolt upright in the midnight darkness and bursting into tears atop the futon—a far from rare occurrence. At such times Yamada would care for her with startling tenderness. After all, he undoubtedly knew her feelings through and through. Yet during these moments he never spoke a word. Only the expressive quality of his caressing arm could be perceived. As she threw herself into Yamada's arms, suddenly noticing his stern expression, she felt confused uncertainty about whether it was right or wrong to lose herself in his caresses.

She buried her face in Yamada’s desk, curled her body into itself, and began to sob like a child. The daytime had been unseasonably warm for mid-April, sunlight hanging thick and oppressive in the air, but the sky that began clouding at dusk had turned to rain by night without warning. She kept her thighs pressed tight, body coiled small, weeping without pause. As she stayed like this, daytime fatigue seeped through her limbs until she drifted into fitful drowsiness. She wavered between consciousness and haze until finally slipping into dreams. She dreamed of her workplace. Quitting time. Handbag in one hand, she stepped into the elevator. A clamor of voices filtered through the metal box. German and French phrases tangled in discordant strands. Having secretly studied French without Yamada’s knowledge, she strained to parse meaning from the cacophony. The elevator stalled mid-descent. A girl rattled the control handle to no effect. Then a hulking German man loomed before her with a face twisted in menace. She shrank back, breath catching sharp in terror. As she writhed to scream herself awake, consciousness pierced through—she found herself upright in darkness. Half-remembering descending the elevator with a German colleague that very evening, she lifted her face still mired in dream-logic. Someone stood there—she let out a choked cry and recoiled as if spring-loaded. Her face drained of blood; her heart hammered wild against ribs.

“Oh, it was you.”

She finally managed to force out her voice, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow different from her husband Yamada. Yamada stood in the room with a vacant stare, his expression utterly detached. His face was ashen like earth, his hair sopping wet, and she felt as though she were looking at a madman.

“It’s me.” Yamada said in a thin, whisper-like voice but still made no move to sit down. Mitsuko didn’t know what to say and for a while gazed vacantly at her husband’s face. Yamada sat down as though collapsing. That he was utterly exhausted, limp as cotton, became clear even to Mitsuko. She finally stood up and stirred the fire in the brazier, “Where have you been?”

she asked. There was no smell of alcohol at all. Then where had he been all this time without drinking? She looked from her husband’s head to his hands, then his knees in sequence. Clothes and pants were soaked through to the point of dripping. Rather than reproaching him for being late, an inexplicably painful feeling welled up within her. Perhaps because it was cold, Yamada kept trembling in small shivers, “I’m tired.” he said in a weak voice. “Where on earth have you been?”

She said impatiently and grabbed Yamada’s hand. The hand was cold like a dead person’s.

“I was walking.”

Yamada said only that in a voice that seemed lost in thought.

“Were you walking?”

“Yeah.” “Where?” “Various places.” “What do you mean, ‘various places’?” “All over.” “What’s wrong? You’re out of your mind.” “I’m tired. Make me a cup of tea.” “But it’s already late.” Then, in the split second when something irritated seemed to surface on Yamada’s face, Mitsuko’s cheek rang out with a sharp crack. She reflexively pressed her cheek, but for some reason no sound came out. With a terrifying expression of fury he had never shown before, Yamada stared fixedly at Mitsuko. The flesh of his forehead twitched spasmodically. In an instant, the two of them locked eyes in a glaring standoff. When soon the pained expression vanished from Yamada’s face, he soundlessly rose unsteadily to his feet, removed his kimono, pulled on his sleepwear, and wordlessly burrowed into the futon. Mitsuko looked at her husband’s discarded kimono, and the anger she had been suppressing until now suddenly surged up. Grabbing a sock that lay scattered there, she hurled it with all her might at his face. But the sock tangled around her fingers and merely started to fall softly onto Yamada’s head. Then an even fiercer anger welled up, and she began hurling whatever came to hand at her husband. But Yamada didn’t move a muscle.

She burst into sobs while clinging to Yamada’s hair. Yamada’s hand gripped hers with sudden force. “Stop.”

Yamada said sharply. “Y-you made me wait all this time… and hit me?”

“I understand.” “You think I’ll just take being hit and then have you act all understanding?!” But she found herself effortlessly covered with the futon. Trying to thrash around inside proved futile. With forced resolve, she stiffened her body, turned her back to Yamada, and lay silent. Yamada let out a deep sigh, “Let me sleep quietly. I was wrong.” His voice was thin. After that, he didn’t move at all. While keeping her body rigid, as her emotions gradually settled, Mitsuko began stealing occasional glances toward Yamada.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been doing tonight?” Yamada abruptly said. “There’s no way I could possibly understand that.”

She still harbored lingering anger from earlier, so she replied sullenly. “Then don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing?” “I don’t want to know.” “I see.” After remaining deep in thought for a while, he continued: “You’ve gotten remarkably good at attacking me lately. "But you’ve never once pierced my core." “You can only attack me through your own stupidity.” “But what strange creatures women are. I find myself drawn solely to that stupidity of yours.”

“Please don’t keep calling me stupid over and over.”

“Have you read the novel called Madame Bovary?”

“It’s late already.” “Enough.”

“I’m taking tomorrow off.” “This Sunday is the company cherry blossom viewing.”

“Cherry blossom viewing?” “Indeed. It’s the Storage Battery Department’s cherry blossom viewing.” “Taking days off, going to cherry blossom viewings... I do the laundry on Sundays. I’m always miserable.”

“However, I won’t go to the cherry blossom viewing.” “It’s late already.” “I have to go to work tomorrow.” “Please don’t disturb my peaceful sleep.” “I won’t disturb you, but I’ll be talking to myself tonight.” “I’ll talk until morning.” “There are moments when I think you might actually understand how I feel—but that doesn’t matter anymore.” “But if I stay silent tonight, I'll go mad. Tonight, I killed a man.” “A person?”

“Yes, that’s right. That man—he must have been forty-four or forty-five—was completely dead. Right in the middle of the main thoroughfare. His heart tore open, he hemorrhaged inside, died with blood oozing thick from his mouth.” Under the streetlight, blood had flowed across the asphalt. “I glared sideways at it and came home. It’ll probably be in tomorrow’s paper…” “Did you kill him?” “Indeed I did.”

Mitsuko swung around to face her husband. And with some shift in her feelings, she desperately clung to Yamada’s chest. “Ha ha ha, don’t worry—I won’t get caught. God has provided humans with an escape hatch called error…”

And Yamada began recounting the night’s events without order or coherence. Every human, when some critical moment arrives, finds themselves utterly compelled to spill forth the heavy memories and events accumulated in their mind through their mouth. It was nearly akin to madness. Yamada would occasionally fall silent—Why am I spouting such nonsense?—assaulted by intense self-loathing even as his mouth continued moving of its own accord. And in the end, once he’d reached this state of mind, he realized that stubbornly forcing himself into silence would achieve nothing—so instead, he resolved to remove the brakes from his emotions and let himself speak freely, exactly as he pleased. And deep within his heart—at what seemed like the furthest point of infinite reflections between two mirrors standing face-to-face—he secretly smirked and muttered to himself: "Well, I'm already aboard this ship."

He left work at the company as usual and set off for home without anything out of the ordinary occurring, yet was weighed down by an oppressive mood. A nauseating anxiety gripped him—a sensation he couldn't shake. He had suffered from a stomach illness for years and would sometimes vomit by the roadside. He felt unpleasant and irritated. Yet he walked while trying to ignore these feelings as much as possible. It felt like forcibly containing sullenly smoldering gunpowder under a lid. After walking along the stench-filled riverbank and crossing the bridge, the apartment stood right there.

When he came to the bridge, he stopped for a moment and looked down at the lye-like murky water surface. He intensely loathed returning home. The image of his wife—suddenly buoyant since starting work—and the vulgarity of their low-class apartment surged up with nauseating force. Particularly when recalling Mitsuko's body, he felt something thickly congealing in his chest. Women appear utterly beautiful when beautiful, inciting in men a desire to rend them apart; yet once they begin seeming unclean, they become repulsively filthy enough to turn one's stomach. He recalled his wife's every gesture with an unpleasant, irritating mood. What normally seemed innocent—her clumsy speech and modes of thought holding a certain charm—today only made him want to scorn that ignorance. He had made his wife an object of displeasure many times before. That having a wife was somehow degrading his spirit, that his actions were growing as spineless as maggots—thinking this, he had even resolved to separate from her immediately. Yet that resolution had been mere pretense. Even temporarily, even for an instant, he had consoled himself through such resolutions. Though ceaselessly disgusted by the idiocy of this self-consolation, he'd found no other escape route. And though aware this wasn't true escape, he'd simply deceived his psyche each time through temporary expedients. When it came down to it, he himself had been the most spineless of all. He avoided letting this conclusion surface in his awareness—not through conscious effort, but through instinctive self-defense: a colossal enemy standing before him, an instinctive self-deception to protect himself from society. Of course he recognized this self-defense mechanism within himself, yet possessed an instinct to avoid even that recognition. At this point, the scalpel of his self-analysis clouded over; he did not inscribe its findings on consciousness's blackboard. What rose instead was pitiful self-derision and a gesture appearing capricious at first glance. This gesture might nevertheless be called grave.

He gazed at the water’s surface for a while, but eventually began moving his feet slowly with an utterly reluctant gait. The thought of going somewhere to drink arose, and upon finishing crossing the bridge, he headed toward the main street with the station opposite from the apartment. Emerging at the station front and rounding slightly into the backstreets, bars, cafés and teahouses stood jumbled together in chaotic profusion. Yet upon arriving there, even drinking alcohol had become repugnant. He pressed his palm to his forehead momentarily, perplexed—What should I do now? Ruminating on the day’s unpleasant incident at the company, he realized his current rotten mood stemmed from that event still dragging its tail. Just that much—he grew furious at himself for letting such triviality drive his mind into disarray. It had happened during lunchtime. A discussion about cherry blossom viewing had emerged among his section members. At that moment, having just completed the rectifier he’d labored over for days, he went to stand before his creation immediately after eating. Being in a sense his own work, he savored the joy of completing something substantial after so long; with no true friends to discuss it openly, he idly thought about testing it once the time came. He remained lonely even at the company. Everyone knew his past—whether due to personnel department warnings or not—they all kept their distance. He resolved to hurl his entire being into the work itself. Yet even there he felt something clinging like a stubborn stench to his mood, preventing absorption. Daily he sensed a hollowness—as though something invisible yet vital seeped from within him. A gap had formed between work and self, becoming an empty void where currents, wires and metals held no vitality. Were he able to lose himself in it, he might have sensed a breath-like quiver—that faint ammeter-needle tremor—emanating from both metal and current.

