Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After cleaning, cooking vegetables, and setting out the fermented rice bran paste to let the children finish their dinner, he finally set up the meal tray near the veranda where the evening sun had receded and sipped his evening sake with a lonely heart. Then, without even announcing himself, Sanbyaku—the usual eviction-demanding Sanbyaku—quietly opened the front lattice door and suddenly thrust his face through the gap in the open shoji screens of the entrance. “Do come in.” He was slightly tipsy, so he called out cheerfully without getting up.

“No, here will suffice.” “I just happened to be taking a stroll in the area… And so—about the matter at hand—has your new residence been settled?” “I trust it’s been settled by now?” “Well… Actually, you see, there’s something I’d like to discuss regarding that matter. Please do come in for a moment.”

He stood up and went to plead.

“I don’t particularly need to hear your story, but…” Sanbyaku muttered with a displeased face, reluctantly stepping inside. A fair-skinned, slightly plump man of forty-two or three, dressed in what appeared to be gentlemanly attire. However, he had those peculiarly shifty, downcast eyes—sinister eyes that seemed unable to meet another’s gaze directly—a trait characteristic of people in his line of work. “...It’s an exceedingly apologetic situation, but with my wife being away—and she’s certain to return within three or four days—I humbly ask for your understanding to grant us an extension until the 15th...”

“It’s impossible! Absolutely out of the question!” Sanbyaku, who had shouted like this, had those usual shifty eyes that now seemed about to emit red flames. At this, he flusteredly: “I see. “Understood. “Very well. In that case, we will definitely move out by the tenth,” he said apologetically. “I too, you see, from the very beginning considered you no different than rickshaw pullers and stable hands—that’s precisely why I employed such drastic measures. “But since I never imagined you’d be like this—believing you possessed sufficient character to warrant such consideration—I’ve indulged your demands and granted extensions with this much forbearance. Now there remains not an inch of leniency to spare. “As per your written pledge stating you’ll accept any measures without suffering, I’ll carry them out immediately.”

Glaring intrusively around the bleak room that lacked any proper furnishings, Sanbyaku kept bellowing like this. He could only repeat—waving his hand to suppress the man’s shouting—“Alright, alright—we’ll definitely vacate by the evening of the tenth then.” “...Truly a peculiar fellow, isn’t he?” After Sanbyaku had finally left, he exchanged glances with his eldest son who’d been listening nearby and said with a bitter smile.

“...Yeah, a strange one.”

The child also said with a sorrowful bitter smile…

The narrow garden adjoined a cemetery. A rope was stretched across the old wooden fence there that looked ready to collapse at any moment, and morning glories had entwined themselves around it. They grew with such ferocious vigor that even when the tips were pinched off repeatedly, thick new shoots kept sprouting from the sides. Moreover, those leaves were absurdly large and grew bigger every day he looked at them. Yet despite it being August, not a single flower bloomed.

Finally, with the security deposit exhausted and four months of arrears severing their relationship with the landlord, even after Sanbyaku had started coming around, nearly another month had already passed. He had sowed the seeds, replanted them, strung up ropes, even fertilized them with oil cakes—all in vain. Despite his care, when the time came, only leaves and vines grew absurdly rampant without a single bloom. The morning glories seemed like some bitterly ironic fools, and he felt himself an even more wretched imbecile—driven out without ever seeing a single flower from those he’d tended so diligently. And so, with some derision toward Sanbyaku’s indecisive, oddly roundabout talk from when he first started visiting, he had listened while watching the morning glories that crawled densely over the entire fence. However, after two or three more visits from Sanbyaku, his tone and attitude had completely changed. And he yielded to Sanbyaku’s demands and was forced to write a written pledge with various conditions stipulating August 10th as the absolute deadline. And so each time he forced some desperate financial scheme into being, he would send his wife off to her distant hometown family home to raise funds. ...

“Why did that person get so angry?” “So they’re telling us to move out after all.” “Oh, don’t worry. Mom’s sure to send money by tomorrow or so—we’ll move right away. No matter how much that bastard rages, I won’t bat an eye.” Sitting across from the children at the meal tray and talking like this, he continued to sip from his cup with lonely feelings. There was only one letter from his wife—saying she’d arrived safely and would definitely return with money by the 10th—after which all contact ceased; thoughts of his wife, of the second daughter she’d taken with her, of K who’d gone to Hitachi’s Isohara for a summer retreat—and this morning too, a picture postcard had come from K depicting white waves breaking against rocks near Futatsujima’s shore, where young pines grew thickly. On it was written something like, “Around here near Nakoso Barrier, it’s already autumn.” In the dusty heat of Tokyo—reportedly the worst in three years—this had to strike him, flailing and struggling, as a bitterly fitting irony.

