Pathway to Japanese Literature

Prologue Other chronic diseases might follow similar courses, but even leprosy—though incurable once contracted—did not suddenly worsen overnight; instead, it progressed like waves, advancing and receding over long months and years, yet like an incoming tide whose crests surged forward and back until finally submerging the white sandy shore. When the disease began progressing in this manner, the patients would say "it has become active," and when it stopped, they said "it has settled." And with each flare-up, it grew progressively worse. While the injections of chaulmoogra oil—the sole treatment—did of course have efficacy, this merely slowed the rate of progression; in essence, the disease’s advancement paralleled the passage of time. It proceeded like a broken clock—temporarily halting its progression only to start moving again in haste. Of course, there were some among them who continued deteriorating without even such pauses. Such cases were less common among the wet type (bacteriologically positive) and more prevalent in the dry type (bacteriologically negative).

At first after arriving here, Naruse Shinkichi had believed that if he diligently received the injections, a cure might still be possible; yet eventually he had to realize how ignorant and naive such hopes were in the face of this disease. It was only now that he realized this, but shortly after his arrival here, he had heard an innocent girl of eleven or twelve—when half-jokingly told by an older male patient, “Get better soon so you can go home”—respond, “My illness won’t heal unless I go to the dissection room.” Even now, whenever he saw that girl, he would recall that moment; the thought that this seemingly pure-hearted girl was aware she had nowhere to go but the dissection room filled him with darkly despondent feelings—yet these words had been the truth itself. And so it was that about eight months after his hospitalization, Naruse's illness too suddenly began its "clamor."

The rainy season had ended, yet there were no days of unbroken sunshine; nor did it rain. Instead, the weather persisted strangely—shifting abruptly from muggy humidity to a penetrating chill that made one long for lined garments. The capricious shifts between heat and cold tossed the lepers’ bodies about like wooden chips. That day, Naruse himself had felt strangely heavy-headed since morning and thought his body oddly feverish, but as usual he went to work at the printing department (where patients produced the hospital’s institutional newsletter, literary magazine, and medicine bags. Naruse had been asked to serve as proofreader) had gone to work as usual, thinking he must have caught a slight cold, but come evening, shuddering chills began coursing through his entire body, and even his head started throbbing with pain. Reluctantly laying out his bedding, the moment he removed his underpants, even he could not help but cry out. His left leg had been paralyzed from the kneecap downward, and the front side of his thigh had also lost all sensation. Across the entire paralyzed area, heat nodules had broken out in scattered clusters. What are called "heat nodules" are medically referred to as acute nodules, but their true nature and how they form remain unclear. When these appeared, one would invariably develop a fever, and a high temperature of 41 or 42 degrees was by no means uncommon. Startled, he removed his shirt to look and found that on both arms as well, those red spots had swollen up in scattered clusters across each paralyzed area. He had his fellow patients warm gauze and wrap his limbs with it, then tightly bind compress therapy using bandages—but upon looking the next morning, the erythema had already spread across his entire face. When he touched it with his fingers, there was a hard, lumpy mass beneath his skin as if he had swallowed a candy whole, and pressing on it sent a dull, throbbing ache deep into the tissue. When he had the doctor examine him, “It’s nothing serious. Just spend about a month in the critical care ward and rest properly,” the doctor said kindly with a laugh—

“You won’t die from heat nodules,” he said with a laugh. It had surely been meant as a joke—hardly worth dwelling on—yet these words struck Naruse’s chest like a physical blow; for this man still called a new patient after just eight months of hospitalization felt suddenly shown a pitch-black abyss. To “enter the ward” meant being admitted to critical care—within these walls they called recovery wards “health wards,” counting those well enough for labor among “the healthy.” Only upon entering critical care did people begin using “patient” as an identifier. The critical ward served as this leprosy village’s true hospital; admission here amounted to full hospitalization. Hearing of his transfer—a first—Naruse felt its impact with particular force: visions of patients wasting between life and death rose unbidden before him—critical wards teeming with half-decayed bodies—compelling recognition of himself already stepping into that realm. Simultaneously he recalled those maddening days these past fortnight—days when after losing every physical and social semblance of normalcy his very psyche had been driven deeper into extremity since admission—all now resurfacing vividly.

