Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After finishing dinner, Umanuma’s old man left the house. By the time his usual hurried footsteps, laden with purpose, had emerged from Tōji-machi’s alley and reached Kagurazaka Street, they had slowed considerably. Apparently, once he reached this area, a sense of relaxation began to emerge, gradually dispelling that oddly oppressive feeling he’d carried since leaving home. The old man took the fan tucked into his obi and, while walking with one hand lightly pinching the collar of his unlined kimono, fanned a generous breeze into his chest. When he did this, the loosened collar made his hunched back and jutting neck appear as though he were deliberately adjusting his kimono’s neckline. He walked straight through Sakana-machi’s streetcar avenue. From the old man’s head, all obsessions had already vanished like shadows. He felt somehow at ease, with a spacious calm in his heart. He cast his eyes toward the brightly lit shopfronts where the lights had just been turned on, and gave a nod to Ozawa’s manager, a familiar face. Then he would look at the faces of people he passed and, without any particular thought, glance back at their retreating figures. When passing before Bishamon, the old man stopped fanning himself and gave a slight bow of his head. And with the hand thrust into his sleeve, he felt around in his pocket to check his wallet as he turned into Wakamiya-chō’s side street. Among the row of teahouses, there was one where a young woman had brought out a brazier to the entrance and was sifting its ashes. Seeing the leftover tobacco scraps being scattered without a second thought along with clumps of ash, the old man’s face showed genuine dismay at such waste. While thus preoccupied, he nearly collided with a maiko coming the other way. The old man, who had been looking back at the retreating figure of the maiko laughing while making the bells on her wooden clogs jingle as she hurried away, suddenly began moving his fan as if remembering something and headed up toward Fukuro-machi from the tobacco shop’s corner in an oddly pleasant mood. At the top of the slope flanked by quiet houses where one emerges onto Fukuro-machi Street stood Tsurunoyu—a bathhouse recently renovated. To Midoriya across the way and the haberdashery with its small signboard, the old man—

“Sorry,” he said as he entered. The plump madam in her fifties, who had been chatting with a female customer in the shop, came rushing out still clutching a hair-binding cord, “Oh my, well, Master, it’s been so long!” and lowered her head with its chignon adorned in a mouse-and-deer fawn pattern. “Ohatsu just stepped out to the bathhouse—she’ll be right back.”

The madam was Ohatsu’s mother, whom the old man had been supporting for some time. After escorting him to the foot of the ladder-like stairs, she withdrew back to the shop. The second-floor partition dividing two adjoining six-tatami rooms stood with a reed screen erected across it. Draped over this hung a valance of Chinese crepe patterned with pink carnations. Having folded his removed gauze haori along its sleeves and hung it over this valance, the old man settled onto the window frame and began slowly taking off his white tabi socks. It was then that Okkāsan ascended carrying a damp towel.

“Just earlier, you know, I was talking with Ohatsu. Since today makes a full six days since you last came, I was wondering if something might have happened—perhaps we should ask Mr. Uotatsu tomorrow to check on things, or so we were fretting about just now.” Uotatsu was a fishmonger from Kita-machi who occasionally handled errands for the Umanuma household as well. “Well, you see, I’d been a bit busy these past few days, and then there’s Naigi-san at home—she’s not doing well at all, you know.”

The old man spread out the damp towel and wiped his face and neck thoroughly until satisfied; then twisting it into a rope-like strip and stretching it taut, he draped this diagonally across his back and began scrubbing himself while hissing through his teeth like someone in a public bathhouse washing area.

“Is Naigi-san—oh my—truly that unwell?”

Okkāsan, who had fetched the starched yukatabira from the neighboring chest of drawers, draped it over the old man’s back as he remained undressed.

“It’s been going on so long, after all.” “She’s grown quite weak, you know.” “According to Dr. Kurachi’s diagnosis, she probably won’t last through this winter.” “Oh my, Master must be terribly worried about that.”

Okkāsan folded up the old man’s discarded Yūki hitoe unlined kimono and assumed an expression of utmost sympathy. Yet her face held a contrived quality that somehow mismatched her earlier words.

Seeing the old man sitting cross-legged and relaxed before the tea table, “Master, have you had dinner?” asked Okkāsan. The old man made it a rule to finish his meals at the main house. To say he didn’t finish his meals—even appetizers like small side dishes here were ordered from a caterer, and at month’s end they would send a separate bill just for those. Convincing himself that tea over rice would suffice for his needs and there was no sense in gorging on sashimi to fatten himself stupidly—though in truth, he rarely dined at his mistress’s residence for fear of mounting tabs—the old man concocted his own convenient logic.

“No, I’ll have some hot tea.”

“Right away.”

With casual compliance, Okkāsan had just started descending the ladder-like stairs when the sound of small, quick footsteps—likely Ohatsu’s—entered the shop’s earthen entranceway.

“You’re back?” “Master has been waiting for you.”

Having said just that in her natural voice, she then seemed to be sharing some confidential talk at the foot of the ladder-like stairs. Exclamations of “Oh!” and “Is that so?”—Ohatsu’s hushed interjections—drifted up to the second floor. Before long, Ohatsu—cradling a small basket containing bath items in her left hand and carrying a round goldfish bowl in her right—appeared, “Oh, Papa, it’s been ages!”

She called out before she’d even finished climbing up. "You took your sweet time, didn’t you?" Rolling up his sleeves, the old man fanned himself with practiced ease. "Oh no, I’d finished my bath ages ago, but then a goldfish vendor happened to pass by out front, you see, so I ended up dawdling." "How about it, Papa? They’re pretty, aren’t they?" Ohatsu held up the goldfish bowl to the old man’s eye level as she stood. "You’ve gone and bought such a pointless thing. "You mustn’t waste money like that."