“No—K didn’t escape the heat. “He probably escaped Oda to Nakoso Barrier, that’s what it amounts to.”

Thus spoke one of their friends after K had left Tokyo. To such an extent had he been causing K various troubles over these past three or four months. Over the past three or four months, he had borrowed around five yen each from three or four friends, and being unable to repay them, he found himself cut off from all those friends until only K remained as his last remaining acquaintance. “So they say—whenever Oda gets ten sen, he just goes off to Shibuya.” His friends laughed behind his back, saying such things. Using the excuse that there was no rice for dinner, that there would be nothing to eat tomorrow morning—he would come begging for fifty sen or a yen each time. While grumbling all the while, K would send over old books, used clothes, and even shoes when there was no money. He returned home and, thrusting them before his red-faced wife, said, “Here... a little something for you.” (Surely, a savior should come from somewhere.) I’m not asking for some extravagant life, nor harboring grand desires—with just thirty-five yen a month, the five of us could live without starving. His own ineptitude—being unable to cleverly earn even this paltry sum—was unforgivable, yet precisely because it was such a trifling amount, he often fantasized that it might materialize from somewhere on its own. Such thoughts frequently occupied his mind, but for these past several months, nothing had emerged from anywhere. Every possible avenue had been closed off. Day by day, things grew increasingly dire. The futon was gone, the hibachi was gone, and the desk was gone. “Self-destruction—” In the end, even he despaired and said this to himself.

Electricians, newspaper sellers, soba shops, Western restaurants, neighborhood associations—all sorts came by. He couldn't sit calmly in the room. He couldn’t sleep at night without an evening drink. His head ached and he felt dizzy. His chest was always thudding heavily.… Even so, he couldn’t go anywhere else to seek help, so whenever he managed to get ten sen, he had no choice but to trudge off to K’s boarding house in Shibuya. K spent his mornings writing serial novels for a local newspaper. His afternoons were allocated to naps, strolls, and time spent visiting friends or being visited by them. In the train car, while feeling an anxious dread that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment, he thought—as if in prayer—that he hoped no one else would come. If there were prior guests or someone arrived later, he would have to return home feeling even more dejected and overwhelmed than when he had come—

He wore geta with completely worn-down teeth, got off the train at the terminal, and under the sweltering afternoon sun, streaming with sweat, he ascended the gravel-paved slope—his tall, stooped body shuffling upward—as if gazing up at the towering pine tree in K’s boarding house front garden. On the pine tree, cicadas were always screeching. Moreover, on the tataki platform before the entrance, the boarding house’s large Tosa dog lay sprawled with its limbs stretched out. He enters the entranceway and immediately fixes his eyes on the Seto-ware tube crammed with Western umbrellas and canes in the corner of the shoe platform—spotting K’s thick-gripped rattan cane—then, feeling too awkward to request guidance, he stealthily ascends to K’s second-floor room.……

“...Mr. K—”

“Please…”

K would either lie on a spread blanket with his head resting on an air pillow—exhausted from writing—or else sit alone cutting cards and telling fortunes. “In this heat…” When K welcomed him without any trace of wariness like this, smiling openly, he finally felt relieved and slumped down to sit. Then between them would typically unfold conversations like the following: “Well… I can lend you one yen today.” “But even with this yen, once you scrape through tomorrow, it’ll be gone.” “…Then what will you do?” “I’m no rich man myself—this can’t go on forever.” “Just how do you envision your own livelihood? I can’t make sense of it at all.”

“I don’t know either…” “If even you don’t understand, then there’s no helping it.” “And so—don’t you feel even the slightest fear carrying on like this?” “That’s terrifying.” “I’m afraid of everything and everyone.” “And my head starts to ache—this vague terror—and I have absolutely no idea how to handle things, how to think about my livelihood, how to reset my feelings.” “Hmph, why do you think that way?” “It’s not some vague terror at all.” “Isn’t it clear-cut terror?” “It’s a terrifying fact.” “It’s the most clear and terrifying fact there is.” “The fact that you can’t grasp this is utterly baffling to me.”

