Pathway to Japanese Literature

Though I remain unfortunately unblessed with an opportunity to visit Yamato Chūgū-ji Temple even now, having heard of its *Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidery* from others and read of it in books many times before, I found myself particularly drawn to the professor’s account.

The extant embroidered fragments—mere patches less than three *shaku* square, pieced together from tattered remnants—made it difficult at first glance to imagine their original form spanning sixteen *shaku*. Yet when one’s gaze rested quietly upon them, the lavish beauty of that ancient grand curtain unfurled miraculously before the eyes, and thoughts were said to drift inevitably toward the grandeur of Empress Suiko’s reign. The embroidered curtain had originally been stored deep within Hōryū-ji Temple’s treasure house but was later transferred to Chūgū-ji Temple where it underwent repairs during the Bun’ei era (1264–1275) under Nun Shinnyo. At the time, areas where embroidery threads had already fallen away made deciphering the tortoise-shell-patterned text so arduous that restorers took great pains—yet the original form remained undamaged. However, by the Mid-Tokugawa period, it had fragmented into the small pieces we see today. The original embroidered curtain was said to have depicted a Pure Land transformation tableau at its center, featuring auspicious clouds, sacred birds, divine trees, cloud motifs, flowers and birds, human figures, demonic forms, and Buddhist statues. Surrounding this were approximately one hundred tortoise-shell patterns resembling large coins, each containing four characters—totaling four hundred characters—that conveyed through this embroidered text the curtain’s creation story. Furthermore, Professor Yanai explained the reason for its creation in the following manner. On the 22nd day of the second month in the 30th year of Empress Suiko’s reign, when Prince Shōtoku passed away, his consort Tachibana no Ōiratsume—overwhelmed by grief and longing—petitioned for an imperial edict to embroider the motifs of Tenjukoku, the Pure Land of which the prince had often spoken during his lifetime, hoping through this work to behold his visage as he ascended to paradise. The emperor, deeply moved by her sorrow, issued an imperial edict commanding the creation of two embroidered curtains; for their underdrawings he appointed Kuratsukuri no Hata Hisakuma as overseer of court ladies tasked with embroidering them under designs by painters Tora no Suehira, Koma no Kaseitsu, and Ayabito no Kakori. I seemed to recall that this matter also appeared in the Tenpō 12 edition of *Kanko Zasshō*, which I had once come across at an acquaintance’s home long ago. Here, those referred to as court ladies who performed the embroidery likely indicated women who served in the inner palace and received imperial favor. Though history remembers all these painters as geniuses of their age, I heard that not even the names of those direct artisans—the court ladies themselves—had been preserved.

I perused a few more books, but nowhere could I find the names of the court ladies. As Professor Yanai was well-versed in textile pattern studies, his analysis of the extant embroidered curtain fragments’ fabrics and threads proved especially detailed. Upon close examination, the fragmented fabrics consisted chiefly of twill, crepe-like gauze, plain weave, and patterned gauze. Among these, sections of purple twill and crepe-like gauze were most numerous; though variations in hue intensity existed, purple grounds dominated the majority. Regarding this crepe-like gauze, Professor Yanai had conducted multifaceted analyses but concluded that rather than being used as a backing cloth during its original era, this fabric had been employed in later periods to repair extensive damage. During the Asuka and Tenpyō periods, there were no similar examples of such fabric; considering this constituted most extant fragments, the portion truly dating back to the Asuka period must have been greatly reduced. The embroidery techniques employed—flat stitch, twining stitch, coiled stitch, and interlocking embroidery—combined colored threads with consummate skill. Upon a purple ground were embroidered motifs primarily in yellow, crimson, vermilion, purple, indigo, and green, their chromatic splendor defying description. At the lower part of the embroidered curtain stood a bell tower styled reminiscent of Hōryū-ji Temple’s Golden Hall and the Tamamushi Shrine, within which sat a monk clad in a green robe and red kesa. Though it was but a three-inch embroidered figure of a monk—both hands gripping a bell hammer, poised as if to strike at any moment—fixing one’s gaze intently revealed his vivid animation. From Professor Yanai’s words, I felt as though I stood there myself, the subtly animated monk materializing vividly before my eyes. My mind, again through the professor’s eyes, now stood before fractures where only yellowed-brown backing cloth showed through fallen threads and where underdrawing ink lines lay exposed—gazing anew upon Asuka-period artistry while recalling times past. Suddenly, murmured sutra chanting voices seemed to rise from within this curtain, conjuring images of court ladies earnestly plying their needles. Commemorating His Late Highness’s virtuous legacy through veneration alone, it appeared only thoughts of single-minded longing and faith were enshrined within the embroidery.

Deeply moved by Professor Yanai’s account, one morning I resolved that I should at least go to Ueno Museum to see the *Immeasurable Life Sutra* I had heard about in his talk. I had heard this sutra scroll featured embroidered text and a frontispiece depicting scenes of the Pure Land in lavish color. It was not difficult to imagine that later generations, emulating the *Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidery*, came to embroider Buddhist statues and sutras with increasingly refined techniques; among extant works, I had heard that besides the aforementioned sutra scroll, there were examples demonstrating exquisite craftsmanship—such as the embroidered Buddha at Kōshō-ji in Yamashina, the National Treasure *Embroidered Samantabhadra and Ten Demonesses* panel housed at Ōmi’s Hōgon-ji, and the *Welcoming Descent of Amida Triad* panel. Moreover, in a book I recently read, it stated: “Sugawara Naonosuke, a man who excelled at embroidery through self-study, is renowned alongside Kano Hōgai’s *Bimo Kannon* embroidery for its outstanding fidelity to the original painting.” However, where this work was housed remained unclear.

I got off the Shōsen Line at Uguisudani and took the path toward the museum along the wall of the Tokugawa Mausoleum where trees loomed in dense profusion overhead. Though the calendar had long passed autumn's beginning, the heat only grew fiercer—sunlight piercing through the trees searing one's back—and on this completely deserted path, perhaps because the deafening downpour of cicadas rained ceaselessly enough to deafen, the surrounding desolation felt distilled to its purest essence. I met only children catching cicadas.

Upon reaching the museum entrance, I hesitated and was puzzled. Gravel-carrying laborers were coming and going frequently, giving the surroundings a restless air. According to the gatekeeper, the museum was now closed to transfer exhibits to its newly completed wing. “You’ll have to bear with it until November, I suppose.” “Instead, this time you’ll be able to view them in a splendid place.” “Look, what you can see over there is…” The old gatekeeper came out of the guardhouse, squinted his eyes, and pointed at the massive white building among the trees with a stubbed cigarette clamped between his fingers.

The painters who contributed to the creation of the *Tenjukoku Embroidery* are recorded in historical texts as belonging to the Kōsho eshi (Yellow Document Painters) and Yamashiro eshi (Yamashiro Painters)—groups established in the twelfth year of Empress Suiko’s reign to protect naturalized painters. Suehira was a naturalized Han Chinese residing in Yamato who belonged to the Eastern Han faction; Kakori was likewise [a naturalized Han Chinese], and Kaseitsu was a naturalized Goguryeoan. Therefore, in this first embroidered curtain of our country, paintings from both Chinese and Goguryeo lineages are represented. In embroidery art, thereafter, a uniquely Japanese aesthetic gradually emerged; by the Sengoku period, it came to be applied even to military equipment, by the Genroku era had reached its peak refinement, and by the Tokugawa period was used to such an extent that the amount of embroidery determined the social standing of samurai families.

In the West as well, since Aaron’s sash in the Old Testament is described as a beautiful linen cloth embroidered in crimson, blue, and purple, they appear to have mastered the technique quite early on. It is also said that later, the monastic robes of Anglo-Saxon churches were splendidly embroidered. “The Queen Matilda’s Wall Hanging” is a name one often hears, but I understand this is preserved today at Bayeux Cathedral in Normandy, France, as the most curious relic among artifacts of the Romanesque period. I have heard that it survives both as Queen Matilda’s handicraft—taking its subject from Duke William of Normandy’s conquest of England—and as a resplendent embroidered textile of the late eleventh century; however, as old art journals also record, “All fabrics and embroideries until this era had been supplied from the East, but in this age, Europe too began producing beautiful works embroidered on wool,” and thus it appears that Western nations’ development in embroidery techniques owed much to Eastern influence from early on.

As I walked along beneath the tree shade, I suddenly noticed sweat trickling down my back. Passing Tōshōgū Shrine, I descended a path made dim by densely overhanging branches and emerged at the pond's edge. Before me stretched an endless expanse of lotus. Leaves overlapped so thickly in their luxuriant growth that great white and pale pink blooms appeared intermittently among them. Near the bank, in a tsubo-sized patch of water enclosed by lotus leaves, swam a water bird with vividly patterned plumage on its back. Paddling its small red webbed feet in unison, it traced circular paths within its confined aquatic realm. Sunlight danced on the water's surface where faint ripples formed, their gentle radial lines gradually fading. An ineffable calm washed over me, and I stood transfixed by this sight for some time.

Master Kafuku was certified by the industry both as a scion of an esteemed embroidery lineage and as the “Stubborn Perfectionist.” As for the appellation “Master,” I was merely imitating how the disciples had grown accustomed to addressing him, but even if I were to try calling this old man “Teacher” or “Mr. Kafuku” instead of “Master,” it simply wouldn’t have felt natural. Indeed, the appellation of Master Kafuku suited this old man best.