The old man took the goldfish bowl from Ohatsu’s hands and placed it on the window frame. Two goldfish swayed their long crimson tail fins, swimming in circles within the narrow bowl—bumping against the glass only to retreat and repeat their motion. “Far from being wasteful, I’ve been cutting back so much lately that I only go to the hairdresser once every four days. “Hey, Papa, I’ve been waiting for you all this time—won’t you buy me a Hakata obi?” The old man’s eyes, which had been watching the goldfish, shifted toward Ohatsu—who had pulled her mirror stand close, loosened the collar of her vivid indigo-dyed yukatabira, and now wielded a peony-patterned brush.

“There you go wheedling again?”

Though his words chided her in this manner, his eyes laughed as they secretly savored Ohatsu’s plump, sweat-dampened skin at her chest.

“Come on, Papa, it’s fine.” “Let me have your treasure, okay?”

Ohatsu inserted a comb into her hair at the temple while peering at the old man’s reflection in the mirror. “What’s this about—money?” “Well, I guess I can give it to you on my way back.” “No, Papa’s so forgetful—I won’t have it unless you give it to me right now.”

Having finished fixing her hair, Ohatsu wiped her comb with tissue paper while looking at the old man and pressed him like this. The reason Ohatsu demanded money so insistently now lay in a habit from her childhood—that of wheedling things she wanted from her mother.

At that time, Okkāsan worked as a hostess at a Mukōjima geisha house called Matsuramura and had entrusted Ohatsu to relatives in Hanakawado. Making monthly pilgrimages to Kannon meant it became her custom each time to stop by Hanakawado, take Ohatsu out, complete her prayers, then stroll through Nakamise. Nakamise overflowed with things Ohatsu wanted. She would sometimes squat motionless before picture book shops. Once she even got lost in a crowd mesmerized by a Taishō koto performance and lost sight of Okkāsan. When she pleaded “Buy me something,” she’d be soothed by the stock phrase: “Later, dear.” Her mother—having clean forgotten promises made when Ohatsu immediately begged again at their next visit—would repeat “Later, dear” with practiced calm. This drove Ohatsu to pester relentlessly. Before doll shops she’d cling to Okkāsan’s sleeve and refuse to move. At this even Okkāsan would laugh in exasperation and reluctantly produce from her obi a small blue leather purse to buy the doll.—

At first, asking the old man for money had been difficult to broach, but through her childhood-honed habit it had gradually become effortless—and before long, even the old man found himself inevitably relenting. Ohatsu—having tucked the coins received from the old man into her obi and stood before the mirror stand—went to the ladder-like stairs and, “Mom, isn’t the tea ready yet?” she called out. As if drawn by the voice, Okkāsan came up carrying a tea tray with a bowl of egg senbei and tea utensils.

“Please make yourself comfortable.” Placing one hand on the threshold to steady herself as she bowed in this manner, she snapped the sliding door at the head of the ladder-like stairs firmly shut and descended. Okkāsan’s demeanor still carried the formalities from her days as a hostess at Matsuramura. While Ohatsu and the others were chatting over tea, she would often lay out bedding in the neighboring room. If Ohatsu earnestly tried to stop her, Okkāsan would look puzzled and say, “But you’re just idling about anyway…,” then reluctantly make her way downstairs with nothing better to do. Each time she was confronted with her mother’s flawlessness, Ohatsu would burn with shame, her face flushing crimson. What did Mother take me for?—Here in my shame bloomed this festering irritation. Observing how Mother comports herself, I feel exactly like some novice geisha summoned to a low-class teahouse. I could not endure Mother’s flawlessness. Yet face-to-face, it was Ohatsu who couldn’t voice a single complaint. For Ohatsu—raised singlehandedly by her mother from age six, with this debt of gratitude incessantly drummed into her by the woman herself—the obligation now weighed on her like shackles in every matter. Even when she keenly felt this to be a hindrance, Ohatsu couldn’t bring herself to cast it off. So she reluctantly endured and left most matters to Okkāsan’s discretion. But having even her nighttime preparations tended to was something Ohatsu could not possibly accept. When she was a child, whenever she visited Okkāsan at Matsuramura on some errand, an old woman called Okura-bāsan would come out to the kitchen entrance,

“Okane-san, your Jabeko’s here,” Okura-bāsan called out toward the back. She had initially paid no mind to the old woman’s strange remarks, but after learning their meaning from Okkāsan one day, she came to detest the very sight of her. It seemed the Tōhoku-born old woman was accustomed to calling girls in this manner. Whenever she was called that, Ohatsu would feel a feverish irritation—an internal itchiness crawling under her skin. It was precisely this same unpleasant sensation she now felt toward her mother. Unaware of this, Okkāsan descended while muttering to herself—“Ohatsu is being so considerate, really…”—and rubbing her hands together. And after pausing at the foot of the ladder-like stairs—as if straining to catch telltale sounds from the second floor—she would settle herself hunched before the unlit long brazier in the four-and-a-half-mat room adjoining the shop and gaze out toward the street, this having become her established routine.

Even now, gazing at the street in that manner, Okkāsan—while yawning—took down the backscratcher hanging from the pillar, inserted it into her rounded back, and scratched with her eyes closed in apparent contentment.

II

Umanuma’s old man left the mistress’s residence after eleven had struck.

At the street sushi stall in front of Bishamon, the old man grabbed two or three pieces of toro, and with that, feeling sufficiently extravagant, made his way home while idly browsing the night stalls. After crossing the tram line and immediately turning left into the alley beside the furniture store, there was a place called Toramaru Billiard Hall. Whenever he reached this point, the old man would invariably feel an inexplicable tension in his heart. He inserted the folding fan he held into his obi and adjusted his loosened collar. He never forgot to wipe his face with the hand towel he had folded in his breast pocket—for the old man, the bright eaves lights of Toramaru Billiard Hall served as the signal to don his usual mask, the one he had set aside. After walking about half a block, there was a house. When he opened the lattice door, the maid Tane with the bad leg came to greet him. Dragging her bad leg, she followed behind the old man and tidied up the discarded haori coat and tabi socks. The old man remained sullenly silent for a little while with a displeased expression. When returning wearied from work-related visits, the old man would often make such a face.

