Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

After finishing his evening meal, Old Man Umanuma left the house. By the time his usual purposeful, hurried footsteps emerged from Tōji-machi’s back alleys and reached Kagurazaka Street, their pace slowed considerably. By the time he reached this area, a sense of relaxation began to set in, gradually dispelling that strangely oppressive feeling he’d carried since leaving home. Old Man Umanuma took the fan tucked into his obi and, lightly pinching the collar of his unlined kimono with one hand as he walked, let a large gust of air into his robe. With this adjustment, the loosened collar made his hunched posture thrust forward, the nape of his neck appearing as if he wore nothing but an underrobe. He walked straight ahead, cutting through Sakanamachi’s tram street. From the old man’s mind, all lingering fixations retreated into shadow. He felt somehow at ease, his mind now spacious and unburdened. He glanced at the brightly lit shopfronts where lights had just been turned on and exchanged nods with Ozawa’s familiar clerk. Then he gazed at the faces of passersby and absentmindedly glanced back at their retreating figures. When passing before Bishamon, Old Man Umanuma paused his fanning hand and gave a slight bow of his head. Then, with the hand he had slipped into his sleeve, he felt through his pocket to check his wallet while turning into Wakamiya-chō’s side alley. Among the row of teahouses with their eaves aligned stood a young woman sifting through hibachi ashes she brought out to the entrance. Watching half-smoked tobacco being unsparingly discarded along with clumps of ash, Old Man Umanuma made a face that said from the bottom of his heart, “What a waste.” While thus distracted, he nearly collided with a passing apprentice geisha. The old man watched the retreating figure of the apprentice geisha who laughed while jingling her geta bells as she hurried off; then he resumed fanning himself as if suddenly remembering and began climbing toward Fukuro-machi from the tobacco shop’s corner in an inexplicably good mood. At the top of the slope flanked by quiet houses stood Tsurunoyu—a recently renovated bathhouse where one emerges onto Fukuro-machi’s main street. Old Man Umanuma headed toward Midoriya next door and the haberdashery with its small sign,

“Excuse me,” he called out as he entered.

The fiftyish, plump madam who had been chatting with a female customer while standing in the shop came rushing out still clutching the hair tie, "Oh my! Well now, Master, it's been an age!" and lowered her head with its chignon adorned in dappled fawn-patterned fabric. "Ohatsu just popped out to the bathhouse—she'll be back any moment now."

Okāsan was Ohatsu’s mother, whom Old Man Umanuma had long supported. After escorting Old Man Umanuma to the ladder stairs, she returned to the shop. The second-floor partition separating two adjoining six-tatami rooms stood with a reed screen. Across this hung a valance of Chinese crepe patterned with pink carnations. Old Man Umanuma folded his removed ro summer haori by its sleeves, draped it over the valance, then settled on the window frame and slowly began removing his white tabi socks. At that moment, Okāsan came upstairs carrying a towel.

"Oh, just earlier I was speaking with Ohatsu. Since you haven’t visited for six full days now, we were fretting—wondering if something might have happened, thinking perhaps tomorrow we should ask Mr. Uotatsu to inquire after you, you see." Uotatsu was a fishmonger from Kitamachi who occasionally attended to errands at the Umanuma residence as well. “Well now, I’ve been rather busy these past two or three days, and then my wife hasn’t been in good health at all.”

Old Man Umanuma spread out the towel and wiped thoroughly from his face down to his neck until satisfied, then twisted it into a rope-like strip, stretched it taut, and draped it diagonally across his back. Scrubbing himself as if in a public bathhouse’s washing area, he worked the towel back and forth while hissing through clenched teeth. “Is your wife really that unwell?”

Okāsan, who had brought out a starched yukata from the neighboring chest of drawers, draped it over the old man’s back as he remained sitting there naked. "It’s been dragging on so long." "She’s grown terribly weak." "Dr.Kurachi’s examination suggests she likely won’t last through winter."

“Well now, Master must be terribly worried about that.” Okāsan finished folding the old man’s discarded Yūki summer kimono and assumed an exaggerated look of pity. But there was something incongruous about her expression—a contrived air that didn’t quite match her earlier words. Seeing the old man settled cross-legged before the tea table,

“Master, shall I prepare dinner?” asked Okāsan.

Old Man Umanuma had made it a rule to finish his meals at his main house. Speaking of not residing there—even appetizers like small side dishes were ordered from a caterer at this house, which then submitted a separate bill for just those items at month’s end. He’d concocted his own convenient logic—insisting that tea over rice sufficed for supper, so there was no need for extravagant indulgences like sashimi—but in truth, Old Man Umanuma rarely took meals at his mistress’s household, terrified of letting the tab grow.

“Ah, I’ll have some hot tea.” “Of course.” Just as Okāsan began descending the ladder stairs after this casual exchange, the sound of Ohatsu’s characteristically light footsteps pattered into the shop’s earthen entryway.

“You’re back? Master’s been waiting for you.” After saying just that in her natural voice, Okāsan seemed to share confidential talk at the ladder stairs’ base. Ohatsu’s hushed interjections—“My goodness” and “Is that so?”—drifted up to the second floor. Soon Ohatsu appeared clutching a bath basket in her left hand and a round goldfish bowl in her right, “Oh Papa, it’s been ages,” she called out before fully ascending the stairs.

“Took your sweet time like a fool, didn’t ya?” Rolling up his sleeves, Old Man Umanuma fanned himself composedly. “Well now, I’d finished bathing ages ago, but then a goldfish seller passed by out front and I got all distracted.” “So Papa, ain’t they pretty?” Ohatsu hung the goldfish bowl level with the old man’s eyes without sitting down. “Went and bought useless trinkets again. Mustn’t go wastin’ money like that.” He took the bowl from her hands and set it on the windowsill. Their long scarlet tail fins swaying, the two goldfish kept swimming in circles within the cramped bowl—bumping against the glass only to retreat again and again.

