Pathway to Japanese Literature

Though I have unfortunately yet to be granted the opportunity to visit Chūgū-ji Temple myself, having encountered descriptions of that Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidered Hanging through others’ retellings and books on numerous occasions, Professor Yanai’s narrative held an especially compelling allure for me.

The extant embroidered hanging—a mere scrap less than three shaku square, patched together from scattered fragments—made its original sixteen-shaku-square form difficult to envision at first glance. Yet when one gazed quietly upon it, the lavish splendor of that ancient grand hanging unfolded miraculously before the eyes, and it was said one’s thoughts gradually ascended to Empress Suiko’s grand vision. The embroidered hanging had originally been stored deep within Hōryū-ji Temple’s treasure house; however, it was later transferred to Chūgū-ji Temple and underwent restoration by the nun Shinnyo during the Bun’ei era. At that time, there had already been areas where embroidery threads had fallen off, making deciphering the tortoise shell-patterned embroidered inscriptions so painstaking that one might say they spared no effort; however, it had not yet reached the point of damaging its original form. But by the mid-Tokugawa period, it had already fragmented into the small pieces we see today. The original form of the embroidered hanging was said to have depicted a Buddhist paradise scene at its center—complete with auspicious clouds, divine birds, sacred trees, cloud motifs, flowers, birds, human figures, demonic forms, and Buddhist statues—surrounded by approximately one hundred tortoise shell-patterned medallions resembling large coins. Each medallion bore four characters, totaling four hundred characters in all; these embroidered inscriptions purportedly conveyed the hanging’s creation story. Furthermore, Professor Yanai explained the reason for its creation in this manner. On the twenty-second day of the second month in the thirtieth year of Empress Suiko's reign, when Prince Shōtoku had passed away, his consort Lady Tachibana no Ōiratsume—overwhelmed by grief and longing—petitioned for an imperial decree. She resolved to depict in design the Land of Heavenly Longevity that His Highness had often expounded during his lifetime, yearning through this work to behold the circumstances of his noble passage into the afterlife. Empress Suiko, profoundly moved by this grief, deigned through imperial decree to have two embroidered hangings created. For their underdrawings, she commanded the court ladies to embroider designs by painters Tora no Suehisa, Koma no Kaseiitsu, and Ayabito no Kakori, appointing Kurabe no Hatahisa as their overseer. I seemed to recall this matter having also appeared in the Tenpō 12 edition (1841) of Kanko Zasshū (Antiquarian Miscellany) that I had once obtained at a friend’s house long ago. The court ladies who embroidered here must have been those who attended the inner palace and received imperial favor. The painters who created those underdrawings were all remembered as exceptional talents of their age, but I heard that the court ladies—the actual artisans—had not even their names preserved.

I perused several more books, but nowhere could I find the names of those court ladies. As Professor Yanai was well-versed in textile patterns, his discussion on the fabric and embroidery threads of the extant hanging fragments proved particularly detailed. Upon close examination, the fractured fabric pieces revealed weaves such as twill, silk crepe-style gauze, plain weave, and patterned gauze. Among these, segments of purple twill and silk crepe-style gauze predominated most abundantly, and while variations in color intensity existed, purple grounds dominated the majority. Regarding this silk crepe-style gauze, Professor Yanai had conducted various analyses from multiple perspectives; however, he concluded that rather than having been used as backing fabric during its original era, this material was likely employed during later major repairs after significant damage. When one considers that no comparable fabrics exist from the Asuka-Tenpyō era and that these constitute the majority of extant fragments, the original Asuka-period portion must have been greatly diminished. The embroidery techniques employed flat stitch, wrapping stitch, coiled stitch, and twisted stitch, with color thread combinations achieving exquisite refinement. Upon a purple ground, embroideries primarily using yellow, crimson, vermilion, purple, indigo, and green had been applied—their chromatic splendor defying all comparison. In the lower section of the embroidered hanging stood a bell tower reminiscent of Hōryū-ji Temple’s Golden Hall and the Tamamushi Shrine’s style, within which resided a monk clad in a green robe and crimson kesa. Though it was but a three-inch embroidered figure depicting a monk poised with both hands gripping a bell striker—ready to sound it at any moment—if one fixed their gaze intently upon it, this cleric appeared to spring to life. From Professor Yanai's words, I felt as though transported to that very scene, the monk's subtly animated form materializing vividly before my eyes. Through Professor Yanai’s eyes once more, my mind now stood before fractures where embroidery threads had fallen away to reveal yellowed backing fabric, before breaks where underdrawing ink lines showed vividly—and there I lingered, recalling times past while gazing anew upon Asuka artistry’s vanished splendor. Suddenly, murmuring voices of sutra chanting seemed to rise from within this embroidered hanging as an image arose of court ladies guiding their needles with single-minded devotion. Commemorating the revered virtues of the late Prince, it appeared that nothing but those feelings of unwavering longing and faith had been imbued within the embroidered hanging.

Deeply moved by Professor Yanai’s account, one morning I resolved that I must at least go to Ueno Museum to see the Infinite Life Sutra embroidery I had heard about in his lecture. I had heard that this sutra scroll employed embroidered characters for its text and portrayed scenes of the Pure Land in a frontispiece executed in vivid colors. It was not hard to imagine that later generations, emulating the Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidered Hanging, had come to embroider Buddhist statues and sutra scrolls with increasingly sophisticated techniques. Among extant works, I knew of others demonstrating exquisite craftsmanship—the embroidered Buddha at Yamashina’s Kanshū-ji Temple; the framed National Treasure “Embroidered Samantabhadra and Ten Rākṣasīs” held at Ōmi’s Hōgon-ji Temple; and the framed “Welcoming Amida Triad.” Moreover, in a book I had recently read, there was a passage stating: “Sugawara Naonosuke—a man who mastered embroidery through self-study—created an embroidered version of Kano Hōgai’s *Compassionate Mother Guanyin* that became as renowned as the original painting’s excellence.” However, where this work was stored remained undisclosed.

I disembarked from the Shōsen line at Uguisudani and took the path toward the museum—a route thickly overarched by trees along the wall of the Tokugawa Mausoleum. Though the day marking autumn's arrival had long passed on the calendar, the heat only intensified—the sunlight filtering through the trees seared my back—and along this utterly deserted path where a ceaseless downpour of cicada cries rang deafeningly loud, perhaps because of that very clamor, the surrounding solitude seemed distilled to an even purer clarity. I encountered nothing but children catching cicadas.

Upon reaching the museum’s entrance, I hesitated and frowned in puzzlement. Gravel-carrying laborers bustled in and out with such frequency that the surroundings felt oddly agitated. The gatekeeper explained that with the recent completion of a new annex, the museum had temporarily closed to relocate its exhibits.

“You’ll have to bear with it until November, sir. “But this time, you’ll be able to view it in splendid facilities. “There—the one you can see over there...”

The old gatekeeper emerged from his post, squinting his eyes, and pointed at the massive white building visible through the trees with the stub of a cigarette clamped between his fingers. The painters who contributed to the creation of the Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidered Hanging appear in historical records as members of the Yellow Register Painters and Yamashiro Painters—groups established in the twelfth year of Empress Suiko’s reign to protect immigrant artists. Suehisa was a naturalized Han Chinese residing in Yamato who belonged to the Eastern Han faction; Kakori likewise, and Kaseiitsu was a naturalized Goguryeoan. Therefore, in this first embroidered hanging of our country, paintings of both Chinese and Goguryeo styles are depicted. Subsequently, Japanese embroidery art gradually incorporated distinctive native sensibilities. By the Sengoku period, embroidery came to be applied even to weapons and armor. By the Genroku era, it had reached its most refined form, and during the Tokugawa period, it became so integral that the quantity of embroidery used on garments served to determine the social standing of samurai households.

In the West as well, it appears that Aaron’s sash in the Old Testament is described as a beautiful linen cloth embroidered in crimson, blue, and purple, suggesting they had already mastered that craft quite early on. Later, tradition holds that monastic robes in Anglo-Saxon monasteries were also exquisitely embroidered. "The Tapestry of Queen Matilda" is something one often hears of, but I understand it is preserved today at Bayeux Cathedral in Normandy, France, as the most extraordinary relic from the Romanesque period. I understand it takes Duke William of Normandy’s conquest of England as its subject matter, surviving both as Queen Matilda’s handiwork and as a splendid late 11th-century embroidered textile. However, as old art journals also record that “all textiles and embroidery until this era had been supplied from the East, and it was during this period that Europe first began producing beautiful works embroidered on wool fabric,” it appears Western nations owed their early development in embroidery techniques considerably to Eastern influences.

