Pathway to Japanese Literature

From the neighboring dyer's old woman, Gin heard this folktale. In a certain mountain, a man lived all alone in a hut he had built. No matter how hard he worked, he still couldn’t get enough to eat, and whenever he thought about his future, he grew uneasy. One night a great storm arose, toppling giant trees and blowing away all the millet and barnyard grass in the fields, with cries of “Help! Help!” echoing everywhere. The man helped his regular patrons and returned home to sleep, but in the dead of night, a faint voice pleading “Help me… help me…” reached his ears. Wondering where it came from, he stayed awake until dawn. When morning came and he went to gather firewood in the mountains, last night’s cries still lingered in the air. Following them gradually, he found a wild goose—its body trapped between branches of an ancient tree felled by yesterday’s storm—screeching helplessly in its hollow. The man struggled to cut down the tree and rescue the bird, tending to its damaged feathers, but exhaustion left it unable to fly properly. No sooner had it managed to soar up than it came crashing down with frantic wingbeats; no sooner had it risen than it fell back to earth. The man had work to do, so he walked away heavy-hearted, turning back again and again. The goose shed tears as it watched him leave. On a day after the rain, when the man went gathering firewood in the mountains, he found a young beautiful woman doing the same. She smiled at him and called out, “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” Even when he asked who she was, she just kept laughing while busily gathering twigs. When evening came and the man turned homeward, she followed. “I’m just a poor wretch—having someone like you around would be trouble,” he protested, but she clasped her hands pleadingly: “Please let me stay.” Then she pulled a paper twist from her breast pocket, took out two grains of rice, and put them in a pot to cook. The pot filled to the brim, and they ate their fill of supper. By day she gathered firewood in the mountains; by night she wove fabric without rest. As days passed, she stayed home weaving from dawn till dusk. In time they had a daughter, and when three years had passed, she finally finished her weaving and told her husband: “Take this to town and sell it for me.”

When the man showed a worried face—muttering about how this shaggy woolen fabric couldn’t possibly fetch much, if it sold at all—the woman said, “This was woven with my very essence. You may sell it for three hundred ryo.” When he went to the master of the town’s prominent shop, the master there was so delighted that he purchased it at the asking price to treasure as a family heirloom, so the man, astonished, returned home with a fortune. And thanks to this fabric, they became able to live in great prosperity. One night, the woman said that now that their daughter would be all right as long as she was fed, he should grant her leave. When the man asked in surprise why she would say such a thing now, she replied that though she had earned them much until now, her spirit and strength were utterly spent, and she wished to return to her true nature. “The truth is, I am the wild goose you once saved.” “Somehow wanting to repay your kindness, I’ll leave behind my only daughter in my stead.” Then she explained that when weaving that fabric, she had used every last hair from her body—plucked out and woven in—leaving her as you see now,’ she said, baring her naked form before flying off toward the mountains with a frantic flap of her few remaining flight feathers.

Gin, now forty-two years old, couldn't stop crying the night she heard this folktale. Burying her face in the pillow and stifling her voice, she wept for a long time.

It had already been over ten years since Gin began her maid service at "Atariya". “Atariya” had been a fairly renowned import goods store on Roppongi Street, but with imported goods becoming difficult to procure in recent years, its business had often fared poorly. The stubborn old master closed the shop rather than stooping to becoming petty merchants now cluttering their shop with work gloves and aprons. Now its interior was packed densely with sewing machines, and Gin took charge as she applied herself diligently to contracted sewing work. What had started as mere piecework had unwittingly become her main occupation. Using an old sewing machine said to be the heirloom of the house’s only daughter, what began as side work—sewing simple clothes and aprons for people in the neighborhood—soon led to subcontracting orders for sanitary gowns and medical uniforms through connections with a regular laundry service. With Gin alone unable to manage everything, she began purchasing secondhand machines and renting others, and now even the commuting girls were drenched in sweat from their frantic work.

