Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After cleaning, cooking vegetables, and setting out the rice bran miso, he had the children finish their dinner, then finally set his meal tray near the veranda where the evening sun had faded and listlessly sipped his evening drink. Then, without so much as a greeting, someone quietly opened the front lattice door, and Sanbyaku—the usual eviction-demanding Sanbyaku—suddenly thrust his face through the gap in the open shoji at the entrance.

"Oh, do come in." Being slightly under the influence of alcohol, he called out cheerfully while remaining seated.

“No, I’m quite alright here. “I just happened to be out for a stroll in the area... So tell me—you’ve secured housing by now, haven’t you?” “You’ve settled on a place by now, haven’t you?” “Well… the fact is, there’s something I’d like to discuss regarding that matter. Please do come inside for a moment.” He stood up and went over, saying in a pleading manner.

“There’s really no need to hear you out…” muttered Sanbyaku with a sullen look, reluctantly stepping inside. A fair-skinned, slightly plump man in his early forties, dressed in gentlemanly attire. Yet he had those strangely dull, shifty eyes—sinister and unable to meet others’ gazes directly—as if characteristic of people in his line of work. “...I’m terribly sorry about this, but with my wife away—and she’s certain to return within three or four days—if you could possibly grant us an extension until the fifteenth...”

“Absolutely not! I absolutely cannot grant that!” Sanbyaku’s usual dull, shifty eyes—the ones he’d shouted with—now seemed on the verge of emitting red flames. He hurriedly said: “I see.” “Understood.” “Very well. Then I will definitely move out by the 10th,” he apologized. “Had I considered you from the start to be no different than a rickshaw puller or stable hand, I would have employed the strongest measures possible.” “But since I never imagined you’d stoop to that, I believed you to be a person of considerable character—which is why I’ve been this lenient in granting extensions at your request. Now there’ll be no further concessions.” “In accordance with your written pledge stating that you would suffer no hardship from any penalties imposed, I will carry them out immediately.”

While casting a creepy, scrutinizing gaze around the bleak room—devoid of even a single proper piece of furniture—Sanbyaku continued to shout like this. He could only wave his hand to suppress the other’s shouting and repeat, “Alright, alright—I’ll definitely vacate by the evening of the 10th.” “What a strange weirdo, isn’t he?” At long last, after Sanbyaku had left, he exchanged glances with his eldest son—who had been listening nearby—and said with a bitter smile.

“...Yeah, what a weirdo.”

The child also said with a sorrowful bitter smile.……

The narrow garden was adjacent to a cemetery. A rope had been stretched across its crumbling wooden fence where morning glories had entwined themselves. The vines grew with such relentless vigor that even when their tips were repeatedly pruned, thick new shoots kept emerging from the sides. Their leaves swelled to absurd sizes, visibly expanding with each passing day. Yet though August had arrived, not a single blossom had opened.

By now, with the security deposit depleted and four months of arrears having severed relations with the landlord, nearly a month had already passed since Sanbyaku began making his visits. He felt the morning glories—which despite his sowing seeds, replanting, stringing ropes, even fertilizing with oil cake—now stretched absurdly with nothing but leaves and vines blooming no flowers even in their season—to be cruelly mocking fools. Yet he also felt himself an even more wretched imbecile: one driven out without seeing a single blossom from all his tending. And with a somewhat derisive heart, he had listened to Sanbyaku’s half-hearted, oddly circuitous proposals from when he first came visiting—all while gazing at morning glories climbing densely across the fence. But as time passed—over two or three visits—Sanbyaku’s tone and demeanor had completely changed. And so he obeyed every word of Sanbyaku’s and was made to write a written pledge laden with various conditions set for August 10th. Through strained arrangements, he had sent his wife off to her distant hometown to secure funds. ……

“Why was that man so angry?”

“It’s because he’s telling us to move out after all.” “Oh, don’t worry. Mom will definitely send money by tomorrow or so, and then we’ll move right away. No matter how much that guy yells, it doesn’t bother me.” As he spoke these words to the children seated before the meal tray, he continued to sip his sake with a lingering sense of loneliness. There had been only one letter from his wife—assuring him she’d arrived safely and would return with money by the 10th—after which there had been no further word from her; thoughts of her, of their second daughter she’d taken along, and of K—who’d gone to escape the summer heat at Hitachi’s Isohara—swirled through his mind. From K had come another postcard that morning: a scene of white waves shattering against rocks near Futatsujima, where dwarf pines clustered thick along the shore. On it was written something like: “Around here near Nakoso Barrier, it’s already autumn.” To him, struggling desperately in Tokyo’s dust—said to be the worst heat in three years—this had been a fine irony.