Having said this, K fell silent. He too made a face as if to say that if pressed any further by K, he would truly have no choice but to burst into tears. He still did not truly understand the true nature of that terrifying thing K spoke of. Yet he understood this much—that he was being dragged inch by inch toward its very core, sinking moment by moment as if his legs were caught in a bog. Yet perhaps it would take unexpected time before sinking completely under; perhaps within that interval some unforeseen salvation might emerge; or even if not through grand fortune, who was to say they couldn't find some new path allowing their family of five to survive without starving? From the perspective of his apathetic way of thinking, the fact that he would ultimately end up back in such a place had to be only natural.

(There was a witch who would capture various kinds of demons from all over and strip them of their supernatural powers with her magic.) And make them her servants. And then she worked them mercilessly. She forced them to do nothing but unpleasant tasks. In the end, even the demons could no longer endure it and fled from the witch’s place. And then hid under a large rock while stifling their breath. Then the witch came searching. And she lifted the large rock to look—oh my, there were demons huddled together, quivering and trembling in fear. Then the witch grabbed them again and worked them even more mercilessly. And as for those who still refused to obey no matter what, to punish them she sealed them away inside walls or boulders with her magic—without feeding them a thing for thousands or tens of thousands of years—)

This was K’s Tibetan fable—likely K’s own invention—that he told. When narrated by the silver-tongued K, this tale never lost its fascination for him no matter how many times he heard it. “No matter how you thrash about,” K said, “someone like you’s already been marked by this witch-like crone. Scamper around all you want—it’s pointless. Better meekly become her lackey and labor.” “A demon robbed of its mystic powers becomes truly pitiful.” “Were it just you alone, being entombed in walls or boulders might suffice—but dragging wife and children into this? That’s wretchedness itself.”

“That might be how it is,” he said. “But that witch-like old woman—she’s a nasty piece of work.” “It’s no use hating her,” K replied. “We can’t survive without eating. And once people start voicing their hatred, it won’t just be limited to your particular witch.”

As evening approached, he would receive one yen and fifty sen for buying rice for dinner and return home. (Truly, this city teems with nothing but those witch-like crones K described!) he brooded in the homebound train. Or perhaps all who'd exploit him belonged to that breed. And he would flee whenever their ruthless demands grew unbearable. Thinking he could manage without food or drink, he tried hiding beneath rocks—places like that—only to be hauled back again. ……If only these children didn't exist! Fate! Yet still his endurance failed. And he kept fleeing…

And so he, thinking "This time for sure," desperately tried hiding under rocks for three or four months. But the result was that he inevitably ended up being sealed within walls or boulders.…

He felt sorry for K. But he had nowhere to go. And still, when he had ten sen, he would go to Shibuya. But recently, he came to be sealed off even from K’s place. It was that K’s friends had begun to condemn him, declaring that assisting someone like Oda was an act of immorality on K’s part. “Someone like Oda is essentially akin to an incurable patient—perhaps an intriguing living specimen for philanthropic doctors—but for us healthy ordinary people, he’s nothing but a harmful and useless human.” “To assist the existence of such individuals must rightly be considered an immoral act when viewed from the standpoint of social life.” Such was their unanimous opinion.

“Fundamentally, poverty itself is by no means an immoral thing.” “Poverty in the noble sense may even give others an impression of humble virtue, but Oda’s situation—that’s utterly beyond reason.” “It’s a state beyond poverty.” “A detestable way of life.” “Even the great Dostoevsky states that poverty itself is a good thing, but a life beyond poverty is something to be cursed.” “That is because even god’s greatness cannot save such a life…” And so, one of them—a Russian literature expert—said.

Moreover, this had occurred a mere half-month prior. From Y—one of their circle—a package of tea arrived at his home as a return gift for the condolence offering, on the occasion of his late father’s 49th-day memorial service. He naturally lacked even the means to contribute a single yen as condolence money, but that too had been covered by K. When Y’s father died, friends proposed consolidating their individual one-yen contributions under a collective name to avoid inconvenience—(he hadn’t attended that gathering)—at which point K interjected, “Why not include Oda too? Given these circumstances… poor fellow makes such a pitiable sight.” Having said this, K added his name to the list and assumed his share.