A sudden shout erupted, and the voices of female factory workers clapping their hands and cheering in unison swelled up and reached his ears. When the commotion subsided, he was called over and propositioned by the section chief: "How about cherry blossom viewing?" He answered that he agreed, "The place..." It was the moment he began to ask. Suddenly, from among the women, a surprised "Huh?" escaped—a voice that seemed genuinely astonished. "Even the 'leftist fighter'..." A trailing, muddled utterance was heard. He involuntarily shuddered and turned around to find Sayama from the Riku Department smirking among the women. The area fell silent in an instant. And then the section chief—

“Sayama, I order you to handle the accounting for the day.”

he declared solemnly and made everyone burst into laughter.

Thus the situation had settled, yet Yamada's feelings remained far from calm. He had long known about Sayama making veiled jabs at him and whispering things to the female workers. In any group there inevitably exists one person pathologically cunning in self-interest—constantly probing others' weaknesses and gossiping behind backs—and Sayama was precisely that type of human. "Of course it's trivial," Yamada had kept dismissing until now, but in that moment he couldn't help flaring up. It was a sneer delivered after firmly grasping the opponent's weakness—a serves-you-right kick against Yamada's inner anguish and torment. What infuriated Yamada most was having to acknowledge this mockery as justified. No, even if not entirely right, at least no room remained for excuses against it. Making excuses would only render him more contemptible. However infuriating, silence and retreat were his only options. He worked all day in gloomy discomfort. While despising Sayama as an individual should have sufficed, something in those words resonated beyond mere contempt.

“To be told by others that you’re a fool, and then have to agree with those words—heh heh.”

He walked sluggishly while muttering those words and let out a distorted smile.

The town was at dusk. From the station-front market, maids and housewives streamed out, their aprons fluttering urgently as they went. People walking along the street were sucked into the station like wood chips caught in a whirlpool, and each time a train roared to a halt, passengers spilled out from within like bubbles. He found the human-swarmed streets utterly loathsome, the weight of the city's air pressing on both shoulders. He imagined a world devoid of people, populated solely by monkeys, dogs, wolves, bears, foxes—creatures of that ilk. Naturally there would be blue leaves there, and clear flowing streams. Though aware he was indulging in boyish fantasies, he realized adults occasionally slip back into childhood—that through reliving moments identical to their youth, they receive unexpected respite. Just then, a face flashed through his mind and vanished. He halted abruptly mid-stride. Who was that? Upon recognizing Obayashi Seisaku, he found himself inexplicably amused—standing at the street's center, he began smirking. Back in his rural elementary school days, he'd once struck Obayashi Seisaku's head with a hammer. The spot had swollen into a lump, sending Obayashi spinning round the handicraft room while clutching his tear-streaked head. He hadn't meant to make him cry—it was merely a tap with the hammer instead of calling "Hey!" This occurred during handicraft class. Obayashi Seisaku now farmed for a living and had three children.

"Heh heh... Wonder how that guy's doing now. He was a sharp one," he mused as he started walking again, only to find himself abruptly perplexed. He had no destination in mind. The thought of going back to the countryside abruptly surfaced in his mind at that moment. If he boarded the train tonight, he would arrive in Osaka by tomorrow morning; then by tomorrow evening, he would reach Shikoku. He raised one hand in startled fashion and stopped the car,

“Tokyo Station.”

he said. Mitsuko's face floated up before him—he was aware this caprice amounted to nothing but buffoonish grand gestures, yet something within kept spurring him on: Play the clown more, play it more!

When he arrived at Tokyo Station, he wandered aimlessly through the vast concourse. There too swarmed crowds of people. He entered the second-class waiting room to look around. Young women and portly old gentlemen with stern faces sat restlessly in rows. He sat down and lit a cigarette. But he immediately stood up and went to inspect the third-class waiting room. It was dimly lit and filthy. A Korean woman in white stood there with her body swollen like a paper bag, clutching a malnourished child. The child wore a Japanese kimono but kept glancing uneasily at those around them. Would these people seem like enemies or allies through this child's eyes? He gazed fixedly while pondering such things. The mother pulled the child's hand and whispered something in Korean. Her other arm cradled another infant. The father was likely in the restroom or out shopping nearby. Yamada suddenly remembered Osaka Station. No matter when you went there, Koreans always crowded the place. Korean women leaning against piled luggage, others squatting on bare floors with nowhere to sit, children sucking candy sticks, faces pale as parchment and clothes hanging like sacks—such images flooded back one after another. "Yellow Gypsy"—he muttered this as he left the waiting room and walked toward the ticket counters. A chill seeped through his heart; he felt he'd become a Gypsy himself. They'd probably call someone like me a spiritual Gypsy—a man so nondescript he blends into both second-class and third-class waiting rooms alike. But wait—am I seriously considering going all the way to Shikoku now? What could possibly await me in Shikoku?

How absurd is this? And yet he had already come before the ticket counter. The clinking sound of money being counted reached his ears. From the window came a young woman's voice saying "Tadotsu," her spring coat clutched under one arm as she peered in. Five or six people were jostling together waiting their turn. Yamada came to a halt at the end of that line. But he still hadn't steeled himself to buy a ticket. Soon his turn arrived. Reluctantly, with the air of someone being forced into a terrible bargain, he took out the wallet. But in that instant, the image surfaced of his countryside father - sullenly silent with a tobacco pipe clenched between his teeth - and somehow he abruptly stuffed the wallet back into his pocket, abandoning the purchase. He staggered out of the station as if swept along by the current, then found himself thinking of heading toward Ginza and began moving his feet in the direction of Yurakucho.

However, before long he grew tired of that too, and this time reluctantly began heading toward Hibiya Park. The sun had already completely set, and the sounds of the elevated railway and streetcars came to take on a demonic quality. He moved his feet sluggishly, feeling as though walking through a basement, yet found himself unable to resist the urge to simply stand still. He looked up at the sky. It was painted utterly black—though he searched for stars, there were none—no moon, not a single glimmer of light. An eerie night hung down with fathomless depth. Here and there in that dark expanse, advertisement lights like fireworks flickered. He suddenly opened his mouth wide and yawned. Fatigue was gradually beginning to numb his body. It was an excruciatingly empty, melancholy yawn. There were absolutely no passersby. When he reached the corner of Marunouchi Street, he gazed toward Maru Building as if peering into a valley's depths—another yawn escaped him. Before Maru Building, car lights crisscrossed—he imagined this might resemble dozens of electric eels swimming across the ocean floor.

"However," he muttered, stopping in his tracks. What is this—I feel somehow strange—what on earth do I intend to do—and what exactly am I thinking about—my head's not quite right today—first of all, there's no benefit in doing something like this—this walking I'm doing now—it's merely walking to wear out my body— Yet even as he muttered this, he wasn't listening to his own words at all.

At that moment, “Sir, where to?” the taxi crawled closer. Then he suddenly spoke in the voice of a man with urgent business, “Oshima.” he said, but a voice so loud it startled even himself burst out. It was a tone that bordered on shouting. Oshima? For what purpose? As the car began moving, he questioned himself again, but examining his feelings had become too much trouble. The car was merely darting like an arrow between lights. Human thought is powerless before this motion.

When crossing over Ōkawa River at night, the car gradually entered among houses that seemed crushed. A stench seemed to strike the nostrils pungently. However, as he approached the slums, his feelings gradually began to calm. That said, it was something that words like "calmness" couldn’t fully express. It was a calmness that had violently detached itself from his very being—a "to hell with it all" kind of calmness.

He abandoned the car behind a large steel mill. A smell of decay drifted over from nowhere in particular. He continued walking aimlessly from one narrow alley to another. He crossed bridge after bridge, circling between machine factories and glassworks. The self-questioning of why he was walking surfaced incessantly, but he somehow couldn't help but continue. He had entered Kameido before he knew it, and crossing the train tracks, he headed toward Azumabashi. The area was crowded with houses that looked as though they'd been crushed flat. He recalled several years back. At that time too, he had passed through this alleyway several times. But how filled with vigor he had been back then! His entire body radiated heat, and beneath his feet lay steadfast earth. But now—hadn't the very ground beneath his feet crumbled and melted away? This area was the most memorable district among those where he had been active. While experiencing a wretched, beaten-down feeling, he nevertheless felt something of that era's passion welling up once more within him. And he felt as though he had rediscovered the self he had long lost.

He walked along the embankment of the drainage ditch. In the river, two or three coal-laden ships swayed as if about to sink. When a stench-soaked wind blew in, the water surface reflected distant lights and glimmered. The surroundings were nearly pitch black. Memories of that time came flooding back one after another. It was like watching a preview film; single frames of comrades' figures rotated before him. The man who remained missing even now, the man still imprisoned, the man captured at Oshiage Station—or again, that woman as tenacious as any man—each figure came vividly back to life. He sat down on bricks piled along the embankment and continued unfolding these images. He felt an intense loneliness. What were those comrades doing now? They had all scattered, every one losing life's direction. And what about me? What about Mitsuko— He thought that if he could cry like a boy, he wanted to abandon himself and wail. While leaning motionless against the brick pile, he contemplated the pain of people living through this era.

But at that moment, the film that had been spinning in his head came to an abrupt halt. There floated the face of a boy still in his teens, cheeks round like apples. This man called himself Tsuji Issaku, though his real name was Obayashi Issaku—Seisaku’s younger brother. He found it strange that he had completely forgotten about this boy until now. What had become of this boy who had imparted such intensity to me? He must be twenty-four or twenty-five by now. He suddenly felt an uneasy, unpleasant sensation—as if the dark word “fate” had begun clinging to him too. He had not entirely forgotten about this man. It was simply that he couldn’t bear to recall him.