As I walked along, letting my feet follow the tree shade, I suddenly became aware of sweat on my back. Passing Tōshōgū Shrine, I descended a path where tree branches grew so thick as to create dim light and emerged at the edge of the pond. As far as the eye could see, there were lotuses. So densely packed were the leaves, overlapping one another in their luxuriant growth, that large white and pale pink blossoms peeked in and out of sight. Near the edge, in an area of water about one tsubo in size enclosed by lotus leaves, a waterfowl with vividly patterned markings on its back was swimming. Moving its small red webbed feet in unison, it swam through that narrow enclosure as though tracing a circle. Upon the sun-glittering water surface, small ripples formed and gentle radial lines trailed away like tails. A feeling of indescribable calm came over me, and I found myself captivated by it for some time.

Master Kafuku was certified by the industry both as a distinguished name in embroidery and as a "stubborn perfectionist." As for this appellation of "Master," I myself was merely mimicking the disciples' verbal custom—yet even when I tried calling this old man "Professor" or "Mr. Kafuku" instead, none of it ever felt quite right. Indeed, Master Kafuku remained the most fitting appellation for this old man.

In society, there seemed to be all manner of speculation about Master Kafuku’s solitary life persisting even into this age of cyclical return, but I had heard he maintained this solitary existence due to a certain conviction.

Since Master Kafuku had been my late father’s hometown friend, I often accompanied my father during his lifetime to visit that residence in Ikenohata Sukiyachō. One often sees practitioners of seated crafts with hunched backs and splayed legs, but Master Kafuku showed not even a hint of such tendencies—his lean, compact frame remained impeccably erect at all times, never yielding to slouching even through prolonged labor. He maintained a calm, quiet demeanor with an amiable countenance that invited approachability, yet there were moments when one felt an inexplicable tension compelling withdrawal from his presence. When deeply absorbed in concentration, this sensation intensified, making even meeting his gaze feel daunting. Though one might speak of old age, no shadow of senescence touched his visage; rather, what dwelled in his eyes seemed to gather youthful vitality with each passing year. Yet his closely cropped hair now lay thickly frosted, and when viewed from behind, one might glimpse fleeting traces of aged loneliness about his shoulders. Precisely because the unyielding spirit that had sustained his gaunt, unbent frame stood plainly revealed, the aging of that receding figure struck all the more keenly at the heart.

I had heard that Master Kafuku had once secluded himself in a mountain Zen temple during his time in his hometown; his daily morning practice of sitting silently upright before the embroidery frame apparently dated back to those days. When he began working on the embroidery frame, it was his strict custom to receive no visitors.

There was such an incident.

When I accompanied my father on yet another visit to Master Kafuku’s residence, there was already a visitor in the entrance hall who kept urgently imploring the disciples to announce him, perhaps due to pressing business. Owing to our longstanding acquaintance, we proceeded unannounced to the usual tearoom. The adjacent two six-tatami rooms served as workrooms. Master Kafuku sat in his customary position facing the small garden, upper body slightly inclined forward as he threaded a needle into amber or similar material for the frame’s border under the muted light filtering through deep eaves. The visitor kept peering out from behind the sliding door to press for urgency. Well-versed in their master’s custom of refusing audiences during embroidery work, the disciples appeared flustered by this insistent guest; yet when prodded again, one reluctantly stood to relay the message. The Master continued quietly threading his needle. After uttering a few additional words and turning to leave, he was halted by Master Kafuku’s call. The instruction was to fetch the lacking colored threads.

There was another such incident.

There was an instance when I encountered the clerk from Obiyasu at Master Kafuku’s residence. The Obiyasu establishment—this grand store headquartered in Kyoto—seemed to have been striving for quite some time to woo Master Kafuku away. In addition to Obiyasu, clerks from places like Suzusen Shoten—a specialist in pouches—and the long-established Tamaiya in Kyōbashi also seemed to still be diligently frequenting [the workshop] with unflagging persistence. However, Master Kafuku had never before accepted what might be called "store-commissioned work." He would say that once restricted by store commissions, the needle becomes utterly useless. Even now, as he listened to the Obiyasu clerk’s incessant Kyoto-accented entreaties, Master was slowly sipping his tea. Keeping the teacup pressed to his lips indefinitely appeared to allow him to avoid even the necessity of responding to this clerk’s volubility. When the chatter momentarily ceased, Master Kafuku set down his teacup,

“That’s most kind, but…” he said. The clerk persisted obstinately, but Master Kafuku merely repeated these same words. ‘In recent times, embroiderers’ standards have declined—they go out to shops themselves to solicit work. This amounts to willingly debasing their craft,’ Master Kafuku would lament on occasion. ‘They’ve become so fervently devoted to selling their skills that those who devote themselves to honing them have grown rare,’ he lamented. ‘In the past, even at sixty they were taught that refining one’s skills as another’s apprentice was the true path, yet nowadays they scheme about shop dealings before their apprenticeship term has ended.’ ‘While this may be an age demanding worldly shrewdness,’ he mourned, ‘how terrifying to unleash such people upon society—how dreadful that these crude works parade through embroidery circles, their shoddiness plain to every eye.’

Praise was seldom heard from Master Kafuku’s lips. Long ago, there had been an occasion when he exceptionally praised the work of a man named Soma who had come from Hirosaki to study embroidery in the capital. This Mr. Soma too soon established his own distinguished school and became an influential figure in the industry, though regrettably he succumbed to illness some years prior. Within embroidery circles, Master Kafuku circulated as “the unpraisable one,” his fiercely uncompromising discernment regarded as “stubborn perfectionism.” This fastidiousness manifested as severity toward his own technique, obstinacy in rejecting “store commissions,” and seemed fundamentally tied to his lifelong maintenance of austere solitude. That obstinacy, that willfully unyielding exactitude—society’s eyes saw it all as “stubborn perfectionism.”

Master Kafuku’s fastidiousness thus became a whip in nurturing his disciples, driving them single-mindedly down that path. This whip was seen both as a means to correct disciples’ faults and to discipline the master’s own indolence. Master Kafuku did not favor taking many disciples; his stated principle was to start by nurturing them from childhood to mold them into proper individuals. Some who left Master Kafuku’s tutelage have now made names for themselves, but the faces of disciples long familiar to my eyes numbered no more than two or three. Of these, only Ginzo still remained at the master’s side—Miss Hisame had long since departed, while Rennosuke, once renowned for his skill, had already established his own household, participated in exhibitions two or three times over, and was recently said to have been recommended as something like a director of the Embroidery Association. The other day at a local bookstore, I noticed a volume titled Japanese Embroidery Lectures by Rennosuke Katsuraoka; despite his youth, I hear Rennosuke’s reputation within the industry is quite remarkable. However, according to Master Kafuku, Rennosuke’s technique had declined since he began aiming for exhibitions. It was likely he had subtly implied how a heart obsessed with certain eyes and flattering others had naturally manifested in his technique. For Master Kafuku—who had never relied on associations nor had any connection to exhibiting works through others’ eyes—observing this former disciple’s current adeptness in worldly affairs must have been both terrifying and sorrowful. “Taking the needle in nothingness, placing the needle in nothingness—here exists only a heart attuned to the needle’s path,” Master Kafuku had once taught. “Should this needle heed even a single eye’s gaze, the terror of threads unraveling would surely follow.”

The first time I encountered Master Kafuku’s work was during my elementary school days. Through my childish eyes—having preconceived embroidery as nothing more than a colorful decorative object—I found myself perceiving something unexpectedly plain. It was a work embroidered with two or three mask-like motifs on a ground of tapestry brocade or similar fabric, its palette of dark brown, brown, pale brown, and white appearing how utterly subdued—even dreary—to my eyes. Moreover, the arrangement of the masks appeared utterly clumsy, and even this seemed uninteresting to my immature eyes. After several years had passed, my father requested this work, took it home, had it framed, and hung it in our living room. According to my father’s interpretation, this embroidery forms an incomplete harmony. The monotonous beauty of color threads from the same family, and even the ingenious arrangement of masks that had once appeared clumsy—these too began to unravel for me, little by little. Now that my father is gone, I hang and gaze upon this embroidery in my small chamber, finding myself ever more drawn to the exquisite subtleties of its craftsmanship. The path of embroidery that has until now been characterized by complete harmony and decorative brilliance—Master Kafuku’s journey must be seen as having shattered this very path. “In embroidery, the supreme creation arises when realism is elevated into symbolism”—these were Master Kafuku’s words. When that symbolism reaches its zenith, it manifests as patterns imbued with subtle vitality and harmony. The Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidered Hanging is said to have attained this pinnacle.

Moreover, Master Kafuku often heard people praise the quality of embroidery by saying things like "It’s just like a painting" or "It surpasses paintings," but embroidery was something entirely different in nature from painting, and attempting to compare or contrast them struck him as absurd. “People have long spoken of ‘making it look like a painting’ even in embroidery,” he had once expounded, “but this reveals an utter failure to comprehend embroidery’s essential nature. Unlike painting, embroidery derives its profound beauty from how each individual thread—with its delicately nuanced three-dimensional quality—interweaves into intricate patterns through meticulous craftsmanship.”

