Pathway to Japanese Literature

From the old woman at the dye shop next door, Gin heard this folktale.

In the depths of a mountain, a man lived alone in a makeshift hut. No matter how much he worked, he could barely put food on the table, and whenever he thought of his future, he grew anxious. One evening, a great storm arose, toppling large trees here and there and blowing away all the millet and barnyard grass in the fields, while cries of "Help! Help!" rang out from every direction. The man helped his regular patrons and returned home to sleep, but in the dead of night, he heard thin, feeble cries of "Help! Help!" coming from somewhere. He spent the night awake, wondering where it could be coming from. When morning came and he went to gather firewood in the mountains, he still heard last night’s cries of “Help! Help!” Following them bit by bit, he found a heron that had lived in a hollow of an old tree—toppled by yesterday’s gale—now trapped between branches, screeching helplessly. The man labored to fell the tree and rescue the bird, soothing its damaged feathers, but the creature remained too exhausted to fly properly. No sooner had it managed to take flight than it would flap noisily and crash to the ground; no sooner would it rise again than it would tumble back down. Because the man had to earn his living, he left while lingering in thought, looking back again and again. The heron shed tears as it watched his retreating figure. One day after the rain had cleared, when the man went to gather firewood in the mountains, there was a young, beautiful woman also gathering firewood. The woman smiled and called out, “I’ve been wanting to meet you.” Even when he asked, “Who are you?” she merely kept laughing and busily gathered firewood. When evening came and he started to leave, she followed him. “I’m just a poor man—having someone like you come along would be trouble,” he said. She clasped her hands as if praying. “Please let me stay.” Then he pulled out a paper twist from his pocket, took two grains of rice from it and put them in the pot to boil. The pot filled to the brim, and they ate their fill at dinner. The woman spent her days gathering firewood in the mountains and her nights weaving cloth, working without a moment’s rest. As days passed, she came to stay at home weaving cloth from dawn till dusk. Before long, a girl was born between them, and after three years had passed, she finally finished weaving the cloth and said to her husband, “Please take this to town and sell it.” He made a worried face and muttered, “What kinda price could this shaggy woolen fabric even fetch? Though if it sells…” But she said firmly, “I wove this with all my spirit—you may sell it for three hundred ryō.”

When he took it to see the master of the great shop in town, the master was so delighted that he declared he would make it a family treasure and purchased it at her asking price. Astounded, the man returned home with a fortune. And thanks to this fabric, they came to live in great prosperity. One night, the woman said that now that their daughter could manage if food were provided, he should grant her leave. When the man asked in surprise why she would say such a thing now, she replied, “Though I’ve earned us much until now, my spirit and strength are utterly spent. I wish to return to my original nature.” “In truth, I am the heron you saved long ago.” “In some way, I wished to repay your kindness, so I will leave behind my only daughter in my place.” Then she said, “When I wove that fabric, I plucked every feather from my body to make it. This is what I’ve become.” Showing him her naked form, she flapped away toward the mountains with the few remaining flight feathers rustling noisily.

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

Gin had already served over ten years as a maid at this "Atariya". "Atariya," too, had been a fairly renowned import goods shop on this Roppongi Street, but with imported goods becoming difficult to procure in recent years, their business had increasingly become unprofitable. Rather than stooping to becoming petty merchants hawking work gloves and aprons in their shopfront at this late stage, the stubborn old master closed up shop. Now, sewing machines crammed every inch of that former storefront, and Gin applied herself diligently as the overseer of subcontracting sewing work. What had started as a mere side job had unwittingly become her main occupation. Using an old sewing machine said to be the heirloom of this household’s only daughter, she took on side jobs sewing simple garments and aprons for neighbors in her spare time—until connections through a regular laundry led her to begin subcontracting work for sanitary uniforms and medical attire. Since Gin alone couldn’t keep up with the workload, she began purchasing secondhand machines and renting others, and now even the part-time girls toiled in sweat-drenched labor.