Entrusted with everything by the elderly master and mistress, Gin could not devote herself solely to the sewing machines. She prepared side dishes likely to please the elderly, sewed, did laundry, set mousetraps, went shopping at the market... At the market, Gin went by the nickname “Make-rese.” This was because she never failed to haggle even over a single knob of ginger. When it came to bargaining, Gin was truly unmatched. Whenever she spotted even minor flaws, it was her habit to say “Make-rese” in her soft country lilt. The vendors would wave their hands dismissively—as if declaring they couldn’t handle that “Make-rese”—and time their posted notices reading “No Losses Today” to coincide with Gin’s shopping trips, mocking her all the while.

Gin was dexterous by nature, so she did most mending tasks with her own hands. She effortlessly repaired things like re-covering umbrellas and mending broken ribs. She could repair pots and medicine kettles, and even mend broken ceramics.

The master and mistress were extremely fond of Gin's frugal management. In these times of emergency, they praised her as a model example of caring for belongings. Gin smiled cheerfully. The master and mistress's words were always gratefully received. To Gin, the master and mistress were simply incomparably good people.

The master was prone to strokes and often lay bedridden, but being an impatient loudmouth, he was constantly grumbling about something. On top of this, his uncontrollably irritable temperament led him to inspect things so closely that his face would rub against the tatami mats, making others pick out every single splinter. The Mistress was devout and never let go of her prayer beads. The Mistress was deeply compassionate and of impeccably gentle character, but those who came and went whispered behind her back that she was "stingy." Even when expressing compassion, it was all talk—she had never once performed an act of charity. The Mistress herself made it a habit to say that as long as one had sincerity, it would reach the Buddha’s heart—and thus took little pleasure in giving to others. She particularly loved receiving gifts and would busy herself changing their decorative wrappers to repurpose them as presents for other households. To Gin, everything the master said and did was entirely reasonable. And so, the stingy Mistress and the innately thrifty maid got along splendidly, growing ever more frugal.

Gin's days were hectic. She had to manage both household affairs and external matters entirely on her own. The elderly couple's tasks were endless, and she had to look after the shop girls as well. And there was handling goods and the troublesome bookkeeping tasks. Thanks to the profits from the sewing machine subcontracting, the master and mistress lived comfortably and could even save money, which left them beaming with satisfaction.

In the neighborhood, Gin was talked about as an industrious worker. People said Atariya had landed themselves a good maid, and envied them. To work someone so hard for just eight yen in wages was downright cruel—some spoke ill of the master and mistress. Gin worked with a constant smile. Her long face with its prominent cheekbones and upturned eyes looked terribly severe when silent. No longer troubled by this, she perpetually softened it with smiles. When typhus in her girlhood made her hair grow back anew, it came as tightly curled frizz. She pulled it taut into a bun at her nape. Her right shoulder jutted upward, leaving her slightly lopsided—a remnant from years inspecting one side of lace factory machines. Now even deliberate attempts to lower that shoulder couldn't break the habit. Year-round she wore a work smock fashioned from the Mistress's cast-off striped fabric. Mornings and evenings saw her don a work sash over it, cinching her waist tight with a large apron. No one had yet guessed Gin's true age right. Yet all concurred in placing her somewhere between fifty and sixty. Only her hands and feet remained mysteriously beautiful.

After the commuting girls had left, Gin devoted herself to night work at the sewing machine alone. She would keep at it until past midnight, sometimes drawing complaints from neighbors about disturbed sleep. On rare early nights, her greatest comfort came from either visiting the public bath to stretch out leisurely or calling on the neighboring dyer’s house to hear folktales from the old woman born in her hometown.

The three-tatami room adjoining the kitchen had been assigned as Gin’s sleeping quarters, but this tiny space that never saw the light of day was perpetually musty, its walls and tatami mats damp and clammy. From the single north-facing latticed window, the dyer’s kitchen entrance could be seen just across the alley. The mistress with many children worked nonstop, her shrill voice raised as she constantly scolded the children and Granny.