“No, K wasn’t escaping the heat. More like he was dodging Koda by holing up at Nakoso Barrier.”

Thus one of their friends had remarked after K left Tokyo. To such an extent had he been imposing all manner of burdens on K over these past three or four months.

Over these three or four months, he had borrowed about five yen each from three or four friends, and being unable to repay them, Koda found himself shut out by all those acquaintances until only K remained as his last friend. “When Koda gets ten sen, he just goes to Shibuya,” they said. His friends laughed behind his back while repeating this. They would claim there was no rice for dinner or breakfast tomorrow—each time coming to demand fifty sen or a yen. Though grumbling complaints, K still sent over old books, used clothes, and even worn-out shoes when there was no money. Returning home, he thrust them before his red-faced wife with a muttered “Well… here’s a souvenir…” (There should be some messenger of salvation coming from somewhere. I’m not hoping for luxury—not harboring grand desires. Thirty-five yen a month would let our family of five avoid starvation. My own idiocy—being unable to earn even this paltry sum—is unforgivable… yet precisely because it’s so small, shouldn’t it materialize on its own?) Such fantasies often came to him, but these months yielded nothing. Every door had closed. Each day grew harder. The bedding vanished, then the brazier, then the desk. “It’s self-destruction—” he finally told himself in despair.

Electricians, newspaper vendors, soba shops, Western-style restaurants, neighborhood obligations—all sorts of people came by. He couldn’t sit still in the room. Even at night, he couldn’t sleep without his evening drink. His head ached and he felt dizzy. His chest was always pounding.…… But even so, he couldn’t go anywhere else to ask for help, so whenever he had ten sen, he had no choice but to barge into K’s boarding house in Shibuya. K was writing serial novels for regional newspapers in the mornings. In the afternoons, he set aside time for naps, walks, and visiting friends or being visited by them. In the streetcar, feeling a precarious anxiety as if he might collapse at any moment, he prayed that no visitors would be there... If there were prior guests or someone arrived later, he would have to return home feeling even more dejected than when he came—even more overwhelmed by wretchedness—

He wore weather-worn geta whose teeth had been thoroughly ground down, alighted from the streetcar at the end of the line, and—dripping with sweat in the sweltering afternoon heat—trudged laboriously up the graveled slope path, his lanky stooped body craning upward toward the tall pine tree in K’s boarding house front garden. Cicadas shrilled incessantly on the pine tree. On the entrance step sprawled the boarding house’s large Tosa dog, limbs stretched out in repose. The moment he entered the genkan, his eyes fixed on the Seto-ware cylinder crammed with Western umbrellas and canes in the corner of the shoe platform—spotting K’s thick-gripped rattan cane—he found asking to be announced too mortifying, and so stole stealthily up to K’s second-floor room.…

“...Mr. K——” “Please…” K would either spread out a blanket and rest his writing-weary head on an air pillow or else shuffle playing cards alone to tell fortunes. “In this heat…”

When K welcomed him with a smile, showing no sign of wariness, he finally felt relieved and slumped down to sit. From then on, between the two of them, the following kind of conversation would typically be exchanged. “Well now, I’ll give you one yen for today’s needs.” “But even if we manage to scrape by tomorrow with this one yen, it’ll be gone by then.” “……What will you do after that?” “I’m not a rich man either, you know—so this can’t go on forever.” “How on earth do you conceive of your own life? I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“I don’t know either…” “If even you don’t understand, there’s nothing to be done.” “And tell me—don’t you feel even slightly terrified living like this?” “Of course I’m scared.” “Everything is terrifying.” “And my head starts to ache—this vague terror—and I don’t know what to do, how to think about my life, how to reset my feelings… I’m completely lost here.” “Hmph. How can you say that?” “It’s not at all some vague terror.” “Isn’t it clear terror?” “It’s a terrible fact.” “It’s the most clear and terrible fact.” “That you don’t understand this—I find it utterly perplexing.”

Having said this, K fell silent. He too now wore an expression suggesting 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. But he was being dragged inch by inch toward its true form, sinking moment by moment as if his legs were caught in a quagmire—this much he understood. Yet perhaps it would take unexpectedly long to sink completely—or perhaps some unforeseen helping hand might emerge in the meantime—or even if not grand fortune, was it truly impossible that he might yet discover some new path allowing the five of them in his family to survive without starving? From his listless way of thinking, it had to be rather a natural outcome that he would end up back in such a situation.