Gin, who had been entrusted with everything by the elderly owners, could not devote herself solely to the sewing machines. She prepared side dishes likely to please the elderly, sewed, did laundry, set mouse traps, went shopping at the market...

At the market, Gin was known by the nickname “Make-rese.” For she could not leave without haggling even when buying a single knob of ginger. Truly, Gin was a master when it came to bargaining. Whenever she found even minor flaws or imperfections, it was her habit to say “Make-rese” in her slender country accent. The vendors would wave their hands dismissively, muttering *“Can’t handle that ‘Make-rese’ today,”* and when they saw Gin coming to shop, they’d put up signs like **“No Bargaining Day”** to mock her.

Since Gin was naturally dexterous, she handled most mending herself. She effortlessly repaired things like re-covering umbrellas and fixing broken ribs. She not only did metal repairs on pots and kettles but could also mend cracked ceramics. The elderly owners were extremely fond of Gin’s frugal resourcefulness in these matters. They praised her as an exemplary model of preserving resources during these austere times. Gin was beaming. Every word from her elderly employers was precious to her. For Gin, her elderly employers were simply incomparably splendid people.

The Master showed signs of paralysis and often lay abed, but being an impatient nag, he constantly grumbled. Moreover, with his unmanageable temper, he would press his face against the tatami to inspect it and make her pick out every single splinter. The Mistress was devout and had never let go of her prayer beads. Though profoundly compassionate and flawlessly kind-natured, those who frequented the household would whisper behind her back, calling her a "cheapskate." Though she spoke of compassion, she had never once performed an act of charity. The Mistress herself had made it a custom 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 was particularly fond of received gifts, busying herself all alone with replacing their wrappings with noshi paper to turn them into presents for other households or fussing over this and that. To Gin, everything her master said and did was perfectly reasonable. And so, this stingy Mistress and her innately frugal maid got along splendidly, growing ever more parsimonious.

Gin’s days were a whirlwind. She had to manage both household affairs and external matters entirely on her own. The elderly couple’s errands were endless, and looking after the shop girls was another duty. And there were the tasks of handling goods and the troublesome bookkeeping. With the profits from the sewing subcontracting work, the elderly owners lived comfortably and were delighted to be able to save money too.

In the neighborhood, Gin’s diligence was well-known. People envied that Atariya had landed such a good maid. There were also those who spoke ill of the elderly owners, saying that working her so hard for a wage of eight yen was downright cruel. Gin worked with a perpetual smile. Her long face—with its prominent cheekbones and upturned eyes—appeared fiercely intimidating when silent. Tormented by this impression, she kept her features deliberately softened. When she had contracted typhus as a girl, her hair had grown back as tightly curled frizz. She gathered it into a severe bun at the nape. Her right shoulder sat higher than the left, lending her a lopsided stance—a remnant of years spent inspecting one side of machinery at the lace factory. Even conscious efforts to lower that shoulder proved futile. Year-round she wore a work coat fashioned from the Mistress’s cast-off striped fabric. Mornings and evenings saw her sling a work sash over it and cinch her waist with a broad apron. None had ever accurately guessed Gin’s age. Yet all estimates agreed she fell somewhere between fifty and sixty. Only her hands and feet retained an inexplicable beauty.

After the part-time girls left, Gin applied herself diligently to night work at the sewing machine alone. She would often work past midnight, sometimes drawing complaints from the neighbors about disturbing their peaceful sleep. On the rare occasions when she finished early, Gin’s greatest comfort was either going to the public bath to leisurely stretch her limbs or visiting the dye shop next door to listen to folktales from the old woman who shared her hometown roots.