“Far from wasting money, I’ve been so thrifty lately that I only visit the hairdresser once every four days. Hey, Papa, I’ve been waiting for you to come all this time—won’t you buy me a bolt of Hakata?” The old man’s eyes, which had been watching the goldfish, shifted toward Ohatsu—who had drawn the mirror stand close, loosened the collar of her gaudy indigo-dyed yukata, and was wielding a peony-patterned brush. “Another request, huh?” Even as he chided her with such words, his eyes smiled—secretly savoring Ohatsu’s plump, dewy skin at her chest.

“Come on, Papa, you’ll agree, won’t you? Let me have some treasure, please.” Ohatsu peered at the old man in the mirror while combing her hair at the temples. “Huh? Money? Well, I can give it to you when I leave, then.”

“No, Papa—you’re so forgetful, it has to be right now or I won’t have it.” Having finished fixing her hair, Ohatsu wiped the comb with paper tissue while looking at the old man and pressed him thus. The reason Ohatsu pestered him so insistently for money stemmed from childhood habits formed when begging Okāsan for desired things. In those days, Okāsan had worked as a teahouse attendant at Matsukai Ōmura in Mukōjima while entrusting Ohatsu to relatives in Hanakawado. Making monthly pilgrimages to Kannon-sama, she would stop by Hanakawado each time to fetch Ohatsu—completing their prayers before strolling through Nakamise arcade. The arcade overflowed with things Ohatsu craved. She would sometimes squat motionless before picture-book stalls. There were instances when she slipped into crowds mesmerized by Taishōgoto players and lost sight of Okāsan. “Buy me something,” she’d plead, only to hear the stock reply: “Later, dear.” Relying on this “later,” Ohatsu would beg anew at their next pilgrimage—only to find Okāsan having blithely forgotten her promise and repeating “Later, dear” in that same placating tone. Thus Ohatsu grew relentless in her pestering. She would cling to Okāsan’s sleeve before doll shops and refuse to budge. At this, Okāsan would laugh in exasperation before reluctantly producing a small blue leather purse from her obi to buy the doll.

What had initially been difficult for her to voice—these entreaties to the old man—had gradually become effortless through childhood habits, until even the old man himself would inevitably yield in the end.

After slipping the coin she had received from the old man into her obi, Ohatsu—who had been standing before the mirror stand—went to the ladder stairs and called out, “Mother, isn’t the tea ready yet?” As if drawn by her voice, Okāsan ascended carrying a tea tray with a bowl of egg crackers and a tea set. “Please do take your ease,”

After bowing in this manner with one hand on the threshold, she slid the karakami door shut at the top of the ladder stairs and descended. Okāsan’s demeanor still carried the formal manners from her days as a teahouse attendant at Ōmura. While Ohatsu and the others chatted over tea, she would often lay out bedding in the adjacent room. When Ohatsu vehemently tried to stop her, Okāsan would give an incomprehensible look and say, “You’re just playing around anyway…”, then reluctantly head downstairs with nothing better to do. Every time her mother demonstrated such flawless efficiency, Ohatsu burned with shame, her face flushing crimson. What does Mother think of me?—In her humiliation simmered this bitter resentment. Watching Mother’s practiced movements made her feel like some novice geisha summoned to a cheap parlor. Ohatsu found her mother’s relentless competence unbearable. Yet face-to-face, she couldn’t voice a single complaint. Having been raised solely by Mother since six—with this debt of gratitude ceaselessly drummed into her—the obligation hung about Ohatsu’s neck like an oxbow yoke. Even when she keenly felt its nuisance, she couldn’t slip free of it herself. So she endured through clenched teeth, surrendering most affairs to Mother’s direction. But having even her nighttime bedding arranged was more than Ohatsu could stomach. When she was a child visiting Ōmura on errands, an old woman called Okura-baasan would emerge at the kitchen entrance,

“Okane-san, your Jabeko’s here,” she called toward the back. She had initially dismissed the old woman as someone who said peculiar things and paid her no mind, but after learning the reason from Okāsan one day, she came to detest the very sight of her. The old woman from Tohoku was apparently accustomed to calling girls in this manner. Each time she was called that, Ohatsu would feel a prickling, feverish irritation coursing through her body—precisely the same unpleasant feeling she harbored toward Okāsan. Unaware of this, Okāsan muttered to herself, “Oh, Ohatsu’s being so considerate again,” rubbing her hands together as she descended. Then, after pausing at the foot of the ladder stairs in a posture of listening for any movement upstairs, she would customarily settle herself before the unlit long hibachi in the four-and-a-half-mat room adjoining the shop and gaze out toward the street.

Okāsan, who had been gazing at the street in just that manner, stifled a yawn as she removed the backscratcher hanging from a pillar and inserted it into the curve of her back, sitting with eyes blissfully closed as she scratched.

II

The old man Umanuma left his mistress's residence after eleven o'clock had struck. At a street sushi stall before Bishamon Temple, he grabbed two or three pieces of fatty tuna and, feeling sufficiently extravagant already, made his way home while idly browsing night stalls. After crossing the tram tracks and immediately turning left into the alley beside the furniture shop, there stood Toramaru Billiard Hall. Reaching this point always brought an unconscious tightness to the old man's chest. He tucked his folded fan into his obi and straightened his loosened collar. Never forgetting to wipe his face with the hand towel kept folded in his breast pocket—for him, these bright eaves lights of Toramaru Billiard Hall signaled time to don that familiar mask he'd removed earlier. After walking half a block stood his house. When he slid open the lattice door, Tane the lame maid came to greet him. Limping behind the old man, she gathered up his discarded haori coat and tabi socks. The old man sat sullenly silent for some time with a displeased expression. This was the face he typically wore when returning exhausted from business calls.

