Pathway to Japanese Literature

Around the time Omiwa received word from her son Shinpachi, who was in Tokyo, and resolved to make a brief trip up from the town of Urawa, September 1st—marking exactly one year since the earthquake disaster—had come around again.
Omiwa, her daughter-in-law Ofuku, her two grandchildren, and the nursemaid—this entire family consisted solely of those who had been burned out of Tokyo during the earthquake disaster and fled all the way to Urawa.

The sky’s vaguely autumnal hue also seemed to signal the true beginning of September.
The day when the wind died—a hot day, just like a year ago—returned before Omiwa’s eyes.
She gathered with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren and spent the hours together until nearing noon.

“Grandma, earthquake?”

Imitating someone’s words, the one who came to Omiwa’s side was the older grandson.
He was a boy of about five.

“What are you saying, hmm?”

Omiwa dismissed it and exchanged glances with Ofuku.
On the day of the earthquake disaster in Tokyo past, the ceaseless aftershocks—aftershocks upon aftershocks—had caused them to exchange looks of alarm each time; this memory passed through both their hearts without a word spoken.
Ofuku gazed at the innocent child’s face while,

“Mother, do look—this child seems to have already forgotten that earthquake, you know.”

Ofuku said to Omiwa.

For Omiwa, that place was her parents’ birthplace. There too stood an old relative’s house. In the old temple cemetery there, the remains of her parents had also been divided and interred. The sound of looms from the weaving factory, evocative of Saitama, could also be heard. Omiwa had already spent a full year living in the house her son Shinpachi had rented for her, though she’d only intended it as a temporary refuge. She spent her days waiting with Ofuku and her grandchildren for good news from Tokyo.

The same day and time that would remind one of the great event from a year ago had somehow passed without incident. A period of silence passed, and each person’s thoughts turned to their safety. Omiwa, who usually enjoyed spending time in the kitchen working with knives, had thought that on such a day she would particularly like to gather her son and relatives for a commemorative meal made with her own hands—but even that proved impossible. Many relatives too were scattered and dispersed. Among those who, like Omiwa, had been burned out of their homes, there were even people who wandered searching for places to settle—to Tokyo’s Ushigome, Yotsuya, or Nippori—moving as many as seven times within a year, yet still lacking stable residences by that time.

Omiwa went to offer incense at the makeshift Buddhist altar as if suddenly remembering. She had even burned her parents’ old mortuary tablets—there was no proper altar to speak of. Everything still bore the appearance of a temporary residence. Inside the room stood a folding screen and other items received as earthquake disaster condolences from a close acquaintance, barely tidying up the space. Gone was the elongated black-persimmon hibachi she had long cherished; gone too was the old chest of drawers that had remained as her father’s memento. With that hibachi before her and that chest behind her in memory alone, Omiwa wished with all her might to return once more to the composed state of mind she had known before.

When Omiwa encountered the earthquake disaster, she had already passed three or four years beyond sixty.
Her father had left Urawa to establish the Kotake shop in a well-known district of Tokyo’s Kyobashi; Omiwa was the daughter born into that household, and her husband had been an adopted son-in-law.
The only son born to these two was the present Shinpachi.
By the time Omiwa came to be called the retired head of Kotake, her husband had long passed away, and while the shop was merely being maintained, their business methods remained quite extensive; the trade with Shanghai merchants initiated by the previous generation had continued without interruption all the way into Shinpachi’s era.

Omiwa still could not quite forget the days she had lived uneventfully amidst the dense city air. There was a wide wooden-floored kitchen where preparations were underway for the midday meal to feed the shop staff. The bowls and chopsticks for the manager and apprentices were already laid out on the dining table. This was the back of the shop where the Kotake shop curtain had hung. Omiwa worked in that kitchen alongside the maid. Then came the earthquake. Then came the fire. When recalling that time, there was not a single person—whether Shinpachi, the shop’s employees, or even the neighbors—who imagined their own neighborhood could burn down. Never before had Omiwa felt her own frailty so acutely as in that moment. Had Shinpachi not been by her side, one shudders to think what might have become of her. She had tried fleeing hand-in-hand with Ofuku and the others toward Hibiya Park, but at the sight of flames her legs refused to move forward. Her vision blurred; her aged body trembled. By the time they resigned themselves to spending the night beneath those shadowed trees, Kotake’s shop had already burned to ashes. The resting teahouse near Shiba Park became their provisional shelter—a place where Ochikara, who had served seven years under Omiwa’s roof and now managed the establishment, welcomed her former mistress after their harrowing journey. That disaster’s exigencies would bind Shinpachi and Ochikara’s family—that they would transform this teahouse into a collaborative restaurant after the quake, not some ordinary eatery but a place serving refined cuisine—marked such an unforeseen upheaval in Omiwa’s life that it seemed to rewrite her very existence.

