Pathway to Japanese Literature

When the mourning period ended and her mother-in-law’s mind had finally settled, Seiko and she would take her husband’s ashes and return to their hometown in Akita. Though it was Akita, it was actually a small town called Goshogame, located much closer to Lake Hachirōgata. In truth, according to their arrangement with Zenpuku-ji Temple, they were supposed to inter the ashes before the thirty-fifth day memorial service, but due to her chronic rheumatism, Mother-in-law had often been bedridden; using this as a pretext for her general reluctance, it had ended up being delayed until now. The reason was that Mother-in-law had grown accustomed to the custom of her hometown’s elders, who believed that the deceased’s spirit remained in the rafters for forty-nine days—leaving that beam-bound spirit behind seemed unbearably pitiful to her.

On the morning before they were to depart the next day, having sent off most of their luggage, Seiko cooked rice gruel with tea for the first time in a while and savored it with her mother-in-law. She ladled a small portion into the teacup he had always used and offered it to Ryōjin’s ashes. This tea gruel was Ryōjin’s favorite. Since he had long been known as a food connoisseur among ward office colleagues and in magazine articles, single-minded Seiko—carried away by his praise—would recklessly concoct gruel after gruel. This became such a daily morning routine that eventually even Shūto and Ryōjin would end up laughing.

Seiko’s tea gruel was directly taught to her by Zenpuku-ji’s elderly priest. She prepared it with the highest-grade green tea. Rather than simmering it in tea broth from the very beginning, adding a small bag of tea to the earthenware pot just before the gruel finished cooking resulted in a far superior aroma and flavor. The adjustment of adding this tea bag was truly difficult. By judging doneness through how loudly it bubbled during cooking—a skill honed over time—Mother-in-law came to be admired as a master at preparing rice gruel. And so she devoted herself even more, devising various gruels that were met with delight. Shiso gruel, green pea gruel, seaweed gruel, pickled plum gruel… Ryōjin had even written about this pickled plum gruel in the New Year’s issue of *Taste Chronicles*. Gauging the moment when it began to bubble vigorously, she would drop a pickled plum into the center of the earthenware pot and then patiently simmer it over low heat. The rice gruel drew out the pickled plum’s tartness, while the plum itself became plump and meaty with a perfectly balanced flavor—indescribably delicious. The smooth mouthfeel was particularly delightful; the older the pickled plum, the better it was. The pickled plums from Meiji 26 (1893), which Ryōjin’s ward office janitor had treasured like precious heirlooms, were still carefully stored away after she had humbly begged to receive a portion. Once, when there was a fire in the neighborhood, Ryōjin’s appearance as he clutched that small jar of pickled plums and frantically paced around became a lasting source of laughter.

Since Seiko would concoct various gruels using just a single earthenware pot, Ryōjin used to tease her by calling her “Gruel Granny.” Even though it required neither effort nor money, when entertaining guests, it was Seiko’s gruel they served. Ryōjin often teased her like this. “If I ever get fired from the ward office, I’ll have you start a gruel shop.” “How about we call it ‘Gruel-Sei’?” “Still, ‘Gruel Granny’ lacks charm, don’t you think?” He chuckled softly to himself at his own idea. He tacked on such things. “Then, if you’ll pardon my forwardness, I’ll come empty-handed and have you feed me.”

Seiko hadn’t been outdone either. “Don’t mention it. In that case, Husband, I’ll have you put on an apron and start with washing the rice and lighting the fire—then you can handle deliveries.” “Well, well—am I to be worked like a dog by the wife’s kiseru pipe?” “Not just a kiseru pipe—I’m up to my ears with the abacus!”

Looking back, even these pleasant exchanges had now become nothing but futile repetitions.

Lately, Seiko finally began recalling her deceased husband with a semblance of clarity, yet what rose before her eyes were not his features but strangely imposing shoulders and ink-stained fingers. Seiko was flustered by this unexpectedness. Ryōjin’s somewhat hunched right shoulder alone had taken on an angry appearance, making his retreating figure resemble that of an irascible old man. From years of using a hard pen, a rock-hard callus had formed on his right middle finger—only there did ink soak in and blacken into a stain that refused to fade no matter how thoroughly he bathed.