Before I knew it, my feet had circled halfway around the pond and come to rest beside Age-dashi. In the days when my father was still alive, we were often guided by Master Kafuku to dine at places like this Age-dashi or Yamashita’s Crane Beef Restaurant for evening meals. Age-dashi’s signature dish—the "Age-dashi," featuring freshly fried tofu topped with grated radish and drenched in a rich broth—was a particular favorite of both Master Kafuku and my father. For this dish alone, they would order multiple servings, passing a single sake decanter between them for hours on end.

Gazing at Age-dashi’s timeworn lattice window facing the pond, I suddenly fancied I heard two old men’s murmurs drifting from within and strained my ears—but all that reached me were the hoarse, shrill voices of serving girls greeting and seeing off customers.

Having made up my mind, I passed through Ikenohata Nakamachi and turned into the familiar alley I frequented in Sukiyachō. Since losing my father some years ago, I had somehow grown neglectful of visiting. I found myself envisioning my long-awaited meeting with the master with an inexplicable sense of bashfulness.

The corner had become a café. When I came here last winter, it had still been a women’s and children’s fabric shop—its small storefront spanning about twelve feet at the entrance where display windows had been installed, hung with rows of floral-patterned Western-style fabrics. It had undergone renovations with glass windows and glass-paneled doors installed, now bearing a sign that read "High-Class Café Muse." Before becoming a fabric shop, this space had housed a hardware store where Hisame’s mother used to sit hunched over, her needle hand busily moving amidst goods crammed into the narrow space. I started to stop, suddenly imagining I saw her mother’s figure reflected in the café window, but reconsidered and visited Master Kafuku’s residence next door.

Ginzo welcomed me with his buckteeth bared. “The master is currently engaged in sutra copying,” he said. Through the reed screen, I could see the dignified figure seated before the desk from behind. I sat down on the entryway step and exchanged quiet greetings with Ginzo while moistening my throat with the chilled barley tea he offered, recounting the time since we had last met. Ginzo from Tochigi had already spent over a decade living here as a live-in apprentice, drawn by his admiration for the master.

“Master tells me I ought to try standing on my own by now, but truthfully, I’m still so unsteady—here I remain stuck with these eggshells, keeping warm by his side.”

Ginzo, mindful of the master in the inner room, lowered his voice and reiterated.

“I was born inept by nature—since I can’t even approach the heels of Mr. Rennosuke or Miss Hisame, I believe I must devote twice their years to apprenticeship.” “Speaking of Miss Hisame… Well, she too possessed such rare skill, yet it came to such a wretched end…”

Suddenly struck by the strangely nasal and subdued quality of his voice, I reflexively responded, "Huh?" At that moment, a voice called out from the back room. Ginzo withdrew from his seat, and being summoned, I was ushered upstairs. Master Kafuku set down his sutra-copying brush and moved away from his desk. Adjusting his glasses, “Lately, I have become unable to hold either brush or needle without relying on this thing.”

he gave a quiet laugh. Having prided himself on his keen eyesight, the face now defeated by glasses appeared forlorn.

It was the first time I had seen Master copying sutras, and driven by an inexplicable urgency from this, I asked.

Master Kafuku remained silent for a while, but “Were you not aware that Miss Hisame had passed away?”

And then, once more, he fell silent for a time.

"The forty-ninth-day memorial is the day after tomorrow… How time flies…" It seemed like a soliloquy directed at himself. He pulled closer the tea tray Ginzo had brought, peered at the water’s temperature, and began preparing the tea. I found myself unable to believe Miss Hisame’s death and gazed at Master Kafuku, wanting to confirm the truth once more—yet his serene bearing left me too daunted to even speak. When I looked at Ginzo in the adjacent room, he was intently threading a needle before a long frame. Alongside him sat two young disciples, one of whom was unfamiliar to me. With beads of sweat glistening on his nose tip, he held the needle awkwardly—stiffening both elbows as he leaned his face into the frame to pass it through. My eyes momentarily saw Miss Hisame in that position and jolted in surprise. With those round eyes of hers looking this way, she smiled while daintily rubbing the needle against her habitually greasy hair. The air thick with anticipation that she might rise any moment dissipated when the new disciple—glistening with sweat beads—looked over, set down his needlework, and bowed.

“It seems she caught a cold before the rainy season started. She tried to keep it under control, but in the end, it turned into pneumonia.”

Master Kafuku, having said this, slowly poured the cooled water into the teapot. I cast my eyes toward the sutra copying on the desk. That passage of the sutra seemed to resemble the Heart Sutra. Recalling Ginzo’s subdued speech from earlier, Miss Hisame’s death gradually gained a tangible reality for me. At last coming to comprehend the master’s innermost heart that had led him to sutra copying, as I gazed at the brush standing in the brush holder—its tip still glistening with undried ink—a sudden surge of sorrow welled up from within me.

From the neighboring café, a blues-style record began to play.

“The sun scorches so fiercely again today…”

Master Kafuku leaned forward and peered at the sky. Over the low wooden fence on this side protruded the neighboring house's zinc eaves. Their reflected glare came harshly through the blue blinds along the veranda. Having finished his tea, Master Kafuku stood up, fetched a water-filled bucket from the kitchen area, hitched up the hem of his summer kimono, and began sprinkling water from the dampened edge of the veranda into the garden. Though called a garden, it measured less than four tsubo—a maple tree and two aucuba shrubs stood there, while by the water basin’s edge lay a well-tended cluster of hostas. Their leaves—freshly drenched and dyed a green so vivid it stung the eyes—quivered faintly under the impact of dripping droplets. The Master removed the fern hanging from the eaves, squatted down, and meticulously washed its leaves with what little water remained in his bucket. Peering through his glasses at the yellowed, withered edges of the foliage, he carefully plucked them away with his fingertips.

There was a sense of the front lattice opening, and Ginzo went out to receive the visitor.

“Mr. Sanmaido has come to deliver the item you requested,” Ginzo said, presenting something wrapped in a large turmeric-colored cloth.

Master Kafuku hung the fern from the eaves, finished wiping his feet with a rag, then lowered his hem and entered. “This time, to avoid earning your reprimand, I’ve thoroughly vetted the materials—well…the ebony available around here is truly top-grade.”

Sanmaido leaned forward, his gold teeth glinting as he rattled on, his mid-sized face peeking out from behind the reed screen. Master Kafuku took out the frame and tapped it with a clack-clack to test its sound, but soon stood up and took down a small frame covered in gold cloth from the rear cupboard.

“Allow me to assist.”

With that, Sanmaido stepped up into the room, but Master Kafuku—without seeking assistance—removed the frame threads and laboriously fitted them into the mounting over a long period. He propped it against the pillar and sat down to gaze at it. "This is Miss Hisame’s memento... What do you think?" Master Kafuku gazed intently at the frame as he slowly posed this question. It measured approximately one shaku in width and two in height—a young hawk embroidered on silk brocade, its decorative cord a vivid crimson. The hawk’s plumage teemed with russet mottling, its neck-to-breast down retaining a youthful softness that charmed—yet the keenness of its eyes, beak, and talons struck the heart with indescribable force. I had averted my eyes for but an instant, yet found myself gazing intently once more.

This young hawk, from its mottled coloring and even a kind of incongruity in its seemingly exaggerated form, stood utterly apart from actual hawks used in hawking. Upon closer inspection, this was a beautiful hawk as a decorative pattern. Neither the round yellow eyes nor the curved beak, when viewed in isolation, imposed themselves with any realistic vitality. Rather, I found myself struck by the delicate skill of the threads as an integral part of the pattern. Moreover, upon even closer inspection, this hawk—beautiful as a decorative pattern—lived, its sharp eyes piercing those who beheld it. It seemed poised to beat its wings and take flight at any moment, imbued with vital energy.

I thought about the creator. The creator’s soul breathed with fierce intensity here, woven into every thread. This hawk lived having received its creator’s soul. It lived within the decorative pattern. “Master…” To Ginzo’s eyes too, this seemed newly seen. From the threshold he remained motionless, gazing fixedly at the frame. Unintentionally, a voice seemed to have escaped him thus. The Master turned around but quietly averted his gaze and returned his eyes to the frame.

I suddenly noticed that the threads at the tips of the dangling crimson tassels had grown coarse. Only there had a slight gap formed between the threads. Since it didn't appear to have been intentionally done to make the tassel look frayed, when I inquired about it, Master Kafuku—

“Ah, this tassel…” With that, he fell silent.