The three-tatami room adjoining the kitchen had been allotted to Gin as her sleeping quarters, but this tiny chamber that never saw sunlight was perpetually musty, its walls and tatami mats damp and clammy with moisture. From the single north-facing latticed window, the dye shop’s kitchen entrance could be seen just across the alley. The mother of many children bustled about non-stop, her shrill voice raised as she ceaselessly scolded the children and Granny. There were times when Gin would start doing laundry around when she went to bed. On both walls flanking the window were pinned children’s crayon drawings, magazine cutouts of Western beauties, an old single-page calendar from a newspaper supplement, and photos taken with friends from her factory days. In the photos, both her friends and Gin wore their hair in large chignons so voluminous they hid their eyebrows, and for some reason, they had all tucked their right hands into their sleeves.

In the corner of the room were stacked old trunks and cardboard boxes. Cracked lampshades, tattered paper-mâché pillar decorations, and even things like ink bottles were all carefully stored there. She had taken possession of anything the Master had given permission to discard. In the old trunk lay Gin’s most prized possession among her belongings—a shawl edged with sea otter fur from the Mistress’s cast-offs. This was an imported item of the finest quality, which the Mistress still lamented parting with. However, according to the appraisal by the old woman from the dye shop, the claim of sea otter fur was an outright lie—it was rabbit hair expertly dyed. Whether due to insects or not, clumps of fur had been torn out in patches, leaving it utterly unsightly.

Every time the airing-out season arrived, Gin would string up thin cords in this three-tatami room and never forgot to air out her belongings. Whenever someone from the dye shop peered through the lattice window during these times, Gin would make a fuss over each item and boast. Just as the shop girls clung to their sewing machines—drenched in sweat—Gin would suddenly appear wrapped in her sea otter shawl and startle everyone. To spread bedding across the entire floor of this tiny room and lie down for even a moment was, for Gin, nothing short of heavenly bliss. With her hands clasped to her chest and chanting the Mistress’s customary Buddhist prayer from memory, she would find herself gently lured into a pleasant slumber before she knew it. She would often bolt upright in the middle of the night and peer restlessly into the darkness. Was it a dream? she wondered in a dazed state, and soon sank back into quiet slumber.

It was a truly strange tale, but for many long years, Gin had one particular dream she would invariably see. It was a spacious, splendid Western-style room. On the wall hung a large framed picture. Beautiful decorative chairs were placed here and there. Countless tall, large windows lined the walls, each draped with pure white lace curtains. They were superior items with small patterns and finely detailed weaves. They swayed and fluttered softly. The hem tassels flapped rhythmically. On the swaying curtains, cosmos flowers bloomed. Pale red flowers on the verge of vanishing bloomed sparsely amid clusters of white blossoms. The baby on her back wouldn’t stop crying. The round buttocks slid down, the carrying strap dug into her shoulder, heavy and sluggish. She walked through the cosmos flowers while soothing the baby.

She walked and walked, but there was nothing but flowers. A wave of flowers swayed slowly, languidly. It was a cosmos-patterned curtain with pale red dots scattered against a pure white background. The hem tassels flapped rhythmically. Then, the curtains swayed and fluttered softly.

The Western-style room in her dream resembled both the mansions of distinguished figures she had seen in magazine frontispieces and scenes from moving pictures she’d been invited to watch by friends during her factory days. In those moving pictures, there were scenes where a tall, splendid Western beauty whispered intimately with a count’s lover or rode out for leisurely strolls on horseback—scenes that would torment Gin enough to draw sighs whenever she remembered them. At such times, she would feel an intense longing for Terashima Sutekichi.

It was during her time at the lace factory that Gin became involved with this haberdashery peddler. She became a female factory worker at that Osaka factory at the age of eighteen. Gin was born in a small town near the lagoon of northern Akita. Her father worked as a janitor at the town office, and her mother was a water-carrying maid. Gin was made to leave elementary school midway and was sent to work as a nursemaid at the principal’s house.

The principal had been given the nickname “Red Beard.” He was a man who would strip naked even in midwinter and douse himself with water at the wellside. When Gin visited the school grounds with a baby strapped to her back, children would flock around and hurl such taunts.