(There was a witch who captured various kinds of demons from all over and used her magic to strip them of their supernatural powers. She made them her own servants. Then she worked them mercilessly to the bone. She forced them to do nothing but unpleasant tasks. Eventually even the demons could bear it no longer and fled from the witch's domain. They hid beneath large rocks, holding their breath. The witch came searching. She lifted a massive rock—oh my! There were the demons, huddled together trembling and quivering. She grabbed them again and drove them even harder. As for those who still refused to obey, she sealed them inside walls or boulders with her magic—starving them for thousands upon thousands of years as punishment—)

This was K’s Tibetan fairy tale—likely K’s own creation—that he had told. When told by the eloquent K, this tale remained interesting to him no matter how many times he heard it. “No matter how much you struggle, in the end, someone like you has already been marked by this witch-like old woman. No matter how much you run around, it’s pointless. You’d be better off peaceably working as her underling.” “And a demon that’s had its supernatural powers stripped away is truly a useless thing.” “If it were just you alone, being sealed inside walls or boulders might be one thing—but dragging your wife and children into this? That’s truly pitiful.”

“Maybe that’s how it goes,” “But that witch—what a nasty piece of work she is.” “Hating it won’t change a thing.” “We’ve got to eat.” “And once you start complaining, it won’t just be your witch anymore.”

As evening approached, he received one yen and fifty sen to buy rice for dinner and returned home. (Truly, this city teems with nothing but witch-like old women of the sort K described!) he thought bitterly on the train ride home—no, perhaps all who sought to use him were precisely that. And he, unable to endure their exploitation, would flee. Thinking he could subsist without food or drink, he tried hiding beneath a rock—or some such place—only to be seized and dragged away again. ...To think children already existed! Fate! But he could no longer endure it. And then, he ran around......

And so he, determined that this time would be different, desperately tried hiding under a rock for three or four months. But the result was that he ended up being sealed away within walls and boulders after all.……

He felt sorry for K. But he had nowhere left to turn. And so, when he had ten sen, he went to Shibuya.

But recently, he found himself sealed off from K’s place as well. This occurred because K’s friends had begun condemning him, asserting that supporting someone like Koda amounted to moral corruption on K’s part. “Someone like Koda resembles a patient with a malignant disease—while philanthropic doctors might find such living specimens somewhat intriguing, to us ordinary, sound individuals, he’s positively harmful and useless.” “To sustain such a person’s existence must be deemed precisely immoral when viewed through the lens of social life.” This stood as their unanimous verdict.

“Poverty itself is by no means an immoral thing. “Poverty in the positive sense actually gives others a humble, favorable impression—but Koda’s case? That’s utterly beyond reason.” “It transcends mere poverty.” “A detestable way of life.” “Even the great Dostoevsky said that poverty itself may be a good thing, but a life beyond poverty is something to be cursed.” “That even God in His greatness cannot save it…” And once again, one of them—a Russian literature expert—spoke.

It was just about half a month ago. From Y, one of their group, came a package of tea as a condolence return gift for his deceased father’s forty-ninth-day memorial service, sent to his residence. Of course he lacked the means to contribute even a single yen as a condolence donation, but that too had been provided by K. When Y’s father died, the friends discussed how sending individual one-yen condolence donations would be troublesome, so they proposed making a joint contribution instead—though he [Koda] had not been present at that meeting—and it was then that K said, “Why don’t we include Koda too? Given the circumstances… poor fellow’s pitiable enough.” Having said this, he added Koda’s name as well, and K shouldered his portion too.

On the evening of the day following the completion of the forty-ninth-day memorial—just as Sanbyaku had come again, likely for only the second or third time, and was ranting in his usual circuitous, incoherent manner with that vacant tone—the package arrived at that very moment. “Well, my mind hasn’t been quite right lately either,” and “Ah yes—they say a change of residence refreshes the spirit, don’t they? That’s certainly true.” “In such circumstances, you must endure some inconveniences and move out decisively.” “First off, when one changes residences, it’s said that even the surrounding atmosphere shifts—so naturally, human thoughts become more sound, so to speak...” After being subjected to over an hour of such rambling tirades—one thing after another—he was thoroughly worn down, his face practically screaming *I get it already, just leave!* when at that very moment the tea package arrived. Now visibly agitated by its presence, he kept casting sidelong glances at the parcel placed by the veranda. Moreover, for someone in his position—having to rely on a friend to provide even a single yen for a condolence donation—a full kin of tea must have been a precious thing. After Sanbyaku left, he impatiently sliced open the package’s side, tore off the wrapping, and slowly, carefully lifted the paper box’s lid. …The pleasant gleam of a new tin can! The splendor of the crimson label branded *Yamamoto-yama*! At that moment, he felt a faint dizziness, as though he had encountered some immense treasure.