He suddenly stood up and began walking with violent strides. But after advancing five or six paces, his gait reverted to the same sluggish, weary stride as before. "Hmph. What a contemptible man I've become," he muttered. When he thought about how he'd wanted to cry like a boy, he felt like spitting on himself. "Heh, but what's happened to Tsuji Issaku?" he muttered again. What's happened to Tsuji Issaku—I'm me. He made his way out along the pitch-dark riverbank toward Gonobashi Street. Then, catching an approaching car, he suddenly shouted the name of the street where prostitutes gathered.

Through narrow tunnel-like alleyways, people squirmed past each other, shoulders brushing, feet tangling as they pressed toward dead ends. At the entrance, he abandoned the car and burrowed into them like a leaf. With the cruel curiosity of someone peering into zoo cages, he swayed through the crowd. But even here, the feeling remained unfulfilled. That feeling had completely vanished now. He fell into a sullen silence, stealing sidelong glances into houses as he turned several corners and walked on. ……The voices calling out were nothing but a nuisance. He merely allowed himself to be carried along by the movements of the people.

In a certain alley, he was suddenly grabbed by the hem of his coat and pulled roughly. His body involuntarily lifted and was dragged beneath the eaves. As the arm of a woman leaning halfway out from the tatami room suddenly stretched out at that moment, she snatched the hat right off his head. “Come on up, now, come.” the woman said, writhing her body. He lifted his face with a languid look and, in an extremely listless voice, “Give me the hat.” he said curtly. “But come on, now, come up.” “I’m free tonight.” “Come on, now, right? Right?”

However, Yamada had already lost the will to retrieve the hat. It was too much trouble. He suddenly whirled around and blended into the crowd. The hat remained in the woman’s hand. He came out to the tram-lined street. He had come to loathe even walking, even moving. His body was utterly exhausted, as though the tendons in both legs had turned to wire. He wanted to plop down right there on the ground. However, he couldn’t very well sit down. He had no choice but to trudge onward once more. To make matters worse, his stomach had been empty since earlier. Even so, he still didn’t feel the slightest desire to eat. More accurately, he had completely forgotten about eating. His head felt as though crammed full of some dry substance.

He suddenly looked up at the sky. A raindrop struck his cheek. The sky was of course pitch-black, but the rain seemed to have already begun falling some time ago. It was only striking his cheeks and neck here and there.

“Rain.”

he muttered.

And then, having stopped the car again, “Yokohama.” he said. When he looked at the clock in the car, it was already well past eleven. He had still thought it was around eight or nine. Go to Yokohama—and then what? But that no longer mattered. He wanted to rest his body.

The rain grew increasingly fierce. It splattered against the window. He closed his eyes, slumped his body against the seat, and each time the car took a sharp turn, swayed limply before gazing out the window as if roused from a doze. No thoughts rose in his head. He could neither reflect on the day that had passed nor consider what lay ahead. It was like when a large dose of sleeping pills began to take effect—nerves gradually dulling, a pleasant drunkenness washing over the entire body. He continued to yawn deeply. However, the face reflected in the rearview mirror was drained of color. His hair tangled and disheveled, he felt as though he were looking at a corpse and shuddered, yet he never once considered that it was his own face. He was in an idiot-like empty state of mind.

Before long, as soon as the car passed Kawasaki, it plunged headlong into the national highway. The slumbering houses on both sides gradually thinned out, leaving only streetlights stretching endlessly into the distance. He surrendered his body to the pleasant vibrations and drowsily listened to the asphalt's hum. The driver maintained an immobile posture, staring at the circularly illuminated area ahead as he gently swayed the steering wheel left and right. In the gliding car, Yamada gradually slipped deeper into a dreamlike state and vaguely thought how good it would be if they kept driving like this until tomorrow. But when they had come around Tsurumi, the car suddenly jolted violently, slid several meters, and screeched to a halt. When the driver turned his ashen face around,

"I think I hit someone." he said in a voice like a whisper, opened the door, and leapt out.

“Did he hit someone?” Yamada opened his eyes dazedly, but by then the driver was already gone. The rain drummed wetly, and peering out into the darkness, the wet street trees reflected the street lamps and shone white. The area was devoid of human figures, merely the pouring rain splashed against the concrete pavement. _What’s going on?_ Yamada wondered suspiciously, but probing further felt too bothersome. “I think I must have hit him.” “I’m sorry, please change cars.”

Before long, the driver came dashing back, snapped those words at Yamada in the car with an agitated voice, and once again ran out into the rain. Yamada realized for the first time that he had run over someone. Yet not only did no emotions surface, but the thought of having to get out of the car in such a place filled him with disgust. He closed his eyes again and leaned against the cushion as if pursuing that earlier dreamlike state. That he had killed someone now felt somehow absurd.

At that moment from behind the car came two or three overlapping shouts of loud voices, and the sound of footsteps reached his ears. He heaved himself up and stepped outside as though forgetting the rain was falling. With his hat having been taken by the woman earlier, the rain now drummed down mercilessly, soaking his hair and streaming along his neck. About twenty meters behind the car, four or five people had gathered shouting over each other. Beside the dimly lit dark mass under the streetlamp lay a cart smashed to splinters. Yamada staggered over to look. Surrounded by the crowd, the corpse lay supine, its clothes thoroughly drenched. The neck remained twisted sideways at an unnatural angle, cheek plastered against the asphalt while blood trickled steadily from the mouth turned toward the ground. Though the rain fell as if trying to wash everything clean, that blood paradoxically appeared vivid to Yamada's eyes. A policeman started lifting the body only to set it down again inexplicably. The people still hadn't noticed Yamada's presence. For two or three minutes he stared vacantly at the corpse before trudging off toward Kawasaki as though blown by the wind. That he was getting soaked by rain, that exhaustion weighed on him, that midnight approached, that walking served no purpose—none of these could he bring himself to consider. When wounded in spirit, external scenery imprints itself on the eyes with uncanny clarity. Walking with steps that seemed ready to collapse him to the pavement at any moment, the corpse he'd witnessed remained etched behind his eyelids with nightmarish vividness—yet this wasn't death appearing as some raw tragic event, nor shock at seeing life's misery through oozing blood. It simply existed like a photograph containing nothing but vivid contours, colors, and motion. Suddenly he looked up. Across the way glowed a police box's red light, and for no particular reason he felt something pierce his chest.

He staggered two or three blocks. And he gazed into the distant reaches of the dark street, wondering if an empty taxi would come.

Yamada spent several restless minutes being jostled by the train since earlier. He would feel intense disgust at heading out like this, then strongly think he absolutely had to meet him, then feel something that was neither quite curiosity nor fear about what had become of that man since then. And the distant past was recalled; the blank years in the relationship between Tsuji Issaku and Yamada that followed now came to seem like some dark valley. How had that boy spent these years? How had he survived? He felt as though a dark abyss of life, of what is called fate, of all such things was thrust before his eyes.

The first time Yamada met Tsuji was the year he had just graduated from Higher Technical School. Tsuji Issaku came all the way from Shikoku seeking out Yamada, carrying a single grimy basket and bearing a letter of request from his brother Seisaku. At that time, drenched in the spray of social ideologies that surged up like a tsunami, with the fire of social ideals having just ignited within him, Yamada inevitably found himself compelled to seek an outlet in this boy. He loved this youth whose eyes gleamed with a certain haughtiness—this boy who possessed the willfulness of a small locomotive—and made him his first disciple. Every day when Yamada returned from work, he would lecture on historical materialism and proletarian political theory. At that time, Tsuji was sixteen. Years later, when Yamada recalled Tsuji and himself from those days, he felt mystified at how he could have become so fervently devoted to mentoring such a child. Yet the difference lay here: even then, within Tsuji there had existed something resilient enough to withstand his influence—something that might be called the sprout of intelligence.

The time Yamada had spent living and sleeping alongside Tsuji had lasted barely over a year, but for the boy's mind—still a blank slate—it could never be considered brief. One day, the boy suddenly declared with a look of determination.

“I’m going back to the countryside.”

Thus Tsuji's boyish fantasies and hopes manifested in an entirely different form as a peasant movement, and the two parted ways. It was as if Tsuji had come to Tokyo solely to kindle the fire of social thought within himself. Yamada knew almost nothing about Tsuji's subsequent activities. Of course, for the first year or two correspondence continued, with necessary documents being sent to Tsuji through Yamada, but after that, for some reason, the letters abruptly ceased. During that time Yamada married Mitsuko and was arrested and imprisoned.

Yamada, even during the dark, gloomy days of his prison life, would sometimes recall Tsuji and find himself assailed by an uneasy premonition—that perhaps he too was passing his days in a place like this. While silently performing his manual labor, he would suddenly wonder how old Tsuji was that year and count on his fingers. He felt a nostalgic affection akin to remembering his own younger brother or nephew. However, the first year of prison life ended, and it became autumn of the second year. He abruptly received a visit from Tsuji.

Yamada closed his eyes in the train car and recalled the circumstances of that visit. It was a somehow strange and astonishing moment. He was first astonished by Tsuji's altered appearance. He wore a serge kimono suitable for autumn, now faded to yellow, and his small, unimpressive physique looked utterly wretched—so much so that Yamada himself felt pity instead. Moreover, his once ruddy cheeks had vanished; his hair was disheveled, and he had grown so pale and emaciated that one might suddenly wonder if he had contracted tuberculosis. On his forehead, despite being only twenty, two or three deep horizontal wrinkles were carved, and somehow Yamada shuddered. And for some reason, even when facing Yamada, Tsuji remained sullenly tight-lipped and did not open his mouth. Helplessly, from Yamada's side,

“What’s wrong?” He couldn’t help asking.

“Yeah.” Tsuji replied as if angry. “Were you well?”