Gin would sometimes start doing laundry around bedtime. On both walls flanking the window were pinned children’s crayon drawings, magazine cutouts of Western beauties, old single-page calendars from newspaper supplements, and photos taken with friends from her factory days. Both the friends in the photos and Gin wore their hair in large buns that nearly covered their eyebrows, all hiding their right hands inside their sleeves for some reason.

In the corner of the room, old trunks and cardboard boxes were piled up. Cracked glass lamp shades, tattered fabric wall hangings made from pinched cloth crafts, and even objects resembling ink bottles were all carefully stored there. She had taken everything that the master permitted to be discarded. In the old trunk was stored Gin’s most prized possession among her belongings—a shawl edged with sea otter fur from the Mistress’s hand-me-downs. The Mistress still laments that this was a first-rate imported article. However, according to the appraisal by the dyer’s old woman, the claim of sea otter fur was an outright lie—it was actually rabbit fur skillfully dyed. Whether from insects or some other cause, the fur had fallen out in ragged clumps here and there, as if plucked out, leaving it utterly unsightly.

Every time the airing season came, Gin would string thin ropes across this three-tatami room and never forgot to air out her belongings. Whenever someone from the dyer’s shop peeked through the latticed window during these times, Gin would put on airs about each item and proudly show them off. When the shop girls were sweating and clinging to their sewing machines, she would suddenly appear in her sea otter shawl and startle everyone. The moment when she spread bedding across the entire floor of this tiny room and lay down was nothing short of a taste of paradise’s blessings for Gin. Clasping her hands to her chest and reciting from memory the Mistress’s habitual Buddhist prayer, she would be lulled into a pleasant sleep before she knew it. She would often bolt upright in the middle of the night and peer around the darkness. Wondering if it had been a dream, in a dazed state, she would soon slip back into quiet sleep.

It was a truly strange tale, but for many years, Gin had one particular dream she would invariably see. A spacious, splendid Western-style room. On the walls hung a large frame. Beautiful decorative chairs were placed here and there. There were many, many tall, large windows, and pure white lace curtains hung on all of them. They were high-quality items with small patterns and tightly woven details. They billowed softly, swaying and fluttering. The hem tassels flapped noisily. On the swaying curtains, cosmos flowers were blooming. Pale pink flowers on the verge of vanishing bloomed sparsely amidst clusters of white blossoms. The baby on her back simply wouldn’t stop crying. The round buttocks sank lower, the carrying strap biting into her shoulders with a leaden weight as she walked through the cosmos flowers, soothing as she went.

No matter how far she walked, there was nothing but flowers. A wave of flowers swayed slowly and languidly. It was a cosmos-patterned curtain—pure white with scattered pale pink dots. The hem tassels flapped noisily. Then, the curtains swayed and fluttered, softly billowing. The Western-style room in her dream resembled both a mansion belonging to a distinguished person that she had seen in magazine frontispieces and scenes from moving pictures she had been invited to watch by friends during her time at the factory. In those moving pictures, there were scenes of a tall, lovely Western beauty whispering intimately with a count's lover or riding horses for leisurely strolls—scenes that even now, whenever Gin recalls them, make her sigh with restless longing. At such times, she felt an intense longing for Terashima Sutekichi.

Gin first grew close to this haberdashery peddler during her time at the lace factory. She became a mill girl at that Osaka factory when she turned eighteen. Gin was born in a small town near Kitaakita Lagoon. Her father worked as a janitor at the town office while her mother served as a water-fetching maid. Gin was made to quit elementary school midway and sent to work as a babysitter at the principal's house. The principal bore the nickname Redbeard. Even in midwinter's chill, he would stand naked by the well dousing himself with water. When Gin visited the school with a baby strapped to her back, children would crowd around to taunt her with cruel words.