It seemed society had much to say about Master Kafuku’s solitary life persisting into this sixtieth year of his cyclical age, but I had heard he maintained this solitary existence out of certain convictions. Since Master Kafuku had been a hometown friend of my late father, I often accompanied him during his lifetime to visit that residence in Ikenohata Sukiyachō. Among those engaged in seated work, one often saw hunched backs and splayed legs, yet Master Kafuku showed not a trace of such tendencies; his lean, diminutive frame remained poised at all times, never faltering even during long hours of labor. With his composed movements and quiet disposition, his amiable countenance felt approachable, yet at times an inexplicably oppressive atmosphere made one want to leave his presence. When he concentrated deeply on something, this feeling intensified, and there were moments when even meeting his gaze became daunting. Though one might speak of old age, not a shadow of it showed on Master Kafuku’s face; what dwelled in his eyes seemed instead to compound years of youthfulness. Yet his closely cropped hair had now grown largely frosted over, and when viewed from behind, one might momentarily glimpse the loneliness of age around his shoulders. Because the very resolve that had supported his lean, unyielding back now lay plainly visible, the agedness of that figure from behind struck all the more deeply.

I had heard that Master Kafuku, during his time in his hometown, had once secluded himself in a mountain Zen temple; his practice of sitting upright each morning before the embroidery frame in silent concentration seemed to stem from those days. When he took up the embroidery frame, it was his inviolable 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 prior guest in the entrance hall who, perhaps due to urgent business, kept entreating the disciples to relay a message. Due to long-standing custom, we were shown into the usual tea room without announcement. The next two six-tatami rooms had been designated as the workroom. Master Kafuku sat upright in his usual position facing the small garden, his upper body slightly inclined forward as he threaded a needle through an amber-like frame under the tepid light from the deep eaves. The prior guest in the entrance hall repeatedly stuck their face out from behind the sliding door to press them. While the master worked at his frame—a time when he received no visitors by custom—the disciples appeared flustered by this insistent guest; yet when urged once more, one reluctantly rose to deliver the message. Master Kafuku quietly continued threading the needle. After adding a few final words and turning to leave, Master Kafuku called out to stop them. He required them to bring the missing colored threads.

There was also such an incident.

I once encountered Obian’s clerk at Master Kafuku’s residence. The prominent Obian, which had its main store in Kyoto, had long been striving to persuade Master Kafuku to join them. Besides this Obian, clerks from establishments like Suzusen Shoten—specializing in bags—and the venerable Tamaeya in Kyōbashi still diligently persisted in their visits. However, Master Kafuku had never before accepted what are called “store pieces” commissions. “If restrictions are imposed on ‘store pieces,’ the needle loses all effectiveness,” he would say. At this time too, Master Kafuku slowly sipped tea while enduring the clerk’s ceaseless Kyoto-accented speech. Keeping the teacup perpetually at his lips seemed to allow him to avoid even nodding in response to the clerk’s prattle. When the chatter momentarily ceased, Master Kafuku set down the teacup and,

“Much as I appreciate your offer…” he said. Still the clerk persisted obstinately, but Master Kafuku merely repeated these words.

In recent times, even those who embroider have seen their patterns decline in quality, and it has become customary for them to visit shops themselves to solicit work—but this, Master Kafuku would often lament, was nothing less than willingly degrading one’s art. It was lamented that people had become devoted solely to selling their skills, while those who focused their efforts on honing them had grown rare. In days past, even at age sixty, one was taught that refining one’s skills as an apprentice was the path; yet in this age, they already think of courting shops before their apprenticeship has even concluded. Though one might say it is due to this shrewd world, it is terrifying to see such people sent out into society—terrifying that this crude work, though plain for all eyes to recognize as such, now struts unchallenged within the realm of embroidery—so he lamented.

Words of praise rarely came from Master Kafuku’s lips. Long ago, he had exceptionally praised the work of a man named Sōma who came to the capital from Hirosaki to master embroidery. This Mr. Sōma soon established his own distinguished school and became an influential figure in the industry, though regrettably succumbed to illness some years prior. The industry knew Master Kafuku as “the man who never praises,” viewing his fiercely uncompromising discernment as “Stubborn Perfectionism.” This fastidiousness became strictness toward his own craft, hardened into obstinacy against “store pieces,” and extended to his lifelong adherence to solitary poverty. That obstinacy—that willful fastidiousness—society’s eyes deemed “Stubborn Perfectionism.”

Master Kafuku’s fastidiousness served as a whip in nurturing his disciples, driving them single-mindedly down that path. The whip was seen both as a means to correct disciples’ faults and as a way to admonish the master’s own indolence. Master Kafuku did not favor taking many disciples, maintaining the principle of taking them in from childhood and molding them into proper individuals. Though some who left Master Kafuku’s tutelage have now made names for themselves, the faces of disciples long familiar to my eyes numbered but two or three. Of these, only Ginzo still remained with Master Kafuku; Ms. Jumi, the female disciple, had left long ago, and Rennosuke—once renowned for his skill—had already established his own school, exhibited his work at exhibitions two or three times, and I heard he had recently been recommended for a position such as director of the Embroidery Association. The other day, at a local bookstore, I came across a book titled *Japanese Embroidery Lectures* by Rennosuke Katsuraoka; despite his youth, I heard that Rennosuke’s reputation in the industry was remarkable. However, according to Master Kafuku, it was said that Rennosuke’s technique had deteriorated after he began aiming for exhibitions. It was likely that he had subtly implied the notion that a mind fixated on certain eyes and pandering to 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 how this former disciple now excelled at navigating worldly affairs must have been both terrifying and profoundly sorrowful. In nothingness take up the needle; in nothingness set it down. What exists here is solely a heart attuned to the needle. Master Kafuku had once spoken of how terrifying it was—how even this needle paying heed to but a single eye could cause threads to unravel.

The first time I encountered Master Kafuku’s work was during my elementary school days. To my childish eyes—having preconceived embroidery as vibrantly ornate decoration—it struck me as unexpectedly lackluster. The piece featured two or three faces stitched upon what might have been brocade, rendered in a palette of dark brown, brown, pale brown, and white that seemed altogether too muted and lifeless. Moreover, the faces’ arrangement struck me as thoroughly graceless, further diminishing its appeal to my immature sensibilities. Years later, my father requested this work, brought it home, framed it, and displayed it in our parlor. His interpretation held that this embroidery achieved a harmony of imperfection. Gradually, I came to discern the monotonal beauty in its use of threads from a single color family and the subtle artistry underlying what I had initially perceived as clumsy facial placement. Now that my father has passed, I keep this piece hung in my small chamber where I contemplate it daily, finding myself ever more captivated by its exquisite nuances. Thus we must recognize Master Kafuku’s path as having shattered embroidery’s traditional course—until then defined by perfect harmony and decorative brilliance as its hallmarks. Regarding embroidery, Master Kafuku taught that supreme artistry emerges when realism ascends to symbolism—that when such symbolism reaches its zenith, it manifests harmony through patterns imbued with subtle vitality. It is said the *Tenjukoku Mandala Embroidery* attains this very pinnacle.

Moreover, Master Kafuku would often hear people appraise embroidery’s quality with remarks like “It looks just like a painting” or “It surpasses painting,” but embroidery differed fundamentally in nature from painting, and attempting to compare them struck him as absurd. “Making it resemble a painting” had long been said of embroidery too, but this betrayed a grave failure to comprehend its essential quality; unlike painting, embroidery derived its subtle beauty from how each individual thread—with its delicate three-dimensionality—interwove into intricate patterns. Such were the words he had spoken.

My feet had, before I knew it, made their way halfway around the pond and come to rest beside Age-dashi. When my father was alive, I was often guided by Master Kafuku to places like this Age-dashi or the beef restaurant with cranes in Yamashita, where I would be treated to dinner. The specialty of Age-dashi—its namesake dish of freshly fried tofu topped with grated radish and drenched in ample broth—was something both Master Kafuku and my father particularly favored; for this alone, they would stack multiple plates and spend hours passing a single sake decanter between them.

As I gazed at the aged lattice window of Age-dashi facing the pond, I suddenly fancied hearing faint murmurs of two elderly men drifting from within and strained my ears—but all that reached me were the hoarse, shrill voices of young maids attending to arriving and departing guests.

On impulse, I passed through Ikenohata Nakamachi Street and turned into the familiar alley I often frequented in Sukiyachō. Since losing my father some years ago, I had somehow grown neglectful of keeping in touch. I found myself imagining the long-awaited meeting with Master Kafuku with a certain awkwardness.

The corner had become a café. When I had come last year at year’s end, it had still been a women’s and children’s clothing fabric shop, its small storefront of about two ken (roughly 3.6 meters) at the entrance equipped with a display window where Western-style dress fabrics with floral patterns were hung in rows. It had been renovated with glass windows and a glass-paneled door installed, now bearing a sign that read "Muse Café." Before the fabric shop, there had been a hardware store, and within its cramped space filled with goods, Ms. Jumi’s mother used to diligently ply her needle with bowed head. I caught a glimpse of Ms. Jumi’s mother’s figure in the café’s windowpane and almost came to a halt, but then reconsidered and visited the Master’s residence next door.

Ginzo welcomed me with his buckteeth bared and said, “The Master is currently engaged in sutra transcription.” Through the reed screen, I could see the figure sitting formally before the desk from behind. I settled onto the raised threshold and moistened my throat with the chilled barley tea Ginzo offered while exchanging quiet greetings about our time apart. Ginzo, originally from Tochigi, had now been living here as Master Kafuku’s live-in apprentice for over a decade. “Master says I ought to try standing on my own by now,” he said, “but truth be told, I’m still so uncertain that here I remain—clinging to his side like eggshells still warm from the nest.”