“Damn, it’s stifling in here.” The old man, having changed into his yukatabira, entered the six-tatami room at the back that served as Naigi-san’s sickroom while using a fan. The patient, whom he had assumed was resting, was sitting on the floor doing needlework under the dim electric light she had lowered.

“You must be tired.” Stopping her needlework, Naigi-san slowly raised her face. It was the customary greeting whenever the old man returned from outside. The words had barely left her lips when a coughing fit seized her; she remained motionless with sleeve pressed to mouth. Whether it was the lighting or the wasting from years of bedridden existence, tonight it appeared strikingly pronounced. The sagging of her lower eyelids had deepened, and aubergine-hued spots stood out prominently around her high cheekbones. Each time she coughed, these would flush red. “You don’t have to do work like this...”

The old man said in a gentle, admonishing tone. "The thing is, you see, if I just idle about, these fingertips of mine ache unbearably." "But when I keep moving the needle like this, somehow the pain seems to stop." When her coughing subsided, Naigi-san spoke. Then, slowly removing the thimble from her parched, desiccated fingers, she said, "These hands of mine—they’ve always been meant for work," and gave a laugh devoid of strength.

“Well, I suppose so. If I don’t use the abacus for half a day, these hands of mine get oddly restless, you know. ‘Work chases away poverty’—now that’s a clever saying from the old days.”

The old man didn't think this proverb truly applied to the current situation, but being unable to conjure up anything more fitting on the spot, he made do with it as a temporary measure.

When the old man had served as clerk to Tōsen (Watanabe Senzō, the renowned moneylender of Ugo Province), there was a chief clerk called Mr. Maruo who was greatly favored by the master and well-liked by those under him. When those under him committed some oversight, he refrained from outright scolding. Instead, during communal meals when all were gathered, he would mix in proverbs to subtly offer admonitions. Even if people forgot the detailed admonishments, only the proverbs from those occasions would strangely linger. Umanuma was always impressed by this. And before he knew it, this emulation of Mr. Maruo had taken root within the old man, making him want to try using those two or three proverbs that had remained in his memory from those days whenever an opportunity arose.

The old man asked Naigi-san. “What are you sewing?” “It’s the lined garment from Komura-san—I’ve fallen quite behind with it.” “Now now, there’s no hurry for winter clothes yet. You’ll wear yourself out rushing like that.” He gently directed the fan’s breeze toward her. Komura-san was a widow living in a Umanuma-owned house just behind theirs—a sewing instructor who took in piecework from the neighborhood. Naigi-san had taken on two or three of these jobs to supplement her pocket money. Her fingers that had chased piecework since youth still couldn’t abandon needles, bound by lifelong habit. “A lady of your station needn’t trouble herself with others’ work,” the widow would sometimes probe. Naigi-san would answer with practiced courtesy: “Merely something to ward off boredom.” Yet in her heart whispered: “Even these hands become treasures when kept moving. Left idle—why, they’d grow discontented.”

The old man, frugal to his core, was particularly pleased with Naigi-san's recent conduct. Ohatsu could never hope to emulate this. After all, she was his Naigi-san.—Thus did the old man's satisfied heart guide his fan-wielding hand until he found himself wafting breezes her way. Noticing the sporadic blue tendrils of smoke from the boar-shaped ceramic mosquito burner by her pillow, Naigi-san called for Tane.

“Well now, it’s late—let’s turn in.” The old man said this and pulled the ceramic mosquito repellent burner closer, shaking off the portion that had turned to ash while still spiraled, then pinched out the remaining small ember glowing like a firefly with his fingertip while muttering “Hot-hot-hot!” The old man, who detested wastefulness, found this arrangement most satisfying. “Then I shall bid you good night.” With that, Naigi-san borrowed Tane’s hand and rose to perform her ablutions. Her retreating figure, coughing lightly as she walked slowly down the corridor, seemed somehow insubstantial, its shadow faint. As he watched her retreating figure, the old man felt a pang of pity. Naigi-san doesn’t have long left, he thought. She had often said she wanted to wear a crested haori coat and visit Kamigata just once in her life as a lasting memory—he now felt somewhat guilty that he’d never made it happen. But well, if I spend some money on her funeral, that should ease my conscience. The old man swung the fan behind his back and drove away the mosquitoes with loud, frantic flaps.

Having returned from her ablutions, Naigi-san looked at the old man as if suddenly remembering something and spoke. “Oh yes, after you went out, Yasu-san came by.” This referred to Yasusaburō, the old man’s younger brother who ran a Chinese goods shop on Yamabuki-chō Avenue. “Hmm, what’s Yasu coming around for again?”

The old man asked with an indifferent look. He did not seem particularly pleased about Yasu-san’s visit. "He was speaking about Taishichi-san."

Taking the small boxwood comb from beside her pillow, Naigi-san began combing her thin hair. Her eyes darted a glance at the old man as if probing.

Recently, Yasu-san himself had been coming around several times to request that Taishichi—his second son who was become a second-year commerce student—be made heir to the Umanuma household through adoption. He had been coaxing Naigi-san with remarks like “It must be lonely without an heir,” while persuading the old man that “If you’re to adopt someone anyway, a blood relative would care more devotedly.” The old man always dismissed such talk with noncommittal ease. How coldly Yasu had refused his desperate plea for thirty ryō during those lean years—merely recalling that time made the old man’s stomach boil. At the time, Yasu-san—who ran an extensive Chinese goods wholesale business in Kyōbashi—had flatly refused this request, claiming he unfortunately had no idle funds to spare. Now fallen into decline, he came clinging to the old man who had built up his fortune. The old man’s displeasure was only natural.

“No matter how many times Yasu comes begging, I won’t agree to this Taishichi business.”