“Why are you crying so much?”

Omiwa called out to the nursemaid approaching her side.

“Are you remembering something from last year, hmm?”

When Omiwa said this, the nursemaid began sobbing even more quietly upon hearing it.
This nursemaid had served at the Kotake household before the fire, and not one of her relatives in Tokyo had survived the great conflagration.
She had become utterly alone.
The sole companion who had fled with Omiwa to Urawa was this unfortunate nursemaid.
The many servants once employed at the shop had each taken their leave and scattered to the winds.

Every time Omiwa took the nursemaid to town to shop, she would gaze out at the Chichibu mountains.
When she looked at the mountains, she longed for the sky over Tokyo.

The letter from Shinpachi stated that he would come to Urawa to pick up his mother, so Omiwa resolved to wait for her son’s arrival.
She felt that no matter what she left behind, she must obey Shinpachi’s words.
She felt that she wouldn’t be satisfied unless she did so.
Since her son had gone to the trouble of sending word like that—since he said he wanted to show his mother the newly opened restaurant—

Omiwa was not entirely unfamiliar with post-earthquake Tokyo.
Once, she had even been taken by Shinpachi to visit Tokyo’s burned ruins.
The place where the Kotake shop curtain had hung had been replaced by a temporary wooden fence, leaving only foundation stones behind.
The shop that had once stocked everything—from incense, fans, writing brushes and ink, ceramics, and various types of paper to sketchbooks, books, and even processed items resembling gemstones, all Chinese-made—was now gone.
The prosperity of the family, built over three generations, now seemed as if it were but a fleeting dream.
At that time, Omiwa’s chest tightened, and she resolved never to visit such burned ruins again.
From there, Omiwa also stopped by the rest teahouse in Shiba Park, but that restaurant was still in the midst of preparations for opening.
Along with Shinpachi and the Ochikara couple, a man named Mr. Hirose had joined them, and the four were engrossed in discussions about tableware and various implements.
Since Mr. Hirose had once taken refuge at the Kotake household, and since even Ochikara had come to understand true cooking under his guidance, Omiwa thought that a restaurant with such a person as its central pillar might just succeed.

“Even so, what will become of the Kotake shop?”
“What must Shinpachi be feeling?”

As she pursued these thoughts, Omiwa was left utterly blank.

The monotonous clatter of looms from the weaving mill reached Omiwa’s sewing room nearly every day.
While listening to that sound, she sewed a kimono for Shinpachi in Tokyo.
It was during such moments that she found herself longing intensely for her deceased mother.
Omiwa recalled so many things her mother had said and done in later years that she wondered if she too had aged similarly.
Her mother had been a woman of unyielding temperament—during her lifetime never getting along well with the adopted son-in-law, keeping the household perpetually stormy—yet maintaining an unshakable dignity.
It was this same mother who had raised her so strictly that when young Omiwa failed to rise at a single morning call, her futon would be swiftly put away.
Before helping her Urawa-born husband establish the Kotake shop, this mother had worked for a retired gentleman in Nihonbashi Ishichō—rising before dawn, rarely fixing her hair after daybreak.
They said she would slightly open the gentleman’s bedroom shoji each morning, place her hands on the threshold, and inquire after his well-being.
This mother had also trained young Omiwa for three years in tea ceremony, along with shamisen and dance.
Now that she had lost everything—property, shop goods, kimonos, tools—the elderly Omiwa found her heart’s sole support lay in none but this birth mother.

As though consulting someone alive, Omiwa brought herself before this mother to see.
Her mother had been the sort of person who grew increasingly distrustful with each passing year.
If her mother had survived in this world and heard that the revival of the Kotake shop was uncertain due to the single blow of the earthquake disaster, that distrustful person might have said something again.
As it is often said that merchant houses lasting three generations are rare, it was something only someone like her mother would have doubted—that even without waiting for this earthquake disaster, the day when old ways would crumble had already arrived.
If viewed as the mother who had supported the previous generation and built their shop into what it was, she might have said she disapproved of Shinpachi’s involvement in some new restaurant.
However, Omiwa resolved to trust Shinpachi to the very end.

Her mother's likes and dislikes had grown more pronounced with age.
Because of this, she did not get along with Omiwa's husband and doted excessively on Shinpachi during his childhood.
There was no telling just how much her mother had doted on that child.
Had this mother with her strong likes and dislikes been living with Ofuku then, there might have been constant strife there as well. Yet Omiwa never once quarreled with Ofuku.
"Is that so, is that so," she would say, deferring to her daughter-in-law in all matters.
Even when her mischievous grandchild tried to tear the shoji screens, Omiwa never scolded them.
She would bring paste and paper herself and mend the shoji screens the child had torn, no matter how many times it happened.
She had come to avoid opposing even her grandchild to such an extent.
While her mother's intentions were certainly a factor, Omiwa herself found her greatest joy in working in the kitchen for everyone's sake—sewing kimonos late into the night for them, sometimes even having her daughter-in-law and nursemaid sit by her side as she sang old folk songs to reminisce about the past, all to alleviate the tedium of their rural life.