“Yeah. You… are you well?” Yamada had never been addressed as “you” by Tsuji before. Startled, he stared at Tsuji’s mouth. Tsuji fell completely silent again, sinking into profound thought. “Ah, I’m healthy enough as you see. But how have you been? You seem different somehow. What’s the situation outside these days?” “Yeah.” Tsuji scanned their surroundings with melancholy eyes. He suddenly turned toward Yamada’s face as if to smile, then pressed his lips tightly together. Something’s wrong here, Yamada thought, irritation rising—under these circumstances, you couldn’t tell which of them had come to visit whom. The long silence stretched on as they faced each other—gazing at faces, tapping feet rhythmically against the floor. Tsuji lacked all composure. He kept glancing about restlessly, flinching away whenever his eyes met Yamada’s. Eventually Tsuji swayed upright and began walking away, his back turned to Yamada.

“Hey, you leaving?” Tsuji stopped, still facing away, “Ah.” he said, but then whirled around and, bringing his mouth close to Yamada’s ear, continued in a whisper: “I’m sick. “I’ve come down with a terrible disease.” “Disease?”

Tsuji momentarily closed his eyes as if confused, then suddenly his face flushed crimson, his voice rising in a single breath,

“It’s leprosy.”

With that, he went out through the door. Yamada felt as if he had been struck hard on the head. In that instant, he thought to call Tsuji back, but his voice wouldn’t come out.

Nearly four years had passed since then. He could not conjure up Tsuji's face. It was something eerily dreadful, anxious, and oppressive.

Exiting the station's ticket gate, Yamada looked around the grounds here and there. Wondering if he was too early, he glanced at his watch—yet his heart pounded with a peculiar excitement. Since no figure resembling Tsuji was visible, he felt a flicker of panic while simultaneously being unable to deny the wish deep within that Tsuji might never appear at all. "How are you? I've been remiss in keeping in touch all this time, summoning you like this..."

A voice like that was suddenly heard from the side. However, Yamada didn't even think he was being spoken to, so he paid no attention in that direction and continued looking ahead, “Um, I’m Tsuji.”

Yamada, startled, turned around,

“Ah—no—I’m Yamada.” His reply came out flustered. “How has your health been? I’d been worried—I hadn’t known where you were.” “Yes—I’m doing well.”

Yamada had not imagined this kind of meeting. He had envisioned a scene where, regardless of how disfigured the other might have become, he would casually clap their shoulder and ask how they'd been—this very expectation now amplified his awkwardness. What's more, he hadn't remotely anticipated such polite language emerging from his own mouth, leaving him startled by his own words. Walking side by side from the station, Yamada found his gaze involuntarily drawn to the man's face and limbs. Each time he became aware of this scrutiny, he'd hurriedly look away—yet paradoxically felt an airy lightness in his chest. Tsuji retained the same slight frame as when they'd met in prison, matted hair escaping from beneath his fedora to frame a gaunt, skeletal face. His emaciation appeared more pronounced than before, yet paradoxically he seemed healthier overall. He wore a charcoal-gray suit with an overcoat layered on top.

“How are you getting by now?” When they entered the narrow alley lined with coffee shops, Yamada asked this. He had found the composure to try restoring their former closeness as much as possible, making his word choice more casual.

“Yeah, I’m at the sanatorium.”

“How’s your health holding up?” “Well... getting by for now.”

“Can you come out freely anytime?” “It’s not exactly freedom.” “Maybe once a year...” Tsuji answered in a small, melancholy voice, his words coming haltingly as if at any moment he might lapse into silence. Yamada found himself strangely terrified of falling silent, scrambling through his mind for something to say yet finding no suitable words. The years of severed contact lay like a deep valley between them. And when he thought of Tsuji—likely ravaged by his illness—he found himself utterly speechless.

“Tokyo hasn’t changed at all.” Tsuji moved his head as if surveying the surroundings and suddenly uttered those words. “Yeah, it’s mostly built up now, so I suppose there won’t be many changes from here on out. But how many years have you been there?” “Three years.” “Going on four years now.” “But how did you manage to find my address?” “I’ve moved around quite a bit, you see.”

"I asked my brother." "Ah, I see." "He's doing well, your brother."

“Yeah.” “Is the hospital large?” “There are about five hundred.” “Can you have visitors?” “You can.” “It’s freedom.” “Would it be all right if I came to visit sometime?”

“Yeah. Come visit.” “It’s a place with nothing but leprosy.” Yamada’s words caught in his throat. He was shocked by how Tsuji had uttered “leprosy”—his own disease—with such casual indifference. Yamada stared at Tsuji’s profile, thinking intensely: He’s changed. A tension coiled in his chest as fierce curiosity surged—what ideology did this man cling to now? What convictions sustained him? What of his former beliefs? Did they remain intact, or had he forged an entirely new path?

“But you don’t look sick at all.” “Can’t you leave?” “Leave? If I wanted to, I could… but there’d be no point.”

“But the illness is mild, isn’t it?”

Yamada suddenly wondered if he should have asked such a thing, but since it had already slipped out, he waited for a response. Tsuji gave no answer. Then, forming a faint smile on his cheeks, he sank into silence. Yamada felt something uneasy stir within him—if even the exterior showed nothing, perhaps the interior was already quite ravaged—he found himself gripped by this doubt. “Whether the illness is mild or severe amounts to the same thing.”

After a long silence, Tsuji abruptly said. Incurable—the word struck Yamada’s heart. He felt as though a sudden pressure had been applied to his chest and was left speechless. "But you're receiving treatment, aren't you?"

Yamada asked hesitantly. “I am...” Tsuji evaded the question and smiled again.

The two entered the tearoom. The place was packed with people, the record player clattering away, making any proper conversation impossible; Yamada wondered if there wasn’t a better spot. Tsuji settled into his seat; he looked around restlessly, fixed his gaze in one direction, seemed to strain his ears toward the music, and momentarily closed his eyes. Yet in each of these small expressions there was an indefinable stiffness that could be sensed, and Yamada found himself feeling something akin to pity. Even if not quite a country bumpkin, it was altogether like watching someone who hadn’t appeared in public for ages being suddenly thrust into the open. The expression one assumes when trying forcibly to compose oneself while being conscious of that very inability—Yamada perceived these things.

When the tea and sweets arrived, Yamada, while putting sugar into Tsuji’s cup, “You’re not hungry, are you?” he asked. “No. I’m full.”

“Shall we go somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah.” “Yeah, that’s right.” “However,” Tsuji said, looking at his watch,

“Are you sure this is all right? Your wife isn’t waiting, is she? I shouldn’t have met you like this.”

“That’s fine.” “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? As long as you’re all right, I’ve no complaints.” “Yeah, I’m fine, but…”

As Tsuji said this while moving his fork, somehow it slipped and fell with a clatter. Tsuji let out a small cry, his face turning crimson, then suddenly started to retrieve it but abruptly pulled his hand back. The panic was comically visible, and Yamada instantly— “Don’t worry, I’ll have someone pick it up.”

He whispered softly to Tsuji and called the waitress. Yamada felt people’s gazes suddenly pierce toward them and forced a smile as if nothing were wrong,

“When you come out from now on, you must always stop by my place.” He tried to gloss over it with those words. “Yeah, I’ll come. I’ll come.” “But, I—” “Um, well… I’ll come out next year too.” “I’ve decided to come out once every year.” “But you’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” “That’s not true at all.” “You must cease such reserve.” “Yeah.” “The people in the outside world don’t understand the disease properly, so even if they were to discharge me that easily, I wouldn’t come out.” “No—I will come out. I will come out.” “Even society isn’t splendidly made enough to demand sacrifices from us.” “Isn’t society more vulgar than us?” “But no—”

Then Tsuji—whose face had just begun losing its flush—suddenly reddened again, clamped his mouth shut, sat bolt upright while staring fixedly in one direction, then abruptly averted his gaze and made his eyes gleam sharply as if surveying those around him. In those eyes burned a sharp, challenging flame that hadn’t been visible until now. While carefully observing these expressions of Tsuji’s, Yamada felt something indescribable—a ghastly odor that defied naming. He perceived in those eyes—and in those challenging, abrupt words—what must have been a long history of pain, humiliation, and oppression by an unbearable fate.

After leaving that place, they walked for a while through the town as it grew dark, then went up to the second floor of a small soba shop. “How many days are you staying in Tokyo?”

When the sake was brought out, Yamada picked up the decanter and asked. "I've been here about two weeks, but three more days and it'll be time to go back." "So you mean the days are fixed?" "Yeah." "Is the hospital an awful place?" "Well..."

Tsuji muttered as if thinking to himself,

“I can’t explain. In any case, ordinary people’s concept of humanity doesn’t apply.” “No—not in that sense. A political meaning, so to speak. That is... hospital life itself—the relationship between administrators and patients...” “Peaceful.”

“Peace, you say? But don’t problems sometimes occur there and make the newspapers?” Then Tsuji suddenly burst into a strange loud laugh and gulped down his drink. “It’s because of boredom that such problems occur,” he muttered, looking downward as if speaking to himself. “People in society consider hospitals to be these dismal places utterly unfit for human habitation.” That was a lie—such thinking—compared to society, the hospital was far more commendable. At least there, people lived with spirits true to their humanity. What was society? Wasn’t it filled with lies, deception, and repulsiveness? Even hospitals had their foolish aspects; they could be repulsive. But they were still better than society. And yet, whenever he met those society people, their eyes invariably gleamed with curiosity as they asked about the hospital. What did they think they were accomplishing by asking? It must be the psychology of morbid curiosity. Or perhaps they conjured up the hospital as something utterly repulsive—wanting to know whether that was true, or rather, wanting it to be true. What foolishness. If they wanted to see repulsive things, society should look at its own feet. “At the very least, society should feel ashamed before leprosy sanatoriums.”

“No—I’m not asking with that sort of intent.” “Yeah, yeah, I understand what you’re saying.” “How should I put this… I…” But Tsuji cut in as if to silence Yamada and began speaking.