“Your Redbeard had taroppe (icicles) dangling from his beard this morning.” And they would taunt, “Redbeard! Redbeard! His beard’s taroppe pickles!” chasing her endlessly through the snow. When summer came, various flowers bloomed in the principal’s garden. Poppies, zinnias, and daisies were all in full bloom. The principal dressed in a fundoshi loincloth and haramaki belly wrap, and whenever he had free time, he tended to the plants and flowers. When the cosmos flowers bloomed, the children would stretch over the fence and often came to pick them. They were the principal’s prized large-ringed cosmos flowers. They swayed gently all around the fence. They were cosmos flowers so tall they could hide a child’s head.

Due to her father’s circumstances, Gin was dismissed from the principal’s household and sent to work as a maid at a liquor store. In the town, there was a widow known as "Madame Garahachi" who made her living as an employment agent for nurses, factory girls, maids, and the like. At sixteen, Gin was taken to Osaka by this Madame along with local girls from nearby. She became a spinning mill girl. At the invitation of friends from her hometown, she transferred to a lace factory after about a year and a half. There, she worked for over twelve years.

This factory, founded in early Taishō, had somehow sustained its precarious progress with the two imported machines from those days, but as business gradually gained momentum, they were in the midst of expanding the premises when Gin left. Typically, lace fabrics used for clothing material, cuffs, hemlines, and such came in various types like silk, georgette, cotton, and rayon; before being fed into the machines, they were sewn together into ten-yard lengths. They transferred the machine-processed materials to the finishing sewing area and then sent them out for bleaching. Gin worked in the new sewing machine area. Then she was transferred to the machinery section. Two workers would be stationed at each machine - one at the front and one at the back. They walked around checking for broken threads and snapped needles. They kept watch with eyes as wide as saucers. Since they were always walking along one side, their shoulders naturally grew stiff. With one supervisor assigned to every six machines patrolling without rest, they had no time to even sneeze. Gin later became a supervisor and rose to become the sole female overseer, but the particular joy of tending to the machines remained incomparable.

In the factory, there was a single special machine said to have been procured from America—but this one couldn’t be operated unless by Gin. For anyone else, the machine simply wouldn’t obey. Out of fear that forcing it would mean being pricked by needles, no one dared touch it. This produced intricately woven all-over lace. The finished products were primarily sold as top-quality curtain fabric. Gin devoted herself to this machine. She carefully brushed away even the smallest speck of dust with her fingertip. She tested each needle with her lips. And then, before feeding thread into the machine, she wore herself out licking it. Because she had heard from her hometown elders that licking served as a charm to prevent breakage. From between the needles, broad-patterned lace flowed out slowly. The machinery's clamor dissolved into this white stream, leaving stillness congealed here alone. As she watched, a profound quiet seeped into her heart's deepest recesses. Then white patterned lace began flowing through those depths too. Gin would stand dazedly oblivious to the machine, often being jabbed awake. Even after becoming supervisor, she couldn’t tear herself away and remained tethered to it always.

While tethered to the machine, Gin wove various patterned laces in her mind. She wove them one after another—the crimson-tinged clouds at the mountain's edge she had grown accustomed to seeing as a child, the white wisps floating across blue skies, the flaming mottled clouds she had once glimpsed at dawn in some distant firmament. Then she wanted to try weaving the rainbow bridges that appear after summer rains and the light green grassy patches glittering with droplets of morning dew. She thought how beautiful it would be if she tried weaving in the jewel beetles resting in those grassy patches and the mayflies whose translucent wings shimmered through. And then, her heart swelled as she imagined weaving into lace the mist veiling rainbow bridges and the gentle rustle of wind through treetops.

While Gin was working at the factory, her parents died one after another, and her only brother went over to Hokkaido to work in a mine before all contact ceased. Immobilized by typhus, Gin ultimately failed to see her parents in their final moments. It was after these misfortunes that she met Terashima Sutekichi.