“Omiwa, you’re fine as you are. Work for everyone until you die, and do what you can for yourself.”

Until she caught her mother’s voice deep within her ears, Omiwa could not feel at ease.

“Grandma, are you going to Tokyo?”

Startled by her grandchild’s question, Omiwa came back to her senses.
When alone with Ofuku, she was startled to realize how Tokyo’s ceaseless rumors had reached even the child’s ears.

“Ah, dear boy, you’ll stay here quietly and keep watch,”

she said with affected nonchalance.

While recalling Kotake’s inner parlor before the fire and surveying the current room, not a single Edo-style cooling fan met Omiwa’s eyes.
That one burned too—this one burned too—thoughts of precious kimonos surged through her heart in relentless waves.
She remembered it all with crystalline clarity: the lining pattern of the haori she’d commissioned from Kyoto for Shinpachi; even the unworn sleeves of Ofuku’s underrobe, stored away only to burn.
The longing to return—to Tokyo steeped in her girlhood memories—never left her for a day.
The long black-persimmon hibachi that anchored her sitting rituals, the familiar chest of drawers—both seemed to wait for her in that distant city.

When she looked, the grandchildren were frolicking around Omiwa with the nursemaid, making the bells on their childlike waists’ pouches jingle.
She murmured half to herself,

“Beyond those Chichibu mountains way over there—that’s where Tokyo lies.”
“Way, way over there.”
“Tokyo is so far away...”

Eventually, Shinpachi too found a little time amidst his busy schedule and came all the way to Urawa to pick up his mother, staying overnight for the trip.
As the next day happened to be the restaurant’s regular closing day, Omiwa prepared to head toward Tokyo with some relief.
She slightly hunched her back and extended each foot one by one with womanly decorum as she attempted to put on the new white tabi.
When fastening the clasp, she recalled how tabi used to have strings in the old days.
She remembered tying those tabi strings when visiting Suitengu-sama or similar places.
Such old memories rose strangely in her heart.
Before leaving, she went to the temporary Buddhist altar and,

“Mother, I shall be going.”

She did not forget to bid farewell before leaving.

“Grandma! Grandma!”

It was the older grandchild who came there calling out like this, wanting to go to Tokyo together.
Omiwa found herself powerless to grant this wish.

“Couldn’t we take the dear boy along?”

When Omiwa said this, Shinpachi shook his head,

“Now why would we? It’s hardly the time for that yet.”

addressing both his mother and Ofuku.

Before long, Omiwa set out, led by Shinpachi.
She had aged and could no longer ride the train alone without someone accompanying her.
By the time after the earthquake disaster, the houses visible from the train window had undergone drastic changes.
Corrugated iron roofs gleaming in the sun, walls newly repaired, eaves still tilted here and there as they were—even these remnants seemed to narrate the events of a year prior.

When they arrived in Tokyo and looked around, the remnants of the earthquake disaster still lingered deeply even in areas like Shiba Park. Here and there in the shade of trees, the temporary shelters of unfortunate evacuees still remained unremoved. Before the park’s lotus pond, in a quiet corner where cherry and acacia trees cast their shadows, was where Omiwa headed. Beside the reed-screened rest area, an eye-catching flag that seemed to belong to a new restaurant was also displayed. On it, characters reading "Ike no Chaya"—a name derived from its location near the pond—were also displayed.

Ochikara and her husband were waiting there for Omiwa and Shinpachi.

“The Retired Madam has arrived.”

The voice reached Omiwa’s ears.
It was Ochikara.
With an expression ready to welcome her former mistress, Ochikara rushed out ahead of everyone else.

It was a day when a sign indicating a holiday hung at the entrance, and Omiwa arrived when everyone was less busy.
While standing beside Shinpachi, she met Mr. Hirose and Ochikara’s husband Kintarou.
The rest teahouse retained much of its original appearance from where the sunshade extended at eave height to where benches were placed; however, upon entering inside, it had become nearly unrecognizable compared to when Omiwa had last visited Tokyo.

“Is this the kitchen?”

Omiwa said to Shinpachi and settled down to rest at the brand-new spot by the window, sitting as she spoke.

“Perhaps Mother should rest in the restaurant area.”

Mr. Hirose looked toward Shinpachi and spoke with the familiarity of a close friend.

“Well then, perhaps I should present one,” said Shinpachi in an intentionally formal tone. “Though I must say, reaching this stage was no easy task.”