“Your Red Beard came hangin’ taroppe (icicles) off his whiskers this mornin’!” And chanting “Red Beard, Red Beard! Whisker icicle pickles!” they’d chase her endlessly through the snow. When summer came, all sorts of flowers bloomed in the principal’s garden. Oiran grass, zinnias, and daisies were blooming in profusion. The principal was attired in a loincloth and bellyband, and whenever he had a spare moment, he tended to plants and flowers. When the cosmos were in bloom, the children would stretch up on tiptoe over the fence and often came to take them. They were the Principal’s prized large-petaled cosmos. They swayed gently all around the fence. The cosmos were so tall they could completely hide a child’s head.

Due to her father’s circumstances, Gin received leave from the principal’s household and was sent to work as a maid at a sake shop. In the town, there was a widow known as "Mistress Garahachi" who made her living brokering employment for nurses, factory girls, and maids. In the spring of her sixteenth year, Gin was taken to Osaka by this "Mistress" along with other local girls. She became a spinning mill worker. After about a year and a half of being persuaded by friends from the same town, she transferred to a lace factory. There she worked for over twelve years.

This factory, founded in early Taisho, had managed to sustain a precarious existence with its two imported machines but gradually prospered; by the time Gin left, they were expanding the factory buildings. Typically, lace fabrics used for garments, cuffs, and hem guards came in materials like silk, georgette, cotton, and rayon—sewn into ten-yard lengths before machine processing. The machined pieces went to the finishing workshop before being sent for bleaching. Gin worked first in the newly established sewing workshop. Then she transferred to the machine room. Two workers manned each machine—front and back. They patrolled inspecting thread breaks and snapped needles. Eyes wide as saucers with vigilance. Constant one-sided pacing stiffened their shoulders. With one supervisor per six machines ceaselessly circling, sneezes went unsneezed. Gin later became supervisor—the sole female overseer—yet found unmatched joy in tending machines.

In the factory, there was only one special machine that had been ordered from America, but this one couldn’t be operated unless by Gin. With anyone else, the machine wouldn’t respond. Out of fear that forcing it would get them pricked by the needles, none dared lay hands on it. This produced all-over lace with an intricately dense weave. The finished products were marketed chiefly as premium curtain fabric. Gin devoted herself entirely to this machine. She brushed away even the tiniest dust motes with her fingertips. She tested each needle against her lips. And before threading it through, she went to great lengths to lick the thread—a “charm” she’d learned from her hometown elders to keep the strands from snapping. From between the needles, wide patterned lace would stream forth slowly. The machine’s clamor dissolved into this white flow until stillness itself seemed congealed here alone. As she gazed, a marrow-deep quiet seeped into her heart’s core. Then white lace patterns would begin streaming through those depths anew. Gin often stood dazed like this, forgetting the machine until someone jabbed her ribs. Even after becoming supervisor, she couldn’t tear herself away, remaining its operator all along.

While keeping close to the machine, Gin wove various patterned lace in her mind. She wove one after another—the crimson clouds at the mountain’s edge she had grown accustomed to seeing as a child, the white wispy clouds softly draped across the blue sky, and the blazing mottled clouds she had once glimpsed in the distant dawn sky. Then she wanted to try weaving the rainbow bridges that arched after summer showers and the pale green grassy fields sparkling with morning dew beads. If she tried weaving in the jewel beetles resting in those grassy clumps and the mayflies with wings so transparent you could see their feathers, how beautiful it would be. And her heart swelled with anticipation as she resolved to try weaving into lace even the mist-shrouded spans of rainbow bridges and the tender sound of wind rustling through treetops.

While Gin was working at the factory, her parents died one after another, and her only brother crossed over to Hokkaido to work in the mines and vanished without a trace. Immobilized by typhus, Gin ultimately failed to be present at her parents’ deathbeds. It was after these misfortunes that she came to know Terashima Sutekichi. Around that time, three dormitory buildings had been built for the female workers at the factory. Because it was difficult for them to go out, peddlers naturally began entering. Sutekichi would pack everything from all manner of small sundries to items like geta sandals into wicker baskets and come to sell them. He was a dark-complexioned man with sanpaku eyes and a somewhat dapper air. He would say amusing things in Hiroshima dialect and make them laugh. When Sutekichi’s figure—his bicycle laden with wicker baskets—appeared on the street, the factory girls would lean out of windows, wave their hands, and shrill excitedly. He was quite popular.