Anyone admitted to this hospital would first be placed in the critical care ward for one week, where their medical history would be examined, the severity of their disease assessed, and any comorbidities investigated; only then would they be transferred to an appropriate recovery ward. However, as leprosy had recently become a subject of intensified public discourse, sympathy toward the hospital spread among members of society—likely for this reason, a special admission ward funded by a prominent foundation now stood completed. But when Naruse Shinkichi was hospitalized, General Ward No. 3 had still been assigned that role. For Naruse Shinkichi—who until then had never seen another leprosy patient besides himself—the week spent in General Ward No. 3 became something like a nightmare that made him shudder even to recall. The moment he stepped one foot into the ward, the stench of pus that assaulted his nostrils had tenaciously clung to him even now eight months later—whenever he picked up chopsticks to eat and that foul odor suddenly revived, a gurgling nausea would already be rising in his throat. What a bizarre world he had entered—for some time, Naruse could not believe his own eyes. Could this truly be the human world? It had become impossible to definitively call this the realm of humanity. When he glanced to the right, he abruptly met a crimson demon-like visage; shuddering and shifting his gaze leftward, there a pallid youth with an identical face was grinning while staring back at Naruse. Nowhere to the right, left, front, or back existed a space suitable for directing his gaze. It was a race that lived burrowing through society’s depths, humanity’s dregs, like moles. Neither Easterners nor Westerners, nor even South Sea natives—they were a “leprosy race” belonging to none of these categories. They were a Narinbo race who could only serve humanity by being driven to extinction and perishing at its hands.

On the fifth day after arriving here, Naruse encountered an incident. This was but a trivial matter, yet it etched itself into Naruse’s frayed nerves as an extraordinary event. He had suffered from insomnia since the first day, but that night he finally managed to slip into a shallow, fitful sleep.

It must have been around midnight when he abruptly awoke to the clattering sound of hurried footsteps racing down the corridor and urgent voices intermingling in the air. Wondering what was happening, he hurriedly sat up in bed—and there, clustered around a bed at the far corner some distance from him, seven or eight people were making a clamor as they all spoke at once. In a flustered panic, the attendant roughly flung open the door and dashed out, “Hurry up, or he’ll stop breathing!”

and one from the clustered group bellowed. Naruse had no idea what was happening, but struck by the abnormal atmosphere, he hurried over to investigate. Stretching up to peer over the crowd's shoulders, he saw what must have been a young man—long-haired and buried in his pillow, his entire face resembling putrid fruit—lying supine as he convulsed like a strangled chicken, limbs flailing spasmodically. Later, Naruse learned that it had been laryngeal leprosy blocking the throat. His forehead had turned a dull black, veins bulging like earthworms as he gasped with a gurgling rattle in his throat. His eyes rolled back, palms clenched tightly—he was literally on the verge of ceasing to breathe. Before long, the attendant came clattering into the room with a handcart, dumped the patient onto it, and rushed off to the operating room.

“Has the doctor come out?!”

“Has the doctor come out?!” three or four shouted as they ran after them. Those left behind muttered, “Poor bastard. Should’ve just died instead of getting his throat cut.” “Three years bought by a slit throat... ahhh,” each voicing their own remarks as they crawled back into bed.

and so on—each voicing their own selfish remarks as they clambered into their beds.

The next day, Naruse learned the meaning of "throat-cutting surgery three years"—it meant those who underwent this procedure would die within three years. Of course there were exceptions—some survived five or even ten years—but most had their lives taken not long after the surgery.