Ginzo, mindful of the inner rooms, lowered his voice and added further. “I am by nature an unskilled person—I cannot even approach the level of Rennosuke-san or Jumi-san—so I must dedicate twice the years of apprenticeship they did.” “Speaking of Ms. Jumi… well, she too had such skilled hands, yet it ended so regrettably…”

Struck by Ginzo’s strangely nasal, somber voice, I reflexively responded, “Huh?” At this moment, a voice called from the inner room, so Ginzo withdrew from his seat, and I was invited and led upstairs. Master Kafuku had set down his sutra transcription brush and moved away from his desk. Adjusting the fit of his glasses, “Lately, I’ve become unable to hold a brush or needle without relying on these things.”

he gave a quiet laugh. Having once prided himself on his keen eyesight, the face now overcome by glasses looked desolate.

It was the first time I had seen Master Kafuku transcribing sutras, and driven by a strange urgency born of this discovery, I asked. Master Kafuku remained silent for a moment before “Were you unaware that Ms. Jumi had passed away?” Then once again, he fell silent for a time.

“It will be her forty-ninth-day memorial 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 into the water’s temperature, and began preparing the tea. I could hardly believe the news of Ms. Jumi’s passing and wanted to confirm it once more, so I gazed at Master Kafuku, but his serene demeanor made me hesitate even to speak. When I looked at Ginzo in the next room, he was intently passing a needle through a long frame. Next to him sat two young apprentices, one of whom was unfamiliar to me. Beads of sweat glistened on the tip of their nose as they gripped the needle with still-awkward hands, elbows stiff and face leaning over the frame to pass it through. My eyes, for an instant, saw Ms. Jumi in that position and jolted in surprise. With those round, lively eyes looking this way and smiling sweetly, she rubbed the needle against her habitually oil-stained hair in quick, practiced motions. The air of anticipation—as though she might rise and approach at any moment—was dispelled when the new apprentice, beads of sweat glistening on their skin, noticed me looking their way, set down their needle, and bowed.

“It seems she had contracted a cold before the rainy season—kept suppressing it—until finally pneumonia took hold.” Master Kafuku said this and slowly poured the cooling water into the teapot.

I turned my eyes to the sutra transcription on the desk. The passage appeared reminiscent of the Heart Sutra. Remembering Ginzo's somber tone from earlier, the reality of Ms. Jumi's death began pressing upon me with growing force. As I gradually came to understand the thoughts that had driven Master Kafuku to transcribe sutras—gazing at the brush standing in its holder, its tip still damp with undried ink—a sudden surge of grief erupted from that very sight.

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

“Today is another scorching day…”

Master leaned out to peer at the sky. The neighboring house’s corrugated zinc eaves jutted over this side’s low wooden fence. Sunlight glared harshly through the veranda’s blue reed screen. After finishing his tea, Master stood up, fetched a water-filled bucket from the kitchen area, tucked up the hem of his summer kimono, and began sprinkling water from the dampened veranda edge into the garden. Though called a garden, it measured less than four tsubo—a maple tree flanked by two aucuba shrubs, with a cluster of well-tended aspidistra near the stone basin’s water channel. The freshly drenched leaves glistened with piercing green intensity, their surfaces trembling faintly under falling droplets. Master removed the fern hanging from the eaves, squatted down, and meticulously washed leaves with the bucket’s remaining water. Peering through his glasses at yellowed edges beginning to wither, he carefully plucked them off with his fingertips.

There was a sign of the front lattice opening, and Ginzo came out to answer it. “Mr. Sanmaidō has come to deliver your order,” Ginzo said, presenting something wrapped in a large turmeric-colored furoshiki.

Master Kafuku hung the fern from the eaves, wiped his feet clean with a cloth, then lowered his hem and entered. “I’ve thoroughly examined the materials this time to avoid incurring your reprimand—well… even the ebony obtainable around here qualifies as supreme grade.” Sanmaidō leaned forward from behind the reed screen, revealing his average-sized face as his gold teeth flashed while he prattled on. Master Kafuku took out the picture frame and tapped it to test its sound, but soon stood up and retrieved a small frame sheathed in gold cloth from the cupboard behind him.

“Let me help you with that.”

With that, Sanmaidō stepped forward, but Master Kafuku—without enlisting help—removed the frame threads and took a long time to fit it into the frame. He leaned it against the pillar and sat down, gazing at it intently. “This is Ms. Jumi’s memento... What do you think?” Master Kafuku slowly posed this question while gazing intently at the framed piece. It was a work measuring about one shaku wide and two shaku tall—a young hawk embroidered on a silk brocade ground, its decorative cord a vivid scarlet hue. The hawk’s plumage rippled with tawny-brown mottling, its neck and chest down soft with endearing youthfulness, yet the piercing sharpness of its eyes, beak, and talons struck one’s heart with indescribable force. I had momentarily averted my gaze but now stared fixedly again.

This young hawk was altogether far removed from hawks actually used in falconry—both in its mottled coloring and in what seemed an exaggerated form that created a kind of incongruity. Upon close examination, this was a beautiful hawk conceived purely as a design. When viewed in isolation, neither its round yellow eyes nor curved beak carried any realistic vitality. Rather, I found myself struck by how skillfully the threads formed part of the overall pattern through their subtle interplay. Yet looking even closer still, this beautifully designed hawk came alive before me, its sharp eyes piercing through whoever gazed upon it. The work brimmed with such vital energy that one might expect it to beat its wings and take flight at any moment.

I thought about the creator. The fervent breath of the creator’s soul was woven into this piece. This hawk lived on, bearing the creator’s soul. It lived within the pattern.

“Master…” To Ginzo’s eyes too, this seemed new. He stood motionless at the threshold, gazing fixedly at the framed work. What sounded like an involuntary murmur escaped him. Master Kafuku turned toward him but quietly looked away again, returning his eyes to the frame. I suddenly noticed that at the very ends of the scarlet tassels hanging down, the threads had grown coarse. Only there, a slight gap had formed between them. Since this didn’t appear intentionally done to simulate fraying, when I asked about it—

“Ah, this tassel…” He fell silent at that.

After Sanmaidō had delivered a stream of flattery, indulged in self-praise, and soon departed, Master Kafuku spoke thus.

“She passed away while working on this tassel… but on the back, the needle remains attached.”

Master Kafuku pulled the framed piece closer, removed the backing board, and showed it to me. From the very tassel she had begun working on hung a scarlet thread about three sun long, and at its end, the needle was wrapped in layer upon layer of silver foil, with thread further entwined around it. “We mustn’t let something painstakingly made rust away, you see.” The Master said this sheepishly, toying with the silver foil-wrapped needle, but to my eyes, only the figure of Jumi-san—bent intently over the needle in her hand—loomed vividly.

Ms. Jumi of the Tanemura family was hunchbacked. According to her mother’s account，when Jumi turned fourteen，she complained so persistently about back pain that her mother took her to a nearby moxibustion clinic where they managed to alleviate it．Yet soon afterward，Jumi began screaming that her back had gone numb，prompting her mother to privately conclude this must be an affliction of the lower body．From then on，they kept out of public view，subjecting Jumi to prolonged treatment by Chinese herbalists． It was only much later，they said，that doctors discovered spinal cord damage had progressed beyond remedy． This avoidance of proper medical consultation stemmed from deference toward her stepson’s household—Jumi’s mother being herself a second wife who perpetually felt beholden to this son from another womb and his spouse．

The family had lived in Ogikubo, where they owned a paint factory and ran a sizable business, but after the father passed away, through the arrangements of relatives, the mother and daughter eventually rented a small shop in Ikenohata Sukiyachō—which had just been fitted out—and opened a hardware store. Jumi was seventeen at the time.

The agreement to have living expenses delivered from the Ogikubo house was settled before the relatives, but they carried this out only for about six months; gradually using economic hardship as an excuse, deliveries began faltering frequently until eventually ceasing altogether.

Because sales from the hardware store alone weren’t enough to get by, they put up a small sign for tailoring services and threw themselves into piecework alongside their main business. The mother’s needlework skills became widely known, with orders from places like Yushima’s entertainment district arriving incessantly. The mother’s entire reason for living rested on Jumi alone. Her daughter’s disabled form never left her thoughts for even a moment. The mother had never treated Jumi as an invalid child. Never once did she fuss over her as a cripple or shower her with pity. Just as she would with any ordinary child, she made Jumi run errands, do dusting chores, and scolded her harshly when needed. When walking together too, the mother strode ahead without mercy. Since Jumi grew breathless and couldn’t walk quickly, keeping up with her mother’s normal pace left her flushed crimson and gasping for air. This very harshness was how the mother showed her love.

Because Jumi had beautiful hair, the mother habitually boasted about that hair. "Even if you gathered all the daughters from downtown, there wouldn’t be a single one with hair like this," she marveled. And come New Year’s, the mother would surely have her style it into a peach-shaped chignon or festive braids, and they would go out together along the main streets. When Jumi appeared in public, she naturally developed the habit of touching her hair. Far from being self-conscious about her back, she showed no sign of being concerned about it at all. In this lay the mother’s modest relief. Because she was always cracking jokes and making people laugh, she had become known in the neighborhood as “that funny girl Jumi.”

Jumi was indeed a girl with a comical streak.