“It’s damnably stuffy in here.” The old man, having changed into a yukata, entered the six-mat room at the back that served as his wife’s sickroom while using an uchiwa fan. The patient, whom he had assumed would be resting, sat on the floor doing needlework under a dim electric bulb she had lowered close. “Thank you for your hard work.” Mrs. Umanuma paused her needlework and slowly raised her face. It was her customary greeting whenever the old man returned home. As she spoke, she was seized by a coughing fit and remained with her sleeve pressed to her mouth. Whether from the lighting or the decline brought by years of bedridden life, her frailty seemed particularly pronounced tonight. The sagging of her lower eyelids had increased, and eggplant-colored spots stood out prominently around her prominent cheekbones. Every time she coughed, these flushed red.

“You don’t need to do such work…” The old man said in a gentle, admonishing tone. “Well, you see... If I just idle around, these fingertips ache unbearably.” “By keeping my hands busy like this with the needle, well... it seems the pain subsides.” When her coughing subsided, Mrs. Umanuma said. And slowly removing the thimble from her dry, rough fingers, she added with a feeble laugh, “My hands must look like those of a born laborer by now.”

“Well, that’s how it is.” “Even for me, if I go half a day without using the abacus, these hands get strangely bored.” “You know how they say—‘Poverty can’t catch up to those who earn.’ People back then really had a way with words.”

The old man didn't think this proverb applied to the current situation, but being unable to come up with anything better, he used it as a stopgap measure. When the old man had served as clerk for Watanabe Senzō (the renowned moneylender of Ugo), there was a chief clerk named Maruo-san who enjoyed both the master's favor and the subordinates' respect. When those under him committed some blunder, he would refrain from outright scolding, instead subtly weaving proverbs into conversations during shared meals to offer admonishments. Even if they forgot all the minute details they'd been told, those occasional proverbs alone persisted stubbornly. Umanuma had always admired this quality. And before he knew it, this desire to emulate Maruo-san had taken root within the old man, making him eager to deploy the two or three proverbs remaining in his memory from those days whenever possible.

The old man asked Mrs. Umanuma.

"What are you sewing?" "The lined kimonos from Komura-san had arrived quite delayed, you see." "Oh now, there's time enough before lined kimonos are needed. No sense pushing yourself so hard—it'll wear on your body."

The old man gently directed the breeze from his round fan toward Mrs.Umanuma. The Mrs.Komura in question was a widow living in a Umanuma-owned house immediately behind theirs who taught needlework while taking on sewing jobs from the neighborhood. From these assignments Mrs.Umanuma would receive two or three pieces to supplement her pocket money. In her youth Mrs.Umanuma’s fingertips had been constantly occupied with piecework sewing; even now that ingrained habit kept them inseparable from the needle. When the neighboring widow occasionally remarked with probing intent—“There’s no need for someone of your standing to take on others’ work”—Mrs.Umanuma would respond with her customary polite smile and “It’s merely something to pass the time.” Yet in her heart she thought: “Even hands like these can become treasures if you keep them moving.” “Leave them idle and they’re worthless,” she told herself.

To the old man, frugal by nature, his wife's current diligence was immensely pleasing. Ohatsu couldn't possibly imitate such a thing. After all, she was his wife—this satisfaction in the old man's heart now worked upon the hand holding the uchiwa fan, leading him to keep fanning her.

Noticing the intermittent blue wisps of smoke from the boar-shaped ceramic mosquito repellent burner by her pillow, Mrs. Umanuma called for Tane. “Well now, it’s late—let’s retire for the night.” The old man said this and pulled the mosquito burner closer, brushing off the ash still holding its coiled shape before snuffing out the remaining firefly-like ember with his fingertip while muttering “Hot-hot-hot!” The old man, who detested wastefulness, felt satisfied having done this.

“Then, I shall bid you goodnight.”

With that, Mrs. Umanuma took Tane’s hand and rose to perform her ablutions. Her retreating figure walked slowly down the corridor with light coughs, appearing insubstantial as a shadow. Watching her retreat, the old man grew sorrowful. "Mrs. Umanuma won't last much longer," he thought. She had often repeated how she wanted to wear a crested haori coat and visit Kyoto just once as a lifelong memory - now he felt faintly guilty for never having fulfilled this. But then again, he reasoned that spending lavishly on her funeral ought to settle his conscience. The old man swung his uchiwa fan behind his back and began noisily flapping it to drive away mosquitoes.

Mrs. Umanuma, returning from washing her hands, looked at the old man as if suddenly remembering something and spoke.

"Oh yes, Mr. Yasu came by after you left."

This referred to Yasusaburō, the old man’s younger brother who ran a Chinese goods store on Yamabuki-chō Street. “Hmm, why has Yasu come again?” The old man asked with an indifferent expression. He didn’t seem particularly pleased about Mr. Yasu’s visit. “He was talking about Taishichi-san.”

Taking the small boxwood comb by her pillow, Mrs. Umanuma combed her thin hair. Her eyes peered up at the old man through furtive glances. Lately, Mr. Yasu himself had been making the rounds with this request: would the Umanumas consider adopting Taishichi—his second son in his second year at commerce school—as their heir? He kept whispering to Mrs. Umanuma that a childless household grew lonely, while pressing the old man that blood relatives made more devoted adoptees. The old man always brushed aside such talk. How brusquely had Yasu refused his desperate plea for thirty ryō during those lean years?—The memory still made the old man’s blood seethe. Back then, Mr. Yasu—running a thriving Chinese goods wholesaler in Kyōbashi—had flatly rejected the request, claiming empty coffers. Now reduced to poverty, he clung to the old man who’d amassed his wealth. Little wonder the old man found it galling.