Not long after this incident, Naruse began his life in the recovery ward—yet every night when he lay down to sleep, the vision of those limbs flailing would flicker before his eyes, and the gurgling rattle of that throat would echo relentlessly in the depths of his ears. Was there truly such a desperate will to live—to endure even with a half-rotted body and a hole bored through one’s throat? The strength of this life force struck him as both cursed and wretched. Yet he, who still lacked thorough knowledge about the disease, could not bring himself to believe these matters bore any direct connection to his own fate. Resolving that he must be discharged as soon as possible regardless, he continued receiving his thrice-weekly chaulmoogra oil injections without ever missing a dose. And each time he received the injection, he would feel a measure of relief, occasionally furtively touching his paralyzed areas and closing his eyes to touch them again, wondering if perhaps some sensation had returned. However, as days passed, he had to gradually yield to the reality of this "disease that grew more terrifying the more he contemplated it." The shock and terror he felt upon hospitalization had ultimately been nothing more than sensory experiences. It had been nothing more than the shock of seeing things never before seen and the terror of hearing sounds never before heard. But eventually, as if those perceptual shocks and terrors had gradually seeped deeper into his core, his suffering intensified and deepened. No matter how much time passed, his paralyzed areas remained lifelessly numb; still, about once a month he would remember them and try focusing his attention there to test them, but it only amounted to piling up futile efforts. Each time, he was seized by such desperate restlessness that he could neither sit still nor remain standing.

Life in the recovery ward could not be called dark or bright—those were days painted over in grayish-white.

Patients who were not granted a single vivid hope, nor any profound despair, merely continued their occasional reflex movements. For a youth like Naruse with heightened sensitivity, becoming fully accustomed was nearly impossible; particularly in his current circumstances—forced to accept that he would never be cured until death—his anguish only intensified with each passing day. Yet they adapted to the hospital and the disease with astonishing speed, each forging their life within this small world. When day broke they would set off to work humming tunelessly, return for lunch at eleven, spend the two hours until one o'clock sprawled on the veranda lazily drying their backs while continuing their talk of women before heading out again, then finish work by three-thirty and eat dinner. After dinner, they would go visit the women’s ward until lights-out at ten, then return after exchanging vicious insults with the patient supervisor. For some reason, leprosy had fewer female patients, and in every sanatorium, women made up only thirty percent of the population. Consequently, fierce competition would ensue; whenever a young woman was admitted, they would rush to be first in line, exerting every ounce of their ingenuity to make a favorable first impression. And in the end, thirty percent became fortunate ones while forty percent became unfortunate dropouts. Therefore, to say someone had "secured a woman" or "acquired a caretaker" was considered a grand success—only then would they gain credibility within the hospital and be recognized by both themselves and others as full-fledged human beings. After all, given how scarce women were, it was only natural that within these walls women reigned as royalty while men were reduced to little more than servants. What enriched their daily lives was none other than them. Observing them—their eyebrows entirely fallen out, swollen dusky faces smeared with cheap cream that looked ready to burst pus at the slightest touch, struggling to conceal balding patches while peering into mirrors—Naruse thought: What else remained for them beyond this existence? Had he still been the man who first arrived here, he might have dismissed it all as wretchedness in a single breath. But now, having learned the reality of their disease, he saw only lives cornered at rock bottom, forced to recognize the futility of judgment. Wretched, depraved—call it what you will—the farmers near this hospital apparently had a custom of referring to the patients as “mountain pigs.” For those “healthy” lot who kept their bodies outside the hospital walls, such mockery might suffice, but Naruse could not help being acutely aware that he himself was now one of those pigs. What a terrifying world I had come to. Was I truly destined to spend all my remaining years within it? To live, to endure—this might be beautiful, might be noble. But why must it be noble? Why must it be beautiful?—Naruse found suicidal thoughts now flickering through his mind at unexpected moments.

And from about a month before the heat nodules appeared, he had developed the habit of wandering aimlessly through the grove of mixed trees at dusk. Of course he had no intention of acting immediately, but time and again he would startle upon realizing—when had it happened?—that he had been thinking of nothing but death. That the heat nodules had appeared was likely due to these nightly walks poisoning his body. His disease type was the wet type—otherwise heat nodules would not appear—but it was not only this type; all night dew was harmful. Moreover, even on days when a light rain fell, he would continue walking until well past the ten o'clock lights-out time. He knew this harmed his condition, but when he thought about what good preserving his body would do now, there remained nothing to restrain him. If they heard of his death, his own flesh and blood in his hometown would grieve—yet even they might feel some hidden relief within that sorrow. No—if I were to speak truthfully, they might perhaps wish for me to die at the earliest possible moment. Of course Naruse too had occasionally found himself longing for his hometown, but once he began confronting death face-to-face, even if some yearning for society—no, for life itself—remained, his longing for home had vanished.—Around that time, as evening approached each day without fail, Naruse would sink into abnormal anxiety and despair, his heart beginning to burn with the thought that he must go somewhere—anywhere—as soon as possible. There were times when he forced himself to lie down, but not only could he not sleep—it drove him to madness. His nerves froze with morbid clarity; at the faint scuttling of a rat in the ceilingboards, terror would surge through his entire body, and keeping perfectly still left him assaulted by sensations of plummeting into some fathomless abyss. And in the end, he would spend long hours in the woods. To die or to live—this single question pressing upon two choices now demanded Naruse's answer.