The old man stated brusquely. Hearing this, Naigi-san thought My, how obstinate he is, though in truth she felt little inclination to censure him. She too had vaguely discerned Yasu-san's ulterior motive regarding his son's adoption and found it just as distasteful as he did. Other relatives besides these had come asking whether the old man might bestow a child upon them. These were his elder brother—the elementary school principal from their hometown—and Naigi-san's younger cousin who worked as a scrivener. As for this principal, back when the old man had served as Tōsen's clerk, he would declare things like "I'll not tolerate a usurer for a brother," barring him from his house with all the aversion one shows venomous serpents. When exactly their hearts had thawed remained unclear, but they now unfailingly sent seasonal greetings and heartfelt local delicacies for Bon festivals and year-end observances.

Every time the topic of adoption came up, the old man and his wife would exchange glances and force bitter smiles. They simply couldn't bring themselves to engage with the proposal sincerely. Yasu-san disparaged the elder brother and scrivener while implicitly urging caution—"They're only after the property"—while the elder brother constantly tried to find fault with Yasu-san and the scrivener. Meanwhile, the scrivener kept prodding Naigi-san, desperate to secure some advantage. To the old couple, every relative seemed to approach with hidden agendas, making it impossible to trust any without reservation. Moreover, the relatives' utterly cold treatment during his lean years still weighed heavily on the old man's heart, leaving him unable to muster even obligatory concern for their welfare now. Rather than softening, the more his relatives pressed in, the tighter the old man's heart clutched his money as he retreated into a solitary vault of loneliness. The old man now reminisced as if for the first time—accumulating this much had demanded extraordinary hardships since youth—and he tenderly cherished this treasure held close to his heart.

When the old man worked at Tōsen’s shop, he was called Inosuke-san and had been rigorously drilled by his shrewd master. Tōsen was a man who built his fortune through usury and foreclosures within a single generation. Though society denounced his money-making as unscrupulous, not a soul emerged who could outdo him in business. Whatever ill repute he earned, Tōsen remained Ugo’s preeminent usurer. “Folks out there glare sideways at me,” he would sneer before his clerks, “saying I gorge myself on usury—but how’s my way any different from Mitsui or Mitsubishi’s?” “They wear tailored suits while I’ve got this shop apron—that’s the whole difference!”

Tōsen would often sneer like this in front of his shop employees. He would also declare, “Abacus beads aren’t moved by obligation or compassion,” and would not yield an inch in debt collection. Tōsen was precisely the sort of ruthless schemer people whispered about. Inosuke had taken over Tōsen’s boldness, business acumen, and frugality exactly as they were. However, this frugality had been taken to such extremes that the old man had grown somewhat stingy.

3

Ever since his days as Tōsen’s clerk, Inosuke had been lending small sums to the neighbors. As his capital gradually grew with interest, he began showing hints of business ambition and hung a small sign by the entrance that read, “Small-Scale Financing Available.” Until then, Naigi-san had been supplementing their strained livelihood through piecework sewing, but around this time she had finally managed to catch her breath. That being said, it wasn’t as though she had stopped working to idle about in leisure. On the contrary, Naigi-san’s hands had begun earning even more than before. However, now that the previous struggles of being hounded by money had been replaced by the pleasure of pursuing it, this shift itself eased Naigi-san’s mind. Inosuke found Naigi-san’s industriousness most satisfactory. Her barrenness was a flaw in the gemstone, but whether in her earning power or household management, such a wife was rarely found. There’s a saying that ‘A wise wife is the key to a thrifty home,’ but when it came to our Naigi-san here, she was nothing less than the irreplaceable lock on their precious vault—this was the pride Inosuke felt toward his wife. Naigi-san had come to vaguely sense this, and there was an air of her striving to increase her piecework earnings even further—driven by a determination not to betray her husband’s trust. After moving to Tokyo with accumulated capital, Inosuke too began profiting through foreclosures like Tōsen. For collateral items, land was primary, and he employed Tōsen’s methods in appraisal negotiations. He would find fault—this part’s defective, that part’s unsatisfactory—and even after the other party drastically lowered their appraisal, he’d keep grumbling complaints until it met his exacting standards. Inosuke frequently traveled for these land appraisals. He would sometimes venture as far as Hokkaido and Kyushu. Even for collateral items he had predetermined would come to nothing, he made a point of at least accepting the appraisal work. This was because Inosuke had his own unique methods. By traveling third class instead of second and factoring in accommodation expenses, he could secure considerable travel funds. Upon arriving, he would plead unfamiliarity with the area and have his welcoming party act as guides—scheming where possible to stay at those guides’ houses and save on lodging costs. People traveling by train often grew careless in spirit, leaving behind newspapers and magazines after reading them. Inosuke, considering these wasteful, had made it his habit to gather the empty Cider and Masamune bottles lying at his feet and stuff them into his cloth bundle to bring home as souvenirs.

Even in daily life, he maintained this approach, never wasting a single toothpick. Those worn down and frayed he would whittle smooth and stick back into the collar seam. Declaring there was a use for every scrap of paper, he would write on it, blow his nose into it, dry it over the brazier, then put it to use in the toilet. Such practices grew more pronounced as he aged. And so, people often looked upon the presence of a maid in the old man’s household with curious eyes.

Tane came after Naigi-san began her bedridden life. It was in the early autumn of the year before last. The long-term nutritional deficiency and overwork had taken their toll—Naigi-san’s tuberculosis now grew considerably worse. The doctor ordered them not to let her sit up. With no one left to manage meals, they found themselves at loose ends. Deeming maids from Keian too costly by half, the old man pulled strings to bring Tane from an orphanage. At first he’d paid her a pittance of wages until she herself came to refuse them. Born with a lame leg that made full labor impossible,Tane felt keenly self-conscious about burdening her master and mistress. This unspoken shame hadn’t escaped the old man’s notice. Whenever urgent errands forced her to drag out that twisted limb—“Ah right! That leg of yours!” he’d bark.“Here—I’ll dash over myself!”