Guided by Shinpachi and Mr. Hirose, Omiwa went to inspect the restaurant.
There were two windows—one facing the park pathway and another shrouded in deep foliage.
By the latter window stood a raised floor where a Chinese-style rug had been spread.
Though small enough to seat only five or six groups at most, the room’s decor—entirely reflecting Mr. Hirose’s tastes—had been arranged with thoughtful consideration from the table placements onward.

“What do you think of this restaurant?” Shinpachi said to his mother.
“The exterior may not look very appealing from the outside, but once you step inside, you’ll notice the difference.”

“Well, for makeshift construction, this is about as good as it gets,” Mr. Hirose said as he walked around inside the restaurant. “As you know, Mother, the vaudeville halls and theaters have all burned down now.”
“It’s a time when every last form of entertainment establishment has been lost.”
“No one finds pleasure in anything beyond food.”
“So with a restaurant like this—well—it can sustain itself.”
“From our perspective too, having all been burned out like this, we had to find some way to eat.”
“With this work—everyone can make a living—”

“If we can make a living, that’s what matters,” Shinpachi also laughed.

Choosing a window seat where quiet light streamed in, Omiwa sat down beside one of the tables. She greeted the waitress bringing tea from the kitchen. Ochikara also came over and explained to Omiwa that besides the newly hired waitress, there were now four or five apprentice cooks working under "Teacher."

The "Teacher" that Ochikara spoke of was Mr. Hirose.
Mr. Hirose pulled a chair closer to Omiwa and,

“After all, this is after the earthquake disaster, so we still can’t get the tableware we’d like.”
“If the tableware were good, even the same dishes would be savored more appreciatively by the customers.”
“Now that doesn’t work.”
“What we serve there is nothing but the actual dishes themselves, you see.”
“The chefs have their work cut out for them.”

“Our regular customers are mainly patrons from our shop’s Kyōbashi days,” Shinpachi also said to his mother.

“Given the circumstances these days, we’ve set it up to be easy for everyone to come and enjoy meals at affordable prices.”
“The set meal costs three yen; anything beyond that can be ordered as you like.”
“It’s not limited to our regular customers—we welcome anyone freely.”
“For nearby areas, we also do deliveries.”

“Still,” said Shinpachi as he exchanged glances with Mr. Hirose, “even among our customers, there are few who properly appreciate what we’ve made.”
“When I think there are people like you, Mother—amateurs who still understand good cooking—it gives me purpose.”
“Well, today being a holiday can’t be helped, but tomorrow I’ll show what I can really do.”
“It’s been ages—I should treat you to something special, Mother.”

Omiwa left her chair and went to examine the space beneath the carved wooden plaque. According to Shinpachi, this plaque too had been both inscribed and carved by Mr. Hirose himself for Ike no Chaya. She then moved to inspect a decorative shelf where rare sake bottles were displayed for their chromatic appeal. Here too, Mr. Hirose’s meticulous attention manifested itself. Plant pots occupied one corner of the dining room, their lush orchid leaves appearing to animate the interior air with each breath-like rustle. These vaguely Chinese-inspired design elements uniformly evoked for Omiwa memories of the Kotake shop as it had existed before the flames consumed it.

That day, Omiwa was guided by Ochikara and looked around every corner of the kitchen.
Though she felt slightly tired, with Ochikara and her husband attending to various matters, she couldn't bring herself to say she wanted to rest.

“Madam, why don’t you have a seat?”

When Ochikara showed consideration, Kintarou promptly brought out a bench to the side of the resting teahouse and prepared a seat at a spot overlooking the lotus pond.
Ochikara brought over zabuton cushions and a tobacco tray to the spot.

“Though I say this in your presence, Madam, this restaurant has been a success,” Kintarou said emphatically.
“If you go to Hibiya and see for yourself, you’ll understand—since the earthquake disaster, food establishments have sprung up like never before.
“Restaurants named ‘such-and-such’ have been proliferating like bamboo shoots after rain.
“However, this restaurant differs from those others—Mr. Shinpachi and Teacher both put tremendous effort into this.”

“People often remark, ‘Who would expect such a fine restaurant in a place like this?’” Ochikara added.

“We’re constantly talking about you, Madam,” said Kintarou, glancing briefly at Ochikara. “On this September first, we all gathered—Mr. Shinpachi, Teacher, my wife and I—the four of us drank beer in commemoration.”

“I thought to myself it must be so—they were even talking about it in Urawa,” Omiwa said.

“But Madam, it’s too much for us to have had Mr. Shinpachi celebrate for us,” said Kintarou. “After you’d been so kind as to let Ochikara work at your shop for seven whole years—for that Mr. Shinpachi to offer to pour drinks for us... Oh, that wouldn’t do! ‘Today you must let me treat you,’ I insisted—and then we celebrated with beer together with Mr. Shinpachi and Teacher.”