On the evening before the day after the 49th-day memorial had concluded—just as Sanbyaku had come again, likely for the second or third time, and was holding forth in his usual circuitous, incoherent manner—the package arrived. "Well, I too have been somewhat unwell in the head lately," and "Ah yes—they say moving house shifts the heart, don’t they? That’s quite true." "In such cases, one must endure some inconvenience and make a clean break by moving out." "For starters, they say that changing your residence alters the very air around you—so naturally, people’s thoughts become more sound in such circumstances..." Having been lectured at for over an hour with one thing after another of this sort, he was completely worn out—making a face that all but said *I get it already, just leave*—when precisely then the Yamamotoyama tea package arrived. Unable to suppress his preoccupation with it, he kept casting sidelong glances at the parcel placed by the veranda. Moreover, for someone in his position—having needed a friend to provide even a single yen for condolence money—a full kin of tea must have been a precious thing. After Sanbyaku left, he—impatient even as he sliced open the package’s side—peeled away the wrapping and gingerly lifted the paper box’s lid... The pleasant gleam of a new tin can! The beauty of the crimson label proclaiming Yamamotoyama! In that instant, he felt a slight dizziness, as though encountering some extraordinary treasure.

He gingerly extracted the can—fearing his sweaty hands might tarnish its pleasant gleam, that rust might bloom at any moment—and gazed at it as if entranced. ……With a start, he nearly dropped it. In an instant, his delighted face sagged into a bitter mask of sorrow as he released a despairing sigh. There on the back of the brand-new Yamamotoyama tin—radiating crisp brilliance with its 120 monme of tea—where the label clung, two massive dents gaped. They were violent depressions that could only mean something had been smashed against them or they’d been hammered by brute force. Soon Y’s figure surfaced in his mind—Y the bold humanitarian with his lucid intellect and inexhaustible vigor, charging recklessly toward future goals while embracing any fate; Y the ferocious sentimentalist who surveyed his surroundings with abnormal cunning, refusing to leave unremoved even celestial bodies that threatened his interests—yet no matter how he stoked his suspicions, he couldn’t believe Y had sent this dented thing to humiliate him. ……That defied all reason.

"After all, given my status, it's surely nothing worth fussing over—they wouldn't have bothered opening and inspecting each one." "In other words, such damaged goods just happened to end up with me by chance…"

That must have been the natural conclusion. Yet he felt somehow ashamed of his own existence and sorrowful. Even if it was accidental, to end up with such a thing—he felt all the more compelled to believe this must be the fate of someone thoroughly cursed—

He took advantage of his children being out in the garden and his wife happening to be away on an errand; he went to the kitchen and did his best to smooth out the dent with a pestle, needing to prepare against being discovered and interrogated by his wife.

Two or three days later, he met K. As soon as K saw his face, a sardonic smile surfaced in those piercing eyes, “Did the Yamamotoyama tea reach you too?” he asked. “Ah, I got it.” “Right—I really must thank you, shouldn’t I?” “No need for thanks—but was there anything unusual about it?” “Unusual?” …” He too couldn’t quite grasp K’s meaning. “Not that it matters... I just wondered if there hadn’t been some irregularity.” “...happened to hear certain talk.”

When he was told this, his complexion changed. It was about the dent in the can. It was an utterly terrifying and unexpected revelation, beyond even his darkest imaginings. The dent in the can had reportedly been inflicted by Y—who, wielding the iron dumbbell he swung every morning with his southpaw’s muscular arm, struck it with full force—or as K put it in his characteristic tone, “as if roaring ‘Damn you, wretched fool!’”

“...Mr. K, is that really true? Why would he need to go that far? This makes no sense. I may have treated Y to meals before, but I never borrowed a single penny from him...” His face twisted as if he might burst into tears at any moment. “You’re missing the point—the world doesn’t operate on the logic you imagine. Modern men of means harbor far more terrifying psychologies than you comprehend... There’s no grand reason—they simply reject friends mired in poverty.” “No matter what virtues you possess, they’ll despise you solely for being destitute—what can be done? Especially moralists like Y—they see you as nothing but a contagion.” “Given half a chance, they’d eradicate such eyesores entirely.” “In this matter, Y’s apparently furious with me too... That he received condolence money from a pauper like Oda—they’re all blaming me for it.” “Not that they could’ve force-fed me an iron dumbbell instead.” “This wretched world we inhabit—it’s grown truly monstrous.”

“But I don’t understand—how can someone like Y do such an idiotic thing? I just don’t understand.”

“That’s exactly where you’re missing something—forgive my bluntness—it’s because you don’t grasp how far the indignation and arrogance of those who take pride in themselves can extend, even toward trivial matters involving wretched opponents.” “Moreover, your fundamental mistake lies in believing that witch-like old women exist solely in spheres willing to give you work.” “Our surroundings—literary types might be even worse, you know.” “If you think that all these refined lovers of elegance, humanitarians spouting compassion—so different from your witch-like old women—are actually virtuous gentlemen of mercy and forbearance, then you’re making a colossal mistake.” “If you don’t take this well and truly to heart, you—the person you are—will truly become unable to survive within our surroundings...!” “The world isn’t just full of drifters like me, you know.”