“What kind of defilement and humiliation do you think the five hundred patients at my hospital have lived through?” “It’s terrifying defilement—terrifying humiliation.” “But they’ve endured it steadfastly.” “Any man who doesn’t bow his head in silence before leprosy—that alone proves he’s a fool.” “It is terrifying humiliation.” “The humiliation of prostitutes pales in comparison.” “And that humiliation still continues.” “Until death—until death itself—mark these words: the humiliation will never cease until death.” “But you wouldn’t understand even if I told you.” “Try living among leprosy patients for three days—then you’d grasp how horrifying, how bone-chilling that world is.” “Yet they endure it unflinchingly.” “Humanity survives through its own inner strength; through humanity’s deepest reserves of power.” “The most purely beautiful state of human existence lies nowhere else but there.” “Leprosy patients achieve this without even being conscious of it.”

Yamada listened intently to Tsuji's words, yet he couldn't shake a sense of something discordant, something out of focus. Even the matters that Tsuji spoke of with gleaming eyes and heated tone felt somehow irrelevant to him, like Tsuji's own self-absorbed fervor. Moreover, for Yamada, whether the lepers' spirits were beautiful or ugly was of no concern. He simply found enjoyment in inferring from Tsuji's words where Tsuji's interests now lay and how his ideology had transformed compared to its earlier state. This man's turned into a full-blown humanist, he thought, feeling a smirk twist his lips. Then suddenly, reflecting on his own feelings since earlier, he realized that having leper Tsuji Issaku before him had made him adopt an oddly formal demeanor, and a sense of "What nonsense is this?" welled up within him.

Tsuji appeared quite drunk now, his eyes bloodshot, alternating between staring intently at Yamada with an excited expression and abruptly bringing his cup to his mouth.

"But you—isn’t it getting late?" Yamada asked. He too had become quite drunk by now. "I’m fine." "But you’ve changed quite a bit." Yamada said, staring intently at Tsuji. "Changed? Yeah, I’ve changed. I’ve changed. I might’ve completely changed. However, there are parts that haven’t changed." "Oh right—back then, when you were sixteen, that time. There are parts of you from back then that haven’t changed a bit. You’re still you in the ways that make you you, but your way of thinking…"

“Well, my way of thinking... Ah, it has changed.” “Socialism—I’ve cast it aside,” Tsuji declared flatly. Then suddenly fixing Yamada with a challenging glare, he continued in a terribly agitated tone—as if convinced that abandoning socialism would inevitably draw scorn from the other man, and he was desperately trying to refute it. He looked as if he had been subjected to unbearable ridicule. “Socialism—I’ve cast it aside, completely cast it aside. Let those who laugh do as they please. How many can even laugh?” “I’ve laughed mercilessly at that version of myself—all on my own.” “I’ve laughed mercilessly at myself—all on my own.” “But now I won’t laugh.” “No—it wasn’t me who cast aside the ideology.” “It’s absolutely not like that.” “It was ideology—ideology itself—that cast me aside.” “I was cast adrift by ideology.” “When I first became ill, I too clung desperately to ideologies and theories.” “That’s right—I—I—” “But you—in my case—it… it’s just something that amounts to nothing.” “So I don’t think that theory is completely meaningless at all.” “It’s just meaningless to me.” “I don’t need it.” “That’s social theory, isn’t it?” “But I—I’ve been rejected by society.” “In other words, I was rejected by theory.”

"What does someone like me believing in theory—cherishing it in my head—amount to? …Isn’t that completely meaningless?" “It’s like shoes—they only have value when worn and walked in. If you just perch them on your head, they’re utterly useless.”

Having spoken this far with visible irritation, Tsuji suddenly cut off his words, seemed to ponder something, then continued speaking in a low voice with his gaze downcast. (He spoke as if talking to himself) “I suffered because of it.” “I couldn’t sleep properly even at night.” “When I first entered the hospital, I still clung to belief.” “But that was merely ignorance about the disease—I thought I could rejoin society and live like proper people.” “So back then, I never doubted myself as a functioning member.” “That’s why letting social theory lie dormant in my mind felt natural.” “I believed there’d come a day when it would awaken—when it would rise again.” “Yet as days passed, they made me understand what manner of illness this was.” “Something I couldn’t avoid knowing.” “I realized this person called me had become utterly unnecessary to society—nothing more than a single…” “Now I must watch my body rot day after day while waiting to die.” “No—not just my body. Never just this individual flesh.” “They forced me to watch those around me decay daily.” “Day upon day surrounded by collapsing noses, fingers dropping off, men losing both legs—bodies riddled with wounds—compelled to observe their putrefaction.” “Someone who had eyes yesterday turned blind today.” “A man standing on two legs today would lack one tomorrow.” “I’ve lived watching this—steadily, silently.” “Though mild now, I’ll become like that.” “Become exactly like that.”

“Legs disappear, fingers fall off, blindness comes.” “Ah—do you understand what sort of life this forces one to contemplate? A life demanding such thoughts?” “And yet life stretches long.” “Stretches endlessly long.” “But voicing these things changes nothing now.” “What my heart endured—I cannot begin to articulate it.” “It lies beyond articulation’s very capacity.” “I came to know with perfect clarity—I was meaningless. A superfluous being to society.” “And yet I breathe.” “I must persist through years uncounted.” “If only you might comprehend this feeling.” “But none will understand—how could they?” “I stand utterly alone—bereft of all connection.” “Those out in society prattle of loneliness—of solitude—as if they were proper members of it.” “What can such creatures know of true loneliness?” “They’ll never grasp it.” “It’s terrifying.” “Like having your flesh flayed strip by strip.” “Like all blood in your veins freezing solid.” “But such similes fail—I’ve seen fate itself.”

"I have seen reality." "How should one live within this solitude?" "I've lost both my bearing to live and my stance." "And what surrounds me now are none but lepers." "A nest of leprosy." "Having become like this—do you consider living right? Do you deem it proper? Answer me."

Tsuji abruptly stopped speaking and fixed Yamada with an intense stare. Yamada met Tsuji’s small, sharp eyes peering through disheveled hair that covered half his face—knowing full well Tsuji wasn’t expecting any reply. Then Yamada suddenly felt a yawn rising and shifted his posture slightly to conceal it. Yamada couldn’t share the urgency that fueled Tsuji’s fervent speech. At this, Tsuji began speaking again, eyebrows twitching irritably.

“I don’t want to hear any answer.” “Of course I don’t care whether I hear an answer or not.” “All I wanted to say was that a new problem—what it means to live—had arisen before me.” “I’ve watched patients dying around me, people decaying while alive—listen, decaying while alive!—day after day watching them, until this problem became my new problem: how to interpret this reality, this world—how to explain it.” “No—that’s a lie. I didn’t intend to say things like this, to speak in this way.” “Interpreting reality, analyzing reality—what does that matter?” “What does that amount to?” “No matter how much you analyze it, no matter how much you interpret it, reality doesn’t give a damn about such things.” “Reality puts on an indifferent face to human intellect, and reality moves solely for its own sake, doing its own work as its work.” “This is what they call fate.” “Humanity can only fear, tremble, cry, scream, and shed tears before this advancing force.” “Criticism of reality or interpretation—in the end, they’re nothing but variations of this wailing and screaming.” “Humans can only weep—can only shed tears and console one another.” “You’re laughing, aren’t you.” “From your perspective, this must seem like the grumblings of pitiful humans—the whining of weaklings.” “And then you probably want to say, ‘This way of thinking is old-fashioned.’” “That may be old-fashioned.” “But I don’t care if it’s old-fashioned.” “Whether something’s old or new isn’t the issue.” “In my case, it isn’t an issue.”

“I’m talking about my own world.” “What do I care about other people?” “No—wait, what was I trying to say?” “That’s right—I tried to die.” “I thought about killing myself.” “But I couldn’t die.” “I tried it many times.” “But it was futile.” “No—that’s not it. I realized I can’t die.” “It’s that I can’t die—you see?” “I can’t die—if only you could understand what this means.” “But you won’t understand—it’s not that I can’t die because I lack the courage to kill myself. It’s that dying wouldn’t change a damn thing.” “Dying won’t change a thing—that’s how it is.” “But how do I even say it?” “How inconvenient words are—the moment they’re spoken, they turn absurd.” “What I mean by saying dying changes nothing is this—even if I die, people will keep living; even if I die, leprosy will still exist.” “But even putting it this way—it doesn’t feel quite true—”

Tsuji fell silent and sank into thought, fixing his eyes on empty space as if trying to find the right words in his head. However, Yamada had already begun growing bored some time ago. And as he watched Tsuji's eyes glint fiercely and the sweat on his heated forehead glisten unpleasantly, he couldn't help but feel an indescribable, sickening disgust. "I'm drinking with a leprosy patient right now"—when such thoughts suddenly surfaced in his mind, he felt something eerie, akin to terror. And against Tsuji's words—which seemed to shoulder life's sufferings alone—he couldn't help feeling vaguely repelled. Moreover, as for Tsuji's manner of speaking—constantly revising his words, fumbling, self-satisfiedly nodding—to Yamada it seemed nothing more than a terribly self-centered monologue.

The conversation broke off, and silence persisted. Tsuji had been working his mouth as if to continue speaking from earlier when suddenly, as if repelled by something, he sprang upright. After sweeping his gaze around the surroundings, he sat back down without a word. Across his face flickered something indefinable—neither exactly confusion nor fear—appearing and vanishing repeatedly.

“What’s wrong?” Yamada couldn’t help asking. Tsuji smiled faintly—no, rather—but it was a stiff sort of smile. “Well—it felt like this wasn’t Tokyo anymore.”

Tsuji said. “Not Tokyo?”

“Somehow…” “It felt strange—like I was dreaming.” “I felt like patients were sitting all behind me.” “Let them sit there—that’s obvious, of course.” “But somehow I shuddered.” “Having not left the hospital once in nearly four years—hallucinations happen, you see.”