Among their regular customers, there were those who, once made to laugh, would find themselves unable to stop and, before they knew it, often ended up sitting at the front of the small shop and being treated to tea. Apologizing for overstaying as they were leaving, they would end up feeling awkward and buying extra small items like scrub brushes and mesh baskets. The housewives who came for tailoring work would say things like this. “It’s all well and good to go to Atariya, but you end up putting down roots there, don’t you?”

From her mother’s perspective, Jumi was an affectionate child who never knew when to stop with anyone. When neighborhood girls would pass by the front of the shop, Jumi would get excited, call them into the shopfront, and say things like this.

“I’ve decided to marry a foreign gentleman.” “He simply has to be tall.” “I’m such a shrimp, see—if the husband’s tall and the wife’s a shrimp, then the kids would end up somewhere in between, right?” The listeners burst out laughing without restraint, and though they thought a foreign gentleman might be fine, they wondered aloud how Jumi-chan would manage when trying to hold a conversation. “Why, I’d put up a ladder!” Jumi responded with perfect composure. From within the erupting roar of laughter arose curious questions like, “Where does she even plan to carry a baby on her back?”

“Since my back’s already reserved, I’ll carry them on my front then.” Her round, blank eyes maintained such an impeccably composed air that the very sight struck them as absurd, and they erupted into another roar of laughter. Laughing, the girls,

“How awful for you.” They exchanged furtive whispers with meaningful glances. “Hey, don’t you think God plays favorites something terrible?” When Jumi suddenly blurted this out with fierce intensity, even those who’d been leaving found themselves drawn back to their seats. “Maybe I’m God’s stepchild or something.” “First they make me haul this huge load on my back, and now they’re starting a festival today of all days!” “Even if I twist up a headband and throw on a work sash, I still won’t make it in time!”

The pain of a shared burden understood only by women arose, and the listening girls couldn’t quite bring themselves to laugh. “Would you kindly unload my burden, or would you kindly stop the festival? Come on, which will it be? I’ve been making forceful demands since this morning!” The girls laughed out loud. Before the laughter could subside, Jumi cut through it and continued. Even so, whenever someone tried to leave, she would fluster off to the back to brew tea or dash out to the street and treat them to pancakes or imagawayaki while panting breathlessly.

Even when with the mother, it was like this. Whenever the mother tried to go out on errands, Jumi would resent it and cling to her to stop her. During the mother’s absences, she would be sitting in the shop moving her needlework—no sooner would one think that than she was stopping customers for standing chats, stepping out front to peer down the street again and again… There was never a moment when she stayed still.

The mother would laugh it off as “what a peculiar child,” but going out gradually became burdensome.

One night, when Jumi got up to use the toilet, she suddenly let out a piercing shriek, came dashing back, and clung to the mother. When it became clear she had been startled by her own shadow cast on the wall, it became a humorous anecdote; but from then on, the mother completely stopped going out and leaving her behind altogether.

There were days when Jumi would beat her chest and bustle about excitedly. It was when she had been invited by the neighborhood girls to go to the nearby movie theater. She would carefully style her hair, brush her face, have the mother tie her obi, and leave home chattering nonstop. The mother had never once seen her off as she walked alongside the girls. She would immediately set to work on her sewing. She began sewing, completely absorbed. The mother, too, when alone, had no moments of stillness. As if to keep her hands from slowing, she sought to spur herself on by pouring all her thoughts of her disabled daughter into the needle. In such moments, she often made stitching errors.

Among the passersby, there were those who would often turn around and stare openly at Jumi, so the accompanying girls would blush and, feigning nonchalance, carry on talking only among themselves as they walked. “I walk very fast, so I’ll go on ahead and wait. I’m sorry, okay?” Jumi was surely saying such things, turning bright red and panting breathlessly as she went on ahead.

Jumi would surely say such things, turn bright red, pant breathlessly, and go on ahead.

‘After we went to the trouble of inviting her, she just leaves us behind—how rude,’ the girls grumbled in dissatisfaction, but— “But… you know… better than walking side by side...”

When one girl hunched her neck and stuck out her tongue, the others also hunched their necks and snickered together. From within the bustle of the main street, Jumi straightened up, smiling, and glanced back repeatedly toward her companions. And with such hurried steps that her rounded back seemed to bounce, her small figure soon vanished completely into the crowd. There was just one thing Jumi took pride in boasting about before these girls. This was the soprano singer Okuzumi Ryūko. Ryūko’s mother and Jumi’s mother were cousins, and shortly after Jumi’s mother had lost her first child in infancy, she had been entrusted with caring for Ryūko, who suffered from insufficient breastmilk. At age four, Ryūko was taken back to her birth home, but still yearning for her milk mother, she often stayed overnight at the Tanemura house. Eventually, when Jumi was born and began clinging to her mother’s breast, the young Ryūko would fly into a rage and frantically try to snatch that breast.

Her well-proportioned features and delicate dimples made for a charming face, and since she showed no trace of shyness—often playing games or singing loudly—she was beloved by everyone. When praised, young Ryūko would perform whatever it was again and again.

Jumi’s mother habitually referred to her as “Miss Okuzumi.” Since Ryūko’s father was a prominent lawyer, she sensed an unattainable loftiness in their lifestyle, and being entrusted with their daughter filled the mother with extraordinary pride. Jumi, too, called her “Miss Okuzumi” out of habit. She felt her heart swell with pride that this beautiful person was her milk-sister. Whenever she found photos of Ryūko in newspapers or magazines, she would rush each time to show them to the neighborhood girls, her breath coming in gasps. This was around the time Ryūko had graduated from music school in splendor; Jumi would carefully wrap those photographs and name clippings in stiff paper and store them at the bottom of her needle box.

On the pretext that she had come shopping as far as the Hirokoji Department Store, Ryūko once stopped by this mother-daughter’s small shop. After her name had gained renown, she personally came only this once.

Jumi began visiting the neighboring Master Kafuku’s residence when she was nineteen. Even before that, whenever her mother’s thoughtfulness prompted her to deliver red rice or simmered dishes through the kitchen entrance on various occasions, she would be invited inside, naturally learn embroidery techniques, playfully mimic stitches on the disciples’ prepared works, and often be laughed at. It was Master Kafuku who suggested she try attending formally, and he even visited her mother to persuade her. Having her daughter master embroidery was something the mother herself deeply desired. The mother’s considerations tended always toward Jumi’s future after her own death—for now that her daughter had become proficient in basic sewing tasks, if she could also master embroidery techniques, her disabled child might somehow manage to survive alone.

At that time, Master Kafuku’s disciples were only Ginzo and Rennosuke. Compared to Ginzo—who had been trained since age sixteen for seven years yet still progressed haltingly—Rennosuke showed skill astonishing to behold, though he had not yet completed two years of apprenticeship. Yet the Master alone never approved of his technique. Because even the thread’s curl perfectly mimicked the Master’s own, Obiyasu’s clerk and others treated this discovery as a rare find, secretly commissioning work under the Master’s name.

In this position flanked by Rennosuke and Ginzo, Jumi faced her embroidery frame; yet she could exchange jokes unreservedly only with Ginzo, rarely ever addressing Rennosuke. Rennosuke, for his part, paid no attention to Jumi or Ginzo either. This could also be seen as stemming from his shyness and reticence. Yet there were times when this very Rennosuke would show an unexpectedly gentle and amiable countenance. It was only when he appeared before Master or Obiyasu’s clerk.

Jumi found herself feeling a desire to challenge Rennosuke. Somehow, she found herself wanting to surpass his work. And concentrating her mind, she devoted herself earnestly. Because Jumi was skilled at twisting threads together, she often helped with Ginzo’s share as well. This became a habitual practice, and Ginzo— “Jumi-san, please handle the thread blending,” or “This time it’s double-pipe twisting,” he would whisper in a small voice.

The nimble motions of inserting an awl into the frame hole, threading it through, holding one end in her mouth while twisting the other to combine them—though customarily done standing—were something Jumi had never followed. She would always bend at the waist, contorting her upper back as she swiftly twisted the threads together. She tried to keep her hunched back from meeting Rennosuke’s gaze. Wherever Rennosuke was present, she had never once risen from her seat, and whenever she needed to speak to him for some task, she would inevitably reach up to touch her hair.

It was Ginzo who would fetch thread from the thread box for Jumi as she remained seated like this and attend to replacing her needles. Since moving into this household, Ginzo had single-handedly managed everything from attending to the master’s personal needs and receiving guests to overseeing all domestic affairs, leaving him scarcely any time to devote himself to the needle. He took greatest joy in this life alongside his master, and Rennosuke—who prized this dutiful and single-minded nature—also made him handle his personal affairs just as the master did.

One day, Master Kafuku assigned the theme “Four Gentlemen,” and the three disciples competed fiercely in their work. Yet what completed sooner than anyone else’s—skillfully replicating the master’s thread curl with vivid colors that drew eyes—was Rennosuke’s piece. However, Master Kafuku chose Jumi’s work. He chose that technique which, to others’ eyes, appeared crude and unworthy. Ginzo was over ten days behind the two and still had not finished. “When you hold the needle while minding others’ eyes, it strays wrongfully.”

“When you hold the needle while minding others’ eyes, it strays wrongfully,” Master Kafuku said before his disciples.

“It’s a dreadful thing,” he said. “Even if you fall and recover, this time the needle will refuse to obey. It will go astray of its own accord.”

After this incident, a kind of near-reverence came to tinge Ginzo’s attitude toward Jumi.

Setting that aside, Jumi continued her usual antics, joking around to make Ginzo laugh. “If Ginzo-san were to take a dear wife, he would surely cherish her dearly.” “He’d gaudily embroider everything from the obi to the kimono, haneri collar, and even underwear for her.”