This Sutekichi showed Gin an extraordinary kindness in secret. He would give her discounts on things like hairpins and nets, or supply stylish Western-style sandals at wholesale prices. He would praise Gin’s hands and feet for being beautiful, making her so happy her face burned.

One day, while Gin was lying down on her day off, Sutekichi of the wicker baskets entered. Seeing that the others had left the room, he lowered his voice and began sharing his personal story: “There’s something I want to tell only you.” “There’s no man more unfortunate than I—losing both parents as a child, then being worked to the bone by my tyrannical uncle and aunt.” “My luck with wives has been wretched—the first ran away, the second didn’t get along so we split, and the third just recently passed away,” he said, eyes brimming, voice trembling with distress. Comparing his own orphan-like plight to hers, Gin wept in shared sorrow. The man’s sudden tearfulness and flustered timidity stirred her heart.

After such things had happened, Gin came to view Sutekichi of the wicker baskets with a special tenderness. And on her days off, with her heart pounding, she would hurry to their rendezvous spot. To the deserted outskirts, the man wanted to go. Whenever they met, he would lament in a trembling voice, “There’s no man more unfortunate than I,” leaving Gin perplexed. The man’s tearfulness and timidity became, for Gin, a pledge of love. When night fell and Gin began to worry about returning home, the man stopped her with a startling vehemence. While walking along a dark field path with her hand entrusted to the man, Gin’s heart would often pound from anxiety and timidity. That timidity protected her, and no mistakes were made. The man mocked her, calling her a prude. Stirred rather than deterred by the woman’s unyielding propriety, he grew all the more obsessed.

Unable to endure the spreading rumors even within the factory, Gin ended up setting up a household with Sutekichi in Kobayashicho near the harbor. She had heard he was unmarried, but when they began living together, it turned out the man had a child. The child was from his third wife—but they discovered this wife, who was supposed to have died, remained alive and well, now working at an inn in Sakai. Wherever the child had been kept, before long the man came to take him in. He was a boy who had just barely begun taking his first wobbly steps while holding onto things and was called Toshio.

She gradually came to realize the man was a heavy drinker. When drunk, his temper turned vicious, becoming unmanageable once he started shouting. Glaring with the three whites of his eyes visible, he would call out to Gin using insults like “Horseface” or “Frizzhead.” His peddling of small goods had grown increasingly lackadaisical, but eventually he shifted to dealing in something called Shinshu cotton—though no one knew where he sourced it. This peddling venture proved exhausting—requiring a sales pitch at every single house—leaving Sutekichi perpetually irritable. The moment he stepped into a doorway, he would spread out his wares, proclaiming it durable silk wadding made from wild silkworm waste thread, stomping on it with his foot and twisting it like reins to demonstrate while putting on an earnest face for buyers—“See here! Just like this!” The filling actually used processed rayon scraps—nothing but a known counterfeit. From God knows where, he’d procured business cards bearing prominent names, which he’d solemnly produce from his wallet while declaring “See what influential patrons I have!” to cow potential customers. Some cards even bore aristocratic titles like Viscount and Baron. The scheme brought little profit, leaving many days where he barely scraped by.

Whenever her factory friends came to visit, Gin felt self-conscious. "From the very beginning, he’s had his eye on your savings," her friend earnestly warned. "If you don’t leave him now, something terrible will happen," she threatened. However, Gin had no intention of leaving him. The man would take out most of the money under the pretext of making purchases. He began leaving the house more frequently. On the rare occasions he relaxed at home, he’d get drunk, shout “Hey, Frizzhead!”, and storm out—a blatant show of his growing disdain.