Ryōjin was a family register clerk at the ward office. He began working at twenty-seven, spending about a year as cleaning staff before remaining in the family register section until his death at forty-one. After graduating from his hometown’s normal school, he had immediately begun teaching at Ichinomiya Elementary School, but upon resolving to take the civil service examination for teachers, he eventually relocated his entire family to Tokyo. While attending night university’s higher normal course, the ward office job he had begun as a temporary foothold ended up becoming his permanent position. As for the civil service examination itself, he had given up on it at some point.

Ryōjin’s section had writing as its primary duty, and on busy days he would cut short even his eagerly awaited lunch to focus on writing. His handwriting slanted upward, and since he pressed down hard when writing—a habit of his—he often broke glass pens during his early days. Getting his pen caught on the ink-stained sponge and dropping the container became a frequent mishap for clumsy Ryōjin. As this happened so often, he grew reluctant to request replacements from supplies and eventually used an empty cosmetic cream bottle brought from home as his sponge container. After the Incident, administrative tasks piled up exceptionally, leaving every department rushed off their feet. The government office building stood old and dimly lit, electric lights remaining on low above each department’s desks from morning onward. Ryōjin’s department produced dozens of certified copies and extracts daily. Around this time certified copies multiplied further due to career changes and unemployment among small merchants and industrialists. The overtime persisted. Returning home to late dinners, Ryōjin would often sit massaging his fingers while struggling to maneuver chopsticks.

“My hands’ve gone useless.” To Seiko, who looked puzzled, Ryōjin said this with a laugh and shook his right wrist in stiff, jerky motions.

He would often get ink smeared all over his face or come home still wearing his sleeve covers. These sleeve covers were Seiko’s own handmade creations. The purchased ones were of poor quality and would tear quickly, so Seiko took her mother-in-law’s discarded wool crepe obi and made two or three sturdy sleeve covers in advance.

“Today there was an odd marriage registration—both the bride and groom are named Misao, you see.”

He generally avoided discussing matters from the ward office, but still occasionally shared stories with Shūto and Seiko while chuckling to himself. “Of course, since they’re both Misao, it’s fine—but if this were Arima-sho and Sen-san, the marital quarrels would never let up.” “There’d be some even without reasons—they’d be butting heads constantly.” “What on earth is that—the punchline?” Seiko chuckled softly. After hearing the explanation, the mother-in-law too joined in laughing.

Among the various registrations he processed, Ryōjin felt only the slightest flicker of enthusiasm when handling marriage certificates. Ryōjin—who commuted via the national railway—would often imitate the morning train crowds upon returning home to amuse his mother and Seiko. But at Shinjuku Station’s platform—a major transfer hub—the stampedes were what small-statured Ryōjin described as “enough to swallow you whole” avalanches of people where even blinking carelessly proved impossible. You’d get pushed out in the blink of an eye. Clutching his lunchbox tightly against his chest with both hands—and when holding an umbrella hugging that too—Ryōjin looked just like a limbless Daruma doll being shoved aboard. “Boldly! Swiftly! And meticulously!” had been his boarding motto during crowded commutes—but ever since carelessly going empty-handed once and nearly getting dragged off the train, he brandished this motto with renewed vigor—particularly drilling “Meticulously!” into himself through clenched resolve.

“This morning, there was a natto bean stuck right on the chest of the student in front of me.” “I wanted to tell him, but there was no way…” Once aboard, you couldn’t move a muscle. If you turned your face, you’d be carried along with it stuck that way. The small-statured Ryōjin remained frozen like a limbless Daruma doll while people’s breath—reeking of miso soup—blew upon him. “I’d like to take you there once. “A murderous crush! “Someone like you’d have your sleeves—everything—torn clean off.”

Ryōjin had a habit of rolling his eyes back and slightly hiking up his angry right shoulder when in his element. At this moment too, as Seiko looked at Ryōjin’s rolled-back eyes, she felt strangely puzzled—what could possibly make him so happy even while being jostled in the crowd?