Rennosuke turned aside and chuckled softly.

“And since it’s Ginzo-san we’re talking about, he’d be bustling about all by himself—from cooking meals to minding children—wearing an apron to go marketing and all.” “Your wife would be some pampered silkworm cocoon waited on hand and foot, popping out babies yearly…” “One on the back, one at the chest, one each flanking right and left?” Ginzo too answered with a laugh. “Truly, becoming such a wife would be a woman’s crowning glory... But hey now, Ginzo-san—quit being choosy everywhere—” “You could have such a teensy adorable little wife made up!” “It’d be all over the neighborhood—‘Just like a doll!’ they’d say!”

Ginzo listened with a laugh, but every time she said such things, he found himself flustered. And gradually, he stopped laughing and became lost in thought.

One day, an earthquake occurred, and though the light bulb only swayed slightly before going out, in that instant, both Jumi and Ginzo began to rise from their seats. Only Rennosuke—who had been transferring the design from the underdrawing to the fabric with gofun—continued his work with an air of feigned ignorance. When a faint aftershock came, Jumi—who had been half-rising from her seat—staggered exaggeratedly and grabbed the neighboring embroidery frame, causing the gofun dish to overturn. The white pigment flowed thickly onto the half-copied fabric patch, and Rennosuke looked up blankly, staring at Jumi.

On another day, as Jumi and Ginzo were exchanging their usual banter, Jumi burst into loud laughter, and Rennosuke raised his face,

“Would you keep it down?”

he shouted.

“This is my side, that is yours.” “If it’s too noisy for you, why don’t you go take a walk around the wall, neighbor?” Jumi responded with feigned composure, lightly rubbing her needle against her hair as she spoke. “What nonsense.” Rennosuke kept embroidering in stiff silence until suddenly he gasped “Ah!” and jerked his hand back. A bead of blood swelled on his left index fingertip—he must have driven the needle deep. In one swift motion, Jumi seized his hand and sucked the blood from his finger. Tears glistened in her eyes.

On another day, when Rennosuke returned from accompanying the master outside, Jumi—who had come out to the entrance to greet them—did not readily withdraw. When Ginzo went to check, Jumi was squatting in the entryway tidying footwear. She flinched and looked up—she had been brushing the dust from Rennosuke’s geta with her sleeve. Over three years had passed since Jumi began visiting Master Kafuku’s residence. Now, Master Kafuku took his eyes off her work and entrusted it to her technique. Jumi focused all her concentration and immersed herself completely. A quiet mind guided by the needle would naturally glide forth when meeting the frame. Abruptly, something fierce would drive the needle forward, and there were times when Jumi faltered. The needle advanced, twisted together with something fierce, and in such times, she was often scolded by the master.

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

“Ginzo says he wants you to become his wife—what do you say?” The master sometimes made sarcastic remarks with a nonchalant face, so Jumi, thinking this was another such instance, laughed and did not even attempt to engage—but as she kept watching the master’s silent, ever-serene demeanor, she suddenly grew restless. “It would be proper to ask your feelings first before deciding, but it seems he’s in such a hurry that he’s gone ahead on his own—he says he’s already sent a letter to your parents as well.”

Master Kafuku said.

“For my part，I consider this a good match—and above all else，were it Ginzo… I believe he could cherish you properly.” “However，I have no wish to press this upon you.” “I’ve pondered where your true happiness might lie… yet now，I can only serve as the vessel for conveying Ginzo’s heart.”

Having said this, Master lowered his eyes to his lap.

Suddenly, Jumi stood up from her seat. Panting, she ran off toward the back door.

The master also stood up but remained rooted at the threshold. Crouching in the dark alley, Jumi was choking back tears. It was not long after that when Jumi received her leave from Master Kafuku’s house.

Her mother, who had long suffered from kidney disease, had recently been frequently bedridden and in poor health. She used her mother’s condition as a pretext. From nursing her ailing mother to the odd jobs she was asked to do and every matter of the shop, Jumi managed them all diligently. She never kept her hands still and was always busily doing something. Even when customers’ voices rang out in the shop, she showed no sign of noticing. There were times when her back—hunched motionlessly round as she immersed herself in sewing—would remain bowed low. During such times, when her mother called her, she would often respond with an absurd reply that made her mother laugh. Out of long habit, she continued trying to amuse customers with jokes, but somehow even these efforts felt half-hearted and lacked their usual spark. The customer left without sitting down as usual.

Jumi had grown reluctant to go outside. Even when just going to the neighborhood greengrocer’s, she would return breathless, nearly running. Whenever gifts arrived, she used to eagerly take a share to the neighboring Kafuku household herself, but now even when her mother told her to go, she would make excuses to avoid the errand. When her mother became well enough to rise and seemed able to handle needlework again, one day Jumi suddenly declared she would go to her cousin’s house in Ninagocho. Word had reached her two or three days earlier that her cousin’s wife had given birth and was struggling without enough help. Though startled by this abruptness, her mother watched as Jumi bundled a change of clothes into a furoshiki and hurried out of the house.

Her cousin ran a small sake shop with a single apprentice boy, but even there, Jumi worked tirelessly, constantly panting breathlessly. From tending to her cousin’s wife confined to her childbirth bed and washing the infant’s swaddling clothes, to preparing meals while looking after the young children, helping the apprentice boy wash sake bottles and measure out miso—even during spare moments, she busily shaped charcoal briquettes from charcoal powder.

Her cousin had four children in total—including a newborn—with the eldest being seven years old. The two eldest would chant “Camel, Camel!” when calling Jumi, often playfully jumping onto her back, tapping her hump, and shrieking with laughter. Even the third child—who had only just begun to toddle—now clamored with their clumsy tongue, “Yakuda! Yakuda!”, wanting to ride on Jumi’s back. When the child started crying, Jumi, at her wit’s end, would often become their camel and crawl around the narrow room, panting.

When her mother took to bed again, Jumi was called back home. Through Master Kafuku’s arrangements, she consulted a nearby doctor, but the edema stubbornly refused to subside. A sister-in-law came from the Ogu house to visit. As she was leaving—glancing around the shop as if wanting something—Jumi bundled bamboo baskets and skewers she had mentioned needing into a furoshiki wrap and let her take them. Even when other relatives came, she still acted this way. They would take one or two items from the shop and leave. They gave no thought to restocking; there seemed a casual air about them—as if not grabbing at least one item from its haphazardly displayed wares meant missing out.

Ogu’s sister-in-law was an honest, kind person whose words were reserved and polite, yet within that politeness and kindness lay an aloof chill that kept others at a distance. Since the income from sales alone was nowhere near enough to get by, Jumi often worked through the night on sewing jobs. With a desire to cling to Ogu’s sister-in-law’s kindness, she made the trip once or twice, but upon meeting, found herself strangely distanced by her polite demeanor and speech, leaving her with nothing but oppressive feelings.

“After all the trouble you went through learning embroidery under Master Kafuku, why not try taking on some embroidery piecework? What do you think?” “Unlike sewing work, I hear embroidery pays well.” On nights when Jumi did not sleep, her mother too lay awake on her pillow. With her yellowish, swollen face turned to the side, she helped with hemming and edge-binding while tentatively voicing such suggestions. Jumi glanced at her mother with a troubled look but kept moving the needle.

“Her mother said hesitantly again.”

“If you asked Master Kafuku… I think he could arrange some work for you.” “If that’s too much… I could ask him myself……” “Don’t say such things, Mom.”

Her mother was startled by the sudden loud voice. “So that’s how it is, you… Was all that effort—three whole years you spent attending—for nothing? Besides, even Master Kafuku put so much effort into teaching you. It’d be a shame to let those hard-earned skills go to waste.”

“But… such a thing…”

Jumi looked at her mother with a truly troubled face for a brief moment but immediately returned to her needle and continued sewing feverishly. While she was away delivering sewing work to Yushima, her mother’s condition took a sudden turn, and by the time the doctor rushed over, she had already passed away.

The previous night, she had sat up on the sickbed with a brightened face for the first time in ages. “I’m feeling much better now, so today I’ll sew one whole piece.” Showing stubborn resolve, she took up a ro-chirimen sitting-room robe but set down the needle after beginning to sew one sleeve.

“My face feels so heavy, you know.” She kept stroking her face with both hands, but “Let’s leave the rest for tomorrow, you know. There’s no one as spineless as me.”

With a weak laugh, she took Jumi’s hand and lay down. Regarding her swollen, enlarged face, her mother would habitually refer to it in this manner and amused herself by doing so.

The relatives gathered, and the subject of their deliberation was how Jumi should live her life. Ogu’s sister-in-law said in her usual kind and polite tone that it would be a shame—since the children and craftsmen required attention—that even if they took Jumi in, they wouldn’t be able to look after her properly. However, in the end, after being persuaded by the relatives, it was decided that the Ogu household would take Jumi in.

The Ogu household had a paint factory directly behind it, and craftsmen had come to enter and exit through the alley that ran along the privacy fence.

Beyond the alley was a drainage ditch with a plank laid across it, and beyond that lay an empty lot of about ten tsubo where rusted galvanized sheets were stacked and pottery shards and tattered straw charcoal bags lay discarded. Even after days of exceptionally fine weather, this vacant lot never dried; the black soil remained sodden. Occasionally, a person wearing rubber boots would come to this vacant lot and begin stretching fabric on frames. Jumi watched from the engawa while minding the youngest child who was nearly two. From beneath the short privacy fence came glimpses of deft hands fitting stretcher bars into place. They moved with amusing speed. Jumi shifted her vacant gaze to pure white pottery shards embedded in soil. Her eyes turned next to a clump of withered grass at the ditch’s edge. Stained with mud yet defiantly blooming red blossoms no larger than grains of rice.