“No matter how many times Yasu comes begging, the Taishichi matter is out of the question.” The old man declared curtly. Upon hearing this, Mrs. Umanuma thought My, how stubborn the old man is, though in truth she didn’t feel particularly inclined to criticize him. This was because Mrs. Umanuma had already vaguely discerned Mr. Yasu’s ulterior motives regarding his son’s adoption, finding this just as distasteful as the old man did. There were other relatives besides these who asked the old man to give them a child. They were the old man’s elder brother—the elementary school principal in their hometown—and Mrs. Umanuma’s cousin, a public scribe. As for this principal, back when the old man had been working as a clerk at Watatsumi’s shop, he would say things like “I can’t have a usurer for a brother,” refusing to even let him near the house and treating him as if handling venomous snakes. At some point his heart must have softened, for he began never missing seasonal greetings, and at Bon and year-end would send heartfelt local specialties from their hometown.

The old man and his wife would exchange glances and force bitter smiles whenever the adoption topic arose. They simply couldn't bring themselves to engage with the proposal sincerely. Yasu disparaged the elder brother and public scribe, implicitly warning they were after the property, while the elder brother kept trying to find fault with Yasu and the scribe. Meanwhile, the public scribe kept prodding Mrs. Umanuma, anxious to secure some advantage. To the old man and his wife, all their relatives seemed to approach with ulterior motives, making none easily trustworthy. Moreover, for the old man, relatives' cold treatment during his hardship still weighed heavily on his heart, leaving him unable to muster even obligatory concern for their welfare now. On the contrary, the more relatives pressed in, the more his heart retreated into a solitary burrow while clutching his money tightly. Having taken no ordinary effort since youth to amass this much, the old man now reminisced as if realizing it anew, tenderly cherishing the treasure pressed to his heart.

The old man had been called Inosuke-san when working at Watatsumi’s shop, where the astute master trained him rigorously. Watatsumi was a man who established his fortune through high interest loans and foreclosures, amassing wealth within a single generation. While society criticized his profit-making methods as ruthless, not a single person emerged who could match his business acumen. No matter what slander he faced, Watatsumi remained Ugo’s preeminent high-interest moneylender.

“People scornfully say I’m profiting from high interest loans, but how exactly do my methods differ from Mitsui and Mitsubishi’s?” “They wear suits while I’m apron-clad—that’s the only difference between us!” Watatsumi would often say such things and snicker before his shop employees. Moreover, declaring “Duty and human sentiment don’t move the abacus beads,” he never yielded an inch in debt collection. Watatsumi stood as society’s very archetype of a ruthless schemer. Inosuke had inherited Watatsumi’s boldness, business cunning, and frugality exactly as they were— though it must be said this thrift had grown too extreme, rendering the old man somewhat miserly.

III

From his days as Watatsumi's clerk, Inosuke-san had been lending small sums to neighbors, and when his capital eventually grew fat with interest, he showed slight business ambition by putting up a small signboard beside the entrance reading "Small-Sum Financial Services Handled." Even Mrs. Umanuma, who until then had been supplementing their meager livelihood through piecework sewing, had finally been able to catch her breath around this time. That being said, it wasn’t as if she had stopped working to idle about. On the contrary, Mrs. Umanuma’s hands were now earning even more than before. However—in place of past struggles being hounded by money—the newfound pleasure of pursuing it now played its part, easing Mrs. Umanuma’s mind. Inosuke found this productivity of hers very much to his liking. Her barrenness might be a flaw in the jewel, but between her earning power and household management skills—such a wife was rarely found anywhere! There’s a saying that “a wise wife is the key to the household,” but when it came to my wife—why—she was nothing less than an irreplaceable lock on a vital safe! So Inosuke felt genuine pride in Mrs. Umanuma. She had come to vaguely understand this herself, and there seemed to be an air about her striving to increase her piecework earnings even more—driven by a determination not to undermine her husband’s trust. After coming to Tokyo with a substantial sum of money, Inosuke-san too began profiting through foreclosures like Watatsumi had done before him. For collateral items—primarily land—he employed Watatsumi’s methods in appraisal negotiations. He would complain—this spot was bad—that place was unsatisfactory—and even if the other party drastically lowered their appraisal—he would keep grumbling complaints until it met his satisfaction exactly! For appraising such lands—Inosuke-san often went on business trips far afield—sometimes even traveling to Hokkaido or Kyushu’s outskirts! Even for collateral items he had already determined from the start would never amount to anything—he made a point of at least conducting appraisals without fail! This was because Inosuke-san had his own unique methods at play here! By downgrading from second-class to third-class train tickets—and adding accommodation expenses into his calculations—he could obtain considerable travel funds! Upon arriving at his destination—being unfamiliar with the area—he would have his local contact show him around—scheming whenever possible to stay at that guide’s house itself—thereby saving on lodging costs! People traveling by train often became surprisingly careless—leaving behind newspapers and magazines after reading them! Inosuke-san—deeming this wasteful—had made it his habit to stuff these along with empty Cider and Masamune bottles lying at his feet into his cloth bundle—bringing them all home as souvenirs!

In his usual manner, he wouldn’t waste even a single toothpick. When something became worn-out and frayed, he would whittle it down and insert it back into the collar seam. Declaring that even a single sheet of paper should be fully utilized, he would write characters on it, blow his nose, dry it over the hibachi, then use it in the toilet. Such habits grew more pronounced as he aged. And people often viewed the presence of a maid in the old man’s household as strange.

Tane had come after Mrs.Umanuma began her bedridden life. It was the autumn of the year before last. The prolonged malnutrition and overwork had taken their toll—Mrs.Umanuma’s lung disease had now progressed to a quite severe state. The doctor ordered them not to let the patient sit up. With no one to manage meal preparations, they faced difficulties. Thinking that hiring a maid through Katsuuan would be too expensive, the old man used his connections to bring Tane from the orphanage. He still paid her a small wage at first, but before long Tane herself came to decline this. Born with a lame leg, Tane felt self-conscious about this disability and was deeply apologetic toward her master and mistress for being unable to work to her full capacity. The old man had grasped this sentiment. And when urgent errands forced Tane to drag out her lame leg, he would say: “Ah right—you’ve got that bad leg! Here—I’ll dash over and handle it!”