Peering into his eyes—which fluttered as if on the verge of tears—K declared as though delivering a final judgment:

II

…………

When he opened his eyes, he found himself still at the low dining table from last night, sleeping in nothing but an underrobe with his arm as a pillow. His entire body was bitten here and there by mosquitoes. On the dining tray and in the sake cup, mosquitoes lay fallen. The nauseating stench of alcohol—he raised his still-drunken, unsteady body and threw open the storm shutters. In the next room, two children slept on a tattered blanket, still in their clothes, without a mosquito net or futon.

After finishing breakfast, he was about to go out to search for a rental house—having entrusted the child with his seal and instructing them to send out any registered mail that might come—when Sanbyaku called out from beyond the lattice.

“Have you found a house yet?” “Today’s the tenth, you know.” “…You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“I’m about to start looking now, but if I move out by evening, that should suffice, shouldn’t it?”

“That’s acceptable until evening,” he said, “but if I may offer some unsolicited advice—wouldn’t it be preferable to move during cooler hours?” “But in any case, I’ll definitely move out by evening.” “I know I’m overstepping by saying this again, but since I’ve secured your written pledge accepting any disciplinary measures on my part without objection—if you fail this time, I will take measures immediately.”

Sanbyaku reiterated his warning and left. He wandered around until noon and returned, but the money order still hadn’t arrived. And so from noon onward, he went out again beneath the blazing sun. Sweat poured from his face and chest. A dizzying weariness gripped him—a helplessness teetering on collapse. Wearing geta sandals worn smooth as weather-beaten clogs and clutching a fan smeared greasy from hand oils, he shuffled forward with his lanky stooped frame. It was a quiet street with a gentle slope, both sides lined with mansions encircled by stone or concrete walls. Of course there could be no rental houses suitable for him—capped at seven yen—in that area, but he passed through intending to cross to the tram street and search near the so-called slums in the valley-like lowland beyond. From within the walls on both sides, cicadas and katydids shrilled ceaselessly as if protesting the sun’s insufficient fury. Every gate stood silent as if lifeless, sunlight glittering on raked gravel beds. "How I’d love to nap in one of these quiet mansion rooms," he thought, wiping sweat streaming down his chest as he trudged breathlessly onward. To the left stood the mansion of a businessman, wealthy man, and Diet member he’d interviewed twice before for a magazine. "The master’s surely off summering somewhere—damn them for living so well." Envy and resentment churned within him—this wretch who prattled of art and ideals yet wallowed in squalor—as he slowed his pace, glaring sidelong through a wide gate topped with glass shards embedded in concrete. Just then from beyond the slope came a hulking policeman in white uniform, sword clanging as he lumbered forward. His face matched his bulk—angular and massive, mustache jutting past cheekbones like Zhong Kui sans beard—a visage of unyielding severity. When he casually glanced at that face now fixing him with a razor stare as its owner swaggered closer with insufferable arrogance, he felt his sweat turn cold. No crime haunted his conscience, yet interrogation might trip his tongue—and his wretched appearance alone invited suspicion—"Hey! "You! "You’ve been snooping around mansions—just what are you?"

“Occupation?” “Address?” And so he tried to hurry past the towering man swaggering down the narrow street’s center, flapping his fan with feigned nonchalance even as suffocating dread tightened his chest.

“Hey!”

……It’s really happening! His ear rang violently.

“Hey! ……”

The policeman repeated this, but for a full minute he stared fixedly at his face, "...Have you forgotten?! "It's me!" "...Have you forgotten me?" "Well?" ......"

The policeman, having said this, began to relax his stern expression for the first time.

“Oh, it’s you!” “I thought you were someone else—gave me quite a shock.” “Still, how’d you even recognize me?”

He looked up at the other man's face and said with relief. "That's what you get with a policeman's eye. The power of a policeman's eye—that's something truly fearsome."

The policeman laughed triumphantly and said.

As it was the height of the midday heat, there were few people passing by in the area. The two of them crouched beneath a telephone pole and talked. The policeman—Yokoi and he had met about ten years earlier at a cram school in Kanda. At that time, Yokoi had been preparing to enter medical school, but during that period he would bring suspicious women to his boarding house, and not long after that he apparently joined the police force. Yokoi, in a tone befitting a policeman, asked about his current occupation, income, and various other matters.