In the ditch, various objects had been discarded, and pitch-black mud had settled. Where old geta stained with mud and empty cans had blocked the flow, a small amount of water had collected, and there the blue sky was reflected distantly. Jumi sat vacantly, gazing at it endlessly. Since coming to this Ogu household, Jumi often had accidents. She would drop small plates, spill soy sauce on the wooden floor when pouring it, or go out on errands and forget to bring back the change.

The sister-in-law had never assigned tasks to Jumi of her own accord. “Jumi-san isn’t like ordinary people,” or “Working so hard will harm your health,” she would habitually say, and even tasks Jumi had begun would be reassigned to the children. Jumi felt all the more self-conscious about her disabled body through this treatment, despite being cared for. Though the sister-in-law’s tone was gentle and deeply considerate, that very gentleness and consideration made Jumi feel oppressed. That kindness gave her the sensation of having her painstakingly started tasks ripped away. Rather than enduring such kindness and consideration, Jumi thought she would prefer being cursed at while being put to work.

The children of this house did not approach Jumi. They would not even sit where Jumi had been sitting and would never touch the pickles that Jumi took with her chopsticks. Jumi waited until everyone had finished before eating. She would portion out the leftover dishes onto a small plate and eat alone.

The younger girl would still sometimes cling to Jumi, sharing half-eaten candies or pleading with her to sew doll clothes. One day, when Jumi had gone out on an errand to the main street and spotted this girl among schoolchildren returning home, she called out cheerfully while approaching her. But the girl—her face crimson and fidgeting—suddenly clutched her bag and dashed off. The clattering sound of the pencil case lingered in her ears long afterward, and after this incident, whenever Jumi spotted a girl along her path, she would panic and veer away.

After the first anniversary of her mother’s death had passed, Okuzumi Ryūko soon came to visit this house. Since she had only shown her face at the funeral and then disappeared entirely, the couple first tried to discern the meaning behind this sudden visit through exchanged glances.

“This is rather sudden, but Jumi-san—if you’re not too busy—might I borrow you for a little while? You see, my maid has returned to her hometown, and I’m quite at a loss.” Ryūko broached the matter thus. Then, turning a dimpled smile toward Jumi—whose face burned crimson as she flusteredly bustled about preparing tea—she added: “Now Jumi-san, we’re practically sisters! From now on, I’ll make myself properly useful to you.”

The sister-in-law and her brother had been consulting with each other through meaningful glances, but they ultimately brought the matter to a conclusion by saying they would first consult with all the relatives.

Ryūko left in a hurry, saying she had students waiting for their lesson.

The sister-in-law, uncharacteristically flustered, brushed Jumi’s shoulder and,

“Jumi-san, you’re such a fortunate one, aren’t you?” “To have someone so esteemed take notice of you!”

And with probing eyes, she peered into Jumi’s face—flushed crimson as she moved about restlessly.

The next day, Jumi was accompanied by her sister-in-law to the Okuzumi residence in Aoyama. The only thing she carried herself was the small hinoki frame she had received from Master Kafuku.

In the recent women’s magazine I have at hand, there appears a brief biography of soprano Ms. Okuzumi Ryūko written as follows. Soprano, Lecturer at Meiji Music Academy, Lecturer at Shōei Music School, Director of the Wakagusakai Association. Graduated from the Vocal Music Department of Nihon Ongaku Gakuin’s regular course. 1932: Studied in Germany; 1934: Returned to Japan; currently retired from the stage to focus on teaching. Author of *Southern Germany Travelogue* and *The German Music Scene as I Saw It*.

I have yet to hear Ms. Okuzumi Ryūko’s voice on stage. According to acquaintances’ rumors, her singing style tends to lack solidity and veer toward the unrestrained. One cannot help but marvel at the boldness with which she effortlessly masters pieces deemed difficult, yet they say a certain aspect of Okuzumi Ryūko’s popularity lies in how this stage bravado dazzles her audience. I have a memory of hearing her singing through a record, but it was quite some time ago, and I can no longer recall either her vocal style or what the piece itself was. Now that I think of it, I’ve heard that Ms. Okuzumi Ryūko is under exclusive contract with some record company, so she must have quite a number of recordings.

The other day, Ms. Okuzumi Ryūko appeared in the gossip section of a weekly magazine with a photograph, but the headline read something like “Accompanied by a Young Swallow, She Departs for Germany Once Again.” I have an acquaintance whose daughter has been studying under Ms. Okuzumi Ryūko from an early age, and I often hear rumors from her; it seems that gaining entry to Ms. Okuzumi’s tutelage has become notoriously difficult. This is because family lineage and social standing are prioritized over innate talent when entering her tutelage, and according to Ms. Okuzumi’s theory, promising sprouts of talent often wither midway due to being planted in impoverished soil. Unlike other arts, music requires fertile soil as one of its essential conditions; hence, it is said that this allows its sprouts to grow robustly.

The term “family lineage and social standing” ultimately referred to wealth, and the disciples accepted this as perfectly reasonable. And Ms. Okuzumi’s disciples were all known to be scions of wealthy families. In addition to managing over twenty disciples and serving as a school lecturer, Ms. Okuzumi’s life was further occupied by the Wakagusakai Association’s customary practice of holding music concerts twice yearly in spring and autumn—a schedule that left her exceedingly busy.

Much later in this story, I was pestered by an acquaintance’s daughter into buying tickets for the Wakagusakai Spring Music Festival. Every time there was a concert, each disciple was made to take on twenty to thirty tickets.

I entered the venue late. The final chorus was already past its midpoint; flamboyantly attired young ladies crowded the stage, flower baskets and bouquets presented to Ms. Okuzumi by music stores and the disciples’ parents were densely clustered about, and even that much-anticipated chorus seemed overwhelmed by this riotous profusion of color.

When the event concluded and I was pushed along by the bustling crowd returning home, I made my way into the corridor—where, at the dressing room entrance, the acquaintance’s daughter called out to me. The woman in Western attire standing nearby—greeting everyone with dimpled amiability—was unmistakably Ms. Okuzumi, whom I had seen in photographs. 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 extended her charm-filled, amiable face toward me as she made her invitation.

“We’re just about to head out to Ginza, you know.” The acquaintance’s daughter clung to my hand and wouldn’t let go. Prompted along, I found myself accompanying Ms. Okuzumi and the others. The disciples—including the acquaintance’s daughter—numbered four. “These people are all my darling little chicks, you know.” Even inside the car, Ms. Okuzumi frolicked with her disciples. When she spread her arms wide in a gesture of enfolding them like wings, the young ladies burst into shrill giggles and doubled over.

I had been told by an acquaintance’s daughter that Ms. Okuzumi was both adored and gossiped about among her disciples and even among the students at her school. As I gazed intently at her amiable features and gestures brimming with gentle charm before me, I thought it no wonder the young ladies made such a commotion. When relaxing at the café, I suddenly recalled Jumi-san and tried talking about her.

“Oh, you were acquainted?” Ms. Okuzumi’s face momentarily stiffened with an expression of surprise, but she promptly looked around at the young ladies with a cheerful demeanor.

“These people were all fans of Jumi-san, you know.”

Ms. Okuzumi began speaking from when she had taken in Jumi-san. She talked while even tearing up slightly. The young ladies nodded along, fervently praising the deceased as someone skilled in embroidery. As she spoke, Ms. Okuzumi’s eyes kept darting quick upward glances at me. This happened whenever I looked down or seemed distracted elsewhere. Those swift upward glances appeared both to gauge her story’s impact and to secretly observe me. Despite Ms. Okuzumi’s charming face brimming with amiable allure, these stealthy glances left one with a somber feeling. Within them, I strangely felt I glimpsed both a flash of calculation and something like unrelenting vigilance.

The garrulous music-world sparrows whispered all sorts of rumors about Ms. Okuzumi—that living alone must leave her with few expenses, that she’d surely amassed quite a nest egg by now—gossiping behind her back. This did not seem entirely off the mark. Rumors abounded—that she owned rental properties, held three separate passbooks, dabbled in stocks—but among these, the stories about stocks and properties were hard to believe entirely. This was because such matters did not align with Ryūko’s nature.

Ryūko’s disciples had harbored varied speculations about their teacher taking in a hunchbacked distant relative, but once they came to believe this act stemmed from a compassionate heart, their reverence for her deepened all the more. The relatives, rather—though they snorted dismissively—viewed Ryūko’s peculiar interest with suspicion. Ryūko often kept an eye on Jumi. Though awkward, this girl worked hard. Not only did she refuse her wages out of gratitude, but she would also seek out paid work from who knows where and sew whenever she had a spare moment. When buying kitchen items or side dishes, she used her sewing earnings to cover the cost. While sympathizing with her plight, Ryūko ultimately came to value it.

A forty-something man named Nakao Michiaki would occasionally visit this house. Unfortunately, during times when Ryūko was conducting lessons, he would lounge in the back tearoom with one arm as a pillow, brew and drink tea without permission, all while bantering with Jumi. At times, he would play the piano for amusement or join in the chorus for fun. This man referred to Ryūko as “Sensei,” but rather than mimicking the disciples’ manner of address, his tone carried a note of mockery.