And saying this, he would often handle the errands himself. Being told this made Tane feel her own shortcomings even more acutely. Motivated by her desire to compensate for this inadequacy through some means, she helped with Mrs. Umanuma's piecework sewing and handed over all earnings from side jobs like pasting paper bags to the old man's hands, hoping they might contribute toward covering her own keep. Occasionally, when the old man took out bamboo tongs to rummage through the trash bin and pluck out things like ends of daikon radishes or used kelp scraps,

“What a waste you’re making.” The only hardship lay in enduring his scoldings—“These would make a proper side dish if stewed properly!”—for compared to her orphanage days, Tane found her current life with the wealthy patron almost comfortable. That she could maintain this sense of contentment owed much at its root to Mrs.Umanuma’s toil. For Mrs.Umanuma, Tane’s touching devotion—laboring tirelessly as if believing her a birth mother, even tending to menial tasks—combined with her own long isolation wrought by Ohatsu’s affairs and illness, now left her sustaining existence through sole reliance on the maid. This too had gradually become clear to Tane. Her resolve to stay close to the unfortunate Mrs.Umanuma strengthened, and she served with redoubled diligence. For Tane—who until age fourteen had fetched water and scrubbed floors alone at the orphanage—tending to an invalid proved simple enough.

Seated on the floorboards, Mrs.Umanuma would often think *If only I had a daughter like this* while having her hair combed by Tane. When this inadvertently escaped as a sigh, she would add—perhaps to mask her embarrassment—“Since you treat me so kindly, I feel you might as well be my own daughter.” She would say such things. Gripping the comb tighter at these words, Tane would shiver with delight and redouble her efforts—planting her feet wide as she worked through the tangles with such vigor that Mrs.Umanuma’s eyes slanted upward from the pulling.

Tane, who had never known her mother, came to adore Mrs.Umanuma, while Mrs.Umanuma’s growing reliance on Tane gradually intertwined their feelings until, before they knew it, their relationship had become like that of mother and daughter. There were times when they would sneak sweets behind the old man’s back. Mrs.Umanuma would occasionally fudge the household accounts a bit and buy Tane some dyed kasuri fabric. Tane would set aside a portion of her piecework earnings and use it to secretly treat Mrs.Umanuma to her favorite bean cakes. As these secret acts accumulated, the relationship between Mrs.Umanuma and Tane grew increasingly intimate.

In the evenings, since the old man was often out, both Mrs. Umanuma and Tane would frequently ply their needles at piecework.

Mrs.Umanuma began to speak in this manner. “Somehow... those Yamabuki-chō people seem to be scheming something beneath the surface while trying to curry favor here. I find it repulsive.” “What do you think, Tane?”

“That is indeed the case. “Both that household’s Master and young master—with their beady gold-pot eyes darting about—look positively covetous of everything. “People with gold-pot eyes are greedy and ill-natured by nature, they say. “The director used to say that. “At the orphanage too, there was this child called Kanbō with gold-pot eyes—my, was he greedy. “There’s no telling how many of my meals he stole from me.” “He stole your meals?” “Well, we’d each receive our rice bowls one by one, place them on the table, then go fetch our soup—but by the time we returned, Kanbō would’ve already eaten it all up. “Children with gold-pot eyes are truly ill-natured, aren’t they? “But since our Master is family, you’ll be taking him as your adopted heir, won’t you?”

“Well, he keeps saying he wants nothing to do with Yamabuki-chō, but deep down he might’ve already made up his mind.” “If we must take in someone from Yamabuki-chō, I’d rather adopt you as my daughter instead, you know...”

Having said this, Mrs.Umanuma fell into deep contemplation. Though she gave voice to wanting to adopt Tane as her daughter, Mrs.Umanuma’s heart remained utterly detached from the matter. What Mrs.Umanuma agonized over was whether to choose Yasu-san’s second son or her cousin’s boy. When told by Tane, she found herself disinclined to take in that beady-eyed Tashichi; her thoughts kept returning instead to the scribe’s son. If she didn’t secure an adopted heir soon, Ohatsu might come barging in after her death and start acting like she owned the place—that would be intolerable. Mrs.Umanuma’s deliberations hung on this matter. Unaware of this, Tane wholeheartedly trusted Mrs.Umanuma's words.

Before long, the master would broach this matter again. Tane waited with anticipation. If she became an adopted daughter, she would eventually inherit this household.—As such calculations intensified with each passing day, Tane began to feel like she had truly become this family’s daughter. Gradually emulating the old man out of her growing fixation on the Umanuma household’s treasures, she became increasingly miserly and strove to contribute even one extra sen from her piecework earnings.

Tane, who rarely heard Mrs.Umanuma mention Ohatsu, would become oddly fixated on thoughts of Ohatsu whenever sent to Fukuro-machi on some urgent errand to fetch the old man, feeling constrained around Mrs.Umanuma. Even after returning from these errands, Mrs.Umanuma asked nothing. There were times when she rested with her usual calm expression, and times when she sat on the floor plying her needle. At such moments, Mrs.Umanuma wore a strangely drained and dulled expression, managing only weary nods whenever Tane attempted conversation.

Mrs.Umanuma, who rarely mentioned Ohatsu even in Tane’s presence, seemed to try even harder to keep her mouth shut when before the old man. Even when the old man occasionally let Ohatsu’s name slip out on some impulse, Mrs.Umanuma would simply nod with an obedient expression. For Mrs.Umanuma, who had agonized over Ohatsu all this time, Ohatsu had now become nothing more than a distant pebble at the edge of resignation.