“So you’re still a patrolman?” He brought up what had been on his mind since earlier—this maneuver meant to deflect detailed questioning about himself. “Don’t be stupid…” Yokoi remained crouched as he reached for his waist, pulling the sword hilt closer. “Look here—different from a patrolman’s, eh? Our hat badges alone have gold braid… Hah! This sword!” “...is what I wanted to say.” Yokoi laughed triumphantly again, broad shoulders shaking.

“So you’re an Inspector?” “That’s impressive.” “Well, I thought something was off since you didn’t quite seem like a regular patrolman.”

“Well, it’s a white uniform—hard to distinguish at first glance.”

The two of them continued talking about such matters as they walked side by side for a while, strolling aimlessly. As he thought to himself, *Now’s my chance—I’ve found a powerful ally*, he explained in a tone meant to draw sympathy—how he was currently being driven from his home, how if he didn’t move out tonight Sanbyaku would likely resort to violence, and couldn’t something possibly be done about it? “Well now…” Yokoi tilted his head slightly and suddenly adopted a serious tone. “But really now—that’s just pointless, isn’t it? You shouldn’t linger in a place like that. It only serves to make you feel worse and is ultimately to your disadvantage. Well, as the other party says, it’d be best if you vacate by today.”

“Of course I intend to move out today if possible, but you see, I still have to go find a place now.” “But you really shouldn’t linger in a place like that.” “It’s ultimately to your disadvantage.” His expectations were dashed as Yokoi repeated this in a policeman’s lecturing tone. “Is that so…” “That’s certainly true… Well then, I’m usually at the station—do come by.” “I see. “Then I’ll let you know once I’ve moved.”

Having said this, he parted from the policeman with a deflated spirit, then wandered around the slums for two or three hours. And finally finding a suitable house, leaving a small sum as a deposit, he returned home having decided to move in that evening. But still, the remittance from his wife had not arrived. Not even the reply to the telegram he had sent yesterday morning had arrived.

III

The following afternoon, at his wit's end, he went to visit Yokoi at the police station. From a separate room beyond the open reception area, Yokoi lumbered his large frame over and said, “Oh, it’s you. Well, come on up,” then guided him to a spacious, well-ventilated room on the second floor. Around the hall, there were several small rooms labeled with signs reading “Material Storage Room,” “Supervisor’s Office,” and the like. At the top of the ladder-like stairs, a white-uniformed patrolman sat alone at a table. The two of them faced each other at the central large table and sat down on chairs.

“Well now, were you able to move out?”

“I can’t. “I did finally find a house, but there’s no way I can move today. It’s just that the money didn’t come through.” “That won’t do, you know…” Yokoi scowled as though seeing through the true purpose of his visit, then jerked at the long mustache that jutted out from his angular, broad face and fixed his bulging eyes on the man’s forehead. He had no choice but to steer the conversation elsewhere. “But lately, unlike during the peak season for debt settlements, things must be somewhat quieter around here, right? And generally speaking, there don’t seem to be many major incidents in this district—or am I wrong about that?”

“No—it’s always the same.” “We have our share of things happening here now and then.” “But generally speaking, this isn’t a district with big cases, right?” “Instead, we’ve got plenty of persons of interest.” “Starting with you, for instance…” “Don’t spout nonsense.” “I’m perfectly sound.” “It’s just poverty.” “Though from what you call your ‘police eyes,’ everything must look suspect—but even so, I endure this poverty because I want to contribute something to society.” “If it were just about eating or starving, I’d go back to the countryside and farm.”

He raised his head and said with an intensified tone.

“Still spouting nothing but grand pronouncements, huh? But hasn’t poverty always clung to you like a second skin?” “...That’s true.” They had spent over an hour exchanging such desultory remarks. During this time, Yokoi demonstrated experiments with what he called his “unique seated meditation method”—a practice he claimed to have maintained for ten years. Keeping his seat on the chair, he assumed the posture and closed his eyes. Before half a moment had passed, his upper body began contorting in grotesque undulations, viscous sweat coursing down his forehead. Yokoi termed this “spiritual unification.”