“I will not forget the time of the earthquake disaster,” replied Omiwa.

“When you say that, Madam, it makes me happy too,” Ochikara took over the conversation. “Though at that time, we couldn’t reach you either…”

“After that,” Omiwa found herself recalling the ordeal of being driven out by the fire, “getting to Urawa was quite an ordeal. Under normal circumstances, it’s a place you could reach in less than an hour—but it took us six or seven hours… Crossing bridges that might not even be passable… By the time we arrived in Urawa, it was already pitch dark.”

“At that time, Shinpachi found us an inn,” she continued. “You’d think they made rice balls for us there… but when the children saw those rice balls, they grabbed them and wouldn’t let go.”

“Everyone ended up crying…”

Mr. Hirose came there to see Omiwa.
When Kintarou saw Mr. Hirose’s face,

“I’m just now hearing from Madam.”
“Now that you mention it, Teacher—didn’t you come visit us wearing that peculiar outfit during the earthquake disaster?”
“You know—using that thick green bamboo stalk as a walking stick…”

“From there,” said Mr. Hirose addressing Kintarou directly through his use of “you,” “you might say this restaurant took root.”

With that declaration carrying both humor and historical weight between them—acknowledging their shared survival story—Mr.Hirose laughed.

“But Madam, I’m truly happy you’ve come out this time,” Ochikara murmured almost to herself. “I feel as though the day has come when even someone like me can repay your kindness.”
“It’s as if I’ve been waiting years for such a day to arrive.”

That day, such conversations seemed endless.

After a long absence, the Tokyo that Omiwa came out to see felt somehow unfamiliar in its ways, and what she saw and heard failed to settle her mind.
Compared to this place, Urawa gave a deeper impression of being quiet countryside.
On the evening of her arrival, Omiwa entered the bedding Ochikara had laid out and tried to rest her tired body, but unfortunately the sounds of automobiles and horse-drawn carts clung to her ears, making proper sleep impossible.
It occurred to Omiwa that such vehicle noises outside the rest teahouse near this park might continue unabated throughout the night.

When morning came, Mr. Hirose had already left early for the fish market.
The kitchen staff who hadn’t been seen the previous day had also returned, and each began their preparations for the day.
Shinpachi was not idle either.
He had them line up colorful paper lanterns under the eaves of the rest teahouse and even went around giving instructions to put up the restaurant’s flag.
He also wiped down even the dining tables inside the restaurant right in front of Omiwa’s watchful eyes.

At that moment, Ochikara appeared.

“Master, there’s no need for you to go so far as to do such things.”
“There are plenty of hands available.”
“Master, if you would just sit at the front desk, that would be more than enough.”

Ochikara said and made as if to snatch the dishcloth from Shinpachi’s hand.

After those who had gone to the fish market returned, the scene in the kitchen grew even livelier.
The kitchen staff all put on white cooking aprons and began working energetically.
There, some were washing fresh, lively fish.
Here, some began peeling potato skins.
Mr. Hirose walked through the space in his suit and long rubber boots.
Despite being an amateur, Omiwa—who could distinguish local coastal fish from others—found it rare even to observe ayu with jet-black, dense speckles as if just landed from the sea, or sea bass with large mouths and fine scales.
The sounds of knives being sharpened and the clatter of preparations for simmered and fried dishes arose around Omiwa, filling the kitchen with a palpable sense of post-disaster revival.

When it came to this, it was undoubtedly Mr. Hirose’s domain.
There, it was a collective household of Shinpachi, Mr. Hirose, and Ochikara’s family—a restaurant built by pooling their strengths together, where there was neither a master nor anyone being ordered around.
It was simply that those with real ability ruled.
Even Mr. Hirose, who had once taken shelter at the Kotake house, now found that formalities were unnecessary in this restaurant they managed as friends—so much so that during busy times,

“Hey, you,”

he called Shinpachi by his bare name.
Even upon hearing this, Shinpachi showed not the slightest hint of displeasure.
He persisted in acting as his friend’s right-hand man, striving to handle matters alongside him.

As noon approached, customers began trickling into the restaurant.
The unassuming Shinpachi went out to greet each one at the entrance, even taking charge of their hats and canes himself.
Amidst the bustle of taking orders and managing tasks, he would slip away to see Omiwa and whisper to his mother, “That one’s a renowned Japanese painter,” or “That one’s a famous China expert.”
He impressed upon her how these contemporary luminaries favored this pond teahouse with their patronage.

“Madam, do take a look at this hustle and bustle.”

It was Kintarou who came to Omiwa’s side and spoke to her. When she looked, there were customers parking automobiles before the restaurant, their tires producing heavy sliding sounds on the gravel-strewn road.