If he were to touch it—fearing the pleasant gleam might cloud from his hand’s sweat and rust begin forming at any moment—he carefully drew out the canister and gazed at it as though entranced. As he did so—he started, nearly dropping the canister in his alarm. And in an instant, his previously cheerful face sagged into a bitter, sorrowful expression as he let out a despairing sigh.

It was that on the Yamamoto-yama-brand tin canister—newly and pleasantly gleaming, containing a net weight of 120 momme—there existed two large dents on the back where the label was affixed. They were terrible dents that could only be thought to have been made either by someone striking it hard against something or hitting it forcefully with an object. Soon, naturally, the figure of Y—the one who had sent this—rose in his mind. Y—that brave humanitarian with his lucid intellect and vigorous energy, charging headlong toward future goals while accepting any fate; that intense sentimentalist who surveyed his surroundings with abnormal attentiveness and calculation, refusing to leave unremoved even celestial stars if they threatened his interests—yet no matter how fiercely Koda honed his suspicions, he could not bring himself to believe that Y had deliberately sent this to humiliate him. ……That was far too baseless a notion.

"After all, given my status, it couldn’t have been anything significant. There’s no way they’d go through the trouble of opening and inspecting each one." "In other words, it was just by chance that such damaged goods ended up with me…"

That must have been the natural conclusion. But somehow he felt ashamed of his own existence and sorrowful. Even if it was coincidence, the fact that he had stumbled upon such a thing made him feel all the more convinced—that this must be the fate of one thoroughly cursed— He, taking advantage of the children being out in the garden and his wife also away on an errand, had to go to the kitchen and do his best to smooth out the dents with a mortar, preparing to avoid being discovered and interrogated by his wife.

Two or three days later, he met K. The moment K saw his face, a sardonic smile surfaced in those keen eyes. “Did Yamamoto-yama come your way too?” he asked. “Oh, I got it. “Oh right—I have to thank you, don’t I?” “No need for thanks—but was there anything unusual about it?” “Something wrong?” “……” He didn’t quite grasp the meaning of what K was saying.

“If that’s all, then it’s nothing in particular—I just thought there might be some irregularity somewhere else.” “…Because I just happened to catch wind of something like that.”

When he was told this, his complexion changed—it was about the dent in the canister.

That was utterly beyond anything he could have imagined—a terrifying revelation. The dents in the canister had apparently been made by Y himself, who used the iron dumbbell he swung every morning, channeling all the strength of his powerful left arm while growling in K’s cadence, “You wretched cur!”, before smashing them into it. “……Mr. K, can this really be true?” “Why would he go to such lengths?” “This makes no sense.” “I’ve treated Y to meals before, but I’ve never borrowed so much as a penny from him…”

Having said this, his face looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment.

“So, I’m telling you—it’s not what you’re imagining. The world… it’s…” “It’s far more terrifying than you think—this psychology of modern people. ……There’s simply no other reason. They don’t want a poor friend like you around.” “Even if you had every good quality under the sun, they’d still despise you for being poor alone—there’s no escaping it.” “Especially from moralists like Y—they can’t help but see you as some diseased patient.” “Given half a chance, they’d wipe out such eyesores entirely—eradicate them completely.” “And over this business, Y’s apparently furious with me too. …That he ended up taking condolence money from a pauper like Koda—he’s blaming all that on K.” “Though mind you, he couldn’t very well have made me swallow an iron dumbbell.” “After all, this wretched world we live in has become a truly frightful place.”

“But I don’t understand—how someone like Y could do such idiotic things. I just don’t understand.”