After Sanmaido had showered him with flattery and self-praise for a while before soon departing, Master Kafuku spoke: "She passed away while beginning this tassel... but the needle remains attached to the back." Master Kafuku pulled the frame closer and removed the backing board to show us. From precisely where the tassel had been started hung a crimson thread about three sun long, its end holding a needle wrapped in layers of silver paper and further bound with thread over it.

“It wouldn’t do to let such a painstakingly crafted thing rust.”

Master Kafuku said this sheepishly while fiddling with the silver-wrapped needle, but to my eyes, only the figure of Miss Hisame—bent over intently with that needle in hand—loomed vividly.

Miss Hisame of Tanemura was hunchbacked. According to her mother’s account, when Hisame was fourteen, she had complained so incessantly of back pain that they took her to a nearby moxibustion clinic where they managed to stop the pain. However, soon after, she began crying out that her legs had gone numb. Concluding herself that this must be some lower-body ailment, her mother thereafter kept her out of public view and had her treated by a Chinese herbalist for a long time. It was said that by the time they realized her spinal cord had been affected and treatment was too late, a considerable amount of time had already passed. The reason she hadn’t even taken her to a specialist doctor and had relied on stopgap treatments was out of consideration for the heir and his wife; Hisame’s mother, being a stepmother, felt a constant sense of inferiority toward this son from a previous marriage and his spouse.

The family had been living in Ogikubo, where they owned a paint factory and ran a fairly extensive business. However, after the father passed away, through arrangements made by relatives, the mother and daughter rented a small shop in Ikenohata Sukiyachō—freshly fitted out with interior fixtures—and began operating a hardware store.

Hisame was seventeen years old at the time. An agreement had been reached before the relatives that living expenses would be sent from the Ogu house, but they only carried this out for about half a year at first. Gradually using the recession as an excuse, the payments became sporadic until eventually ceasing altogether. Since hardware sales alone weren't enough to sustain them, they put up a small sign for a sewing service and threw themselves into commissioned work. The mother's needlework skills became widely known, and orders from places like Yushima's pleasure quarter began arriving incessantly.

The mother's purpose in life rested solely on Hisame. Her daughter's disabled form had never left her heart for even a moment. The mother never treated Hisame as a disabled child. She never fussed over her as a disabled child nor pitied her as such. She treated her no differently than any ordinary child—making her run errands, do dusting and cleaning, and scolding her harshly. And when walking together, the mother would stride ahead relentlessly. Because Hisame would become short of breath and could never walk quickly, she turned bright red gasping for air while struggling to keep up with her mother's ordinary pace. This harshness was the mother's affection.

Because Hisame had beautiful hair, her mother habitually boasted about it. "Even if you gathered every girl from the downtown districts, you wouldn't find a single one with hair like this," she would marvel. And come New Year's, she would invariably have Hisame's hair styled in peach-split chignons or twisted silk puffs before setting out together with her daughter for the main thoroughfares. When Hisame appeared in public, she naturally developed the habit of touching her hair.

Far from being self-conscious about her stature, she showed not the slightest concern about it. Herein lay the mother’s slight relief. She was always cracking jokes and making people laugh whenever she spoke, so in the neighborhood she had gained a reputation as “that amusing Miss Hisame.” Truly, Hisame was a girl given to humor. Among the regular customers, there were those who—once reduced to helpless laughter—would unconsciously settle themselves at the front of this small shop and often find themselves being treated to tea. Apologizing for overstaying their welcome as they were leaving, they would end up feeling obliged and buying extra little items like scrub brushes or mesh baskets.

The housewives who frequented the place for sewing commissions would say things like this. “It’s all well and good to visit Atariya-san, but somehow you end up putting down roots there.” From her mother’s perspective, Hisame was an affectionate child who never ran out of interactions with anyone, regardless of who they were. Whenever neighborhood girls passed by the front, Hisame would excitedly call them into the shopfront and say such things.

“I’ve decided to marry a foreign gentleman.” “He simply has to be tall.” “Given how short I am—if my husband’s tall and his wife’s short—then the children would end up just average in build.” The listeners burst out laughing uncontrollably. “A foreign gentleman sounds fine,” they wondered aloud, “but how would Miss Hisame manage when talking to him?” “Why, I’d use a ladder of course!” Hisame answered with perfect composure. From the swell of guffaws came absurd questions like, “And where does she plan to carry her baby?”

“Since my back’s already booked solid, I’ll just carry them on the front!” Her round, bewildered eyes maintained such perfect mock solemnity that the sheer absurdity sent them roaring with laughter again. While laughing, the girls— “How pitiful.” —exchanged furtive whispers through meaningful glances. “Don’t you think God plays favorites something awful?” Suddenly Hisame would declare this with such fervor that even those halfway out the door found themselves pulled back to their seats.

“Maybe I’m God’s stepchild or something.” “First I get saddled with this huge burden on my back, and now today there’s another festival starting!” “Even if I twisted up a headband and tied on a work sash, it still wouldn’t be enough!” The anguish of a burden only women could truly share struck home, leaving the listening girls momentarily unable to laugh. “Will you take this burden off me, or will you stop the festival? Come on—which’ll it be? I’ve been driving a hard bargain since dawn!”

The girls burst out laughing. Before their laughter could subside, Hisame kept talking over them. Yet whenever someone tried to leave, she would fluster—rushing to brew tea in the back or dashing out panting to treat them to pancakes or imagawayaki. Even when with her mother, she behaved this way. Every time her mother tried to go out on errands, Hisame resisted and clung to her to prevent it. During her mother’s absences, no sooner would she sit moving her needlework than she’d stop customers for standing chats or step out front repeatedly to peer down the street… Never remaining absorbed in any task.

The mother laughed it off as her being a strange child, but she gradually grew reluctant to go out. One night, when Hisame went to the toilet, she suddenly let out a shrill cry, ran back, and clung to her mother. It turned out she had been startled by her own shadow cast on the wall—this became a humorous anecdote, but from then on, her mother stopped leaving her behind to go out altogether.

There were days when Hisame would pound her chest and grow restless. This occurred when neighborhood girls invited her to the nearby cinema. She would meticulously style her hair, scrub her face, have her mother fasten her obi, and leave home chattering incessantly. Never once had her mother watched her walk off alongside the girls. Hisame would immediately seize her needle. She would lose herself completely in sewing. The mother too never remained focused when alone. As if racing against time itself, she drove her hands forward by channeling thoughts through the needle toward her misshapen daughter. At such moments, misplaced stitches frequently appeared.

Among the passersby, there were those who would often turn to stare openly at Hisame, so the accompanying girls would blush and walk on, feigning nonchalance as they kept their conversation going among themselves.

“I’m such a fast walker, so I’ll go ahead and wait for you. I’m sorry, okay?”

Hisame must have said something like this, her face turning crimson as she gasped for breath, and then gone on ahead. The girls grumbled in shared discontent—after all the trouble they’d gone to inviting her, she just abandoned them like that—how thoughtless—but— “But, you know… it’s better than walking side by side, right?”

As one girl hunched her neck and flicked out her tongue, the others also hunched their necks and snickered together.

From the bustle of the main street, Hisame stretched up, smiled, and kept glancing back toward her companions. And with such hurried steps that her rounded back seemed to bounce, her small figure was soon entirely hidden within the crowd.

Hisame had a single thing she boasted about in front of these girls. It concerned Tatsuko Okuzumi, the soprano singer. Tatsuko’s mother and Hisame’s mother were cousins, and shortly after Hisame’s mother had lost her first child in infancy, she had been entrusted with nursing Tatsuko during a time of milk shortage. At four years old, Tatsuko was taken back to her birth family, but yearning for her nursing mother, she still often stayed overnight at the Tanemura house. When Hisame was born and began clinging to her mother’s breast, the young Tatsuko became furious and desperately tried to snatch that breast.

Her well-proportioned features and delicate dimples lent her face an innate charm, and since she displayed no trace of shyness—frequently entertaining others with games or singing songs in a booming voice—everyone doted on her. When praised, young Tatsuko would repeat the performance tirelessly.

Hisame’s mother habitually called her "Miss Okuzumi". Since Tatsuko’s father was a renowned lawyer, she felt there was an elevated lifestyle beyond her reach in that fact, and as the foster mother who had received this child from such circumstances, she took extraordinary pride. Hisame too, through familiarity, called her "Miss Okuzumi." She felt her heart swell with pride that this beautiful woman was her foster sister. Whenever she found Tatsuko’s photographs in newspapers or magazines, she would rush over to the neighborhood girls’ homes each time, panting breathlessly to show them off. This was from around the time Tatsuko had graduated in splendor from music school; Hisame carefully wrapped those photographs and name clippings in stiff paper and stored them at the bottom of her needlework box.

Tatsuko had once stopped by this small mother-daughter shop, saying it was on her way back from shopping at the Hirokoji department store. After her name had become known to the world, the only time she ever came of her own accord was on this single occasion.