Shinpachi had Ochikara help prepare his mother’s dining table beneath the rest teahouse’s eaves where reed screens hung densely woven. The sizzle of frying oil carried through the kitchen window all the way to their location.

“Madam, please come here.”
“Please have your lunch there.”
“Inside is rather chaotic, you see.”

With a hospitable smile, Ochikara said this and brought over a tray, chopsticks, a soup bowl, and such from the kitchen for Omiwa.

“Oh, this is quite extraordinary!”

As she said this, Omiwa removed the lid from the turtle soup.

At the restaurant as well, the customers’ meals had begun.
The customers’ high-pitched laughter that had been animatedly audible for a time had subsided.
The people trying to satisfy their hearty appetites seemed to be right in the midst of savoring truly delicious fare.
Not a single voice leaked out.
It was quiet.

“Please, Madam, take your time and enjoy your meal.”
“Today, allow me to serve you myself.”

As she said this, Ochikara—with an expression that recalled her seven long years of service—brought over deep dishes heaped with delicacies one after another to that spot.
As she savored Mr. Hirose’s specialty—authentic Japanese cuisine served by Ochikara—memories of the Kotake shop before it burned down rose in Omiwa’s chest as vividly as if they were new.

After lunch, Omiwa remained seated beside the same dining table and waited for Shinpachi to come.
It was a spot where acacia trees could be seen across the park path from the shade of reed screens—a place that seemed well-suited for just a parent and child to talk alone.
Shinpachi was a busy man as well.
After writing down the bills for the customers’ orders, he then came to his mother’s side.

“Mother, since you’ve come to Tokyo, would you like to visit the burned ruins as well?”

“I have no intention of going to see the burned ruins.”
“Speaking of which—back at that Kotake shop, you’ve favored all sorts of people over the years, haven’t you?”
“You know—like painters, haiku masters, theater folk.”
“Do you still meet with those friends from back then now and again?”

“Yokouchi, Saegusa, Kusakabe—that crowd?”
“Since the shop burned down, they haven’t shown their faces once.”

“After all we did for them in so many ways, can’t they even lend a hand in times like this?”

“The only one worth admiring is Katsuno from the New Theater.”
“He went out of his way to visit this restaurant—he’d been a great help to us during the Kyobashi days.”
“He said, ‘This isn’t much, but please use it,’ and left some sympathy money behind.”

For a time, the parent and child’s conversation ceased.
After the earthquake disaster, they began bringing up one rumor after another about the former clerks and apprentices who had taken their leave and left as they pleased.
At that moment, Omiwa brought up the matter of the Kotake shop to Shinpachi.
Having brought that up, she attempted to ascertain her son’s true intentions.

Shinpachi said.

“Mother—what exactly are you trying to say in the end?”

For Omiwa of the old generation, putting thoughts into words didn’t come as easily as it did for the young. At times she struggled even to grasp the meaning of her son’s phrases.

“What do you mean by ‘in the end’?” Omiwa shot back.

Though concerned about his mother’s implication, Shinpachi noticed lingering customers deep in conversation at the restaurant. After checking on them, he returned to her side. By his reckoning, the earthquake disaster’s impact far exceeded his mother’s imaginings. Merchants who rarely marked up hundred-yen goods to two or three hundred—who kept little cash idle—found themselves helpless when their entire inventories burned alongside their business partners. Retreat to the countryside or downsize—not a soul remained unscathed. Shinpachi laid out this reality for his mother.

Omiwa suddenly remembered,

“What has become of the shops around Tachibana?”

“They’ve put up temporary shelters, but it’s just a matter of everyone scraping by. Even a shop like Akigusa’s—look, the dyeing factory in Tamagawa was the only part that didn’t burn down. They moved operations there, and now I hear they’re supplying goods to Mitsukoshi and such—that once-grand kimono shop, you know.”

Having said this, Shinpachi—as if reflecting on the days when he had lived with his mother as proprietor of Kotake—continued in a tone laden with emotion,

"This time—this time—I've had my eyes opened."
"Whether it was Yokouchi, Kusakabe, Saegusa or even our shop managers—seeing them all leave made me realize."
"This earthquake disaster overturned everything—the foundations of century-old shops—even our ancestral shop curtains."
"Those above fall below, those below rise above—this isn't the time for dreaming about shops like we used to keep."

“The way you talk about those above falling below and those below rising up—it’s somehow terrifying,” Omiwa ventured.

“No, that time has come,” Shinpachi said with emphasis. “Even you must see that tea ceremony and Kiyomoto won’t be of much use in times like these. Compared to that, someone like Ochikara may lack your refinement, Mother, but doesn’t she have this way of rising up from below? There’s that kind of strength in her. The same goes for Mr. Hirose. That Mr. Hirose has a certain wildness about him—wearing muddy rubber boots or whatever and dashing around the fish market. Though I say this in your presence, Mother, I lack such qualities myself.”