But until the heat nodules appeared, there had still been one small reassurance. Put simply, he was still a mild case. Even if there were paralyzed areas in his limbs, even if infiltration had reached one side of his face, he was still considered a mild case. He knew no neuralgia; his body bore no wounds anywhere; for five or seven more years, he could still escape if it came to it. Being a mild case—this alone faintly comforted him—and though it was true he was ultimately fated to become a severe case, the critical ward still remained distant. Until then, he had thought he could manage something—but now even that last reassurance had been severed.

When transferring a patient to their ward, everyone in the room would mobilize—some shouldering bedding rolls, others clutching baskets filled with dishes—forming an eerie procession around the handcart bearing the invalid as they trudged toward the hospital wing. The ward receiving Naruse was Number Five. Number Five stood at the northernmost edge among the rows of wards, its entrance directly facing that of Number Ten across the courtyard. Number Ten housed special cases—the deranged and feeble-minded. The day following his examination, Naruse too was loaded onto a handcart and hauled to Number Five. The moment he became cargo on that cart, he abruptly remembered the laryngeal leprosy patient who'd been wheeled to surgery on a gurney—though he'd heard the man now diligently tended the metal fixture with its attached tube in his throat each day, those thrashing limbs remained stubbornly vivid in Naruse's mind. Crouched in the handcart's bed, he felt each vibration pierce his fever-muddled skull as overwhelming emotion surged through him—had he truly joined the ranks of critical ward residents? His fever must have been raging extraordinarily high; no pain registered when he lifted his eyes to see the distant copse between ward buildings blurred through his haze, his entire body buoyant as though drifting through clouds. When hands helped him onto the bed, all he could rasp was a formal "I'm indebted to your care."

“Take care of yourself.” As Naruse heard the voices of people murmuring “Take care, Mr. Naruse” at his bedside through his hazy consciousness, his entire body was drawn into a drowsy, floating world.

I

Naruse abruptly opened his eyes. His head felt heavy and hazy as if filled with smoke, though his temperature seemed to have dropped significantly. When he pressed his palm to his heart, the pounding remained fierce but had now settled into a calmer rhythm. For four days after being admitted to the ward, he had been tossed by high fever with his consciousness remaining unclear, but last night his temperature had finally begun to drop, allowing him some restful sleep if not perfectly sound slumber. The sensation of his entire body floating in midair persisted, yet his consciousness was now undeniably clear. What time could it be? He opened his eyes slightly, but beyond the window visible through the curtain gap near his feet—likely still dark outside—only the room's light reflected on the glass, rendering the outside world invisible. Occasional groans of discomfort, unpleasant snuffling from clogged nostrils, and labored breaths teetering on cessation were all that could be heard—a silence peculiar to hospital rooms at night. Morning still seemed hours away. He closed his eyes again, thinking another brief sleep might relieve this cranial weight, and waited for drowsiness to claim him.

How many hours had he slept after that? When he awoke again, night had completely given way, and bright light stung his eyes. However, the sky visible from the window was leaden with clouds; there must have been no wind, as the black clouds remained motionless in one spot, utterly still.

Morning-like noises filled the room—the clattering of footsteps stomping across the floor, loud yawns, and the sound of water gushing forcefully from the washroom faucet—all mingling together to create a bustling din. As expected, his head felt lighter than before—if this kept up, he might even manage to sit up today—and Naruse allowed himself a faint taste of a bright mood he hadn’t known in ages. However, not only had the smoke-like haze in his head not cleared, but his entire body felt utterly exhausted as if his bones had been removed, making the act of sitting up seem dreadfully laborious. When he kept his eyes tightly closed, the memory of being transported on the handcart suddenly revived—an intense loneliness gripped him for no reason, a faint anxiety that he might die just like this flowing through his heart.