When it came to the troubles Seiko had with Ryōjin, it was the side dishes for his lunchbox that she packed every morning. Even if he loved salted salmon, she couldn’t very well serve him it every single day. Since Ryōjin disliked store-bought side dishes, Seiko would worry over different options from the night before. She would pack kinpira burdock, stir-fried tofu, or the croquettes she had secretly set aside from her own portion the previous night. Occasionally, Ryōjin would treat himself to udon at the office, but his udon-loving mouth would mutter, “Two bowls is pushing it,” and he’d end up bringing a lunchbox with salted salmon after all.

The time when he used this lunchbox was Ryōjin’s greatest pleasure. Talk of charcoal shortages arose. Talk of alcohol being unobtainable arose. Stories arose about standing in line for over an hour just to buy sweets. Yet this simplicity of their austerity-driven lives under material shortages hardly needed fresh emphasis for those working at such a government office—it ultimately amounted to an accustomed, manageable lifestyle. The registration clerk across the way was a man who never tired of packing boiled beans, though he had a daughter attending girls’ school who seemed to handle his lunch preparations. When an unexpected rolled omelet appeared inside, he would twitch his wispy beard—too sparse to catch the wind—into a smug grin, place a slice on the lid, and offer some over to us. Conversation about food flourished. Someone expounded on whale lean meat’s nutritional value. When made into cutlets, they said it brought out a beef-like flavor in the center. Since it was cheap and you could eat until stuffed, it had gained considerable popularity.

It was at such times that Ryōjin’s gustatory discourses would begin. “When it comes to someone like Mr. Suzuki with a refined palate…”

Within the ward office, Ryōjin was well-established as a food connoisseur. The listeners would conjure out unknown flavors from Ryōjin’s stories, stealthily savoring them in their imaginations. “These days, oysters are so delicious—don’t you agree?” “They’re in season now.” “The other day, I received some Matsushima oysters as a souvenir and grilled them in foil…” It was someone’s talk like this that would trigger Ryōjin’s connoisseurship to come into full display. “When it comes to oysters, Tottori’s summer oysters are unmatched, I tell you. “Around here, they’re considered taboo in summer, but let me tell you—Tottori’s summer oysters are absolutely irresistible.” “They’re also called Shima oysters, clinging tight to rocks at the very bottom of the deep sea.” “The ama divers would haul them up, swing a hammer right there to barely crack the shells, slip a blade in to pry out the flesh—but these ones are enormous.” “Well, they’re easily about the size of this palm here.” “Not just large and thick—their color and sheen are truly splendid.” “You take off these black membranes, wash them well in saltwater, then give them a good dunk in vinegar.” “Delicious.” “Truly delicious.” “In one bite?” “Oh no—you couldn’t possibly eat this in one bite…”

When he spoke earnestly, Ryōjin’s tone would unconsciously take on a country accent.

“Abalone?” “Coastal catches are out of the question.” “Well, if it’s from around Numazu, I suppose one could tolerate it… but then again, eating it in Numazu would be utterly lacking in flavor.” “They salt them in barrels, load them onto horses’ backs, and transport them all the way to Kōfu.” “Jostled and rattled through Fuji’s foothills, they enter Kōshū.” “Abalone, when perfectly timed for eating, has an utterly irresistible flavor.” “The ones from Wajima—that Wajima in Noto famous for its lacquerware—their abalone is quite something too.” “The pinnacle of abalones, I tell you.” “The exterior is remarkably firm.” “Even if you just press your teeth against it, it won’t dent.” “But when you bite into it, it’s actually tender.” “Crunchy… yet this one melts away on the tongue.” “Soft outside, tough inside—no, wait, tough outside and soft inside.” “That’s the abalone among abalones, I tell you.”

Ryōjin’s story gradually grew more passionate. The listeners chimed in with various comments. “This talk’s making me thirsty for a drink!” There was also an old man who demonstratively sipped his coarse tea alongside such remarks. Ryōjin’s story gained momentum. And gradually grew more intricate. Fucha cuisine came up. He began with the origins of Ōbaku Fucha cuisine. In Ōbaku cuisine, tempura in particular was Ryōjin’s specialty; he had recently introduced it in *Nutrition and Home*, a magazine run by an acquaintance, and had also written about it in the home section of a newspaper. Unlike ordinary tempura that uses sesame oil, Ōbaku’s employed aged seed oil and wheat flour as hard and clumpy as mouse droppings. When it came to mixing this flour with water, Ryōjin would gesture by mimicking—as if vigorously scraping from the far side of the bowl with thick chopsticks. If stirred too carefully, the batter became glutinous, and the tempura wouldn’t achieve its characteristic crispness. In Ōbaku, neither broth nor grated daikon was served. The ingredients—mushrooms, shrimp, and fruits—were seasoned beforehand. The true essence of tempura lay in being fried in oil yet remaining free of greasiness. When it came to loach simmered in dark soy sauce, they said you couldn’t eat it unless you removed the bitterness with egg whites. As for chicken—they insisted the only proper way was sukiyaki made from castrated young roosters: spread chicken fat on the iron griddle, grill the meat while stuffing your cheeks with grated daikon sauce.—Ryōjin’s culinary discourses knew no end.