Near the end of spring, on a certain dusk, such a thing occurred.

After finishing dinner, the old man had already gone out to Fukuro-machi.

Facing the dimly lit shoji screens on the veranda, Mrs. Umanuma sat on the floor moving her needle. Having finished cleaning up, Tane set down a small tea tray beside her and diligently pasted piecework bags with a bamboo spatula. Suddenly sensing that Mrs. Umanuma had stopped her needlework and was staring intently at something, Tane looked up. A caterpillar was crawling up the backside of the shoji screen. Mrs. Umanuma’s eyes were drawn to it. Wriggling its black body—about the size of a little finger—it climbed two slats as they watched. The black, stiff hairs brushed against the shoji screen, producing a faint rustling sound. Mrs. Umanuma stared intently. When the caterpillar crossed the fourth slat, Mrs. Umanuma reached toward the shoji screen. The caterpillar wriggled upward once. Mrs. Umanuma stabbed it with her needle. The caterpillar writhed violently. Writhing, its pierced body arched backward. Green liquid ran down the shoji screen and dripped like a thread. Mrs. Umanuma’s eyes remained fixed on the caterpillar. At last, the writhing ceased, and the black body—still impaled by the needle—lifted its head high and arched backward.

IV

The autumn wind began to seep into the skin.

The old man from the Umanuma household had not shown his face at Ohatsu's house in Fukuro-machi these past few days. "Mrs.Umanuma must be quite ill," the mother and daughter discussed. "Would that she'd just hurry up and join Buddha's company already," Mother muttered under her breath while offering a lamp at the Buddhist altar—yet even as she did so, Mrs.Umanuma kept chanting sutras as if she'd already become Buddha herself. Ever since hearing of Mrs.Umanuma's worsening condition, Ohatsu had felt strangely unsettled. She couldn't shake the feeling that she herself was hastening Mrs.Umanuma's demise. She couldn't help dreading whether some retribution would follow. Mother, who was waiting for Mrs.Umanuma to pass away, talked cheerfully about the day she and her daughter would move into the Umanuma household, but Ohatsu found none of this appealing. Though she endured that old man as her patron, the thought of making him her husband hadn't crossed her mind even a speck. Just imagining herself becoming the old man's wife filled Ohatsu with misery. Yet whenever she saw Mother's exuberant, restless demeanor, Ohatsu felt compelled to mirror that cheerfulness, forcing a smile onto her face.

It was two or three days ago.

On her way back from the hairdresser, Ohatsu—remembering today was Tiger Day—had detoured to pray at Bishamon Temple. When she returned home, she wore an uncharacteristically sullen expression, her mind clearly consumed by some weighty matter. Okāsan, who had been deep in conversation with a wholesaler at the shop, climbed the ladder stairs as if deaf to any calls. “What’s the matter?” When Okāsan later peered into the second floor with a worried expression, Ohatsu—who had been leaning against the window frame gazing absently at the goldfish bowl—smiled as if suddenly noticing,

“It’s nothing，Mother．Earlier，on the Bishamon slope，I met an old friend．” “It was lovely．”

she said nonchalantly. With a face that seemed to say "What, is that all?" Mother, perhaps concerned about the shop, briskly went back downstairs. Out of consideration for Mother, Ohatsu hadn’t spoken openly, but in truth, she found herself strangely drawn to the friend she’d met earlier.

Just as she finished her prayers and was leaving Bishamon Temple, someone called out, “Oh! If it isn’t Ohatsu-chan!” She immediately recognized her as Endō Kotoko, who had been her close friend since elementary school. Kotoko explained she had only recently set up a household in Koishikawa’s Suidōbata area and had come here today for shopping. After climbing to the second floor of Beniya and finishing their reminiscences over shiruko, Kotoko began recounting her fortunate circumstances. Her husband Shinkichi-san—five years her senior at twenty-eight—was an impeccably kind bank clerk. “He comes home every day at exactly five o'clock, like clockwork,” she said. “He’s so shy he can’t even go to a café alone—let alone cause me any worry with wild behavior. Wherever he goes—‘Come on, Kot-chan’—whatever he does—‘Come on, Kot-chan’—he’s utterly helpless without me.” “Honestly, you’re such a baby.” ——she spoke with such evident delight. Drawn into this, as Ohatsu imagined Kotoko’s new household in every conceivable way——

“How about you, Ohatsu?” she was asked. “Well, I…” Having said that, she couldn’t formulate a proper reply. As she kept her head bowed in silence, Kotoko—who had been keenly surveying Ohatsu from her hairstyle down to her sandals—suddenly checked her watch like someone remembering an appointment. “It’s nearly time I should be getting home…”

and bid farewell. Standing before Beniya watching Kotoko’s retreating figure,Ohatsu felt a dark loneliness welling up—as if tears might spill at any moment. Compared to Kotoko’s good fortune,the futility of my own situation pressed upon me. No matter what hardships,I found myself desperately wishing I too could have a proper husband and cheerful home like hers. Ohatsu had been raised by relatives in Hanakawado since childhood after being separated from her mother.At sixteen,a neighborhood connection secured her work as a maid at Sagamiya,a Shinbashi butcher shop. Her mother claimed Father died young from illness,but overheard relatives suggested he’d gone laboring in Korea. Either way,Ohatsu held little attachment—if he lived,someday they might meet. Sagamiya had long struggled under debts owed partly to moneylender Umanuma Inosuke. At fifty-two during collections,Umanuma noticed Ohatsu—her plump cheeks and innate charm growing ever dearer. When he casually mentioned this,the master eagerly proposed,“Why not take her under your care?” The master inwardly smirked like a cunning fox—this arrangement would surely ease Sagamiya’s debts. Umanuma saw through this instantly.“Sentiment won’t budge abacus beads,”he resolved.Smirk though he did,the interest calculations never ceased.