“Well, I must say this might sound rude, but from my observations, your living conditions or mental state—they’re practically one and the same—seem to be in considerable disarray. You really must strive for unification…” “You must practice spiritual unification.” “When you’ve accumulated some practice, there are various benefits—first off, in our line of work, you gain remarkable penetrative insight.” “...When you’re in this state of spiritual unification, you can immediately penetrate what’s really going on—like how this bastard here is saying one thing with his mouth but thinking another in his gut. That’s what makes it so fearsome.” “And you know, I’ve caught all sorts of criminals up to now—mostly during daylight hours.… The moment I think, ‘This bastard’s suspicious,’ I automatically slip into spiritual unification.” “So then... I’d haul them in with a ‘Hey, you! Hey, you!’ and that method was practically infallible.”

“Hmm, is that so?” “So in such cases, you immediately restrain them with rope right there in the street, is that it?”

“Why on earth would I use ropes or such? That’s more certain than binding with iron chains… You won’t escape! You’re coming with me! I’ve already properly implied that—in other words, I’ve bound their spirits with ropes. There’s nothing more certain than this.” “Hmm, so that’s how it is?” He nodded as if impressed while listening to the inspector’s story, but gradually began feeling that this man might also be mentally binding him with those iron chains. Overcome by inexpressible disgust and unease, he tried to stand up but sank back into his seat again,

“So actually, I came here hoping to ask your advice—what do you think? They’re saying if I don’t vacate by seven tonight, they’ll reclaim the tatami and fixtures and nail the house shut. Isn’t there any way to get a two- or three-day extension?” “If it were just me alone, it wouldn’t matter, but with two children in tow…”

After hesitantly fidgeting for a while, he began to speak like this.

“That won’t do for you.” “Manage your affairs and move out at once.” “In the end, you’re the one who’ll suffer.” “They surely wouldn’t resort to such brutish methods—the original contract never stipulated seizing fixtures or nailing houses shut over unpaid rent. Proper procedures are required—they can’t act lawlessly like that. But you—what’s the point in making such a fuss anyway?” “I don’t know how you people think,” he said, “but these days have turned into something truly dreadful.” “No matter which path you take—if you aren’t dead serious about at least one thing—the slightest misstep will land you in catastrophe.” “In my line of work I’ve seen all sorts—keep being careless like this and you won’t survive!”

The inspector’s dull chestnut eyes fixed straight on his forehead as if to bore into it. He flinched. “...No—you see, even I... it’s not such a dire situation.” “Well, unfortunately my wife had to return to her hometown because a relative fell ill… What with one thing and another, I’ve been in a real bind...” “...So from your perspective,” he said, “you might not think it’s such a grave matter—but regardless of your struggles, they’ll haul you out exactly as demanded.” “As a friend, I’m giving you this advice—you shouldn’t linger long in such a place.” “And since you say this is your first time, it’s still manageable—but if such things pile up repeatedly, you’ll end up facing terrible trouble.” “In other words, it’s a form of fraud.” “Even if you’re deemed someone who entered another’s house without any intention of paying rent, there’ll be nothing you can do about it.” “There are quite a few people who’ve been arrested for that sort of thing—so you’d better be careful.” “People are free to do whatever they choose—but if they forget the resolve to fall upon the right path, they’ll ultimately find themselves unable to survive in this society...”

…………

After selling off their empty trunks, wicker baskets, rice chest, pot, and every last notable kitchen implement to the secondhand dealer—determined to depart before Sanbyaku came pounding at their door—they locked up the house and left around eight o'clock. He carried an akebi vine basket stuffed with half-finished manuscripts, pens, and ink bottles, while his second-grade eldest son shouldered a satchel of textbooks and school supplies, clad in hakama trousers. Having hastily tied up his seven-year-old daughter's neglected hair—left uncombed for days—he took her hand, and the three walked toward streets pulsing with nocturnal bustle. He felt bone-weary. None of them had eaten supper yet; all three were ravenous.

So they entered a bar near the tram stop. He gave sushi to the children and drank sake. It seemed there was nothing besides alcohol that could revive him now. He drank greedily yet reverently, savoring each cup as something sacred. Gazing vacantly at his own ashen face with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes reflected in the large mirror—as if observing a stranger—he kept stroking back his overgrown hair with his left hand while moving the sake cup in his right. From this exhaustion so profound he could neither think nor fear anything, only meaningless deep sighs seemed to well up.

“Dad, I think I’ll have some fried shrimp.” Having devoured the sushi, the eldest son read by himself and then said to him sitting there like this. “Alright, alright… Two fried shrimp—” He turned toward the waitress and shouted mechanically like this.

“Dad, I think I’ll have some edamame.” After a while, the eldest son spoke again.