“That’s exactly it—there’s something missing in you—no offense meant—but you don’t understand the sheer scale of indignation and arrogance that self-assured people harbor, even toward the slightest actions of those they deem beneath them.” “Moreover, your fundamental mistake lies in believing these witch-like figures exist solely in realms that would deign to give you work.” “Our surroundings—those in literary circles might be even worse, you know.” “The witch-like old women you speak of are one thing—but if you think everyone preaching refined love, humanity, or compassion must be some paragon of mercy and forbearance, that’s a monumental mistake.” “You’d better take this deeply to heart—if you don’t, someone like you truly won’t be able to survive in our surroundings…!” “In society, there are only carefree wanderers like me, you know.”

Peering into his eyes that flickered with barely restrained tears, K declared as if delivering a final verdict:

Part Two

……

When he opened his eyes and looked around, he found himself still at the supper tray from the night before, having slept in just an undergarment with his arm for a pillow. He was covered in mosquito bites here and there. Mosquitoes lay on the supper tray and in the sake cup. The nausea-inducing stench of alcohol—he raised his still-drunken, unsteady body and threw open the rain shutters. In the next room, the two children slept on a tattered blanket without a mosquito net or futon, still in their clothes.

After finishing breakfast，he told the children that if there was any registered mail to send it out and left his personal seal with them．Just as he was about to head out to search for a rental house，Sanbyaku called out from beyond the lattice door． “Have you settled on a house yet？ “Today’s the tenth，you know．” “…You are aware of this，I trust？”

“I’m about to start looking now, but as long as I move out by evening, that should suffice, right?”

“That’s acceptable until evening, but if I may say so, wouldn’t it be better to move during cooler hours?” “But in any case, I’ll definitely move out by evening, I tell you.” “I may be overstepping again, but for this very reason, I hold a written pledge legally binding me to accept any repercussions. Should you default this time, I will take immediate action.”

Sanbyaku departed after issuing his final warning.

He wandered around here and there until noon and returned, but still the money order hadn’t arrived.

And so from noon onward, he went out again under the scorching sun. Sweat dripped steadily from his face and chest. He felt dizzy—exhausted and utterly helpless—on the verge of collapse. Trudging through weather as relentless as worn-out geta and clutching a fan smeared with greasy hand oils, he shuffled along with his gaunt, hunched frame. It was a quiet street along a narrow slope flanked by mansions encircled with stone and concrete walls. Of course no seven-yen rental could exist here, but he passed through intending to search beyond the tram line’s valley-like slums. From behind the walls came a deafening chorus of cicadas—shrill metallic screams that seemed to demand even fiercer sunlight. Every gate stood hushed as if lifeless while sun glared off raked gravel. Wiping sweat streaming down his chest, he thought How I’d love an afternoon nap in one of those quiet mansion rooms… and trudged onward panting. To the left stood a mansion belonging to a businessman—wealthy Diet member he’d interviewed twice for magazines. "The master’s off escaping the heat no doubt—damn them living the good life." Envy curdled into resentment—all his art and philosophy reduced to this wretched existence—as he slowed pace sidelong-glancing through gates topped with glass shards embedded in concrete.

Just then, from beyond the slope, a large-built policeman in a white uniform came lumbering along, his sword clanking. His face—angular and massive to match his frame—bore a beard so long it jutted past his cheekbones, forming a stern visage like Shoki himself save for the deity’s missing whiskers. When Koda casually glanced at the policeman’s face, the man fixed him with a razor-sharp stare and advanced with an unnervingly arrogant swagger. Without knowing why, he felt the sweat on his body turn cold. He couldn’t recall breaking any laws, but knew he’d falter under interrogation—and given how his shabby clothes alone invited suspicion— “Hey! You there! Prowling around these mansions awfully suspicious-like—what the hell are you?” “Occupation?” “Address?”

Intending to feign nonchalance, he snapped his fan open and shut, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to hurry past the hulking man swaggering down the narrow street’s center—a figure so towering he had to crane his neck to meet its gaze.

“Hey!” ……He’d really come after him! His ears roared. “Hey! “Hey!...”

The policeman kept repeating this but stared fixedly at his face for a full minute, “…Forgotten?! “It’s me!” “…Haven’t you forgotten?” “Huh?…”

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

“Ah—it’s you! I thought you were someone else and got startled! Still, it’s impressive you recognized me.”

He looked up at the man’s face and said with relief.

“Well, that’s what you call a policeman’s eye!” “The power of a policeman’s eye—let me tell you, it’s a fearsome force.”

The policeman thus said with a triumphant laugh.