Around that time, three dormitory buildings had been built for the female factory workers at the plant. Since it was difficult for them to go out, peddlers naturally began coming in. Sutekichi would pack everything from small goods to items like geta sandals into his wicker trunk and come to sell them. He was a dark-complexioned man with eyes that showed white above and below the iris, possessing a somewhat dapper air. He would say amusing things in Hiroshima dialect and make them laugh. When Sutekichi’s figure—bicycle laden with wicker trunk—appeared on the street, the factory girls would lean out of windows, wave their hands, and shriek in shrill voices. He was quite popular.

This Sutekichi showed Gin an extraordinary kindness in secret. He would give her discounts on items such as hairpins and hairnets or provide stylish Western-style sandals at wholesale prices. He would praise Gin’s hands and feet for their beauty, making her face burn with delight.

One day when Gin lay resting on her day off, Sutekichi of the wicker trunk entered. Seeing the others had vacated the room, he lowered his voice—"There's something I need to tell you alone"—and began recounting his life story. "No man's more wretched than me. Lost both parents young, got worked raw by a cruel uncle and aunt. Wife luck's been cursed—first ran off, second didn't suit so we split, third up and died on me just lately," he said, eyes glistening as he stammered through trembling words. Measuring her own orphan-like existence against his tale, Gin wept in shared sorrow. Her heart stirred at this sudden display of tearful vulnerability—the man's flustered fragility disarming her defenses.

After that incident, Gin began looking upon Sutekichi of the wicker trunk with particular tenderness. On her days off, she would hurry to their meeting spot with a pounding heart. The man always insisted on going to deserted outskirts. Whenever they met, he would quaver, "No man suffers more than I," leaving Gin flustered. What she perceived as his tearful vulnerability became proof of devotion to her. When night approached and Gin grew anxious to return, he would stop her with startling ferocity. Walking dark field paths with her hand in his, her heart kept racing from nervous timidity. This very timidity became her safeguard against missteps. He mocked her prudishness, yet found himself increasingly captivated by her unyielding virtue.

When rumors spread even within the factory and she could no longer endure staying, Gin ended up establishing a household with Sutekichi in portside Kobayashicho. She had heard he was single, but when they began living together, she discovered the man had a child. It was the child of his third wife, but Gin discovered that this wife—who was supposed to have died—was actually alive and well, now working at an inn in Sakai. The child had been placed somewhere; before long Sutekichi retrieved him. He was a boy who had just begun to toddle while holding onto things and was called Toshio.

It gradually became clear that the man was a heavy drinker. His drunken outbursts became impossible to control once they started. Glaring with eyes that showed white all around their irises, he would bark things like “Horse-face” or “Redhead” when summoning Gin. His peddling of sundries had always been half-hearted work, but eventually he switched to selling something called Shinshu cotton. This peddling job was grueling—requiring sales pitches at every single house—and put Sutekichi in a foul mood. The moment he stepped into an entryway he would spread out his wares, declare this was durable silk wadding made from mountain silkworm waste thread, then stomp on it or twist it like a bridle while proclaiming “See for yourself!” with a guarantor’s confidence. The filling actually used processed rayon scraps—a sham everyone recognized anyway. From God knows where he’d acquired them, he’d pretentiously produce business cards bearing famous names from his wallet to intimidate buyers—“See what influential patrons I have!” Some cards even bore aristocratic titles like viscount and baron. The meager profits couldn’t sustain them, leaving many days without proper meals or rest.

Whenever her factory friends came to visit, Gin felt self-conscious. "He was after your savings from the very beginning," the friend earnestly advised. "If you don't leave him now, something terrible will happen," she warned. However, Gin had no intention of leaving him. The man would say he was going to make purchases and take out most of the money. He began leaving the house more often. On the rare occasions he relaxed, he’d get drunk, bark “Hey, Redhead!”, and brusquely order her to get out.