Nakao Michiaki was a washed-up music magazine reporter who now worked as a sort of “fixer.” In other words, while running errands for others, acting as a broker, and organizing concerts, he had gradually settled into becoming the kind of man people would think, “Oh, this one’s handy.” As he was often entrusted with the keys to people’s private lives, this man would barge in anywhere with muddy feet and an air of authority. He regarded this as a natural perquisite granted to him, and those who had entrusted him with such matters—though grumbling “What a nuisance”—resigned themselves and turned a blind eye to it.

A certain pianist had lent money to a piano tuner, but not only did he fail to repay it by the due date—as days passed, matters increasingly reached an impasse until eventually even his whereabouts became obscured. Nakao Michiaki, who had taken on the task, somehow tracked down the tuner and soon collected the entire loan from him, it was said. Ryūko had been told about this by the pianist. Moreover, on another occasion, a baseless rumor about Ryūko had arisen and was sensationalized across the entire entertainment section of a third-rate newspaper. When she inadvertently vented her indignation in excitement to Nakao, who happened to be there, the next day an apology appeared in that newspaper. It later became clear that Nakao had intervened.

The reason Ryūko began entrusting money to Nakao was that these two incidents had given her sufficient insight into his character. A man like Nakao remained passive in his own affairs yet could become strangely proactive in others'. Persistently forceful—even to the point of defiant boldness at times—such were the qualities this type of man possessed. Ryūko had counted on that. She entrusted funds for Nakao to manage, though officially it was structured as a personal loan to him. Knowing Nakao’s uncle owned property on Kyōbashi Medorigi-dōri, she proposed making this relative the guarantor. This precaution stemmed from Ryūko’s consideration of potential contingencies. Through undisclosed negotiations, Nakao swiftly procured his uncle’s seal. Two documents were formalized: a promissory note and a commission contract.

This singer, being well-versed in the ways of the abacus, handled interest matters with meticulous care. She established a daily interest of six sen as her net take without fail; beyond that, depending on Nakao’s skill, she split the proceeds with him—when lending at nine sen, he received one and a half sen, and at ten sen, two 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 being entrusted with Ryūko’s funds, and Ryūko held the authority to manage those entrusted funds.

This singer gave various instructions with an innocent face marked by dimples. The loans primarily consisted of small amounts, with repayments limited to three months and lending focused mainly on salaried workers.

One day, Nakao came to visit and began in this manner. “How about around 1,300 yen? He’s a bank employee, but…”

“Collateral?”

“Well, he says he’s got land back in his hometown or something, but honestly, it seems fishy.” “If you’re going to investigate, have them cover the travel expenses. Like that time in Kawagoe—coming back empty-handed after paying your own way again...”

“Ah, well, if you’re gonna bring that up…”

Nakao scratched his head exaggeratedly. “The man himself says he wants to provide a guarantor—what do you think?” “If there’s a guarantor, we’ll have to take a slightly higher rate, don’t you think?” “Around eight sen, I suppose.”

“Nine sen. Nine sen. “You’re too soft-hearted, Mr. Nakao—that’s why it won’t do. “You must’ve been treated to a drink, then.” “A drink’s a drink, but it wasn’t coffee.” As he said this, Nakao raised his eyebrows and laughed heartily.

Just as Jumi brought tea, she stood frozen in curiosity, but drawn in, she ended up laughing along.

Since coming to the Okuzumi household, Jumi gradually began to liven up. It was as if she had reverted to her Sukiyachō-era self—the one who used to crack jokes and keep everyone laughing. When Ryūko’s disciples finished their practice and relaxed, she would bring snacks and often crack such jokes.

“As for me, I was born with a truly splendid voice, you know.” “What a shame—it’s all tucked away inside this bag here.” And she would proudly shake her hunched back. At first, the young ladies hadn’t exchanged a word with her, but gradually they warmed up. Each time they heard such jokes, they’d giggle and whisper among themselves that she was “the funny Ms. Hunchback.”

Jumi came to devote herself entirely to embroidery. Late into the night, when Ryūko awoke abruptly and peered suspiciously into the lit maid’s room, she found Jumi hunched over the frame thrusting her needle. Even when called out to, she showed no sign of noticing, simply thrusting her needle with single-minded focus. At times, Ryūko would feel a chill of fear—the sheer intensity of Jumi’s focus struck her as unnatural, making it seem as though she were witnessing something uncanny. Ryūko was well aware that Jumi had skilled hands in embroidery, so she prized this ability and had her embroider recklessly on collars, obi, fukusa wrapping cloths, cushions, and more. And she also used these as gifts for acquaintances and disciples.

“Hey, Jumi-san, there’s some leftover fabric here—how about embroidering a floral pattern or something and making slippers?” “Wouldn’t something cute come out of it?”

There were times when Ryūko, rummaging through the scrap fabric box, would suddenly say such things. Feeling a mild excitement at her own idea, she took out various scraps of fabric and arranged them while— “Shall I give slippers as gifts to the disciples? Handmade slippers from leftover fabric—how delightfully chic.” Since the disciples sent expensive gifts on every occasion, Ryūko also sometimes made return gifts. And so Jumi, having been ordered to do so, had to put all her effort into completing the embroidery for over twenty pairs of slippers in less than a month until Christmas. She was so absorbed in her work that she often failed to notice the phone ringing, earning frequent reprimands from Ryūko.

Serving Ryūko—even being ordered about and scolded by Ryūko—was a joy to Jumi. The mere fact of being allowed near Ryūko filled Jumi with supreme satisfaction and profound emotion. To Jumi, Ryūko was a charm that elevated and nourished both heart and soul. In Jumi’s eyes, nothing but that charm was reflected.

In Ryūko’s presence, Jumi felt somehow hesitant to show her back. When unavoidable matters forced her to stand, she would crack jokes or fuss with her hair, and while Ryūko was distracted by these acts, she would swiftly slip away along the walls or sliding doors with feigned nonchalance.

The freezing cold of early spring persisted, and Jumi contracted a cold and began coughing. After going to bed early for two or three days, her cough had apparently subsided, so she continued working without another thought. Whenever she had free time, she devoted herself to embroidery on a small frame. She had begun immersing herself in this work about two years prior. Her appetite waned, and after May began, she again took to bed early for about two days. Though Ryūko verbally advised her to see a doctor, she made do with whatever cold medicine was available.

In places where Ryūko was present, Jumi never lay down. Even when she couldn't hold a needle and lay resting, if she sensed someone's presence, she would spring upright. Her feverish red face would sometimes lurch forward. Even so, wherever Ryūko was present, she kept her sewing hands moving however unsteadily. Suddenly, Ryūko entered the maid's room. There was a guest requiring tea preparation instructions, but Jumi—who had been lying on her futon early—sprang up and pressed her back against the wall while hastily adjusting her front. Urged onward while keeping her back pressed to the wall, she went out to the kitchen and steadied her swaying body as she began preparing tea.

Several days later, when Ryūko returned from outside, Jumi’s figure—always seen running out to greet her—was nowhere to be seen. Even when called out to, there was no response. Peering into the maid’s room, she found her hunched over the embroidery frame, breathing shallowly as she worked feverishly on her needlework. After the rainy season began, Jumi again took to going to bed early for about a week. Though there seemed to be sounds of someone rising for water and faint moans in the waking night, Ryūko slept through them all.

One day, Jumi’s figure suddenly vanished.

It happened while Ryūko was giving lessons to her disciples. She did not return that night; little attention was paid beyond assuming she had gone to her house in Ogu. A day later, Nakao came, so Ryūko told him. From Ogu came a brief reply: she hadn’t arrived. Nakao searched the closet in the maid’s room. Ryūko had completely lost her composure, paced restlessly by the threshold, and kept pestering Nakao with questions. The small frame alone had disappeared.

“Since Sensei’s been a bit overheated lately, maybe she’s gone off the rails?”

Returning to the tearoom, Nakao stood there snatching mochi sweets and said,

Ryūko, who had been clinging to Nakao and chattering nonstop, stiffened with a start but then floundered in panic. “Don’t say such annoying things. Hey, Mr. Nakao—please! Do something quickly!” she pleaded.

Nakao ended up being the one to search.

Late that night, a call came from Nakao. He reported that Jumi’s whereabouts had been located. She was in critical condition at Shiryōin Hospital, it turned out.

Early the next morning, Nakao arrived.

“Well, she had a terrible time. In the end, they had to hold her wake after all. …Oh right—she called your name twice, you know. After all, she did feel grateful to you. Poor thing… By the time I rushed over, she was already spouting nothing but incoherent delusions, you know. They say it’s pneumonia. But she’d held on that long, I must say. The doctors were impressed, you know.” “Why at a charity hospital…?” Ryūko muttered to herself.

“The police passed it on—apparently she’d collapsed near the Kinshibori garage.” “She probably intended to go to Ogu, but...” “Well, Ogu’s in the opposite direction anyway.” “She left here on the fifth and was taken to the hospital on the morning of the seventh—so that means she’d been wandering around outside for two full days straight.”

Nakao brewed his own tea and, while blowing on the hot liquid to cool it, looked up at Ryūko from under his eyebrows and said. “What do you say, Professor—shall we go? It’s still in the mortuary, you know.”

Ryūko shook her head with displeasure.

“Now I’ve gotta make another dash to witness the removal.”

Peering through the windowpane, he said, “It’s damn well coming down.”

And then, he slung the wet raincoat over his shoulders once more. “Oh right—there was this strange old man. Is he from the house in Ogu?” “Over here, even if you talk to him, he just stays silent. You think he’s dozed off, but when you peek in, his eyes are wide open—I nearly called out to him.” “After all, I was stuck alone with the old man all night in a place without even a fire—a silent ascetic practice, you see.”