With that, Tsuji tried to smile again, but it faded midway, leaving him in dreadful silence as he sank into some profound contemplation. Yamada found himself wanting to suggest they leave, but seeing Tsuji like this, the words felt impossible to voice. Yamada also naturally began to ponder. Yamada suddenly recalled the events of the night two days prior. The car’s violent jolt came back to him with startling clarity—the image of the man lying dead on the asphalt, cheek pressed flat against its surface, rose vividly before his eyes. What about that man’s family? What could they be doing now? When such thoughts surfaced, he began being seized by guilt and self-reproach he had never felt before. Certainly that was undoubtedly the driver’s fault, but I—without any real purpose, let alone with such a foolish state of mind—had made the car run. Thinking this way, I felt all guilt lay with myself. Moreover, that driver would either have his license revoked or be ordered to take a leave of absence—one or the other.

“But listen, Tsuji—you must have suffered terribly, but we’re not exactly living in comfort either. Perhaps falling to such depths might actually bring human happiness—or so I think.”

Yamada spoke while recalling every detail of that night and the hopeless, unmanageable state of his day-to-day emotions that had no outlet. Then Tsuji suddenly looked up at Yamada but fell silent and sank back into thought. Yamada had noticed that Tsuji still didn’t know about his conversion, so “Actually, I’ve converted too.”

he said in a confessional tone. And now, at this moment, the word "I" suddenly emerged. “You converted?”

Tsuji quickly raised his face and repeated parrot-like. But immediately his voice dropped to a low tone, “I probably thought the same.”

he continued, but there was not a trace of sarcasm or mockery in his words. And with an air of great gravity, he sank into thought again. “The truth is, even for us, we don’t know the direction our lives should take or what attitude to adopt……………………… In this utterly unfathomable situation, all we realize is that things are gradually……………………… unfolding.” “Just because I’ve converted doesn’t mean I want to fall into ruin like this—if possible, I want my life to contribute to historical progress.” “When I converted and was released from prison back then, those feelings made me terribly impatient and despairing.” “But ultimately, there was nothing to be done.” “It’s hard to explain exactly how things became unavoidable—but you’ve read newspapers and magazines at least?” “Even novels are filled with nothing but accounts of how everything became unavoidable—that’s how things stand now.”

Pausing his words there, Yamada looked toward Tsuji. Tsuji kept his face down and listened in silence. But Yamada no longer wanted to speak. What's the point of saying these things before this man? In the end, I just want someone to know the torment in my heart—to steal a shred of sympathy through their understanding. How utterly pathetic— Yet perhaps owing to alcohol's intoxication, his mouth opened of its own accord, and he began droning on about his post-prison life and mental state. And now... clinging to... had become almost akin to self-mutilation—or rather, that sincerity inevitably warped into self-harm and self-mockery—and how those like us had been driven into such desperate... circumstances—he continued explaining at length,

“In the end, my situation isn’t much different from being in a sanatorium.” “Well, the body doesn’t rot, but the spirit does—no, rather, it’s forced to rot.” “Just as you lament that your hospital-bound feelings don’t reach me, I too suspect my own feelings must prove equally inscrutable to you.” “If you say that allowing one’s very spirit to rot stems from the weakness of their conscious will—well, I’ve no argument there. But at the very least, I intend to live this existence with a certain sincerity.” “But... precisely because of that... there's this strange circumstance where I can't help but become—no, be forced into—a rotten state.” “And sometimes I’m even made to become like an idiot or an imbecile—to that extent.” “A similar thing happened just two or three days ago.” “It was night, though I certainly don’t consider this version of myself to be in any right condition.” “Far from that—I’m thinking I must escape from this state, and I’m acutely aware that if I don’t escape it, I’ll become something utterly foolish and meaningless even as a human being.” “But you see, right now, all I want is for you to understand what I’m feeling.” “Of course, even if you do understand, it won’t change a thing—but just listen anyway.”

He wanted to mock himself for having wanted to talk about such things. It was exactly like old men confiding their hardships to each other and trying to console one another. “My, you’ve certainly had your share of hardships... But then again, I’ve been through quite a lot myself... Ah well—this fleeting world’s naught but suffering,” as if they were exchanging such platitudes. Yamada had suddenly recalled such a scene at that moment and involuntarily smirked.

He took a long time speaking in detail as he explained his feelings about the events of the night two days prior. At first, he would occasionally be overcome with such intense disgust that he'd abruptly stop speaking mid-sentence. But each time, the thought "Who cares? Who cares?" would surface, and as he continued speaking, before he knew it, another self—secretly admiring and engrossed in his own tale—had begun sitting beside him. Of course, being him, he continued to despise that other self as much as possible—but in the end, even that fell into a state of neglect, until finally his tone grew excited and carried away by his own momentum, parts of his story began taking on a slightly exaggerated quality—such was the state of affairs. Of course, even this exaggeration wasn't particularly significant.

“Truthfully, even now I can’t understand why I did such an idiotic thing. Especially since I nearly started sobbing right there on the embankment.” “That’s right—I did remember you there.” “To be honest, I hated remembering you.” “I think it’s still because of your illness.” “Please don’t take this the wrong way.” “It’s just... somehow. Somehow I was terrified of your illness.” “Honestly, whenever I remembered you, I couldn’t help feeling like I was crashing into something dark and fateful.” “No—but that’s not all! There’s something more crucial—when I recall you now, apart from that prison scene, all I see is how you looked back then, when you were sixteen or seventeen for that whole year.” “Back then, our relationship was—truth be told—that of master and disciple.” “So ever since... whenever I’ve thought of you, I’ve been racked with self-reproach.” “Of course I know this guilt is just my own sentimentality, and that me becoming your teacher was probably some grand inevitability needing no explanation.” “Still, despite all that, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d done you wrong.” “And it’s gotten worse since you fell ill.” “Why is that... My act of making [someone]... must be the cause. No matter how I explain it... it’s undeniably a human stain...”

“Wait—hold on a moment.” “Why call that a stain?” “I don’t get it.” “Whether something’s a stain depends on the individual’s spirit. There could even be cases where it intensifies through………………, you know.” “You make the ruler first, then try to measure people against it.” “Right, right—maybe it could be seen your way.” “But I’ve got no choice but to use the methods I believe in—as myself.” “So just listen a little longer.” “You’d understand these feelings of mine, wouldn’t you?” “Tonight I’ve come to need you to understand me.” “You said earlier that society’s crowd can’t grasp loneliness—but I’m lonely too.” “Sure there’s my wife and the company job, but not one soul understands how I feel—not one person to talk to.” “So meeting someone like you after all this time—though our hearts might be miles apart now—I still feel some spiritual thread remains.” “Maybe it’s just my hallucination trying to reclaim our old selves.” “But I wanted to confess everything to you—if anyone.” “I think you’re the only one who could understand why I had to do that idiotic thing—why I ended up killing someone.”

Having spoken this far, Yamada suddenly felt an unpleasant, irritating disgust—verging on nausea—rising up with violent force. He had grown sick of speaking another word. He hurriedly grabbed the chilled cup and drank it in one gulp, then proceeded to drink two or three more times. "What am I confessing to this brat?" As this thought surfaced and passed through his mind, he made a bitter face but nonetheless grabbed the sake bottle and poured into Tsuji’s cup. And the moment he looked at Tsuji’s face, he was somehow startled, and on some impulse of his heart, muttered to himself, Damn it. "What’s done is done—hmph," he thought, settling into a strangely defiant mood as he tried to calm his mind. But no sooner had it calmed than an inexpressible shame began to well up. What was this shame for? What was this shame for?

Tsuji stared coldly at Yamada. His face now bore a mockingly scornful sneer—a look of utter contempt that had never before been there. Tsuji did not speak. And when that scornful sneer finally faded, he suddenly moved his throat as if to speak—but stopped that too—and abruptly stood up.

“Are you leaving?” “Yeah, it’s getting late.” “Wait—hold on a second.”

And making Tsuji sit down, Yamada smiled while—

“It’s cowardly to suddenly leave just because you’ve won.”

Tsuji momentarily wore a look of incomprehension at Yamada’s words, but then—for some reason—began sinking into heavy, melancholy-laden brooding. “I wanted you to criticize me just now. After all, you made that kind of face earlier, didn’t you?” Yamada peered into Tsuji’s face. Tsuji remained silent and deep in thought. Then, slightly moving his chopsticks, he picked up a piece of the dwindling vinegared dish but set them down without eating. A long silence flowed between them. Suddenly, Tsuji raised his face and stared intently at Yamada,

“I’ll say it. I’ll say everything. You ready?” Before Yamada could answer “Of course,” Tsuji suddenly— “Lies! You’re lying. You’ve been acting this whole time!” He spat the words like a shout, then let a sneer twist his face as he stared poisonously at Yamada. “Acting?” Yamada echoed reflexively, but fury surged through him. It felt like something precious he’d safeguarded for years had been stomped into mud.

“Exactly.” “An act.” “You were performing an act.” “You performed this act wanting to feel righteous, didn’t you?” “Humans enact their performances with deadly earnestness.” “They grow impassioned, weep real tears—all while staging their acts.” “They perform with utter sincerity—an unconscious, inescapable compulsion.” “They deliberately plunge their hearts into these irretrievable depths and convince themselves it’s their true nature.” “Simple souls let performance and authenticity tangle together.” “But you—you’re fully conscious of your own performance as you execute it, aren’t you?” “How could a man drowning in self-awareness like you fail to notice his own charade?” “Your manner of speech betrayed you completely.” “I understand why this performance was necessary.” “Even I grasp such things.” “That ‘social consciousness’ of yours.” “That ‘consciousness of participating in historical progress’ you mentioned earlier.” “But direct participation proves too dangerous now.” “So you’ve coined this ‘hopeless situation’ rhetoric to fuel your precious consciousness.” “It lends your performance greater gravitas.” “And since circumstances are ‘hopeless,’ you face no consequences—not even for running someone down with your car.”

“Whether your head gets chopped off or you chop someone else’s—everyone tries to take the other’s head first.” “Your true heart doesn’t give a damn whether history advances even an inch.” “All that matters is keeping your own peace.” “So you’re saying all ideologies are lies?” “Fine—if human instinct is as vile and self-serving as you claim, people would arm themselves before protecting others.” “But do you actually want this ugliness—this evil—to keep poisoning the earth forever?” “At least I recognize this rot within us and believe fighting it is right.”