The afternoon heat was at its peak, so foot traffic in the area was sparse. The two crouched beneath the utility pole there and talked. The policeman—Yokoi—and he had become acquainted about ten years earlier at a cram school in Kanda.

At that time, Yokoi had been preparing to enter medical school; during that same period he had been bringing suspicious-looking women into his boardinghouse; and not long after that he had apparently joined the police force. Yokoi, still affecting a policeman’s tone, asked about his current occupation, income, and various other matters. “So you’re still a patrolman?”

Intending to avoid being questioned in detail about such matters concerning himself, he brought up something that had been on his mind since earlier. “Don’t be stupid…” Yokoi said this and，still crouching，reached around his waist to pull the sword’s hilt closer for emphasis， “Look here，it’s different from a patrolman’s，isn’t it? Even the cap badges—ours have gold braid，you see… Hah! Look at this sword!” “—or so I was going to say!” Yokoi said this and once again shook his broad shoulders triumphantly as he laughed.

“I see… So you’re an Inspector now, huh. That’s impressive. You know, I thought there was something off about you as a patrolman—that’s why I wondered.” “It’s the white uniform—makes it hard to tell.” The two continued discussing such matters as they walked side by side for a while, strolling aimlessly. And as he thought to himself—What luck to have found an ally now—he explained in a tone meant to elicit sympathy: that he was currently being driven from his home, that if he didn’t move out by tonight Sanbyaku would likely resort to violence, and whether anything could be done about it.

“Well…” Yokoi tilted his head slightly, his tone suddenly turning serious. “But really—isn’t this all rather futile? You shouldn’t linger in a place like that. It’ll only make you feel worse—in the end, isn’t that to your disadvantage? As they say—if you vacate by today, that should settle things.” “Of course I intend to move out today if possible—but you see, I’ve got to go find a place now.” “But you really shouldn’t linger there. In the end, it’s to your disadvantage.”

His hopes were dashed as Yokoi repeated this in a policeman’s lecturing tone.

“Is that so…” “Of course. …Well then, I’m usually at the station—do come visit.” “I see. “Then I’ll let you know once I’ve moved.”

Having said this, he parted with the policeman in a deflated mood and then wandered around the slums for two or three hours. And so he finally found a suitable house, left a small deposit, and returned home having decided to move in that evening. But still, the remittance from his wife hadn’t come. Not even a reply to the telegram he had sent yesterday morning had come.

III

The following afternoon, he, at his wit's end, went to visit Yokoi at the police station.

From a back room separate from the open reception area, Yokoi lumbered his large frame forward and said, “Oh, it’s you. Come on up,” then guided him to a spacious, well-ventilated room on the second floor. Around the hall were several small rooms bearing signs that read “Materials 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 sat facing each other in chairs at the central large table.

“So, were you able to move out?” “I can’t. “I did finally find a house, but there’s no way I can move today. “Because I can’t get the money together.” “That’s no good, you…” Yokoi, as though seeing through the true intentions behind his visit, made a stern face, forcefully tugged at the long mustache that jutted outward 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 when the settlement season approaches, things must be somewhat slow, right? And generally speaking, there don’t seem to be many major incidents in this district—or am I wrong?”

“No, it’s always like this. “Here and there, even with this, we’ve got all sorts of incidents cropping up.” “But generally speaking, isn’t this a place without major incidents?” “But instead, there are plenty of persons of interest.” “For starters—take someone like you…” “Don’t talk nonsense!” “Me? I’m perfectly sound.” “It’s just that I’m poor.” “Though I suppose from your so-called ‘police eyes,’ everything must look that way—but even so, you know, I’m enduring poverty because I want to contribute something, however small, to the nation and society.” “If it were just a matter of eating or not eating, I’d go back to the countryside and become a farmer.”

He raised his head and spoke with heightened intensity. “Still spouting grand words as always. “But hasn’t poverty been your constant companion since long ago?” “I… That’s right.”

The two of them continued this sort of aimless chatter for over an hour. During that time, Yokoi demonstrated experiments in his own unique seated meditation method that he had continued for ten years. Yokoi assumed this posture while remaining seated in his chair; the moment he closed his eyes, before even half a moment had passed, his upper body began contorting into strange shapes, and thick beads of sweat started streaming down his forehead. Yokoi called this “spiritual unity.”