Saying this, he would often end up handling the errands himself. Being spoken to like this made Tane feel her inadequacy all the more keenly. Driven by her resolve to compensate for this inadequacy, she helped with Naigi-san’s piecework sewing and handed over every yen she earned from side jobs like pasting paper bags to the old man’s hands, hoping it might offset her own keep. Occasionally, when the old man brought out bamboo shears and rummaged through the trash bin, picking up daikon ends or used kelp scraps,

“What a waste you’re making. If you’d stewed them, they’d make a proper side dish,” he would scold—though even being chided like this was painful, in ordinary times, compared to her days under the orphanage’s care, Tane found this life as carefree as that of a wealthy patron’s cherished daughter. That she could maintain such a happy state of mind was largely owed to Naigi-san’s labors when tracing it back to its source. For Naigi-san, Tane’s heartfelt devotion—sparing no effort as if believing her to be her own birth mother, even attending to menial tasks—was touching enough. Yet after long being worn down by Ohatsu’s affairs and her illness into a weary, lonely existence, she now seemed to prolong her life relying on Tane as her sole support. This too had begun to dawn faintly on Tane. Her heart grew ever more inclined to stay close to the unfortunate Naigi-san, and she served all the more diligently. For Tane, who had been in the orphanage until the age of fourteen and had single-handedly taken on tasks like fetching water and scrubbing floors, tending to an invalid was no great difficulty.

Seated on the futon, Naigi-san would often think "Ah, if only I had a daughter like this..." while letting Tane comb her hair. When this inadvertently slipped out as a sigh, Naigi-san—perhaps to cover her embarrassment—said, "Since you treat me so kindly, I feel completely as if you were my own daughter."

She would say things like that. Holding the comb, Tane felt so happy upon hearing this that it sent shivers through her. Driven by renewed determination, she kept combing vigorously—heedless of how she pulled Naigi-san’s hair taut enough to slant her eyes—bracing her legs as she worked away diligently. Tane, who had never known her mother, came to cherish Naigi-san, while Naigi-san’s growing reliance on Tane gradually bound their feelings together until, before they knew it, theirs had become a relationship akin to mother and daughter. They would sometimes eat sweets while hiding them from the old man. There were times when Naigi-san would slightly fudge the household accounts to buy Tane a patterned cloth. Tane would set aside portions of her piecework earnings to secretly treat Naigi-san to her favorite bean cakes. As these secret acts accumulated, the bond between Naigi-san and Tane grew increasingly intimate.

Because the old man was often out at night, both Naigi-san and Tane would frequently ply their needles at piecework.

Naigi-san begins to speak in this manner.

“Somehow… I can’t help feeling those Yamabuki-cho folks have some scheme brewing beneath the surface when they come to curry favor with us—I find it most disagreeable.” “What do you think, Tane?” “That is indeed so, ma’am.” “Both the master and the young master from over there look around shiftily with those gold-hungry eyes—they truly seem desperate to get their hands on something.” “People with gold-hungry eyes have greedy, wicked natures, they say.” “The director said so.” “At the orphanage too, there was a boy named Kanbō with those gold-hungry eyes—oh, he was greedy.” “I can’t tell you how many meals they stole from me.”

“Do they even steal meals?” “Well, each of us would get our rice bowls, place them on the table, then go to fetch the soup—but by the time we returned, Kanbō had already eaten them all.” “Children with gold-hungry eyes are truly wicked-natured, aren’t they?” “But since Master here is family, they’ll be taking him as their adopted heir, won’t they?” “Well, you see—though Master keeps saying he wants no part of Yamabuki-cho, in his heart he may have already decided.” “If it’s a matter of taking in someone from Yamabuki-cho, I’d rather make you my adopted daughter, but...”

Having said this, Naigi-san fell into troubled contemplation. Though she gave voice to wanting to adopt Tane, Naigi-san’s heart remained utterly indifferent to the matter. What Naigi-san agonized over was whether it should be Yasu-san’s second son or her cousin’s boy. When Tane said this, she found herself disinclined to take in Taishichi with his gold-hungry eyes, so her thoughts naturally turned toward the scrivener’s son. If she didn’t settle on an heir soon, Ohatsu might come barging in after her death and act like she owned this house—that would be too much to bear. Naigi-san’s deliberations hung on this. Unaware of this truth, Tane wholeheartedly believed Naigi-san’s words. Before long, the master would surely broach this matter anew. Tane bided her time. If she became an adopted daughter, she would eventually inherit this household.—As these calculations grew stronger with each passing day, Tane began feeling as though she had already become the daughter of this house. And driven by her growing obsession with Umanuma’s family treasures, she gradually began emulating the old man’s miserliness, striving earnestly to squeeze out even one extra yen from her piecework earnings.

Tane, who rarely heard mention of Ohatsu from Naigi-san, would sometimes become oddly fixated on Ohatsu and feel constrained around Naigi-san whenever she was sent on some urgent errand to Fukuro-machi to fetch the old man. Even when she returned from an errand, Naigi-san asked nothing. There were times when she rested with her usual calm expression, and times when she sat sewing on the floor. Yet at such times, Naigi-san wore a strangely drained, dull expression, and even when Tane tried speaking to her, she would only nod with apparent weariness.

Naigi-san, who seldom mentioned Ohatsu even around Tane, appeared to make extra effort to keep silent when before the old man. Even when the old man occasionally let Ohatsu’s name slip in unguarded moments, Naigi-san would merely nod with an expressionless face. For Naigi-san, who had been so tormented by Ohatsu until now, Ohatsu had become like a distant pebble along the brink of resignation.

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

The old man, having finished his dinner, had already gone out to Fukuro-machi.