Gin could endure any harsh treatment from the man. It was for the child’s sake that she endured it. The child grew attached to Gin and became adorable. With his clumsy tongue, he grew accustomed to calling her Mama Mama. When sleepy, he would rub his snotty face against Gin’s chest. Then he would suckle her breast and fall asleep contentedly. Gin found this child unbearably adorable. From morning till night, her mind brimmed with thoughts of him. Whenever meeting people, she boasted about him endlessly.

“My child, oh, how precocious he is! This morning too, when I taught him ‘Pigeon Coo-Coo,’ he already memorized it completely. Come on now, Toshio, why don’t you sing ‘Coo-Coo-Coo’ for Auntie.” As soon as the child puckered his dribbly mouth and began haltingly reciting, Gin—already beside herself—fervently pressed her lips to his face, hands, and protruding navel, blowing raspberries all over him.

One day, unusually, Sutekichi took the child to the public bathhouse. When she grew concerned about their late return and went to check, she was told they had left long ago. Wet hand towels and a soap case had been left at the counter. After that, the father and son were never seen again. A couple who claimed to be relatives came and loaded all the household belongings onto a cart to take away. When she was told for the first time that he had never severed ties with the child’s mother, Gin was at a loss. She cried thinking of the child.

She had been living alone for some time but decided to move to Tokyo when urged by a friend. She ended up relying on that friend’s aunt, who worked at a mounting shop in Tokyo. She couldn’t return to the lace factory out of lingering obligation. The mounting shop owner from her hometown arranged for Gin to be taken care of at “Atariya” under the pretense that she was her niece. The owner would occasionally visit under the guise of kinship, airing complaints about her circumstances and borrowing petty cash before leaving. This gradually became routine until she never failed to make her monthly appeals for money by month’s end.

Gin was compliant with everyone. She had convinced herself that as long as she obeyed others’ words, nothing could go wrong. And she could not feel at ease unless she constantly kept someone enshrined in her heart. As a child, the ones she enshrined in her heart had been her school principal and the master of the sake shop. There had been factory foremen and supervisors as well. Sutekichi and his son had remained in her heart by far the longest. And now there was no one as precious to her as the elderly owners of Atariya.

Over ten years had passed since their parting, and it was said Toshio had entered middle school that spring. The father and son were now living in Kaieda City, Hiroshima.

About a year after Gin settled at Atariya, a letter arrived from Sutekichi. He had still been in Sakai at that time. She learned he had inquired about her whereabouts through her factory friends, and the letter remained as full of complaints as ever. Gin recalled the man’s tendency toward tears. She could almost hear his wavering voice. She felt unbearably sorry for the child living in poverty. And so she immediately converted whatever funds she had on hand into a money order and sent it to him. This became a habit, and now he regularly pestered her each month under the guise of the child’s school expenses.

“There’s no one as much of a pushover as you.” “You’re lavishing money on complete strangers. It’s like pouring water into a sieve.”

The elderly owners tried every means to dissuade her from sending money, offering all manner of arguments. Gin simply listened with a smile.

After moving to Hiroshima, Sutekichi was engaged in something like house brokerage. The letter stated he was living a lonely existence alone with the child, but through a notification from a factory friend, she learned the child’s mother was also with them.

Letters often came from the child as well. It began with "Auntie" written in large letters. Gin felt an unfulfilled loneliness. Toshio—who with his unpracticed mouth would call her “Mama” and rub his dribbly face against her—came to mind. The feel of those tiny hands pressing against her breasts when he had happily suckled—this memory returned with a pang so poignant it verged on sorrow. And she would try saying “Mama” over and over again under her breath.

With every letter from Toshio came some new demand. His school backpack had broken; he wanted Tokyo pencils; he needed spending money for a school excursion—the demands never ceased. Gin would excitedly prepare and send off whatever was requested the moment she read each letter. When a crayon drawing arrived, she showed it to everyone she met. “This child of mine…” she’d begin, her face brightening as she boasted with all her might. The part-time girls would roll their eyes when Miss Gin’s “this child of mine” routine started up again, giggling among themselves.