“Now, I must say it’s rude to put it this way—but from what I’ve observed, your living conditions or mental state… well, they’re much the same either way—they seem to be in considerable disarray. You really must unify them, you know…” “Practice spiritual unity.” “When you’ve built up some practice, it brings various benefits—firstly, from our professional standpoint, it greatly enhances one’s powers of discernment.” “…When you’re in this state of spiritual unity, you can immediately discern that while this guy’s mouth is saying such things, his true intentions are like this—it’s truly terrifying, I tell you.” “And I’ve caught all sorts of criminals up to now—most of them during the day… The moment I think ‘This guy’s suspicious,’ I naturally enter spiritual unity.” “So then… I’d haul them in with a ‘Hey, you! Hey, you!’—and that worked almost a hundred out of a hundred times.”

“…Hmm, is that so?” “So in those situations, you just string them up right there in the street—is that how it works?”

“...Why’d I bother with ropes? It’s more binding than iron chains… You won’t escape! You’re coming with me! I’ve already properly implied that—meaning I’ve bound their mind with ropes. There’s nothing more certain than this.” “Hmm, is that how it is?” He nodded as if impressed while listening to the inspector’s story, but gradually—as the sensation arose that this man might indeed have bound him too with those iron chains—he was overcome by inexpressible revulsion and unease, attempting to rise to his feet, yet sat back down again,

“So actually, I came here hoping to ask your advice about something. What do you think? They say if I don’t vacate by seven tonight, they’ll take up the tatami and fixtures and nail the house shut. Isn’t there any way to postpone it for two or three days?” “If it were just me alone, it wouldn’t matter much—but having two children with me…” After fidgeting awhile, he began to speak.

“That’s no good for you. Just make arrangements and move out already. In the end, it’s your loss. They probably won’t resort to such violent measures—after all, the original contract doesn’t allow them to seize fixtures or nail the house shut just because you can’t pay rent. Proper procedures are required—they can’t act lawlessly like that. But you—wouldn’t it be pointless for you to do such things anyway? I don’t know how you people are thinking about it, but today’s times—they’ve become a terrifying thing, I tell you. No matter which path you take, if you don’t handle at least one thing with sincerity, even a trivial matter will blow up into something disastrous. I’ve seen all sorts of cases in my line of work—if you keep being careless like this, you won’t be able to survive!”

The inspector’s dull chestnut eyes were fixed piercingly straight on his forehead. He flinched.

"...No, you—but even I'm not in such a terrible situation yet." "My wife unfortunately had to return to her hometown because someone fell ill... With one thing and another, I've been rather at my wits' end..." "...So that's how it is. You may not consider it serious on your part, but regardless you must force yourself to vacate as demanded." "This is friendly advice—you shouldn't overstay there." "And since you claim this is your first offense, it's still manageable—but repeat this and you'll face dire consequences." "It constitutes fraud, plain and simple." "There'd be no defense if you're deemed to have occupied premises without intent to pay rent." "Many have been prosecuted under such charges—you'd best take care." "People may act freely—that's their right—but abandon the resolve to fall while upholding justice, and survival in this society becomes impossible..."

……… Having sold off the empty wicker trunks, empty baskets, rice chest, cooking pot, and all other eye-catching kitchen utensils to a secondhand dealer—resolved to do so before Sanbyaku could come to seize them—they locked up the house and left around eight o’clock. He carried a wicker basket containing his half-written manuscripts, pens, and ink bottles, while his eldest son—a second-year elementary student—wore hakama trousers and slung a satchel over his shoulder packed with books and school supplies. After roughly tying up the hair of his seven-year-old eldest daughter, which had been left unkempt for days, he took her by the hand, and the three of them walked toward the bustling night streets teeming with people. He felt utterly exhausted. And since they still hadn’t eaten dinner, all three were ravenously hungry.

So they entered a bar near the tram stop. He gave sushi to the children and drank sake. It seemed nothing but alcohol could now infuse him with vitality. He drank greedily, yet as if it were something extremely precious, savoring each sip as he drank. Gazing at his own ashen, sunken-cheeked, hollow-eyed face reflected in the large mirror before him—as if it belonged to someone else—with a detached air, he repeatedly swept back his overgrown hair with his left hand while moving the sake cup in his right. And from a state of mind so exhausted that he could neither think of anything nor feel any fear, it felt as if nothing but meaningless deep sighs were escaping him.

“Dad, maybe I’ll have some fried shrimp.” The eldest son, having devoured the sushi, said to him while reading by himself and sitting there in this manner.

“Alright… fried shrimp two—” He turned toward the waitress and mechanically shouted like this.