Facing the veranda’s shoji screens where pale sunlight lingered, Naigi-san moved her needle from her bedding on the floor. Having finished tidying up, Tane set down a small tea tray beside her and busied herself pasting piecework kan bags with a bamboo spatula. Suddenly sensing that Naigi-san had stopped her needlework and was staring fixedly at something, Tane looked up. A caterpillar was crawling up the back of the shoji screen. Naigi-san’s eyes were drawn to it. Wriggling its black body about the size of a pinky finger, it climbed two slats while they watched. The black stiff hairs brushed against the shoji screen with a faint rustling sound. Naigi-san stared fixedly. When the caterpillar crossed the fourth slat, she reached her hand toward the screen. The caterpillar wriggled upward once more. Naigi-san stabbed it with her needle. The caterpillar writhed violently. As it writhed, its body—pierced by the needle—arched backward. Green liquid trickled down the shoji screen and dripped like a thread. Naigi-san’s eyes remained fixed on the caterpillar. At last, the writhing ceased, and the black body—still impaled by the needle—raised its head high and arched backward.

IV

The autumn wind began to seep into one’s skin.

To Ohatsu’s house in Fukuro-machi, Umanuma’s old man had not shown his face these past few days. Naigi-san must be in a bad way, the mother and daughter discussed. "If only she’d hurry up and join the Buddha’s company already," Okkāsan muttered under her breath as she lit the altar lamp—yet even then, Naigi-san kept chanting sutras as though she’d already become a Buddha herself.

Ever since hearing of Madam’s decline, Ohatsu had felt strangely unsettled. She couldn’t shake the conviction that it was she who was hastening that decline. She just hoped there wouldn’t be any retribution later—though even now, she was already dreading it.

Okkāsan—who waited for Naigi-san to be settled—chattered happily about the day she and her daughter would install themselves in the Umanuma household, but to Ohatsu this held no amusement whatsoever. Though she endured that old man as her master, she didn’t think of him as a husband even a whit. The mere thought of herself becoming the old man’s wife filled Ohatsu with misery. Yet when she saw Okkāsan’s genuinely delighted, restless demeanor, Ohatsu felt compelled to put on a happy face herself and forced a smile.

It had happened two or three days prior.

On her way back from the hairdresser, having remembered today was Tiger Day, Ohatsu had detoured to Bishamon Temple to pray; when she returned home, she wore an oddly sullen expression, her mind seemingly consumed by some weighty matter. Okkāsan, engrossed in conversation with a soap wholesaler at the shop, called out to her, but she climbed the ladder-like stairs as though she hadn’t heard. “What’s wrong?” When Okkāsan peered into the second floor with a worried look afterwards, Ohatsu—who had been leaning against the window frame absently gazing at the goldfish bowl—smiled as if noticing,

“It’s nothing, Mom. Earlier, you see, I ran into an old friend on the slope—it made me happy,” she said casually. With a look that seemed to say What, that’s all? Okkāsan promptly went back downstairs, perhaps concerned about the shop. Out of consideration for her mother, Ohatsu hadn’t spoken openly, but in truth, she found herself strangely drawn to the friend she’d met earlier. Having finished her prayers and just stepped out of Bishamon Temple, she was called out to: “Oh! If it isn’t Ohatsu-chan!” She immediately realized it was Endō Kotoko, who had been her close friend since elementary school. Not much time had passed since she’d set up her household in Koishikawa’s Suidōbashi area, Kotoko said—she’d come here today for shopping. After climbing up to Beniya’s second floor and reminiscing over shiruko, Kotoko began her happy tale. Her husband Shinkichi-san—five years her senior at twenty-eight—was a faultlessly mild-mannered bank clerk. His return home was as regular as clockwork, always precisely at five o’clock. “He’s so shy he can’t even go into a café alone—not that I have to worry about him getting into mischief or anything. Wherever we go, it’s always ‘Come on, Kotoko,’ and whatever we do, it’s ‘Come on, Kotoko.’ He’s utterly spineless without me.” “You’re just like a baby!” —she recounted with unmistakable delight in her voice. Drawn into this, as Ohatsu imagined Kotoko’s new household in every possible way—

“How about you, Ohatsu-chan?” Kotoko asked. “Yes, I…” Ohatsu began, but no proper reply would come. As she remained bowed in silence, Kotoko—who had been shrewdly appraising her from hair to sandals—suddenly noticed something and checked her watch. “It’s nearly time I returned home…”

"With that," she bid farewell.

Standing before Beniya watching Kotoko’s receding figure, Ohatsu felt a dark loneliness envelop her as if she might weep at any moment. Compared to fortunate Kotoko, she became acutely aware of her own desolation. No matter what hardships it might bring, she found herself yearning deeply for a joyful household with a fitting man like Kotoko.

Ohatsu, who had been raised at a relative’s house in Hanakawado from the time she became aware of her surroundings after being separated from her mother’s care, became a maid at a butcher shop called Sagamiya in Shinbashi through a neighbor’s help when she was sixteen years old. Ohatsu had been told by her mother that her father died of an epidemic when she was still a baby, but from overhearing relatives’ conversations, it seemed he had gone to work as a migrant laborer somewhere like Korea. In any case, Ohatsu felt little attachment to her father; at most, she supposed that if he were alive, they might meet someday. The Sagamiya where Ohatsu worked had long been saddled with debts, and one of its creditors was Umanuma Inosuke. At fifty-two years old at the time, Inosuke had begun frequenting Sagamiya for debt collections when he caught sight of Ohatsu—her softly plump features and somehow endearing expression growing dearer to him. So when he mentioned this matter to the master on some impulse, the man became quite enthusiastic. “Why don’t you take her under your wing?” he proposed. In the master’s mind, he chuckled like Hokusō—this successful arrangement with Ohatsu would surely bring some benefit to his creditor-debtor relationship with Umanuma. Umanuma, having long since seen through this scheme, had resolved from the start that “neither obligation nor compassion would move his abacus beads”—so even as his face broke into a smirk, he never forgot to calculate the interest in his mind.