Hisame began visiting Master Kafuku at the neighboring house when she was nineteen. Even before that, whenever there was an occasion—be it red bean rice or simmered dishes—she would deliver them to the kitchen entrance at her mother’s behest, be invited inside, naturally pick up embroidery techniques, and playfully mimic the disciples’ setups with prank stitches, often drawing laughter. It was Master Kafuku who had suggested she formally apprentice there, and he had even visited her mother to persuade her. Having her daughter master embroidery was something the mother herself had long desired. Now that she had become reasonably adept at handling tailoring needles, and if she could master embroidery techniques on top of that, her disabled daughter would likely manage even if left alone—so the mother’s considerations tended to dwell solely on Hisame’s fate after her own passing.

At that time, Master Kafuku’s disciples numbered only two: Ginzo and Rennosuke. Compared to Ginzo—who had been trained for seven years since age sixteen yet still made sluggish progress—Rennosuke had not yet even completed two years as a disciple, but his technical advancement left observers astounded. Yet the master alone never came to approve of his skill. So perfectly did even the threads’ disposition mirror the master’s that Obai’s manager and others treated this discovery like buried treasure, secretly commissioning works under the master’s name.

Positioned between Rennosuke and Ginzo, Hisame faced the embroidery frame; but she could only joke unreservedly with Ginzo, and rarely addressed Rennosuke. As for Rennosuke, he did not engage with Hisame or Ginzo either. This seemed to stem from shyness and reticence. However, there were times when the same Rennosuke would show a disarmingly gentle smile. It was only when he presented himself before Master and the manager of Obai.

Hisame found herself compelled to challenge this Rennosuke. She felt driven by an urge to surpass his work. Focusing her mind completely, she devoted herself wholeheartedly. As Hisame was particularly skilled at twisting threads together, she frequently assisted Ginzo with his portion too. This developed into a habit—Ginzo would “Miss Hisame, could you manage the division joins?” or “This time it’s a double-reed twist,” he’d plead in hushed tones.

The nimble motions of setting an awl in the frame hole, threading it through while holding one end between her teeth and twisting the other—though customarily performed standing—were conventions Hisame had never followed. She would always bend at the waist instead, twisting her upper back as she swiftly plied the threads together. She tried to keep her hunched back from meeting Rennosuke’s gaze. Where Rennosuke was present, she never once rose from her seat, and whenever needing to speak with him about some matter, she invariably reached for her hair.

Thus, it was Ginzo who fetched thread from the thread box for Hisame as she remained seated and tended to her needle changes. Since moving into this house, Ginzo had single-handedly managed everything from attending to the master’s personal needs to receiving guests and overseeing all household affairs, leaving him scarcely any time to devote himself to the needle. Ginzo found the greatest joy in this life of being with the master, and Rennosuke—who valued this loyal and single-minded disposition—also made him handle all manner of personal tasks just as the master did.

One time, when Master Kafuku assigned the theme “Four Noble Plants,” the three disciples threw themselves into fierce competition. Yet it was Rennosuke’s work that finished first of all—reproducing the master’s thread habits with precision, its vivid coloration capturing everyone’s gaze. However, Master chose Hisame. He chose that technique which, to others’ eyes, appeared rough and unworthy of note. Ginzo was over ten days behind the two of them and still had not finished. “Holding the needle while minding others’ eyes leads it astray into corruption.”

“Holding the needle while minding others’ eyes leads it astray into corruption,” Master Kafuku declared before his disciples.

“It’s dreadful. Even should you fall into corruption and recover your footing, this time the needle refuses to obey. Left alone, it strays into depravity,” Rennosuke added.

After this incident, a kind of reverence came to tinge Ginzo’s attitude toward Hisame. Despite this, Hisame continued her usual antics, cracking jokes to make Ginzo laugh.

“If Mr. Ginzo were to take a wife, you’d dote on her terribly, wouldn’t you? You’d embroider everything from her obi and kimono down to her collars and even underwear.” Even Rennosuke turned his face away and stifled a laugh. “And being Mr. Ginzo, you’d be rushing about handling everything from cooking meals to minding the children all by yourself—even trotting off to market in an apron. Your wife would be pampered like a silkworm in its cocoon with meals served on trays, just popping out babies year after year…”

“One on your back, one in your arms, one each at your right and left?” Ginzo laughed in reply. “If I could truly become such a wife, it’d be a woman’s greatest fortune... But really now, Mr. Ginzo—instead of being picky here and there—how about taking someone close at hand like me?” "You’d get yourself a cute little wife!" “They’d all say she’s just like a doll—you’d be the talk of the neighborhood!” Though Ginzo listened with laughter, each time he heard such words he found himself flustered. And gradually he ceased laughing and sank into contemplation.

One day, an earthquake struck—though the light bulb swayed only slightly before going out—and in that instant, both Hisame and Ginzo began to rise from their seats. Only Rennosuke—who had been transferring the design from sketch to fabric using gofun white pigment—continued his work with an unaffected expression. When a faint aftershock came, Hisame—who had been bent at the waist—staggered exaggeratedly and reached out to the neighboring frame for support, overturning the gofun dish. The white pigment flowed thickly onto the half-copied fabric, and Rennosuke looked up blankly at Hisame.

Then, on another day, when Hisame—who had been exchanging her usual banter with Ginzo—burst out laughing loudly, Rennosuke looked up,

“Please be a little quieter,” he shouted. “I’ll mind my business, you mind yours. If it’s too noisy for you, why don’t you go take a stroll around the block, neighbor?” Hisame responded with an air of composure, absently rubbing her needle against her hair as she did so. “What nonsense.” Rennosuke sullenly continued his needlework but suddenly uttered a low “Ah!” and pulled back his hand. A bead of blood had formed on the tip of his left index finger. He must have jabbed himself quite badly. Instinctively, Hisame snatched his hand and sucked the blood from his fingertip. She was fighting back tears.

Another day, when Rennosuke returned from accompanying Master Kafuku outside, Hisame—who had come out to the entrance to greet them—did not readily withdraw back inside. When Ginzo went to check, Hisame was squatting in the entryway tidying footwear. She startled and raised her face—caught in the act of brushing dust from Rennosuke's geta with her sleeve.

Over three years had passed since Hisame began visiting Master Kafuku. By now, even Master Kafuku had stopped supervising her work, entrusting it entirely to her skill. Hisame concentrated her focus and applied herself completely. The quiet mind riding the needle would glide forth naturally when facing the frame. But at times something fierce would drive this needle forward, leaving Hisame flustered. When the needle pressed onward while twisting together those ferocious threads, she would often find herself admonished by the Master.

One evening, when the male disciples had gone out, Master Kafuku called Hisame and said.

“Ginzo says he wants you to become his wife. What do you think?” The Master sometimes delivered sarcastic remarks with feigned nonchalance, so Hisame laughed without engaging—assuming this was another jest. But as she watched him maintain silence, his countenance remaining serenely composed, she suddenly grew agitated. “The proper course would be to ascertain your feelings first before deciding anything. However, it appears he’s grown impatient—proceeding on his own assumptions, he claims to have already sent word to his parents.”

“For my part, I consider it a good match,” said Master Kafuku. “And above all else, I believe Ginzo would cherish you. However, I have no intention of forcing this upon you or recommending it. As for where you might find the path to live truly happy—I have considered this myself… But for now, I can only fulfill my role in conveying Ginzo’s feelings.”

Having said this, the master lowered his eyes to his knees.

Suddenly, Hisame stood up from her seat. Panting heavily, she ran to the back entrance.

The master too rose from his seat but stood rooted at the threshold.

Crouching in the dark alley, Hisame was choking back sobs.

It was not long after that Hisame received her leave from Master Kafuku’s household.

Her mother, who had long suffered from kidney disease, had been in poor health of late and was often confined to bed. She had been using her mother’s condition as her pretext. From the paid work she had been asked to do for her mother’s care to every last detail of the shop, Hisame meticulously managed it all. She never rested her hands, always busily occupied with something. Even when customers’ voices sounded in the shop, she showed no sign of noticing; there were times when her back—apparently engrossed in sewing—would be rigidly hunched and bowed forward. At such times, when her mother called out to her, she would often respond with some nonsensical reply that made her mother laugh. Out of long-standing habit, she continued trying to joke with customers to make them laugh, but somehow even these efforts felt distracted and fell flat.

The customer left without sitting down as usual. Hisame had come to find going outside bothersome. Even when going to the nearby greengrocer's, she would return gasping for breath as if running. Whenever gifts arrived, she used to bustle about excitedly to personally take a portion to Master Kafuku’s house next door. But lately, even when urged by her mother, she would contrive excuses to avoid going on the errand.