The crayon drawing depicted a train, and on another sheet there was an apple. Gin pasted them on the wall of her room and gazed at them morning and night.

Around the time when shortages of imported goods forced Atariya into such hardship that they dismissed their apprentice and shuttered the shop, Gin too had briefly wavered about her future course. The elderly owners suggested finding her a better-paying position elsewhere, but Gin felt no desire to relocate. The sole thought occupying her mind was that she wished to return once more to the Osaka factory. After much deliberation, Gin sent an appeal addressed to the supervisor. With her friends having all returned to their hometowns and settled there, this long-serving supervisor now stood as her sole remaining connection and only dependable contact.

The feelings she directed toward the machines alone never changed, no matter how much time passed. The mere recollection of patterned lace—that pure white expanse slowly flowing from between the needles—made her heart leap unbidden. Gin yearned to handle the needle once more. She imagined lightly licking thread with her tongue's tip. She pictured brushing machine dust with her fingertips, eyes wide as she hurried alongside its rhythm. This fixation on lace machinery stood as Gin's sole proactive trait. Yet her plea went unanswered. After the Incident, product controls had reduced machine numbers below former levels. The supervisor's thorough report explained how special looms for full lace had lain idle since last year.

With permission granted by the elderly owners, Gin devoted herself to sewing subcontracting work. The part-time girls worked diligently and amicably. As work gradually piled up, Gin remained at her sewing machine while handling customer interactions and overseeing product deliveries. Her cheerful demeanor worked in her favor, clients responded well to her, and she gained a reputation as a charming person.

While moving her hands over the sewing machine, suddenly before her eyes opened a spacious Western-style room. There were large picture frames and beautiful ornamental chairs. Tall windows—many, many of them—all hung with pure white lace curtains. They were high-quality pieces with small, intricate patterns and finely woven details. The billowing hem tassels of the fluttering curtains flapped noisily. Cosmos flowers bloomed upon the swaying curtains. Pale red flowers on the verge of vanishing bloomed here and there amidst clusters of white blossoms. A wave of flowers swayed and billowed. The hem tassels flapped noisily. Then, the curtains billowed softly, fluttering.

To Gin, it was all vividly visible—the lace with its finely woven threads of high quality; each small pattern a cosmos flower; the many folds softly billowing and swaying. The hem tassels flapped noisily in her ears, and when she reached out her hand, the soft sensation of the fluttering curtains came through. Amidst the rumble of trams running through the streets, the clamor of voices, and the din of sewing machines, only those pure white curtains billowed soundlessly, floating in gentle motion.

On a certain night in the season when mosquito nets and fans had been stored away and the storm shutters tightly closed, Gin lay in bed rereading Toshio’s letter. The difficult characters had increased in number, and lately deciphering them had become quite laborious. From the salutation "Respected Aunt," it was already in kanji. Gin marveled that entering middle school made one so admirable. "All my friends have fountain pens, but I alone can’t get one bought for me," he lamented. He had informed her that Father was now ill and under a doctor’s care. He had added that he was very busy with looking after the baby and studying.

Gin thought she would buy a fountain pen first thing tomorrow and send it off. She imagined Toshio’s delighted face. Yet what surfaced was a toddler boy blowing spit bubbles as he tottered along. Then from that unpracticed mouth came an adorable voice calling “Mama.” She would also send some sort of toy to the baby born that spring. And then she would send get-well money to the child’s father as well. Thinking how poor they must be, how terribly they must be struggling, Gin’s eyes grew moist.

And with the letter scrawled in large characters still pressed to her cheek, she unknowingly began to breathe the tranquil breaths of sleep. At the edge of the pillow, a longhorn beetle was busily rubbing its hands.

Twelve days later, Gin died of a stroke.

When they examined her belongings, the total money—including five 5-yen national bonds—came to 128 yen and 53 sen. What struck them as odd was the lavish six-foot-square lace tablecloth that had never been seen even during airing-out days.