“Dad, maybe I’ll have some edamame.”

A moment later, the eldest son spoke again.

“Alright… edamame two—and a sake flask…” He shouted in the same mechanical tone. Before long, the children—having eaten their fill—went outside and began playing tag. The eldest daughter occasionally pressed her face against the glass door to peer in at her father. Reassured by the sight of him drinking, she resumed playing with her brother, laughing as she did. A dancer with garish makeup clacked wooden clappers rhythmically, followed by a girl of sixteen or seventeen jangling a shamisen and singing as she entered. A drunkard tossed out coins. Waving her hands and swaying her hips, the dancer—her pointed fox-like face caked in white powder—occasionally flashed a strange cross-eyed look while dancing in the narrow space between the door and counter.

Having emptied what must have been his third or fourth flask of sake, yet still ceaselessly moving his cup about, he occasionally turned a disinterested gaze toward the dancer—but "Yes! For me, absolutely everything has become a state of disinterest, of apathy..." He muttered thus to himself.

Several years ago, when he was still alone and wandering through places like this to drink, that life of his had never been something one could call freedom or happiness compared to his current existence—yet the terms like "grief" and "misery" he’d uttered back then were, in essence, words propelled by what might be called the elasticity of interest: a rubber ball’s bounce. But today that rubber ball had developed a hole; when pressed, it simply stayed deflated—a state devoid of both resilience and tension. Good interest, bad interest—these must be strange words indeed. But if one cannot live through good interest, then one must live through bad interest—must pursue it. If one doesn’t do even that, this thing called life is truly an unbearable place! Yet the necessity of eating strips humans not only of good interest but also robs bad interest of its elasticity. And it ends up becoming a rubber ball with a hole—

"Yes! The life of an artist who’s lost all interest—that’s a worse existence than farmers, than rickshaw pullers, than even the lives of truly vile people… It’s a truly wretched existence!"

Dazedly opening his eyes and staring vacantly at the dancer’s lewd performance, he watched their retreating figures and once again muttered these words to himself. And when he thought, “Could it be that my children too will ultimately meet the same fate as that dancer?” this vision took shape in his mind with such sorrowfulness that he couldn’t help but regard his wife—who had left with only their small second daughter in tow and vanished without a word—as a hateful woman.

However, when all was said and done, everything stemmed from his own spinelessness. She was a woman. And just as he couldn't bring himself to destroy himself for his wife and children, she too couldn't wither away for her husband and children. He once again thought in this way... "Dad, let's go already." "Are you bored already?" "I got bored..."

After being urged several times by the children, he finally managed to rise to his feet and, thoroughly drunk, left the bar and boarded a train.

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

“A boarding house?” “Yeah...”

The children, looking anxious, asked several times in the train car. At Shibuya Terminal, they got off the train and walked along that familiar gravel-paved slope toward K’s boarding house—all three of them. Both the landlord and landlady there knew his face. He entered the front desk area and pleaded, "The truth is, my wife had to return to her hometown due to a relative falling ill. Could you let us stay for two or three days?" But the landlord, perceiving the abnormality of their condition, flatly refused by claiming there was no space available—despite rooms likely being vacant due to summer recess. But it was already past ten o'clock. As he was pleading to stay just one night—even just tonight—his eldest daughter, who had been sitting beside him listening all this time, suddenly covered her face and burst into muffled sobs. At this, even the elderly landlord and his wife became flustered and agreed, “Very well, we’ll accommodate you for just tonight,” but his eldest daughter did not stop crying.

“Right? It’s okay, isn’t it? “So we’ll just stay here tonight, okay? “We’ll go somewhere else tomorrow, okay? “Don’t cry…” But she only sobbed harder. “Then do you really want to leave? “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 once again turned back toward the neighborhood where they had been living and boarded a train as the hour neared eleven. Other than heading to a cheap inn in that vicinity, there was no acquaintance’s house they could name and go to. The children leaned against each other’s shoulders and began snoring wearily the moment they sat down on the bench.

The nearly empty train sped swiftly along the dark moat path where the damp late-night wind blew pleasantly. "You won’t survive!" The faces of K who had said this, the Inspector’s face—but could that really have been such a grave matter after all? "...but to drag even my own children into this—is that what I’m doing?" Yes! That must indeed be terrifying! But now both his head and body desired rest—just like his children.

(March 1918 [Taishō 7], "Waseda Bungaku")