“Grub’s up!”

After some time had passed, the attendant’s voice boomed loudly. Soon came the clattering sound of tea bowls and plates being set out,

“What’s today’s side dish?!” came the hoarse inquiry.

“Today’s menu is—” It must have been the attendant—he spoke up to that point in a somewhat official voice and then, “Well, today’s menu is: lunch will be pickles. “Dinner: simmered potatoes.”

The ward was in an uproar, “Tch.” “Force-feeding us nothin’ but potatoes—we ain’t hogs here.” When someone said, “Ain’t my doin’. Don’t like it? Quit crammin’ it down! You parlor pigs.” “Quit crammin’ it down!” “You parlor pigs.” Of course there was no real anger—just the customary showering of insults. “Aaaaah... What kinda purgatory is this?” “Day after day they stuff us with potatoes—and this is what passes for living?” When an oddly despondent woman’s voice rose up, now came exaggerated cheerfulness,

“They’ll feed us greens today, greens again tomorrow. Greens today, greens again tomorrow. Greens till the sun goes down.” Some kept up their chanting, while others would suddenly break into gidayū passages—“Regrets trailing behind, where could Hanshichi be now? Too late for turning back though it may be”—their voices so hoarse they scarcely seemed human. Complaining and venting their dissatisfaction, yet they could not fully conceal their mealtime enjoyment. Naruse too thought he should at least manage a mouthful of porridge today and attempted to sit up, but was immediately struck by a wave of dizziness that left him slumped back onto his futon. Though only a few days had passed, he seemed to have weakened considerably. He felt a restless impatience and forced himself upright, but as he realized his physical strength had already diminished to this extent, a darkness began to envelop his heart.

At each bedside were affixed small cupboards resembling tea caddies, one for every person. These cupboards served both as desks for writing letters to their hometowns and as dining tables for three daily meals. Moreover, their daily necessities—soap, toothbrushing tools, hand towels, and other items ranging from tea caddies to tableware—were kept jumbled together inside these cupboards. Though more like square boxes than proper cupboards, the sight of them lined up in rows where patients faced these to take their meals formed a truly dreadful spectacle. Naruse’s bed being positioned at the southern edge of the westernmost wall allowed him to survey the entire room at a glance.

The beds were arranged in two rows to the left and right, with five attendants standing in the aisle between them to serve meals collectively. “Meal time!” “Porridge today!” “Heave-ho!” “Here we go now!” Shouting what sounded like work chants, the attendants dashed left and right, occasionally colliding and nearly spilling the miso soup. The rice tubs and soup pots had been placed at the room’s center atop something resembling park benches. The patients’ dining scene formed a grotesque spectacle unimaginable anywhere else on earth. Some had lost all five fingers and could no longer hold chopsticks—clutching rice bowls between club-like hands was manageable enough—but others stabbed forks between bandages to eat, or had peeling adhesive tape dangling from their foreheads that plunged into soup bowls with every sip; even Naruse felt nausea rising.

This was his first meal taken in the ward since that initial week of hospitalization. When taking out bowls from the cupboard—envisioning his own wretched state as if realizing it anew—Naruse found himself thinking he might as well give up altogether. Not only were his face and arms swathed in bandages, but because chill posed particular danger to the heat nodules, he had to grip his chopsticks through gloves. He hadn't washed his face since admission, nor even once rinsed his mouth. As he wavered,

“Porridge, eh?” Without waiting for his reply, one of the attendants snatched away the rice bowl and soup bowl as if making off with them.

His fever-ravaged mouth had completely lost its sense of taste. When he tentatively placed the first bite in his mouth, it felt like eating white mud—utterly devoid of flavor. He forced down each mouthful one after another. Having finally finished the bowl this way, he felt a wave of relief and sudden fatigue. After washing down the scattered vegetables with hot water, he burrowed back into his futon. Shifting his gaze to the window—lying on his back as he was—only the roof section of the Fourth Ward ahead remained visible. Just then, several pigeons came flying in a flock. The sky remained cloudy, yet showed no sign of rain. The pigeons had been clumsily pacing along the sloped roof when they all took flight at once, as if startled.