When her mother was able to get up again and the needlework was progressing smoothly, one day Hisame suddenly announced she would go to her cousin’s house in Nichōchō. She had heard two or three days prior that her cousin’s wife had given birth and was struggling with a shortage of helping hands. Her mother was startled by this abruptness, but Hisame bundled her change of clothes into a furoshiki wrap and hurriedly left the house. Her cousin ran a small sake shop with a single apprentice, but here too, Hisame worked tirelessly, constantly gasping for breath as she stayed on her feet. From caring for her cousin’s wife confined to the childbirth bed and washing the infant’s swaddling clothes to preparing meals while minding the young children, assisting the apprentice with washing sake bottles and measuring miso—even during spare moments, she diligently rolled charcoal balls from charcoal dust.

Her cousin had four children in total—the eldest being seven years old—including a newborn. The older two would taunt Hisame by chanting "Camel! Camel!", often playfully leaping onto her back, pounding her hump, and shrieking with laughter. Even the third child—who had only just begun toddling—now lisped “Camel! Camel!” through unsteady lips, clamoring to ride on Hisame’s back. When they started crying, Hisame—at a loss—would often become their camel and crawl around the narrow room, panting heavily.

When her mother took to bed again, Hisame was summoned back home. Through Master Kafuku’s arrangements, she was taken to a nearby doctor, but the edema stubbornly refused to subside.

A sister-in-law from the Ogu house came to visit. As she was leaving, Hisame noticed her sister-in-law looking around the shop with apparent desire for goods, so she bundled up bamboo baskets, whisks, and other items the woman supposedly needed into a furoshiki full to bursting and let her take them. Even when other relatives came, it was still like this. They would take one or two items from the shop before leaving. Their thoughts never extended to restocking; to these people, there seemed a casual air as if not snatching up at least one item from the haphazardly displayed goods in the shop would amount to a loss.

The sister-in-law from Ogu was a sincere and kind person, her words always restrained and polite—yet within that courtesy and warmth there lingered an unapproachable coldness. Since the sales alone were utterly insufficient to get by, Hisame often worked through the night on sewing work. Driven by a desire to hold fast to the Ogu sister-in-law’s kindness, she made one or two visits, but upon meeting her, found herself strangely distanced by that polite demeanor and speech, left with nothing but stifling feelings.

"Since you went to the trouble of learning from Master Kafuku, why not try taking on some embroidery piecework? Unlike regular sewing, I hear embroidery pays better, you know." On nights when Hisame did not sleep, her mother too lay awake upon her pillow. With her sallow, swollen face turned sideways, she said this tentatively while helping with hem finishes and edge stitching. Hisame glanced at her mother with a troubled look but kept moving the needle all the same.

Her mother spoke again, hesitantly. "If you asked Master Kafuku, I think he could arrange some work for you." "If need be, I could ask him myself…"

“Something like that… Mom.” Startled by the sudden loud voice, her mother froze. “What was the point of you... spending three whole years slaving away like that?” “Besides, Master Kafuku went to such lengths for you, and it’s a rare skill you’ve acquired…” “But, such a thing…” Hisame stared at her mother with a truly troubled expression for a brief moment, but immediately returned to her needle and continued sewing with intense focus.

While she went to Yushima to deliver sewing work，her mother’s condition took a sudden turn；by the time the doctor rushed over，she had already passed away. The previous night，her mother had sat up on her sickbed with an uncharacteristically brightened face—

“I’m feeling much relieved now, so I’ll stitch up one piece today.” Defiantly taking up the silk crepe sitting-room garment, she had begun sewing one sleeve when she set down her needle.

“My face feels so heavy, you know.”

And she kept stroking it with both hands,

“Let’s leave the rest for tomorrow, I suppose. There’s no one as spineless as me.”

With a weak smile, she took Hisame’s hand and lay down. Her mother had grown accustomed to referring to her own swollen face in this manner and found it privately amusing.

The relatives gathered together, and the subject of their deliberation concerned Hisame’s future prospects. The sister-in-law from Ogu said in her usual kind and polite tone that it would be a shame—even if Hisame were taken in—they wouldn’t be able to properly care for her due to the demands of the children and workers. However, after being persuaded by the relatives, it was decided that the Ogu household would take Hisame in.

The Ogu house had a paint factory immediately behind it, with craftsmen coming and going through the alley that ran along the screen fence.

Beyond the alley lay a ditch spanned by a plank, and beyond that stretched a vacant lot of some thirty-three square meters where rusted zinc sheets had been piled and pottery shards with tattered charcoal sacks lay discarded. Even through spells of exceptionally fine weather, this lot never dried out, its black earth perpetually sodden. Occasionally someone in rubber boots would come to stretch fabric there. Hisame watched from the veranda while minding the two-year-old youngest child. Beneath the low screening fence one could clearly see those rubber-booted hands deftly fitting stretcher bars—amusingly swift work. Hisame's gaze drifted again to a pure white pottery shard embedded in soil, then shifted to a clump of withered grass at the ditch's edge. Mud-stained yet defiant, it bore red blossoms no larger than rice grains.

In the ditch, various objects had been discarded, and jet-black mud lay stagnant. Where old geta clogs soaked in mud and empty cans had dammed the flow, a small pool of water had formed, and there the blue sky was reflected distantly. Hisame sat vacantly, gazing at it endlessly.

Since coming to this Ogu household, Hisame often had accidents. She would drop small plates, spill soy sauce onto the wooden floor when trying to pour it, or go out on errands and forget to bring back the change.

The sister-in-law had never assigned Hisame any tasks of her own initiative.

The sister-in-law would habitually say things like “Miss Hisame, your body isn’t like others’,” or “Working so much will harm your health,” and have even the tasks Hisame started done by the children. While being treated with consideration, Hisame grew increasingly self-conscious of her disabled body through her sister-in-law’s manner of handling matters. The sister-in-law’s tone was gentle and deeply considerate, yet Hisame even felt oppressed by that very kindness and consideration. With that kindness, she felt as though her painstakingly begun tasks were being taken over. Hisame thought it would be better to be cursed at and put to work than to be shown such kindness and consideration.

The children of this household did not approach Hisame. They would not sit where she had sat, and never touched pickles her chopsticks had tasted. Hisame took to waiting until everyone finished before eating. She would portion leftover vegetables onto a small plate and dine alone. The youngest girl still sometimes took a liking to her, sharing half-eaten candies or begging for doll clothes. One day when Hisame spotted this girl among schoolchildren while running errands, she called out brightly and approached—only for the flushed, fidgeting child to suddenly clutch her bag and dash away. The clatter of the pencil case stayed in her ears long after; thenceforth whenever she glimpsed the girl en route, Hisame would fluster and detour.

After the first anniversary of her mother’s death had passed, Tatsuko Okuzumi came to visit the house not long after. Since she had only appeared at the funeral and not been seen since, the husband and wife first sought to discern the meaning behind this sudden visit through exchanged glances. “Though this is rather sudden, Miss Hisame—if you’re not busy, might I borrow you for a little while? Since my maid has returned to her hometown, I’m in quite a predicament.”

Tatsuko began in this manner. And then, showing her dimpled face to Hisame—who had turned crimson and was flusteredly bustling about preparing tea—she said: “Hey, Miss Hisame—we’re sisters after all. From now on, I’ll do everything I can to be of help.” The sister-in-law had been exchanging glances with her brother in silent consultation, but for now, she moved the discussion forward by saying they should confer with the relatives first.

Tatsuko left early, saying she had students waiting for their lesson.

The sister-in-law, uncharacteristically flustered, patted Hisame’s shoulder, “Miss Hisame, you’re truly blessed, aren’t you? To have such an esteemed person take notice of you.”

And she peered at Hisame’s face—flushed crimson as she fidgeted about—with sly, probing eyes.

The next day, Hisame was accompanied by her sister-in-law to the Okuzumi residence in Aoyama. Only the small hinoki frame she had received from Master Kafuku did she carry herself.

In the recent women’s journal I had at hand, there was a brief biography of soprano Ms. Tatsuko Okuzumi that appeared as follows.

Soprano; Lecturer at Meiji Music Academy; Lecturer at Shōei Music School; Director of the Wakakusa Society. Graduated from the Vocal Music Department of Nippon Music Academy’s regular course. Studied in Germany in 1932; returned to Japan in 1934; currently retired from the stage to focus on teaching. Authored *Southern Germany Travelogue* and *The German Music Scene as I Saw It*. I have yet to hear Ms. Okuzumi’s voice on stage. According to acquaintances’ rumors, her singing style somewhat lacks solidity and flows rather unrestrained. While one is astonished by the audacity with which she effortlessly performs pieces deemed difficult, it is said that a certain aspect of Tatsuko Okuzumi’s popularity lies in how she dazzles audiences with this very stage bravado.