When the master mediated this proposal to Okāsan from Ōmura—exactly what she’d hoped for—she began visiting Sagamiya several times to meet with Umanuma. Eventually, after being permitted to run a then-trendy mahjong parlor in Kagurazaka’s backstreets, Okāsan—having left Ōmura—came to live with Ohatsu. Okāsan’s long-cherished wish had been for Ohatsu to secure a wealthy patron who would set her up with a small restaurant or teahouse—allowing them to live comfortably as employers managing staff—but Umanuma remained utterly indifferent to these aspirations. "The nightlife business drains money too easily," he declared, selling off the mahjong parlor at a favorable price before its popularity waned and establishing the current haberdashery instead. Okāsan couldn’t help resenting this arrangement, yet she couldn’t openly voice her complaints. Having no other recourse, she resorted to venting her frustrations in secret by badmouthing the old man to Ohatsu.

As Ohatsu gazed at the goldfish bowl, tears would well up in her eyes without her realizing. The goldfish swimming restlessly in its narrow bowl somehow struck her as resembling herself. When autumn winds began to rise, after the long-tailed one died, the remaining fish had grown noticeably listless. Nowadays, it often stayed motionless with its round mouth pressed against the glass. Having to navigate this vast world with such shameful constraint, Ohatsu found herself utterly miserable. Even if I were to take her place after Mrs.Umanuma's death, society would still regard me as nothing but an upstart mistress. If becoming the old man’s wife would still leave me feeling this way, then it’s no wonder my current life felt so shamefully constrained. Ohatsu thought of herself as constrained no matter which way she turned. If she had to navigate this world within such narrow confines anyway—she mused—then remaining in this carefree existence as a mistress might bring greater peace of mind.

Just as the mother and daughter were discussing asking Uotatsu today to inquire about the situation,

“Forgive me.” The clatter of geta echoed through the doma as the old man entered. Moving ahead with purpose, he hurriedly ascended to the second floor. “Well… my wife’s finally at her end,” he said, arms crossed and face grim with contemplation. “Since last night—she can’t even form proper words anymore.”

He sat with his arms crossed, lost in thought with a grim expression. Even when Ohatsu asked him something, he would only nod with a "Yeah" or "No," and even during those brief moments, his heart remained captive to thoughts of his wife. "Let me help you regain your spirits."

Okāsan came upstairs carrying a sake bottle. “I suppose so.” The old man forced a smile and accepted the sake cup.

At that moment, hearing what sounded like someone calling from the shop below, Okāsan went down to check and found Tane standing there breathlessly,

“Please tell Master to return immediately!” she snapped.

V

Two weeks had passed since Mrs. Umanuma’s death. Lately, the old man stayed home all day without visiting Fukuro-machi, often tending to his wife’s memorial tablet. He would change the flower water, ensure unbroken incense smoke, and offer bean rice cakes he personally bought before the tablet—treats Mrs. Umanuma had favored. At night he lay before it alongside Tane, thinking the tablet must feel lonely. The dragonfly-patterned kasuri yukata Mrs. Umanuma wore until her final days hung on the bamboo rack by the wall. From his resting place, it stood directly in view. To him, she seemed to stand there modestly as if murmuring something. Her low voice flowed steadily with what sounded like incomprehensible complaints. As he listened, the old man consoled himself inwardly: “It’s all right.” “You were such a pitiable soul.” “Never wore a single new kimono.” He teared up while whispering this. The crested haori coat she wanted—he never bought it. The twin-patterned lined kimono stored in the chest bottom was something he’d acquired cheaply from a foreclosed pawnshop—over thirty years together, this remained the only notable thing he ever splurged on for her. By contrast, Ohatsu adorned herself with every desired trinket. The old man felt unbearably sorry for his deceased wife. Ohatsu’s life of luxury struck him as peculiarly grating.

The old man’s growing neglect of Fukuro-machi stemmed not from any sudden aversion to Ohatsu that had taken root in him, but rather from a kind of unyielding devotion toward his deceased wife. Within the old man’s heart, a feeling resembling gratitude toward Mrs. Umanuma—with whom he had shared hardships since their youth—had always remained warm, and after her passing, this sentiment came to be felt even more acutely. Thus, out of a sense of obligation to Mrs. Umanuma, he was resolved not to set foot in Fukuro-machi until the 49-day mourning period concluded.

In the room with the memorial tablet, during evenings when the old man was writing documents nearby, Tane would sometimes begin reminiscing about Madam as if talking to herself while moving the needle. “Madam never spoke much about the Master from Yamabuki-cho or the young master—though I suppose it must have been what they call an instinctive dislike.” “After the Master from Yamabuki-cho would leave, Madam would often develop a fever...”

The old man listened while moving his brush. He found her calm manner of speaking somehow reminiscent of Madam. During her lifetime, Madam had never openly criticized the people from Yamabuki-cho—though this restraint stemmed from consideration for him—and it seemed she had confided her true feelings unreservedly to Tane. Given that she developed a fever whenever Yasusaburō visited, she must have detested him profoundly. Given that Mrs.Umanuma detested that household to such an extent, it wasn’t as if he intended to adopt an heir from there... The old man moved his brush as he privately came to this understanding. In truth, since Mrs.Umanuma's death, worn down by Yasusaburō’s persistent visits, the old man had come to feel that adopting an heir from Yasusaburō’s household might be acceptable after all. Yet when Tane said this, somehow this feeling would be evaded. There seemed to be some inviolable value in the deceased’s words, and he felt oppressed by this.

Tane would also say such things.

“When Madam would retire with headaches, she’d murmur things like sleep talk—all about Fukuro-machi—saying how unbearable it was, how unbearable, with tears trickling down even in her dreams.” Hearing this, the old man grasped his wife’s anguish and felt an indescribable constriction in his chest. Behind his remorse for having made her suffer lurked the sense that this very pain was somehow Ohatsu’s doing.