Whatever harsh treatment the man dished out, Gin could endure it. She endured it all for the child’s sake. The child grew attached to Gin and was adorable. With his clumsy lisp, he kept calling her Momma, Momma. When he grew sleepy, he would rub his damp face against Gin's chest. And then he would suckle at her breast and fall asleep contentedly. Gin found this child unbearably cute. From morning till night, she was consumed by the child. Whenever she met someone, she would boast about the child.

“Oh my, how clever my child is.” “Just this morning, when I taught him ‘coo-coo,’ he already memorized it completely. Come on now, Toshio-kun, say ‘coo-coo-coo’ for Auntie.” When the child would purse his drool-dampened mouth and begin his faltering recitation, Gin would become all eyes, her face taking on a warrior’s intensity as she pressed her lips to his face, his hands, even the protruding navel of his belly, blowing puffs against his skin. One day, in a rare occurrence, Sutekichi took the child to the public bathhouse. When she grew concerned about their late return and went to check, they had apparently left long ago. A wet towel and soapbox had been left at the attendant’s counter. After that, the father and son were never seen again. A couple claiming to be relatives came and loaded all the household goods onto a cart and left. Upon first being informed that the child’s mother was still connected to him, Gin was left at a loss. She thought of the child and cried.

She had been living alone for a while when persuaded by a friend, she resolved to move to Tokyo. She ended up relying on her friend’s aunt who ran a bookbinding business there. She couldn’t return to the lace factory because it would have been socially improper. The bookbinder from her hometown arranged for Gin to be taken in by “Atariya” under the pretense that she was their niece. From time to time they would visit under the guise of relatives, list complaints about their circumstances, and borrow pocket money before leaving. Their visits gradually grew more brazen until by month’s end they never failed to make their appeals for funds.

Gin was obedient to everyone. She believed with absolute certainty that nothing would go wrong as long as she obeyed others' words. And she could not feel at ease unless she always had someone to look up to in her heart. When she was a child, it had been her school principal and the sake shop master. She had served as both a factory foreman and supervisor. The Sutekichi father and son had lingered longest in her heart. And now there were none more precious to her than the master and mistress of Atariya.

Over ten years had passed since their parting when it was said Toshio had entered middle school that spring. The father and son were now living in Umeda City, Hiroshima. About a year after Gin had settled at Atariya, a letter arrived from Sutekichi. At that time, he had still been in Sakai. She learned he had inquired about her whereabouts through her factory friends, and found it filled with his usual complaints. Gin remembered the man’s tearfulness. She could almost hear his quavering voice. She felt unbearably sorry for the child living in poverty. And immediately put together whatever money she had on hand into a money order and sent it off. This became a habit, and now, under the guise of school expenses for the child, she was being hounded for money every month.

“There’s no one as gullible as you! Pouring so much into complete strangers—it’s like water through a sieve.”

The master and mistress tried every way to make her stop sending money, voicing various arguments. Gin just kept listening with a smile.

After moving to Hiroshima, Sutekichi had been engaged in something like real estate brokerage. The letter stated that he and the child were living alone in desolate circumstances, but through news from her factory friends, she had learned that the child’s mother was actually with them. Letters often came from the child as well. They began with "Auntie" written in large characters. Gin felt dissatisfied and lonely. She remembered Toshio—how he’d call her “Momma” with that childish lisp, rubbing his damp face against her. The sensation of those small hands pressed against her breast as he happily suckled came back to her with an ache so sharp it felt like sorrow. And she would try mouthing "Momma" over and over to herself.

With every letter from Toshio came another demand. The school backpack had broken; he wanted Tokyo pencils; he needed spending money for a school trip—the requests never ceased. Gin would read each letter with mounting excitement and immediately prepare what was needed to send off to him. When the crayon drawings arrived, she showed them off to everyone she met. “This child of mine…” she exclaimed, eyes widening with pride as she boasted to the fullest. The visiting girls would grow flustered once more at Miss Ogin’s “this child of mine” routine and giggle among themselves.