Naruse keenly felt his inability to move about freely - how pathetic this daily existence had become, watching even his youthful vigor from before falling ill slip steadily away. Yet he found himself in a rather calm mood. His heat nodules proved milder than anticipated, progressing favorably thereafter. After his temperature had fluctuated around thirty-eight degrees Celsius for about a week, it stabilized at approximately thirty-seven point three or four. A reading of thirty-eight degrees with acute nodules counted as practically normal; declaring it a heat nodule fever without exceeding forty degrees felt almost shameful. The bandages swathing his face and limbs no longer troubled him much once he grew accustomed to them, and he could now occasionally stroll about the room or rinse his mouth. As he gradually adapted to ward life, he came to notice how these patients - who had initially all struck him as grotesque clay figurines - each possessed distinct lifestyles and personalities, until before he knew it he'd begun finding interest in observing their daily existences. Yet the more he saw and learned, the more inescapably he realized he inhabited a world beyond salvation. Though one might speak collectively of 'the patients,' their conditions varied endlessly - some wailed through nights of violent neuralgia, others bore leg bones rotted hollow within while appearing intact without. There were tuberculosis cases and hemorrhoid sufferers; stomach ailments and endometritis; remarkably even orchitis. The sole commonality binding them all was their affliction with leprosy.

They spent their days talking of nothing but food or women, yet what Naruse found equally intriguing was how their interests extended to social matters as well. When they spoke of social matters, it wasn't about sensational tabloid incidents but rather international issues—what about the Okada Cabinet, how about that recent assassination—topics that, once raised by someone, would send them into such fervent debate they seemed ready to spray spittle indefinitely, eyes blazing. Naruse would sometimes ponder what could explain this phenomenon—how these people who had long been completely severed from social life maintained such intense interest in matters wholly unrelated to their current existence. It was strange, if you could call it that. Was this an unconscious desire to maintain some connection with the society from which they'd been severed through speech itself? Or did they seek to glimpse their own reflections within society through shared imaginings? Or perhaps this was an instinctive political bent inherent to the Japanese national character? What could be said with certainty was this: they unconsciously harbored a longing for society—and that this manifested their desire to forget their present selves, to keep those selves from being confined to the hospital ward.

There were times when the entire ward would plunge into a strange gloom. It invariably came after such discussions had reached their peak. Their consciousness reverted to their selves. Rather than remaining conscious of themselves as leprosy patients and feeling inescapable despair, they collided with some hollow void. When one person flopped down heavily, the rest rolled into bed one after another. They keenly felt the heaviness of their disease that they had forgotten and saw the endlessly continuing dark future ahead. The room fell completely silent, and the groans that had been forgotten during their animated conversation,

“Agh...ghh...”

Voices crying out in pain would become audible, and attendants would rush to the medical office to request anesthetic injections. Naruse’s neighbor was a blind man, "I wanted just once more to see my wife’s face while I still had my sight, but Mr. Naruse, it’s all over for me now," he would say over and over again. "On top of contracting leprosy, I ended up getting tuberculosis too—my life’s over, I tell ya."

As he said this, he would fumble through the cupboard to take out photographs and show them to Naruse. It was a wedding photo; tilting his head as if to gauge Naruse’s reaction, the blind man would let out a raspy chuckle upon hearing the rustle of wax paper covering the photograph—"Not that I’m one to boast," he’d preface—before launching into endless explanations about how blissfully happy his married life had been in those early days. Naruse had no genuine desire to look—whether out of courtesy or otherwise—and as he stared at the crusted eye discharge that nearly made him retch, he found himself gripped by the dark certainty that he too would inevitably become like this man.

Right by Naruse’s pillow was the western entrance to this ward. Exiting there immediately led to a corridor, and crossing the corridor brought one to a separate room. In a small hospital ward there were two rooms each thought to be about eight tatami mats in size, with two beds placed in each. This room was ordinarily called "Betsushitsu" or "Tokubetsu," but in reality served as both an abortion ward and delivery room. Recently, due to the thorough implementation of sterilization procedures, abortions had become exceedingly rare, and patients who entered the hospital while pregnant were made to give birth in this room; the resulting children were immediately sent to a facility called the Uninfected Children's Nursery where they were raised. For this reason, this ward often went unused, and now that other wards were constantly filled to capacity, male patients were also being placed in this room. Naruse would sometimes wander out to this corridor when time allowed.