While suppressing the surging anger, Yamada declared in an excited voice. Tsuji, now settled to a degree bearing no resemblance to his earlier agitation, gazed coldly at Yamada. It was a malicious, venomous expression. “That’s exactly as you say.” “No—it might be exactly as you say.” “But ultimately, that’s just your self-justification.” “As proof—you’re putting on an act, aren’t you?” “No—I won’t just call it an act! Tonight I’ll say everything—absolutely everything! I want to rip off the lid on all the rot!” “Listen—hadn’t you already been… before even putting on your act? Why…” “Even though you had so much………………, …………………….” “In my eyes... is reflected.” “No matter what… even if… there must be… That’s another one of your rationalizations.” “But that’s nothing but rationalization.” “Self-deception.” “What you saw in prison was indeed what we call fate.” “You were nothing but an individual tossed about by that fate.” “Do you claim there’s none of that in your true heart?” “No—you won’t say that.” “Didn’t you yourself say that earlier?” “At that moment, you became aware that your former self—which had been social, standing upon society’s foundation—had been severed from society, that foundation shaken and crumbled, leaving you utterly, completely alone.”

“No—it wasn’t mere consciousness. Something deeper, more fundamental—something you felt physically through your entire being.” “You felt it, but then immediately turned your face away.” “Because it was terrifying.” “Being conscious of loneliness is truly terrifying.” “You turned your face away.” “Your act began right then.” “So when you claim loneliness or suffering now—it’s all lies.” “If you feel any pain at all, it’s just from noticing your own performance.” “Hmph—that’s luxury.” “Because you had somewhere to turn your face.” “An escape route.” “You had that escape.” “But I—not a single route.” “Not one—literally none.” “It was like an endless tunnel—pitch-dark, stretching forever.” “Exactly.” “Worse than any tunnel.” “No end until death—until death itself.” “In this darkness—we just scream and weep.”

Tsuji suddenly stopped speaking. The malicious expression had vanished unnoticed as he gazed up at Yamada with eyes now inexplicably sorrowful. His speech pattern too—though initially resembling verbal barbs aimed at Yamada—gradually transformed into a monologue, as if lost in thought: I'm ranting all this, but what should become of me hereafter? Yet as Yamada listened, his discomfort swelled until he began detecting something vile within Tsuji, making even eye contact unbearable. Tsuji categorized humanity into two groups: the healthy and the diseased. And this man harbored instinctive loathing toward the healthy. Yamada recognized this and felt an irreparable chasm now gaped between Tsuji and himself—one that could never be crossed. When recalling how he'd tried making this man understand his feelings while prattling on self-importantly, he was seized by intolerable shame. He wanted to separate this instant. But Tsuji kept muttering in a tone hovering between soliloquy and something not meant for Yamada’s ears.

“But I believe in humanity.” “I believe in human nature.” “It was only after entering that sanatorium that I truly encountered human beings.” “No matter how oppressed or humiliated they may be, humans never lose their spirit.” “No—that’s not it. It’s when humans hit rock bottom that they first attain their humanity.” “Those bastards in society are all suspended in midair.” “They’re failures precisely because they’re permitted all manner of freedoms and happiness.” “Only when they lose everything—all that happiness and freedom—do humans truly become human.” “That’s when all the trivial things clinging to us get washed clean away.” “Society’s bastards put on airs of suffering without ever having suffered.” “They mimic loneliness without ever having been truly alone.” “Worthless.” “All self-satisfaction.” “That’s why when those types come to the leprosarium, even the grandest among them get unmasked.” “I’ve witnessed such scenes countless times.” “Exactly.” “I became ill, yet I’m not the least bit unhappy.” “Because I believe in humanity, I must be able to survive.” “How can one live without believing in humanity?” “In the beginning, I too dreamed of society every night.”

“I longed for society.” “But I don’t have such dreams anymore.” “I’ve thrown away absolutely everything.” “But I don’t feel the least bit sorry about losing it.” “The hell I do!” “I intend to live out my days in that world, no matter how many years it takes.” “That’s how it should be.” “No matter how much I suffered, no matter how alone I became—it didn’t matter.” “I’ll stay silent and endure it alone.” “However, it must be quite painful...”

Tsuji gazed at Yamada’s face for a moment, then looked down and fell silent. It was as if he were intently repeating what he had just said in his head. It was as if he were placing unbearable agony before his eyes and gazing at it while desperately trying to convince himself.

“Hey, should we go now?”

Yamada said this, feeling he could no longer endure. “Eh?” Tsuji looked up at Yamada with a blank expression, as if unsure what had happened. Lost in the thoughts that kept surfacing in his mind, Tsuji must have been beside himself; in an instant, his face went as blank as an idiot’s. But he suddenly stood up as if jolted. “I’ll go, I’ll go.” “Oh, I’m sorry for keeping you so late.” “Really.” “What was I even talking about—somehow, I’m not myself tonight.” “There’s something wrong with me.” “Right, I’ll take care of the bill.”

When he said this in an extremely flustered tone, he suddenly turned bright red and, in a frenzy, slid open the room's shoji door to frantically call for the maid.

The two of them started walking along the wide road toward the station. The night had grown quite late, and there were hardly any people around. Though they had stayed long, their drinking had been light—neither was properly drunk. Tsuji fell sullenly silent, lost in deep thought. Yamada too had grown weary of speaking. He seethed with irritation, discomfort, and misery. I'd been utterly defeated by this man tonight.

Before long, they arrived at the station and ascended to the train platform. Four or five men who looked like salarymen were scattered about, walking back and forth across the platform—no other passengers were in sight. “Well then, take care of yourself.” “I’ll come visit one of these days.” Yamada reluctantly uttered his parting words. Speaking those words wasn’t just bothersome—tonight, it felt downright unpleasant. Then Tsuji suddenly thrust out his hand and seized Yamada’s. Startled, Yamada tried to yank his hand back, but ended up gripping Tsuji’s instead. As the reality of the other’s disease struck him fully, acute embarrassment flooded through him.

“I said some pretty reckless things tonight. Don’t be angry with me, please don’t be angry,” he said with a pleading look in his eyes. “Yeah, it’s fine—that kind of thing. I was made to think about various things too. If there’s another chance, come out again.”

"Liar," Yamada thought as he listened to his own words, yet hearing Tsuji's pleading tone made him feel strangely pathetic. Watching Tsuji prepare to return to the sanatorium, he couldn't help but feel he was brushing against life's inherent bleakness. In the dim light of night at the desolate station platform, he began to feel as though he were truly seeing Tsuji's solitary figure for the first time. Then Tsuji suddenly began shedding tears in great drops. And in a convulsive voice, his words coming in fits and starts,

“I don’t understand—I—everything—I don’t understand anything anymore.” “Ah, what should I do….”

But before those words ended, the train arrived. Yamada said, “Goodbye,” and boarded. The door closed. Yamada raised his hand slightly toward Tsuji on the platform through the glass. Tsuji tried to smile but abruptly stopped and could be seen walking off in the opposite direction. He seemed to stagger away unsteadily.

When Yamada's train began moving, Tsuji's train came sliding in with a thunderous roar. The instant this happened, Yamada instinctively jerked forward and pressed his hand against the window. Like a freshly driven stake toppling over, Tsuji's body swayed toward the opposite tracks—in that moment, it burned itself clearly into Yamada's vision. When the train stopped at the next station, Yamada frantically leapt onto the platform. He had intended to transfer trains and go back. Yet the moment his feet touched concrete, all desire to return evaporated. Tsuji—skull crushed to splinters, torso perhaps severed by the wheels—must have been reduced to a pulpy mass of blood, flesh, and brain matter. At this thought, nausea surged through him. Moreover, that flesh and blood surely seethed with pathogens. He couldn't suppress images of a putrid corpse. Since Tsuji was undoubtedly already dead, what purpose would returning serve? He wanted no part of that carcass. The train he'd ridden closed all its doors at once and departed. Left stranded, he stood vacantly on the platform for some time.

He suddenly showed a smirk tinged with tears and began lumbering toward the stairs. He had recognized his own theatricality. Had Tsuji not ridiculed this pretense earlier, he might never have dared to turn back. Of course he feigned ignorance of his own affectations—but even that pretense now disgusted him. From the instant he leapt off the train, returning had never crossed his mind. Yet realizing this lack of compunction made him feel somehow culpable; now he believed true humanity lay in being startled into rushing back. And in that moment, agitation naturally welled up until he found himself startled. Riding this emotional surge, he jumped down—only for Tsuji's blood-drenched corpse to materialize as his feet touched ground.

He left the station thinking he would find somewhere to drink alone and steady himself. But before he had gone even fifty meters, he began wanting to return home as soon as possible to rest his body, and turned back toward the station. There were only two or three passengers. He sat down on the bench and found himself feeling drained for no particular reason, letting out something like a sigh. He felt something lonely, as if a place to go had vanished. When his wife's face floated into his mind, a surge of affection began rising within him—the kind that made him want to slap her sharply across the cheekbone. Yet strangely enough, at this moment he had completely forgotten about Tsuji—the man didn't surface in his thoughts at all. Though something occasionally flickered at the edge of his consciousness, he hurriedly turned his mind away by instinct.

Before long, the sound of a train began to reach him from afar. He stood up and waited at the edge of the platform. Jumping in now would be a bit too soon, he suddenly thought. The train inched forward while charging ahead with considerable speed. Now! he shouted fiercely in his heart. In an instant, the train car pressed heavily against the tracks as it quietly passed by, then came to a stop. He entered the brightly lit car while picturing his own body—crushed and rolling beneath the black mass of the train. Before long, the wheels began to move, and he felt somehow relieved. While savoring the feeling that everything was over, he found himself wanting to measure the train’s speed for no particular reason. Never had the movement of matter felt as reassuringly pleasant as it did at this moment.