The crayon drawings depicted a train, and another sheet had an apple drawn on it. Gin pasted them on the wall of her own room and would gaze at them morning and evening.

When the shortage of imported goods drove 'Atariya' into such dire straits that they dismissed their errand boys and closed the shop, Gin too found herself at a loss over what course to take for a time. The bookbinder couple offered to find her a more lucrative position, but Gin felt no inclination to relocate. The only thing occupying her heart was the desire to return once more to the Osaka factory. After agonizing over it, Gin attempted sending an appeal addressed to the supervisor. Now that her friends had returned and settled in their hometowns, this veteran supervisor stood as her sole remaining connection and lifeline.

The feelings she directed toward the machines alone never changed, no matter how much time passed. The mere memory of snow-white patterned lace unfurling gently from between needles made her heart leap unbidden. Gin yearned to handle the needle once more. She thought about wanting to try licking the thread lightly with her tongue tip. She wanted to brush machine dust with her fingertips and walk about busily attending them, eyes wide and intent. This obsession with lace machines was the single proactive trait Gin possessed. However, her request was not granted. After the Incident, product controls had reduced machine numbers below former levels. The special machine for weaving all-over lace had been idle since last year; the supervisor had sent a detailed report.

Permission was granted by the master and mistress, and Gin threw herself into sewing machine piecework. The visiting girls grew close and worked diligently. As work gradually piled up, Gin handled customer inquiries and directed product handoffs while remaining at her sewing machine. Her smiling face worked wonders, clients responded warmly, and she gained a reputation as an amiable worker. As her hands moved over the sewing machine, suddenly a spacious Western-style room spread open before her eyes. There were large framed pictures and beautiful upholstered chairs. Many tall windows stood in rows, each draped with pure white lace curtains. They were high-quality pieces with small, finely woven patterns. The curtain hems billowed softly, their tassels pattering like gentle rain. On the swaying curtains bloomed cosmos flowers. Pale pink blossoms on the verge of vanishing dotted clusters of white blooms. A floral wave rippled rhythmically. The tassels pattered. Then the curtains billowed and fluttered anew.

To Gin, every detail stood vivid—the lace’s exquisitely fine weave marking it as premium quality, each small motif a cosmos flower, the countless folds rippling in soft billows. The hem tassels pattered in her ears, and when she reached out, the soft sensation of the billowing curtains came through. Amidst the rumble of streetcars running along the avenue, the clamor of voices, and the din of sewing machines, only those pure white curtains billowed soundlessly in gentle undulations.

On a certain night in the season when mosquito nets and fans were been stored away and storm shutters kept tightly closed, Gin lay in bed rereading a letter from Toshio. The characters had grown more difficult, and lately deciphering them had become a struggle. Starting with "Dear Aunt," it was already written in kanji. Gin felt impressed that entering middle school made one so accomplished. "All my friends have fountain pens, but I'm the only one who can't get one," he had written, lamenting his situation. He had informed her that his father was now ill and under a doctor's care. "I'm very busy taking care of the baby and studying," he had added.

Gin decided she would buy a fountain pen first thing tomorrow and send it off. She imagined Toshio's delighted face. However, what surfaced was a toddling little boy blowing spit bubbles. Then, from his lisping voice would come the adorable call of “Mom.” She should send some sort of toy to the baby said to have been born this spring as well. Then she should send get-well money to the child’s father as well. Thinking how poor they must be and how much they must be struggling, Gin’s eyes grew moist.

And with the scrawled letter in large characters laid against her cheek, she unknowingly began to breathe peacefully in sleep. At the edge of the pillow, a flower chafer beetle busily rubbed its hands.

Twelve days later, Gin died of a stroke.

When her belongings were examined, the money—including five five-yen National Bonds—totaled one hundred twenty-eight yen and fifty-three sen. What struck them as odd was the six-foot-square luxurious lace tablecloth that had never been seen even during seasonal airings.