When the master mediated this matter to Okkāsan from Ōmura—deeming it a dream-come-true blessing—Okkāsan visited Sagamiya several times to hold meetings with Umanuma. Before long, Mother—having been permitted to open a then-trendy mahjong parlor behind Kagurazaka and having left Ōmura—came to live with Ohatsu. Mother’s long-cherished wish had been for Ohatsu to secure a wealthy patron who would set her up with a small restaurant or meeting place, allowing them to live comfortably as employers rather than laborers—but Umanuma showed no understanding of these aspirations. Declaring that nightlife businesses too easily drained money away, he sold off the still-profitable mahjong parlor at a good price before its popularity waned, instead establishing the current haberdashery shop for them. Mother found this arrangement utterly dissatisfying, yet she couldn’t voice her complaints to his face. Having no choice but to grumble behind his back, letting Ohatsu hear her complaints about the old man became her only outlet for resentment.

As Ohatsu gazed at the goldfish bowl, tears would well up in her eyes unbidden. The goldfish swimming cramped in its narrow bowl came to seem somehow like herself. Around the time autumn winds began rising, after the long-tailed one had died, even the remaining fish grew markedly listless; these days, it often stayed perfectly still with its round mouth pressed against the glass. Herself, who had to navigate the vast world with such constraint and shame—Ohatsu found it utterly miserable. Even if I were to take her place after Umanuma’s wife passed away, people would still see me as nothing but a mistress who’d risen above her station. If even becoming the old man’s proper wife would make me feel that way, then it’s no wonder my current life feels so constricting. Ohatsu considered her constrained self no matter which way she turned. If I must navigate this world so narrowly and constrainedly, she thought, then perhaps remaining in my current carefree life as a mistress would be easier on my mind.

As the mother and daughter were talking about asking Uotatsu today to find out how things stood,

“Sorry ’bout that.” Was the sound of the old man’s geta entering the doma. Afterwards, he promptly went up to the second floor, “Well now... It seems Naigi-san’s finally at her end.” “Since last night, she’s already reached the point where she can’t even speak properly.” With his arms crossed, he sat lost in thought, his expression dark. Even when Ohatsu asked him something, he would only nod with “Uh-huh” or “Nope”—his heart seemed entirely stolen away by Naigi-san even during those brief moments.

“Do try to lift your spirits a little.” Mother came up bringing the sake flask. “I suppose...” With a forced smile, the old man accepted the sake cup.

Just then, hearing what sounded like someone calling from the shop, Okkāsan went downstairs to check and found Tane standing there breathlessly. "Please tell Master to return at once!"

she said in an abrupt tone.

Five

Two weeks had passed since Umanuma's wife Naigi-san died. Lately, the old man had been staying home all day tending to the memorial tablet instead of visiting Fukuro-machi. He would change the flower water, keep incense constantly burning, and personally buy bean cakes—Naigi-san's favorite—to offer before the tablet. At night, thinking the tablet must feel lonely, he would lie down before it alongside Tane. The dragonfly-patterned yukatabira kimono Naigi-san had worn until her death hung on the emon-dake clothes pole by the wall. From where the old man rested, it stood directly in view. To him, it seemed as though Naigi-san stood there modestly, murmuring something indistinct. Her low, deliberate voice kept muttering what sounded like incomprehensible complaints. Listening to this, he consoled her inwardly: "There now, it's all right." "You were...such a pitiful soul," he whispered. "You never wore a single new kimono." The old man spoke these words and teared up. He had never bought her that crested haori coat she wanted. The matching double-layered kimono stored at the chest's bottom—acquired cheaply as forfeited pawnshop goods—remained practically the only notable thing he'd ever splurged on for Naigi-san during their thirty-odd years together. By contrast, Ohatsu adorned herself with every luxury she desired. The old man found his deceased wife unbearably pitiable. In stark opposition, Ohatsu—"wallowing in extravagance"—struck him as strangely irritating.

The old man’s growing neglect of Fukuro-machi stemmed not from any sudden vexation with Ohatsu that had him dwelling on her, but rather from a kind of stubborn fidelity toward his deceased wife. Within the old man’s heart, a feeling akin to gratitude toward Naigi-san—who had shared hardships with him since their youth—had always remained warm, and this came to be felt all the more keenly after her passing. Thus, resolved not to set foot in Fukuro-machi until the 49th-day memorial had passed—out of a sense of duty toward Naigi-san—he remained steadfast.

In the room with the memorial tablet, during the nighttime hours when the old man would be writing nearby, Tane would sometimes begin reminiscing about Naigi-san as if talking to herself while working her needle. “Well now, Madam Naigi never did speak much of the Master from Yamabuki-cho or his son, but I suppose it was what people call an instinctive dislike.” “After the Master from Yamabuki-cho would leave, she would often develop a fever, you see…”

The old man listened while moving his brush. Her gentle way of speaking struck him as somehow reminiscent of Naigi-san. Though Naigi-san had never openly criticized the Yamabuki-cho relatives during her lifetime—likely out of personal reserve—it seemed she'd confided her true feelings unreservedly to Tane. That she developed fevers after Yasu's visits suggested profound aversion. Given how intensely Naigi-san had disliked that household, he saw no reason to adopt an heir from there... As his brush continued moving, the old man privately reached this conclusion. In truth, since Naigi-san's death, worn down by Yasu's relentless visits, he'd begun considering that adopting from Yasu's line might suffice. Yet when Tane voiced these thoughts, his resolve wavered inexplicably. The deceased's words seemed imbued with inviolable authority, leaving him spiritually cornered.

Tane would also say things like this. "When Madam Naigi would complain of headaches and retire to rest, she would murmur things in her sleep—and well, it was always about Fukuro-machi. 'So hard, so hard,' she’d lament, tears streaming down even in her dreams."

As he listened, the old man grasped Naigi-san's anguish, and an indescribable tightness rose in his chest. Beneath his guilt over having made her endure such hardships, it began to feel as though Ohatsu were somehow to blame.