I have a vague memory of hearing her singing through a record, but it was so long ago that I can no longer recall either her vocal style or what song it was. Come to think of it, I have heard that Ms. Okuzumi was under exclusive contract with some record company, so she must certainly have recorded a great many works. The other day, Ms. Okuzumi appeared in the gossip column of a weekly magazine with a photograph included—the headline read something like "Accompanied by a young swallow, she revisits Germany."

There was the daughter of an acquaintance of mine who had long studied under Ms. Okuzumi, and I often heard rumors through her; gaining admission to Ms. Okuzumi’s school appeared to be notoriously difficult. This was because family pedigree and social standing—rather than innate talent—were prioritized as the foremost criteria for entry. According to Ms. Okuzumi’s theory, promising sprouts of talent often withered midway when cultivated in impoverished soil. Unlike other arts, music required this soil to be fertile as a fundamental condition, and thus it was said these sprouts could grow robustly plump through such nourishment.

Family lineage and social standing were, in essence, terms referring to wealth, and the disciples accepted this as perfectly reasonable. And all of Ms. Okuzumi’s disciples were known as children from affluent families. Not only did Ms. Okuzumi maintain over twenty disciples under her care, but she also served as a school lecturer, and furthermore, with the Wakakusa Society’s customary biannual concerts in spring and autumn, her life was exceedingly busy.

Long after the events of this story, I was pestered by an acquaintance’s daughter into buying tickets for the Wakakusa Society Spring Music Concert. At every concert, the disciples were made to take on twenty to thirty tickets each, it was said.

I entered the venue late. The final chorus had already passed its midpoint; extravagantly dressed young ladies crowded the stage while flower baskets and bouquets presented to Ms. Okuzumi from music stores and disciples' parents stood densely arrayed about, making even this carefully prepared chorus seem overwhelmed by the kaleidoscopic display of colors. When the event ended and I was pushed into the corridor by the restive crowd heading home, an acquaintance’s daughter called out to me near the dressing room entrance. The amiable Western-clad woman with dimples standing nearby greeting people was unmistakably Ms. Okuzumi from the photographs I had seen. The acquaintance’s daughter pulled my hand and introduced me to Ms. Okuzumi.

“Would you care to join us for tea?” With that, Ms. Okuzumi turned a face brimming with charming amiability toward me as she issued her invitation. “We’re just about to make our way to Ginza, you see.”

The acquaintance’s daughter clung to my hand and wouldn’t let go. I complied with their urging and joined Ms. Okuzumi and her companions. The disciples, including the acquaintance’s daughter, numbered four. “All these people here are my darling little chicks, you know.” Even inside the car, Ms. Okuzumi engaged in playful antics with her disciples. When she spread her arms wide in a gesture of enfolding them like wings, the young ladies shrieked with laughter and doubled over. Among both her disciples and the students at her school, I had been told by an acquaintance’s daughter that Ms. Okuzumi was both admired and made a fuss over. As I gazed intently at her amiable features and gestures brimming with gentle charm right before me, I thought it no wonder the girls were making such a commotion.

When we had settled into the café, I suddenly recalled Ms. Hisame and tried to bring her up in conversation. "Oh, you were acquainted with her?"

A hard look of surprise flashed across Ms. Okuzumi’s face for an instant, but she immediately turned a beaming countenance toward the young ladies,

“All these people here were admirers of Miss Hisame, you know,” she said. Ms. Okuzumi began recounting from when she first took in Miss Hisame. She spoke while even tearing up faintly. The young ladies nodded along, effusively praising the deceased for her embroidery skills. As she spoke, Ms. Okuzumi’s eyes kept darting upward glances at me. This occurred whenever I looked down or seemed distracted by other matters. Those swift upward glances appeared both to gauge her story’s impact and to secretly observe me. Despite Ms. Okuzumi’s utterly charming countenance brimming with warmth, these stolen looks evoked an inexplicable gloom. Within those fleeting glances, I strangely sensed not just calculated shrewdness but something resembling relentless vigilance.

The gossipy music scene chatterboxes spread various rumors about Ms. Okuzumi—that living alone must incur few expenses, that she’d likely amassed quite a savings—all while whispering such things behind her back. This didn’t seem entirely unfounded. Rumors abounded—that she owned rental properties, held three separate passbooks, dabbled in stocks—but among these, the stories about stocks and rental properties were hard to fully believe. For this did not align with Tatsuko’s nature.

Tatsuko’s disciples had held various speculations about their teacher taking in a distant relative—a hunchbacked woman—but once they came to share the belief that this act stemmed from compassionate mercy, their reverence for her only deepened. The relatives, if anything, though pursing their lips in disapproval, regarded Tatsuko’s eccentric charity with suspicion. Tatsuko kept a close eye on Hisame. Though unsightly, this girl worked diligently. Not only did she refuse wages out of gratitude for this benevolence, but she would seek out piecework from somewhere and sew whenever she had a spare moment. When purchasing kitchen utensils or prepared foods, she would put her sewing earnings toward them in advance. Tatsuko sympathized with her plight yet ultimately found it advantageous.

A middle-aged man named Michiaki Nakao would occasionally visit this house. Unfortunately, during times when Tatsuko was giving lessons, he would lounge in the back tea room resting his head on one arm, brew tea for himself without permission, and banter with Hisame. At times, he would play the piano for amusement or join in the chorus for entertainment. This man addressed Tatsuko as "Maestro," but rather than simply mimicking the disciples, his usage carried a distinctly sardonic edge.

Michiaki Nakao was a failed music magazine reporter who now worked as a "handyman." In other words, through running errands for others, acting as a broker of sorts, and managing concert arrangements, he had imperceptibly perfected the art of being an "Oh, this is convenient!" kind of man.

Because he was often entrusted with the keys to people’s private lives, this man would barge in anywhere with muddy boots and an air of authority. He considered this a rightful privilege he was entitled to, and the people who had entrusted him with such matters would grumble “What a pain” yet resign themselves and turn a blind eye to it.

A certain pianist had lent money to a piano tuner, but not only did the latter fail to repay it by the due date—as days passed, matters grew increasingly unresolved until eventually even his whereabouts were concealed. Michiaki Nakao, who had taken on the task, somehow tracked him down and soon collected the entire loan from the piano tuner. Tatsuko had been told about this by that pianist. Moreover, on another occasion, an unfounded rumor arose about Tatsuko, which was then ostentatiously splashed across the entire entertainment section of a third-rate newspaper. When she inadvertently vented her indignation to Nakao, who happened to be present, in her excitement, an apology was published in that newspaper the following day. It later became clear that Nakao had forced the matter through.

The reason Tatsuko began entrusting money to Nakao was that these two incidents had given her a clear understanding of the man’s character. A man like Nakao remained passive regarding his own affairs but could become strangely proactive in those of others. It was precisely this sort of man who possessed a tenacious forcefulness—at times even a defiant audacity. Tatsuko had banked on that very quality. She entrusted the funds to Nakao for circulation, though officially it was structured as a loan to Nakao himself. Knowing he had an uncle owning property along Kyōbashi’s main thoroughfare, she proposed making this relative the guarantor. This precaution stemmed from Tatsuko’s foresight for contingencies. However their discussion unfolded, Nakao swiftly obtained his uncle’s seal. Two documents were exchanged: a promissory note and a commission agreement.

This singer, being well-versed in financial calculations, handled interest matters with meticulous precision. She established a daily interest rate of six sen as the non-negotiable net take—anything beyond that depended on Nakao’s skill, allocating him a commission of one sen five rin when lending at nine sen, and two sen when at ten sen. Keeping in mind that Nakao would take his cut, she set the commission at seven-tenths of the net interest.

Nakao bore responsibility for the funds Tatsuko had entrusted to him, and Tatsuko held the authority to manage those entrusted funds. This singer, with an innocent face marked by dimples, gave various instructions. The loans were primarily small amounts, with repayments limited to three months, and the lending scope focused mainly on salaried workers. One day, Nakao came visiting and began like this: “How about around 1,300 yen? He’s a bank employee, you see.”

"What about collateral?" "Well, he says he's got property back in his hometown, but honestly, it seems fishy." "If you’re going to investigate, have them cover the travel expenses. We can’t have another Kawagoe situation where you foot the bill for a fruitless trip…" “Aw, now you’re bringing that up…”

Nakao scratched his head with exaggerated flair. “The person in question says they want to provide a guarantor—what do you think?” “If we’re accepting a guarantor, we’ll have to charge a slightly higher rate, don’t you think?” “I suppose around eight sen would be appropriate.” “Nine sen, nine sen. That’s precisely why you’re no good at this, Mr. Nakao—you’re too soft-hearted. You must’ve been treated to drinks.” “It was a drink, sure, but not coffee.” Having said that, Nakao raised his eyebrows and laughed boisterously—“Wahahaha!”