In the room to the right now resided a pregnant woman. She carried a large belly nearing full term and would occasionally show herself to Naruse and the others. According to her account, she had conceived the child at her home outside the hospital, but as she became pregnant, her illness rapidly worsened. Though she had wanted to at least give birth outside, she would usually break into tears upon saying that with this face of hers, she couldn't even call a midwife. She claimed to be only twenty-eight years old, but at first glance, it was impossible to tell whether she was thirty or sixty. She had no eyebrows to speak of, her entire face erupting in countless nodules—some already beginning to collapse—with adhesive bandages plastered here and there. She would burst into tears whenever she began her story, yet in her normal state appeared remarkably carefree, with singing constantly drifting from her room. It wasn't sung loudly, but the sound reached Naruse's ears clearly where he lay at the western end. Her voice was beautiful in contrast to her face—likely sewing clothes for her soon-to-be-born child—and carried a buoyant lilt. She must have been in a state where, while feeling a feminine instinctive joy at bearing a child, she simultaneously contemplated her leprosy-afflicted self, unable to discern whether she was happy or sorrowful. For there were times when, just as one thought her singing could be heard, it would suddenly turn into sobbing. She herself must have been helpless against the waves of emotion—sadness and despair mingling with joy and delight—until she nearly laughed and cried at once. Naruse had come to notice himself directing sharp glances toward her without realizing it.

And what surprised him was that three young patients were now vying for her attention. One was a small-framed dry-type patient whose mouth twisted in a permanent grimace, endlessly drooling as he wiped the saliva away with a fingerless clenched fist. The other two were men of immense stature, both wet-type cases.

When dinner ended, the ward suddenly became noisy. This was because visitors came from every ward. Among these visitors were those three men. They acted as though they hadn’t come to see her—lingering at other patients’ bedsides to chat—yet all the while stealing glances toward her room. Since they were romantic rivals feigning ignorance of each other, even when meeting,

“Hey.” “Hey.” They would exchange brief greetings but never once stopped to converse. When one of them would seize an opportunity to slip into her room, the other two pretended not to notice at all—yet until that man emerged, they maintained a restless demeanor, visiting patients across the way or approaching those nearby. No sooner had he emerged than the two men fixed sharp gazes on him, and soon another would slip inside. When he came out, another would go in. Of course, on the surface these were merely ward visits—nothing out of the ordinary—but as this three-way covert rivalry intensified each evening, Naruse found himself watching with a mixture of pity and fascination. But even so, Naruse had still never once entered this woman’s room. Moreover, her room was on the north side—a dead-end area with no exit—so he hadn’t even gone to stand before her room.

In the left-hand room were two male patients. When standing in the corridor before that room, a cool breeze would blow in from the north window—that is, the window before the woman’s room—so he would occasionally go out there to take a look. Through the glass door from the corridor he could peer into the room, but no matter when he looked, the two patients were always asleep, offering no opportunity to see their faces. Peering in from the corridor revealed both men lying with their heads facing his direction, though the bedside cupboard blocked even a glimpse of their hairlines. The temperature charts hung from the cupboard were visible head-on; seeing how multiple sheets had already accumulated there suggested they hadn’t been admitted just yesterday or today. A temperature chart naturally covered one month per sheet. One showed traces of considerable suffering from high fevers while the other’s temperature remained less severe—mostly fluctuating below 37 degrees as clearly marked by the red line.