Until now, Tane’s presence had been as quiet as a shadow, but since Mrs. Umanuma’s death, it had suddenly become conspicuous in the Umanuma household. She now handled everything from receiving guests and managing meals to occasionally assisting the old man with his abacus. Having been thoroughly trained in sewing by Madam, she could now handle full-fledged work independently. From the widow living behind them, she received piecework sewing assignments just as Madam had done, applying herself diligently whenever she had spare time. Her meticulous handling of not wasting a single thread scrap greatly pleased the old man. It was only natural that Mrs. Umanuma had taken her under her wing during her lifetime, he thought. To the old man, Tane was gradually becoming more to his liking.

When the forty-ninth day memorial passed, the old man went to Fukuro-machi. If he stayed away for two or three days, young workers from Uotatsu would come delivering messages. Before long, Okāsan began visiting the Umanuma house under various pretexts. The old man privately found this disagreeable. It seemed Okāsan's visits harbored ulterior motives—this time transparently obvious. When the old man was away overnight on business trips, she would enter like the mistress of the house—meddling with the safe, peering into clothing chests—then thrust out her lower lip in a sarcastic sneer: "Huh. Empty since no keepsakes arrived?" The old man grew furious when Tane reported this. First he took Tane to inspect the guest room safe's lock she claimed Okāsan had touched—putting on his glasses to examine it—but found nothing wrong. Truth be told, Tane's tattling tended to embroider facts with fiction—this time too Okāsan had merely stroked the safe's smooth surface out of curiosity.

Ohatsu, weary of being constantly nagged by Okāsan, was now driven by a desire to become Mrs. Umanuma as soon as possible—since it seemed inevitable anyway. She waited for the right moment to broach this with the old man, but the opportunity simply wouldn’t arise. The old man would finish his dinner, go out, and then return home when eleven o'clock struck—same as always. The old man kept idling about without ever broaching the subject, so Ohatsu grew increasingly irritated, feeling pressured by her mother’s anxious presence downstairs. And yet, whenever she looked at the old man’s face, she found herself strangely unable to broach the subject. Such days repeated themselves, and Okāsan’s mood soured.

"What a tongue-tied girl you are!" "Mark my words," she snapped, her patience spent, "that old man'll go find himself some proper Madam-material from gods-know-where before long!"

She would make such cutting remarks.

“If you’re so concerned about Grandpa, then why don’t you become the Madam yourself?” Having said this, Ohatsu’s ears turned bright red, and squeezing her sleeve, she dashed upstairs.

“Oh, what a thing to say! “This girl…” Okāsan wiped around the copper pot and looked up at the ladder stairs in exasperation. She had been gently wiping around the copper pot with her head bowed, but then placed the pale yellow tea cloth—wrapped around her index finger—onto the cat board, pulled out her undergarment’s sleeve, and slowly wiped her eyes. For Okāsan, who had endured hardships all this time solely for Ohatsu’s sake, these coming “better days” seemed only natural—yet Ohatsu remained utterly oblivious to her mother’s feelings, thinking her happiness mattered not at all. That daughter, raised solely by her mother’s hands, was discarding that debt of gratitude as if it were some old hair tie. —Okāsan couldn’t help resenting Ohatsu’s current remarks. Raising her red eyes to gaze at the ladder stairs, she pressed her sleeve to her face and wept again.

The hundredth day memorial for the deceased Madam had arrived.

In the morning, the old man stopped by Fukuro-machi and took Ohatsu along to visit the grave. Disliking being dependent on the main family grave in his hometown, the old man had newly erected a grave in Zōshigaya this time. The snow-threatening cold wind stung their cheeks. The two walked in silence along the hushed cemetery path. The old man occasionally coughed. He lowered his mask toward his mouth and blew his nose. He turned up his raccoon-fur collar and walked briskly in short steps, his white tabi-clad feet moving hurriedly. Ohatsu lightly covered her nose with the edge of her wisteria-purple shawl and followed the old man, carrying a bundle of chrysanthemums. A sparrow that had been perched on a withered branch flew high onto a wooden grave marker to the right, releasing white droppings as it went.

They came before the grave. The old man had Ohatsu hold his double-layered undergarment and hat, then tucked up his crested haori coat toward his back and squatted before the grave. The flowers he had offered earlier had withered from frost and frozen solid to the bamboo flower tube, making them nearly impossible to remove. When he finally finished arranging the small chrysanthemums Ohatsu had brought, the old man adjusted his mask up toward his nose and clasped his hands together for a long time while chanting a Buddhist prayer. While the old man prayed, Ohatsu tilted her head and looked toward the sotoba, wondering what had become of that earlier sparrow. The sparrow, its breast feathers parted white by the wind, perched atop the sotoba and looked bewildered.

After concluding their visit, while retracing their steps along the cemetery path, Ohatsu— “Hey, Papa,” she called out. “What is it?” The masked face turned back. Ohatsu hesitated for a moment, “No, it’s nothing. “It’s so cold today, isn’t it?” she said. “Well...” “Let’s go get something hot to eat somewhere.” “Oh, are you treating me? “Then I want Kawatei’s chicken hotpot.” The masked face turned back.

“Fool! Today’s finally the hundredth day memorial—why the hell would I eat chicken...”

After shouting this, the old man hurried off. The reason he had shouted was not so much that his own abstinence was being neglected as that he had suddenly become enraged by Ohatsu’s extravagance. That’s why such a woman could never be brought into the household—or so he told himself. The old man's white tabi-clad feet walked hurriedly away. The thought of the deceased Madam came to mind. Tane was cherished. Suddenly, the old man hit upon the thought: what if he were to adopt Tane as his daughter?

“This isn’t such a foolish idea after all.”

He muttered to himself.