Just as Hisame brought in the tea and stood frozen in curiosity, she was drawn in and let out an involuntary laugh.

Since coming to the Okuzumi household, Hisame gradually began to liven up. It was as if she had reverted to the Hisame of her Sukiyachō days—the one who would do nothing but crack jokes and keep everyone laughing. When Tatsuko’s disciples finished their lessons and were relaxing, she would bring sweets and often crack such jokes.

“As for me, I was born with a naturally wonderful voice, you know. It’s such a pity—they’ve all been packed away inside this bag here.” And then she would proudly shake her hunched back. The young ladies who at first wouldn’t even speak to her gradually warmed up, until every time they heard such jokes they would giggle shrilly and begin calling her “the funny Miss Hunchback” among themselves. Hisame began dedicating herself entirely to embroidery. Late at night, when Tatsuko Okuzumi awoke abruptly and peered suspiciously into the lit maid’s room, she found Hisame hunched over the embroidery frame, driving her needle. Even when called, she showed no sign of noticing, merely continuing to stitch with single-minded focus. At times, Tatsuko found herself recoiling in dread, for in the abnormal intensity of this single-minded focus, she suddenly felt as though she were witnessing something uncanny.

Tatsuko was well aware of Hisame’s skill with the needle, and valuing this talent, she made her embroider endless half-collar linings, sashes, wrapping cloths, cushions, and more. And she also made these into gifts for acquaintances and disciples.

“Say, Miss Hisame—I’ve got this leftover fabric. How about embroidering slippers with flower patterns or something?” “They’d turn out absolutely adorable, don’t you think?” Tatsuko, rummaging through her scrap fabric box, would sometimes impulsively say such things. Feeling a flicker of excitement at her own idea, she began pulling out various fabric scraps and arranging them, “Perhaps I should give slippers as gifts to the disciples.” “Handmade slippers from leftover fabric—that’s quite clever, don’t you think?”

Since the disciples sent expensive gifts on every conceivable occasion, Tatsuko occasionally reciprocated. Ordered to do so, Hisame had to pour all her energy into embroidering over twenty pairs of slippers in less than a month before Christmas. So absorbed was she that she often missed the telephone’s ring, earning frequent reprimands from Tatsuko. For Hisame, even serving Tatsuko—being ordered about by Tatsuko, being scolded by Tatsuko—became founts of joy. The mere privilege of remaining near Tatsuko filled her with boundless contentment. To Hisame, Tatsuko stood as a radiant presence that elevated and nourished her very being. In Hisame’s eyes, nothing else held reflection save that brilliance.

In Tatsuko’s presence, Hisame felt somehow hesitant to show her back. When unavoidable tasks forced her to stand, she would crack jokes or fuss incessantly with her hair, then slip away along walls and sliding doors with feigned nonchalance while Tatsuko remained distracted by these antics.

The freezing cold of early spring persisted, and Hisame caught a cold and began coughing violently. After going to bed early for two or three days, her cough had apparently subsided, and she paid it no mind and kept working. Whenever she had free time, she dedicated herself to small-frame embroidery. It was about two years prior that she had begun devoting herself to this.

Her appetite did not improve, and after May began, she went to bed early again for about two days. Though Tatsuko verbally suggested, "How about seeing a doctor?", she made do with whatever cold medicine was on hand. Wherever Tatsuko was present, Hisame had never been seen lying down. Unable to even hold a needle, she would spring upright at the slightest sound even when resting. Her feverish face would sometimes lurch forward. Yet in Tatsuko's presence, she kept her unsteady hands moving through sewing work. Once when Tatsuko suddenly entered the maid's room— There being a guest requiring tea service, Hisame—who had retired early—sprang up while adjusting her clothes and pressed her back against the wall. Urged onward, she kept her back flush against the wall as she shuffled to the kitchen, steadying her swaying body while beginning tea preparations.

Several days later, when Tatsuko returned home, the usual sight of Hisame rushing out to greet her was nowhere to be seen. Even when she called out, there remained no trace of her. Peering into the maid’s room, she found Hisame bent over the embroidery frame, breathing heavily as she lost herself in her needlework.

Since the rainy season began, Hisame had again gone to bed early for about a week. In the middle of the night, there seemed to be signs of someone rising to drink water and moans that might have been heard in wakefulness, but Tatsuko was asleep. One day, Hisame suddenly disappeared.

It happened while Tatsuko was giving lessons to her disciples. Hisame did not return that night, and Tatsuko paid little heed, assuming she might be at her Ogū home. A day later, when Nakao came, Tatsuko told him. From Ogū came a brief reply that she hadn’t arrived. Nakao investigated the closet in the maid’s room. Tatsuko had completely lost her composure, pacing restlessly around the threshold as she kept pestering Nakao with questions. Only the small frame had disappeared.

“Since Maestro’s been getting herself all worked up lately—maybe she’s lost her mind.” Nakao stood in the tearoom munching rice cakes as he spoke, having just returned. Tatsuko, who’d been clinging to him and chattering nonstop, stiffened at his words. Panicked, “Don’t say such awful things,” “Mr. Nakao, please—you’ve got to do something right away!” she pleaded. Nakao wound up going to look for her.

That night, late at night, a call came from Nakao. He stated that Hisame’s whereabouts had been discovered. It was reported that she was in critical condition at a charity hospital.

Early the next morning, Nakao came.

“She really had a terrible time.” “We’ve ended up having to hold a wake after all.” “Oh right—she did call your name twice, you know.” “She must’ve still felt grateful after all.” “Poor thing—” “By the time I rushed over, she was already spouting nothing but delirious nonsense.” “Pneumonia, they say.” “But damn, she held on that long.” “The doctors were impressed too.” “Why in a charity hospital of all places…”

Tatsuko muttered to herself. “The police had passed along the word—apparently she’d collapsed near Kinshibori garage.” “Probably meant to head for Ogū though.” “No, Ogū’s the opposite direction.” “She left here on the fifth, and since they took her to hospital seventh morning—well, full two days wandering out there, huh.” Nakao brewed tea himself and said while blowing on the steaming cup, peering at Tatsuko from under his brows.

“How about it, Maestro—will you go?” “It’s still in the morgue, you know.”

Tatsuko shook her head in displeasure. “Now I’ve gotta dash over again and witness the removal.”

Peering through the windowpane, he said, “Damn, it’s really coming down.”

Nakao again hung up the wet raincoat. “Oh right, there was this strange old man—is he someone from the Ogū house?” “Over here, he wouldn’t say a word no matter what I asked, and when I peeked in thinking he was napping, his eyes were just snapped wide open—damn near made me yelp out loud.” “I mean, we spent the whole damn night alone with that old man in that freezing room without even a fire—ended up being some kinda silent vigil of sorts, y’know?”

To Nakao’s back as he was fastening the clasps on his rubber boots, Tatsuko weakly—

“I’ll remember this kindness,” she called out.

That night, Nakao stopped by again.

“Everything’s settled, Maestro—a man from Ogū came and took her away. …That Miss Hisame really was a peculiar girl, wasn’t she.” “Neither this house nor the Ogū house ever revealed their locations, it seems. …Oh right—that old man? He was from next door to where he originally lived…” “Ah, that must be Mr. Kafuku.” “He’s a famous embroiderer.” “Ah… So that’s him, huh.” Nakao fell silent for a moment, deeply moved.

Master Kafuku had stopped by the Okuzumi residence that afternoon. After offering his condolences, the master said: "If there remain any embroidered works by Miss Hisame, I have come most earnestly hoping to be granted the privilege of viewing them." "What was it... It seems she had been working on some embroidery of a hawk or eagle, but that—" "That was bequeathed through her last testament—I have received it."

“If there might be anything else left…” the master said quietly. “Well, if you mention other works… there’s nothing really… Oh, right—these slippers here, Miss Hisame embroidered them for me, though…” Tatsuko slightly lifted the slippers, their tips fraying, to show him. A small voice—something like “Ah!”—escaped the master’s lips. They were embroidered with white monochrome orchid flowers on a green figured silk ground.

The master stared intently. He took the slippers Tatsuko had removed onto his lap and gazed at them. He gazed at them for a long time. He gently brushed off the dust clinging to the white flowers with his fingertip. Then he turned his face away and remained silent for a long while. "Would you be so kind as to give this to me?"

Abruptly, as the master broached the subject like this, Tatsuko flinched. His voice was calm, but the eyes he directed straight at her were unexpectedly fierce. Tatsuko, feeling pierced by them, panicked—yet averted her gaze with feigned nonchalance. Tatsuko found the master’s intense fixation peculiar. And then, suddenly, Master Kafuku's fixation pierced Tatsuko's heart. Suddenly, Tatsuko developed an attachment to these slippers. Now, she developed a fierce attachment to the small-framed embroidery that had become the master’s possession.