To Nakao’s back as he fastened the buttons of his rubber boots, Ryūko timidly—

“I’ll owe you one,” she called out.

That night, Nakao stopped by again. “Everything’s settled, Professor. A man from Ogu came and took her away… That Miss Jumi really was a strange girl, wasn’t she? Seems neither this house nor the one in Ogu ever revealed their locations… Oh right—that old man, he was apparently from next door to his former place…” “Ah, that must be Master Kafuku.” “He’s a famous embroidery master, you know.” “Ah, so that’s the person…”

Nakao fell silent for a moment, moved.

Master Kafuku had stopped by Okuzumi’s house that afternoon. After offering his condolences, the Master said: “If there are any embroideries done by Jumi-san that remain, I have come here in the earnest hope of being permitted to view them.” “What was it? She seemed to be working on an embroidery of something like an eagle or a hawk, but that…” “That was bequeathed to me through her will.” The Master said quietly. “I thought there might be something else left behind...”

“Even if you ask for other things, there’s nothing… Ah, right—these slippers were embroidered by Jumi-san, though.” Ryūko lifted up the slippers, their toe tips worn down, to show them slightly.

A small voice like “Ah!” escaped from the Master’s lips. It was embroidered with white monochromatic orchids on a green rinzu ground.

The Master stared intently. He took the slippers Ryūko had removed onto his lap and gazed at them fixedly. He gazed fixedly for a long time. He gently brushed the dust from the white flowers with the pad of his finger. And then, he turned his face away and remained silent for a long time. “Would you be so kind as to bestow this upon me?” Suddenly, the Master made this request, causing Ryūko to startle. His voice was calm, but the eyes he directed straight at her were unexpectedly fierce. Ryūko, feeling pierced by them, panicked yet averted her gaze with feigned nonchalance. Ryūko found the Master’s obsession to this extent puzzling. Suddenly, this master’s obsession pierced Ryūko’s heart. Suddenly, Ryūko developed an attachment to these slippers. Now, she harbored a fierce attachment to the small-framed embroidery that had become Master Kafuku’s possession.

“Would you be so kind as to bestow this upon me?”

The Master repeated. “This alone, since it embodies Jumi-san’s painstaking efforts…”

Ryūko said cheerfully, stealing quick glances as she spoke. “I had fully expected to receive the bird embroidery as well, but even though that turned out to be such a wonderful memento…” Though she had implicitly expressed her desire to claim them as her own, the Master gave no indication of having heard her, and soon took his leave with scant words.

“Jumi-san’s strange, wasn’t she.” “They say she kept begging to meet just that old man and nobody else.” “Oh... So that’s who it was, huh.”

And Nakao was deeply moved once more. “Quite the sturdy old man, isn’t he.” With that, Ryūko showed a look of bitter frustration. When his favorite tempura soba arrived, Nakao brightened up and kept talking. “Jumi-san, well… It’s a shame she had to die around twenty-eight or so, but I suppose that’s just how fate goes.” “Right, right—the nurses said that when she was brought to the hospital, she was still fully conscious, and kept pleading, ‘Once I die, cremate me right away, don’t tell anyone, cremate me right away’… Oh yes, and then, apparently she really insisted they do her hair up as well.” “After all, she was just a girl.”

Ryūko turned sideways, her eyes welling with tears.

After tilting the bowl and noisily slurping down the broth, Nakao wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand and said.

“There are two shares.” “It’s 150 yen and 200 yen, but honestly, the 200-yen one’s a flop by some third-rate actor.”

“That’s no good.” And with that, Ryūko snapped.

“Then, Kawai’s asking to arrange another hundred yen again, you see.” “However, I have brought the previous arrangement.” Nakao took out an envelope from his inner pocket and began calculating the interest. Whenever discussions turned to money, this man’s very manner of speech grew formal.

The two discussed loans for a while, working their abacus beads as they did so.

As days passed, Ryūko spoke to her disciples from time to time about Jumi’s belongings. She talked about the meagerness of what had been left to her. The disciples discussed among themselves how pitiable it was that their teacher, who had shown them such care, had no mementos left. And then, they returned to Ryūko the embroidered slippers, half-collars, cushions, and other items that had been given to her at some point.

When Jumi-san’s 100th-day memorial arrived, I took my place at the modest memorial service held at Master Kafuku’s residence. Through Master Kafuku’s arrangements, this gathering relied on connections formed by Jumi-san’s embroidery from her time residing in Sukiya-cho—attended by Mr. Rennosuke Katsuoka, Ginzo, Shuno (this youth had apprenticed under the Master mere days before Jumi-san left his tutelage, making it now over five years), and myself, along with a new face: a young live-in apprentice named Hikomatsu—six of us in total. In addition to these, there was Hikomatsu, a new young live-in apprentice, and myself—making six of us in total.

When the sutra chanting ended and the meal was finished, the Buddhist priest eventually left.

A sense of ease gradually settled over the gathering, and as they moved on to tea, the conversation began to flow more freely. "Rennosuke-san, I hear you’ve been teaching at a school lately. You must be quite busy," Ginzo inquired.

“Oh, poverty leaves no time for leisure, I’m afraid.” Mr. Katsuoka laughed magnanimously and said, “The embroidery department at the school is, at present, a mere appendage. Even speaking of its facilities, they remain woefully inadequate, and teaching there requires a tremendous effort. With Mr. Endo’s encouragement as well, I am now considering establishing something akin to a training institute—and from the standpoint of contributing in some way to the art of embroidery—I intend to make a concerted effort.”

Mr. Katsuoka’s manner of speaking was unhurried and composed, carrying a somewhat didactic tone. His figure—sitting solemnly in a black crested kimono and hakama trousers—perfectly suited his titles of Lecturer at the Art Academy’s Embroidery Department and Director of the Embroidery Association. Yet his actual livelihood fell far short of this imposing facade: by rumor, he dwelled in a back-alley residence near Dentsū-in, where he somehow scraped by through diligent work at a shop called Obiyasu. I had heard he had married the daughter of Obiyasu’s manager, and though still young, her social acumen was notable even within the industry; given that this was Mr. Katsuoka, I could well believe he possessed considerable managerial skill in running an embroidery training institute.

Ginzo diligently poured tea around and offered sweets. He even followed when Mr. Katsuoka went to the lavatory, pouring water for him to wash his hands. The conversation had at some point turned to the deceased. The hawk embroidery—now framed and hanging behind the Master—was being praised one after another by the disciples. The Master too turned around and gazed at it pensively. "She did send postcards after moving to Ogikubo... It seems she gradually grew averse to going out."

Master Kafuku said this in his usual quiet voice. Then, after adjusting his glasses, he gazed intently at the frame once more. “When was it… Oh yes, it was Equinox Day this spring.” “Since I remember being treated to ohagi at your house.”

With that, Shuno began to speak to Mr. Katsuoka, offering a hesitant preface like this: “After finishing a delivery to your house, I met Jumi-san as I was leaving that alleyway. It was such a coincidence that I let out a loud ‘Whoa!’ without thinking. Jumi-san acted flustered and looked like she was about to bolt any second, so I chased after her asking, ‘What’s wrong?’—but she muttered something about having an errand around there and then scurried off in a hurry. Even though she was so small, she walked quite fast, you know. They say hunchbacks walk fast, but—”

He began to say—then stopped short. Hikomatsu started to laugh but, glancing around, immediately checked himself. "I too had seen her on the main street before Dentsū-in, you know."

said Mr. Katsuoka. “It was around last year’s end.” “My wife maintains that must be how it was.” “Though I had told my wife about her.” “But when I tried calling out—she’d already hidden herself…” Mr. Katsuoka wore a smile. “She was always shy by nature.” “Still—Jumi-san—could she have known anyone around there at all?”

Master and Ginzo remained silent. For a moment, everyone was silent. Mr. Katsuoka sipped the tea that Ginzo had freshly brewed and diverted the conversation. “Yesterday, there was an auction at the Takaragawa estate. Even I went out early for once—but as expected of the Takagawas, it was truly splendid.” “Master’s *Camellia Embroidery* was listed in the catalog alone—we were practically salivating over it.” “When I saw it up close, it surpassed all expectations.” “When we opened the bids, there were none below seven thousand yen—everyone wanted it.” “The bids ranged between seven thousand and eight thousand yen, settling at eight thousand two hundred.” “When they finally circulated it at the end, even their people showed real expertise.” “That catalog was printed by Tōgado—apparently in perfect condition. The Tōgado old man was preening about it too. Seems the catalog itself might gain premium value—why, this morning two art dealers came before breakfast begging for extra copies at cost.” “Remarkable!”

I had also recently learned of the Takaragawa family’s auction through an advertisement in the newspaper. I too had seen this aristocratic family’s auction catalog several years prior and recalled it being quite a luxurious edition. Upon hearing that even this catalog was being passed around among connoisseurs at high prices, I found it most unusual.

Mr. Katsuoka continued. He enumerated the auction items one after another and kept insisting that the Master’s *Camellia Embroidery* was priced too cheaply at ¥8,200.

The Master remained silent and listened. On his slightly downcast face, a sorrowful, bitter smile could be seen.

Mr. Katsuoka sipped his tea and continued speaking.

Postscript: Regarding the *Mandara Shūchō* (Mandala Embroidery), I primarily referenced *A Study of the History of Dyeing and Weaving Patterns* by Mr. Akashi Somebito. (July 1939 (Shōwa 14))