What particularly drew his attention to this room was that a young woman would invariably come and go two or three times daily through its doorway. In the corridor before the room stood a southern entranceway, likely installed specifically for these two rooms—yet the young woman always slipped through this passage with furtive secrecy. She appeared to be either the wife of the man with lower fever or his sibling—though through Naruse's observations, she seemed more likely a younger sister. Upon entering the room, she would first face the bed of the higher-fever patient and offer brief words of greeting before turning to her husband—or brother—to exchange murmured conversation and begin preparing stew at his direction. Since keeping the brazier inside made the room unbearably hot, it always sat in the corridor; whenever stew-making commenced, Naruse found himself inexplicably reluctant to enter this hallway. Her age appeared two or three years past twenty. There could be no doubt her condition had transformed from wet-type to dry-type—her eyebrows had thinned though showed no infiltration or ulceration. Moreover, the little and ring fingers of her left hand bent halfway inward, while noticeable atrophy marked the area around her thumb. Muscle atrophy naturally evidenced dry-type—that is, neurological leprosy—resulting from destroyed nutritional nerves causing muscular shrinkage, though in severe cases bodies became like dried gourds, reduced beyond metaphor to mere skin and bones.

However, after nearly nine months of observing leprosy patients and monitoring his own condition, his insight into the disease had grown considerably sharp. This kind of acuity was something that manifested in anyone afflicted with disease—a sixth sense beyond doctors' reach. Though this young woman’s illness was likely quite old, Naruse intuitively recognized that it undoubtedly belonged to the "hard" type. The term "hard" disease was this hospital's unique expression containing a sensory element, but regardless, her illness had persisted not five or six years but closer to ten—and despite this, its progression remained remarkably slow. It might well stay unchanged for another decade hence. Naruse suddenly recalled when his illness first manifested—when the doctor had said leprosy was less fearsome than tuberculosis and would surely be cured by modern medicine—and he could not help but wryly smile. This was because according to such medical theories, this young woman would indeed be considered fully cured.

However, one day, Naruse found himself speaking with her through an unexpected opportunity. That marked exactly fifteen days since he had entered the room. That morning, when he awoke to find the sky unusually clear, he carried his bedding outside—it hadn’t been aired in the sun for a long time. And he had one of the attendants help him remove the bandages from his face and limbs, replacing them with fresh ones. Though they called them bandages, those at this hospital were a peculiar kind—better described as narrow strips torn from white rags than proper medical dressings. Having been laundered and reused countless times, they bore stains of pus and blood here and there, giving them a darkly discolored appearance. Even so, when changing those sweat-stiffened bandages, he experienced a measure of refreshment, and found himself taking out from the cupboard a book he hadn't so much as glanced at in ages to look at its pages. The heat nodules had already turned quite white in color, and pressing on them no longer elicited significant pain. At this rate, he should be able to leave the room soon. That morning’s temperature check—nurses made rounds twice daily, morning and evening, to each ward—registered 37.5 degrees, nearly equal to normal.

The temperature check had just ended when,

“Um, is this your futon? It’s started to rain.” Her voice could be heard speaking in a somewhat formal tone as she stood in the corridor peering this way. Her thin voice carried an awkward stiffness that seemed nervous.

“Ah, that’s mine. Thank you.” Naruse hurriedly jumped up and went outside. Pitch-black clouds completely covered the sky, layering two or three deep as they drifted northward. Large raindrops plopped intermittently against his face and scattered. Quickly slinging two futons over his shoulder at once, Naruse dashed into his room. Anxious not to let the remaining one get wet, he hurried back out—only to find her entering with it cradled in both arms.

“I’m sorry. Thank you.” When Naruse reached out his hand after speaking, “It’s gotten wet.” The rain-stained patches had formed perfect circles where droplets fell. A damp section of her hair glistened whitely. Contrary to her earlier nervous tone, she maintained composure, her movements utterly undisturbed. After laying out the futon, Naruse lay down and lingered over her words. Her low voice carried an indefinable shadowiness, yet resonated with something steadfast beneath. She crouched by the brazier once more that day and began preparing her brother’s stew. The hospital’s meager provisions couldn’t halt the patients’ wasting—hence everyone cooked their own meals. When Naruse glanced her way absently, she happened to look up from earnestly blowing on the charcoal fire, their eyes meeting abruptly. She offered a natural smile before resuming her fire-tending as before. By the time Naruse returned the smile, she had already turned back toward the flames.

As the rain suddenly intensified, thunder began rumbling in the distance, and the room was sucked into darkness.

II

“It’s time for your temperature check.” In the afternoon, feeling as though he had developed a slight fever, he lay down, and before he knew it, he had drifted into a doze. Not only had the rain not stopped, but it was now beating against the window even more fiercely than before.