“You’ve been doted on by your grandmother since childhood, trained by that very grandmother—you’re more a Tokyo person than even I am. That might be why you say such things, but…”

“Therefore, I don’t intend to remain the Kotake of old anymore.”
“As long as they’re reliable people, I’ll join forces with anyone and push ahead briskly.”
“I’ve come to see I can’t keep being a Tokyo person of the old sort.”

“Is that so?”

At that moment, Shinpachi—as if realizing he had unintentionally launched into a lengthy explanation—moved to leave his mother’s side. As he rose to leave, Shinpachi told his mother that Mr. Hirose had decided to embark on a leisurely trip to China, which would soon be put into action, and that by the time Mr. Hirose returned, this restaurant might have grown immeasurably.

“Then, do you have no attachment left—to that old Kotake shop curtain?”

It was as if Omiwa had come all the way from Urawa just to hear that.

With tears welling in her eyes, Omiwa left Shinpachi’s bustling side and walked alone toward the park’s lotus pond.
Under a wisteria trellis so thick it cast deep shade, she mulled over what her son had told her.
“Are you still clinging to such dreams, Mother?”

Those were the words her son had spoken when Omiwa pressed him.
To her, it did not seem that the world had changed so much.

The lotus pond lay directly before her eyes. In its waters where only two faint crimson blossoms remained, blue lotus seeds hinted at the season's turn, while leaves flourished and overlapped across the surface—each breathing with September's vitality. From beneath the wisteria trellis, Omiwa gazed toward where the banner reading "Ike no Chaya" fluttered before turning back once more toward the rest teahouse.

Now looking properly about her, she found nowhere nearby that might restore the composed state of mind she had envisioned during her journey from Urawa. Not only were there no traces of the oblong black-persimmon hibachi or familiar old chest of drawers—even watching others laboring in a corner of Ike no Chaya's kitchen felt intrusive—and not a single chair awaited her where she might sit undisturbed.

Near the resting teahouse stood an old hall with latticed doors.
Votive amulets left by worshippers—inscribed with names like “So-and-so from Kyōbashi” and “Such-and-such from Karasumori”—were plastered all around its perimeter.
They covered even the high pillars and front wall.

Without thinking, Omiwa felt she had found a piece of old, familiar Tokyo in such a place. Clinging to the latticed door—weathered as if battered by rain and wind—she gazed out.

“Ah, this is Lord Enma.”

This thought evoked in her the sensation of catching a lingering whiff of the old city.
If it was a thing from old Tokyo, anything was nostalgic to Omiwa.
Even remnants of kimono fabrics like Aiman-patterned indigo or Tama-tsumugi silks—things that had been fashionable long ago—filled her with nostalgia.
Even the pre-earthquake Nihonbashi—which had changed from wood to stone—no longer felt like Nihonbashi to her.
After all, unless there were Edo-style bridge railings topped with bronze giboshi finials, an old fish market, a wharf, katsuobushi wholesalers and kamaboko shops lining the streets nearby, and fishmongers hauling autumn mackerel through the cluttered town at the start of September, it never quite felt like the real Nihonbashi to her.
And it even seemed that Tokyo—the Tokyo that retained memories of her girlhood—still remained unchanged.
Even that fish market was no longer in the center of Tokyo—that Mr. Hirose and the others from Ike no Chaya went out every morning to Tsukishima to buy fish was something Omiwa could hardly believe.

From before Enma-do Hall, the flank of the restaurant where Shinpachi and the others were working stood clearly visible. Nearby, withered acacia leaves lay quietly scattered. Omiwa walked about the area where these yellow leaves had fallen, enduring a wordless solitude alone.

That night too, Omiwa went to bed on the bedding Ochikara had laid out with traveler-like thoughts.
The crickets that had so often reached her ears in Urawa now chirped incessantly here as well.
Listening to them while thinking of burned ruins continuing endlessly from the park, Omiwa fell asleep.

When morning came, that indescribable loneliness of hers—as if she would never again see Kotake's shop—began transforming into an unexpected feeling.
Suddenly Omiwa recalled there being a head priest who had long served at Urawa's old temple.
This head priest had resolved for years to make provincial pilgrimages while waiting both for his successor to mature and for repairs on the main hall's damaged roof to finish; during this waiting he gradually aged until when he finally departed on pilgrimage they say he was already seventy years old.
They say he traveled requesting lunch at noon and lodging at night from temples connected through acquaintances along his route until reaching as far west as distant Nagasaki.
On his return journey from this trip he had visited what was then Kotake's shop.
At that time Omiwa's mother remained healthy while she herself was at her prime as a woman; thus they welcomed this visitor without particular thought and all listened to tales of provincial pilgrimages.
She remembered how through her eyes this head priest appeared as a man with long white eyebrows yet showed no signs of weariness from such extended travels.