Until now, Tane’s presence had been quiet as a shadow, but ever since Naigi-san’s passing, she had suddenly become conspicuous within the Umanuma household. She took care of everything from receiving guests and managing meals to occasionally assisting the old man with his abacus. Having been thoroughly trained in needlework by Naigi-san, she could now handle full-fledged work on her own. From the widow next door, she received piecework assignments similar to those from Naigi-san, applying herself diligently whenever she had spare time. The way she never wasted even a single thread scrap greatly pleased the old man. It was only natural that Naigi-san had taken her under her wing during her lifetime. To the old man, Tane was gradually becoming more agreeable.

When the 49th-day memorial had passed, the old man went to Fukuro-machi.

If he stayed away for two or three days, the young ones from Uotatsu would come bearing messages before long. Before long, Okkāsan began visiting Umanuma’s house under one pretext or another. The old man was privately displeased by this. It seemed Okkāsan’s visits were indeed motivated by ulterior motives—this time transparently obvious. When the old man was away overnight on business, she would march in like the mistress of the house—fiddling with the safe, peering into chests—then purse her lower lip in a spiteful smirk. “Well,” she’d sneer, “if the mementos aren’t coming my way, it’s because they’re all gone!” The old man grew furious when Tane told him. First he took Tane to inspect the safe in the guest room—putting on his glasses to examine the lock she’d supposedly touched—but found nothing amiss. Though truth be told, Tane’s reports tended to embroider the facts; this time Okkāsan had merely run her palm over the safe’s smooth surface out of curiosity.

Ohatsu, worn down by Okkāsan’s incessant nagging, now found herself driven by the desire to become Umanuma’s wife as soon as possible—now that things had reached this point. She waited for an opportunity to broach this with the old man, but no suitable moment ever came. As always, the old man would finish his dinner before coming over, only to return home when eleven o’clock struck. The old man kept lingering idly about, showing no intention of starting the conversation, so Ohatsu—feeling pressured by Okkāsan’s anxious presence downstairs—grew increasingly irritated. Yet whenever she looked at the old man’s face, she found herself strangely unable to broach the subject. Such days repeated themselves until Okkāsan’s mood turned foul.

“What a tongue-tied girl you are!” With an exasperated click of her tongue, she snapped, “Mark my words—the old man’ll go find himself some new wife from who-knows-where before long.” She would make spiteful remarks like that. “If you’re so worried about Grandpa, then why don’t you become the wife yourself?”

With these words, Ohatsu's ears turned bright red, and while wringing her sleeves, she dashed upstairs. “My, what a thing to say!” “This girl…”

Okkāsan wiped around the copper pot and looked up at the ladder-like stairs with a look of exasperation. She had been leaning over and leisurely wiping around the copper pot, but now she placed the pale yellow tea cloth she’d wrapped around her index finger onto the cat board, pulled out her underrobe’s sleeve, and gently wiped her eyes. For her mother who had endured hardships all this time solely for Ohatsu’s enjoyment, the coming "good days" seemed a natural outcome—yet Ohatsu remained utterly oblivious to this sentiment, thinking her mother’s happiness mattered not at all. That girl discards every bit of the debt owed to being raised by her mother’s sole efforts as if it were some old hair tie. For Okkāsan, the way Ohatsu had just spoken filled her with unbearable resentment. Raising her reddened eyes to gaze at the ladder-like stairs, she would then press her sleeve to her face and weep again.

The 100th day memorial for the late Madam Naigi had arrived.

In the morning, the old man stopped by Fukuro-machi and took Ohatsu along to visit the grave. Disliking being tended to by the family grave in his hometown, the old man had erected a new grave in Zoshigaya this time. The snow-threatening wind bit at their cheeks. The two walked in silence along the hushed cemetery path. The old man coughed intermittently. He pulled his mask down to blow his nose. Turning up his otter-fur collar, he walked briskly in quick steps, white-tabied feet moving rapidly. Ohatsu lightly covered her nose with the edge of her wisteria-purple shawl as she followed behind, clutching chrysanthemums. A sparrow that had been perched on a withered branch flew up to a wooden grave marker on their right, trailing white droppings.

They came before the grave. The old man had Ohatsu hold his double-layered coat and hat, then hitched his crested haori up to his back and squatted before the grave. The flowers they had offered earlier had withered from frost and frozen fast to the bamboo flower vase, making them nearly impossible to remove. Finally, after arranging the small chrysanthemums Ohatsu had brought, he pulled his mask up toward his nose and clasped his hands for a long time while chanting a Buddhist prayer. As the old man prayed, Ohatsu tilted her head and gazed at the wooden grave marker, wondering what had become of that earlier sparrow. The sparrow, its breast feathers parted white by the wind, perched atop the wooden grave marker and stared blankly.

Having finished their worship, as they retraced their steps along the cemetery path, Ohatsu— "Hey, Papa," she ventured.

“What is it?” The masked face turned around. Ohatsu hesitated somewhat, but “No, it’s nothing.” “It’s so cold today, isn’t it?” she said. “I suppose so. “Let’s go get something hot to eat somewhere.” "Oh! You're treating me?" “In that case, I’d like the chicken hot pot at Kawazutetsu.”

The masked face turned around.

“You fool! Today finally marks the 100th day memorial—so why the hell would I eat chicken…?” Having barked this, the old man briskly walked off. The reason he had barked was not so much that his own devotional abstinence had been forgotten, but rather because Ohatsu’s extravagant inclinations had suddenly flared up his anger. That’s precisely why he declared such a woman could never be welcomed into the household. The old man’s white tabi-clad feet hurried off briskly. He was reminded of the late Naigi-san. Tane was valued. Abruptly, the old man found himself thinking—what if he were to adopt Tane as his daughter?

"Well now, this idea's surprisingly not half-bad," he muttered to himself.