When he returned to the apartment, Mitsuko had already buried herself under the futon and gone to sleep. He felt like calling out “Hey,” but immediately found it too bothersome, so he simply plopped down heavily in front of the hibachi and lit his pipe. He was physically exhausted. He rolled onto his back, placed his feet on the hibachi, and blew smoke out through his nose. Was Tsuji already resolved to die before meeting me, or did he suddenly decide to end his life when he came to that station? When such questions arose, then his gestures, expressions, and way of speaking surfaced one after another. When that terror-filled gaze from when Tsuji had suddenly sprung up and declared, “I feel like this isn’t Tokyo,” rose in his mind, Yamada felt something eerie. He had no idea what kind of place the sanatorium was, but he felt something pitch-dark—where not a single ray of sunlight could reach—something utterly dismal. Tsuji had probably been thinking about death even before meeting me, Yamada thought. He suddenly recalled the time his theatricality had been exposed and realized that those words had ultimately been Tsuji striking at Tsuji himself. Moreover, the words Yamada had... directed at him were nothing more than Tsuji projecting his own psychology onto Yamada’s... But when he thought that far, he no longer felt like continuing to think about Tsuji. A growing sense of disgust was welling up in him for no particular reason.

“Hey.”

Yamada called out to Mitsuko. There was no reply. Having no desire to call out again, he took a long drag on what remained of his cigarette, tossed it into the hibachi, and stared at the ceiling. Then Tsuji’s figure surfaced again—he thought the crowd around the tracks must have dispersed by now, the blood washed away, the corpse carted off somewhere. He visualized the deserted night station and Tsuji’s body collapsed like a post. But still, that guy was an unfortunate man—though given how he was, it was better that he died.

“Go to bed already. What are you doing?”

Mitsuko said irritably, poking her face out from the futon. At this, Yamada felt sullen anger rise within him for some reason. Suppressing that urge, I nearly said again "I killed a person," but tonight I decided against it. He had become aware of himself feeling the effect of striking back at her displeasure. He changed into his nightclothes and sat down before the hibachi again, unfolding the newspaper. He thought how good it would be if he could sleep alone on such a night, finding another human's presence beside him unbearably irritating.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Mitsuko said shrilly. "I'm reading the paper." "Why don't you just go to sleep?" "—" "Hey, what time do you think it is?" "You're being noisy." "Go to sleep. Now." "Quiet."

Then Mitsuko suddenly began to sob quietly. Yamada recalled what had happened that morning. That morning, she had persistently urged Yamada to go see the cherry blossoms with her. Yamada hadn't particularly cared whether they went blossom viewing or not, but her persistent nagging had finally angered him, and he'd declared that no matter what happened, he wouldn't drink with those people. Of course she had greatly feared her husband worsening relations with his coworkers.

“Hey, your tearful manipulation tactics are outdated. They might work on Germans, though.”

Yamada said with a laugh. But the moment he said it, he began to regret having spoken. He had recalled this phrase every time he quarreled with his wife until now, but this one he had always refrained from voicing. No matter what, this phrase was both her most vulnerable point and her raw wound. However foolish her current way of living might be, Yamada had thought there was something in her desperate resolve that he had to acknowledge. Admittedly, Yamada frequently took actions contrary to her feelings and often felt tempted to mock her desperate resolve, but he had been careful to avoid touching that raw wound.

Mitsuko suddenly jerked upright and began speaking through violent, convulsive sobs. “Liar! When we decided to be together—you—try to remember what you said. Getting married must be premised on mutual elevation—and didn’t you say that through marriage we would fight together? When did you ever do something that would elevate us? When did you ever fight together with me? At any time, haven’t you trampled on my feelings? While I’ve been trying so hard to get our life back on track, you’ve done nothing but destroy it! Why can’t you understand my feelings even a little?”

“Huh, did I ever say such a thing?”

Yamada said with a bitter smile. "What are you saying? Stop playing dumb." "You’re mocking me again, aren’t you?" "You’re always like that." "Of course I still believe those words now." "But look—listen—don’t just get angry—have you ever once tried to understand how I feel?" "Then have you ever once tried to tell me your own feelings?"

“Plenty of times!” “Wasn’t it just like I said that night two days ago?” “I swallowed my embarrassment and laid out my actions alongside my thoughts—isn’t that right?” “That’s just something you couldn’t grasp.” “Or maybe you never even tried to understand.” “That was just your self-absorbed muttering!” “Is that so? Fine then.” “No! No! “Even if you were right, that doesn’t make me wrong.” “No matter what happens tonight, settle this properly with me.”

“Closure? “Hmph. So you’re saying you want to break up, huh?” “Say it clearly!” Yamada’s voice naturally sharpened. Mitsuko began to shout. “When did I ever say to break up? When did I ever say to break up?” “You’re the one who wants to break up—that’s why you say these things, you say these things, you say these things!” “You’re making a fool of me—me!”

But when she got that far, her throat constricted, and she let out a choked 'u-u-u' sound as tears streamed from her eyes. She unconsciously gripped the edge of the futon with both hands and cried without holding back. Of course Yamada had completely understood the woman's feelings. Mitsuko's demand for closure had been words that slipped out in the heat of the moment. That said, since she had let such words slip out, there must have been moments when the motive behind them—the desire to break up—arose within her. But what would become of her after they separated—this was her anxiety. Moreover, she somehow liked the man Yamada. She wanted to gaze upon the Yamada of old—passionate, resolute, from every angle a reliable figure with sharp contours—and yearn to feel that same rapturous emotion she once had. However, Yamada grinned slyly and asked again with malice.

“But when you speak of closure, I can’t help but think that’s the only way to consider it.” “Do as you please! If you’re so desperate to break up, I’ll leave you! I’ll leave you! Ah, ah—you’ve caused me nothing but hardship until now—how could you? If we separate, I’ll hang myself and die! Do you have any idea how I felt—what I did—when you weren’t there?” “A train suicide’s better than hanging yourself.”

Yamada said for no particular reason. “I wouldn’t die by something like a train! I’ll hang myself no matter what.” “After you weren’t there, what I did…” “If you’re so eager to hang yourself, go right ahead—of course I don’t know anything about what you did while I was away.” “I tried to die!” “Well now, I see. But you’re still alive, aren’t you?” “Don’t mock me.” “I was serious about dying.” “Ah, I should’ve died then.”

Mitsuko writhed as she wiped her tears with the back of her hand. Yamada grew weary of it all and had started recalling Tsuji again since earlier, so he fell silent. "What utter foolishness," he muttered, as if observing from the sidelines his current self quarreling with Mitsuko. He grabbed Mitsuko’s hands—which were trying to push him away—with one hand, forced his way onto the futon, and pulled the covers over himself. And letting out a big yawn,

“We’ll continue this fight tomorrow. Tonight I’m sleepy.” Having said that, he closed his eyes. He actually felt an intense drowsiness coming over him. “Sleep? I won’t sleep! I won’t sleep!” As she said this, she tried to push Yamada out of the futon. But when she pushed Yamada with all her strength, he didn’t budge an inch—instead her own body recoiled backward—which only made her angrier. So she wrapped her arms around Yamada’s neck and began squeezing with all her might. Yamada kept his eyes firmly closed and followed the visions of Tsuji that kept surfacing one after another. When he recalled the dimly lit desolation of the station where Tsuji had collapsed, he felt a vague sense of desolation. Tsuji died—but I’m alive—who knows which is better—and this living me must keep enduring this wretched life for years and years to come—he thought, mimicking Tsuji’s tone. But there was no choice but to endure—simply endure silently… At any rate—endure silently. Even that alone was no ordinary feat—and perhaps simply enduring was itself noble… Tsuji had called such things foolish as he died—(no doubt Tsuji couldn’t discard it no matter how he phrased it)—yet now even lying still… might still hold nobility—in myself… it had been—as Tsuji said—I’d truly seen my own fate-bound form as an individual—yet that alone could never be… everything—still… it was… To simply endure that…………………………to endure my personal fate—that had been most proper—had I not………………………had I not………………………perhaps now…………would differ—no—even unchanged—surely that…………………………………would be greater—through…………society had indeed become that………………………yet all this was past—……………………………nothing else remained—— When he’d thought that far—the words flashed somewhere in his mind—is there no compromise?—but

“Shut up!”

he yelled at Mitsuko. “Wh-what’s so annoying?” “Shut up, idiot!” Suppressing the intense rage welling up within him, Yamada “Sleep quietly.” “Sleep? I won’t sleep! I won’t sleep!” Mitsuko, who had once lain down, sprang up again and sat.

“I’ll hit you.” Yamada’s voice involuntarily grew harsh. “Hit me, hit me!” “Yes… I’m so humiliated!” At that moment Yamada suddenly recalled Tsuji’s sneering face; a burning sensation welled up in his chest—his hand flew out in a slap. Mitsuko let out a sob and rushed at him. Yamada heaved himself up and wrapped his arms tightly around the woman’s neck, pulling her close. Mitsuko thrashed about, flailing her legs. With emotions that were a chaotic mix of anger and affection, Yamada added strength to the arms wrapped around her neck and tightened them fiercely. In that instant, Mitsuko looked up at Yamada’s face as if to meet his gaze, her cheeks bearing something resembling a smile, but suddenly a look of fear flashed across her features. Ugh, ugh—she held her breath and thrashed. At the strange expression of twisted hatred and affection that had crossed Yamada’s face, she shuddered. No more tears flowed from her eyes. Her expression had stiffened with terror. She frantically tried to tear away the man’s arm wrapped around her neck, but Yamada’s arm had tightened like coarse rope, unyielding. She gradually began to lose strength and went limp.

Yamada released his arms as if electrocuted, “Mitsuko, Mitsuko.” he shouted while shaking her shoulders. For an instant Mitsuko stared blankly at Yamada with a vacant expression, then suddenly jerked back about a foot as if repelled, buried her face in the futon, and began weeping soundlessly. Yamada gazed at his wife and thought explaining his current feelings to make her understand would be impossible. He felt something darkly desolate and wanted to cry himself. Silent, he pulled her close,

“Go to sleep.” “Go to sleep,” he whispered, then pulled the futon over his head. For some reason，he felt tears threatening to spill. If I don’t cry now，I’ll never be able to cry again in my entire life—such a thought naturally surfaced in his mind，and he felt as though he were waiting for his sorrow to swell.

—April 23, 1937—