The old traveling priest—whom she hadn’t recalled for many years—rose in Omiwa’s heart.
As she aged, she found herself strangely able to discern others’ hearts.
She realized it had not been merely a visit but a farewell to this world.

Omiwa felt both surprise and sorrow.
For she herself was now similarly trying to bid farewell, in her own subtle way, to those dear to her.
If there were a tomorrow—if there might come a day to see Tokyo again—such thoughts began churning violently within her chest.
She considered whether her prolonged stay might hinder the restaurant workers and, having come to Tokyo only to find herself resolved to return to Urawa.
Just as she had obeyed her parents, yielded to her children, and deferred even to her grandchildren, she did not resist any fate.

“Shinpachi, you take me as far as Tsukiji,” said Omiwa. “Since I’ve come all this way, I’d like to stop by my cousin’s place too.”

“Is that what you’ve decided, Mother?”

Standing at the counter set up between the kitchen and dining area passageway, Omiwa exchanged these words with Shinpachi. On the counter table lay menus from dishes apparently served to guests the previous evening. They were written on elegant Chinese-style peach-colored stationery. Such thoughtful methods seemed to draw customers to Ike no Chaya. Omiwa thought how even here, Mr. Hirose’s and Shinpachi’s careful considerations were at work.

“Let me have that cousin send me back to Urawa. Since you seem busy too, I’ll take my leave now.”

“Ochikara.”

Omiwa called Ochikara outside the kitchen and took out a paper-wrapped package from her obi.

“This is just a little, but please share it with the kitchen staff.”
“And give some to that young lady who serves.”

With that, Omiwa tried to leave behind part of her own spending money as a farewell token.
Though she had little to spare, in such moments she reverted to being the generous retired mistress of Kotake who once employed many servants.

“Madam, if you do such a thing, I’ll be troubled.”
“There’s no need for concern.”
“They’re all family here.”

Though Ochikara had said as much, Omiwa’s heart would find no peace unless she accepted it.
Biannual servant livery, seasonal gratuities—back in Kotake’s prosperous days, she’d even had haori jackets bearing the shop’s crest and hand towels specially dyed. How many people she had delighted!
Not out of the vanity common among city women, Omiwa wanted to give as much as she could and bring joy to the people working at Ike no Chaya.

“Oh, don’t say that—just share it with everyone.”
“Don’t put an old woman to shame.”
“It’s just a small gesture from me.”

Omiwa pressed the paper-wrapped package into Ochikara’s hand.
She had given out nearly all of her meager spending money there.

Before long, Shinpachi also began preparing to see his mother off.
Ochikara prepared a seat for Omiwa in the empty dining area and, before she departed, fixed and smoothed her hair for her.
Omiwa had already cut her hair short like a retiree and appeared almost as if she had reverted partway to being a man.

“Even Mr. Tomita from Kodenmacho must have suffered terribly in this earthquake disaster.”
“I heard the son of that household also died at Kiridoshi Slope.”
“Ochikara probably remembers that son, don’t you?”

Between the one smoothing the hair and the one having it smoothed, every act held the seed of a memory. The Mr. Tomita from Kodenmacho that Omiwa spoke of was the needle merchant who had branched out from the household of the retired gentleman in Ishicho. That old shop in Ishicho where Omiwa’s mother once worked had long since vanished. Even the branch store in Kodenmacho that separated from it gradually dwindled by the grandson’s generation—family members died one by one, then two by two—until even that last surviving son, driven by the Great Fires during the earthquake disaster, had his ailing body carried as far as Kiridoshi Slope in Hongo, where he perished midway up that incline…

“Mother, once you’re ready, let’s go.”

When Shinpachi came to his mother’s side to speak, Ochikara too was deeply saddened to part.
At Ike no Chaya, it was nearly time for another day’s activities to begin.
Neither Mr. Hirose nor Kintarou, who had gone out early that morning to purchase supplies at the fish market, had yet returned, but the cart laden with fresh seafood had briskly made its way back ahead of them, arriving just as Omiwa was about to depart with Shinpachi.

“And please give my regards to Mr. Hirose as well.”
“And please give my regards to Mr. Kintarou as well.”

Following Omiwa as she bid farewell and departed, Ochikara walked alongside her.
She followed her through Shiba Park all the way to the banks of Akabanebashi where the tram stop was located.

Omiwa also felt reluctant to part,

“Thank you for all your help.
If I can come again, I will come.
Ochikara, please wait for me.”

When she heard this, Ochikara lowered her face, which was brimming with vitality, and cried until the rims of her eyes turned red.