“Alright, alright… Two orders of edamame—and a sake flask…” He shouted again in the same tone. Before long, the children, having eaten their fill, went outside and began playing tag. The eldest daughter occasionally pressed her face against the door glass to check on her father’s condition. Seeing that he was drinking and feeling reassured, she went back to playing with her brother, laughing all the while. A garishly made-up dancer entered, clacking wooden clappers, followed by a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old woman who came in clattering a shamisen and singing. A drunkard spent money. Waving her hands and swaying her hips, the dancer—her sharp fox-like face painted white—occasionally showed a strange squinting gaze as she danced in the narrow space between the door and the counter.

Having emptied several flasks of sake yet still persistently moving his cup, he occasionally directed indifferent glances toward the dancer—"Right! For me, absolutely everything has become a state of disinterest—utter emotional numbness..." He muttered this to himself.

Years ago when he was still alone and wandering through such places drinking himself around, that life was by no means something one could call free or happy compared to his current existence—yet those words he used to voice back then like grief and misery—they were ultimately phrases bounced out from what might be called emotional engagement’s elasticity, like a rubber ball’s resilience. But today that rubber ball had developed a hole; pressed inward, it simply stayed dented—devoid of bounce or tension. Positive emotional engagement? Negative emotional engagement?—absurd terms no doubt—but if humans cannot live through positive engagement then they must live through negative engagement—nay pursue it. If one didn’t resort even to that—this existence called life would prove truly unbearable! Yet this necessity to eat strips humans not only of positive emotional engagement but also drains negative engagement’s last resilience. And renders it all a rubber ball with a hole—

“Right! The existence of an artist who’s lost all emotional engagement—that’s worse than a farmer’s life, worse than a rickshaw puller’s, worse than even the most wretched human existence… That’s truly a wretched existence!”

Staring vacantly with eyes wide open at the dancer’s repulsive movements, he watched their retreating figures and muttered this to himself once more. And when the thought struck him—*Will my own children end up sharing that dancer’s fate?*—this sorrowful vision took shape in his mind, and he found himself unable to stop hating his wife, the woman who had vanished without a trace after leaving with only their youngest daughter in tow.

"But in the end," he thought, "it all stems from our own spinelessness." She was a woman after all—and just as he couldn't bring himself to destroy himself for his wife and children's sake, neither could she wither away for her husband and children's sake." He turned this over in his mind again... "Let's go already, Dad." "You had enough?" "I'm bored..." Urged several times by the children, he finally pushed himself up from his seat—sufficiently drunk now—left the bar and boarded a train.

“Where are we going?” “To the boarding house I know.”

“Boarding house?” “Yeah…”

Looking anxious, the children asked several times inside the train.

At Shibuya's terminal stop, they got off the train and walked up the familiar gravel-paved slope toward K's boarding house. Both the landlord and landlady there knew his face.

He climbed up to the front desk and pleaded, “The truth is, my wife had to return to the countryside because someone fell ill there. Could you let us stay for two or three days?” But the landlord, noticing their disheveled appearance, flatly refused, claiming there were no vacancies even though rooms should have been vacant during the summer recess.

However, the time was already past ten o'clock. As he pleaded to stay just one night, his eldest daughter—who had been sitting beside him listening all this time—suddenly covered her face with her hands and began crying with quiet, hiccuping sobs. At this, even the elderly landlord couple became flustered and agreed, “In that case, we can accommodate you for just tonight,” but his eldest daughter would not stop crying.

“See? It’s okay, right?” “In that case, we’ll stay here just for tonight.” “We’ll go somewhere else tomorrow, is that okay?” “Don’t cry…”

However, she only sobbed harder.

“Then you absolutely insist on leaving?” “You want to go somewhere else?” “It’s already late…”

When he said this, the eldest daughter nodded as if finally convinced.

And so the three of them, needing to return to the street where they had been living, boarded a train as the hour drew near eleven. There was nowhere else they could go besides the cheap inns in that vicinity; no acquaintance’s home existed that they could name as a destination. The children sat down on the bench and immediately leaned against each other's shoulders, beginning to snore exhaustedly.

Along the dark moatside where the damp late-night wind blew pleasantly, the sparsely occupied train sped swiftly. You'll become unable to survive! The faces of K who had said this, the Inspector's face—but was that truly such a grave matter? "But... to drag even my own children into this?" Right! That must certainly be terrifying! Yet now, both his head and his body—just like his children—craved rest.

(March 1918, "Waseda Bungaku" [早稲田文学])