However, in Ryōjin’s case, it wasn’t that he frequented gourmet restaurants, nor was he a connoisseur of kitchen work, nor had he traveled around sampling local specialties. It was all talk. Ryōjin’s memory and imagination directed toward taste were extraordinary—he would never forget things he’d half-heard somewhere or glimpsed in magazines and books, and on occasion would lend them wings of fancy. Such culinary explorations of his could unfold anywhere. In the morning commuter train—so packed he couldn’t budge—he would gaze at the fresh greenery streaming through gaps between passengers’ shoulders outside the window, envisioning blanched young leaves of aralia and lacquer tree, or butterbur dressed in sesame paste. Then he would delve even into the progression of the first summer hearth’s chakaiseki meal. Savoring each course in sequence—clear soup, mukōzuke appetizer, simmered dish, grilled offering… June’s finest delicacies—Ryōjin’s satisfaction would reach its zenith. A truly strange phenomenon: in this packed train car, an array of dishes materialized—green shiso leaves so vivid they stung the eyes, small sea bass releasing wisps of white steam when their lids were lifted—all laid out as if still brimming with life.

“You’re so strange,” Seiko said. “To know all about dishes you’ve never even partaken of… If you don’t eat them, what’s the point?” To Seiko, who found this amusing, Ryōjin replied, “It’s much more fun to imagine, I tell you. And you can ‘eat’ anything that way.” He said with a laugh. Perhaps that was the case, Seiko thought; she felt something mysterious about Ryōjin, known as a food connoisseur, and even so, she still respected him.

That evening, after she and her mother-in-law finished their modest dinner alone together, Seiko propped the hand mirror she’d forgotten to put away against a pillar and tied up her mother-in-law’s hair. Because the morning train was leaving early, her impatient mother-in-law seemed unable to rest unless she got everything in order now. Her mother-in-law’s hair required careful attention. It had become customary for her to tie it up, but now that the hair had thinned further—with a large bald spot at the center from the toll of her youthfully styled chignon—securing the false hairpiece into a proper updo required considerable effort. Even at seventy-three, her mother-in-law still cared about her appearance; whenever her hair was neatly done up, she would delightedly admire herself in the paired mirrors.

“Mr. Nishio is taking his time, my goodness.” “Maybe he got held up drinking again.” The mother-in-law had been waiting for Nishio, the reporter from *Nutrition and Home* who was supposed to take care of the remaining luggage. He was a friend of her late husband and the only fellow townsman Seiko and her mother-in-law could rely on in Tokyo. “Make sure to dust that shelf properly.” It concerned the bookshelf they would leave behind for Nishio as a memento. Recently, Nishio, who had recently started a household, was scheduled to move into this house immediately. For both Shūto and Seiko, leaving this house they had lived in for so many years was painful, but now that Ryōjin’s spirit had ascended from the rafters onto a journey from which there would be no return, there was no point in clinging to attachments any longer.

“Oh my, we must’ve forgotten to buy a souvenir for Mr. Itō at the town office.” “What a pickle!”

The mother-in-law, who had been counting off on her fingers who should get what, suddenly made a perplexed face in the mirror. For relatives and acquaintances in their hometown, which they were returning to after so long, they had prepared over twenty-odd souvenirs; yet when counted out, there were still a couple of names they missed. They decided to purchase those along the way, but with preparations for tomorrow morning and meals on the train to handle, her mother-in-law still seemed unable to settle her mind. She also reminded her not to forget newspapers as a precaution for when seats couldn’t be secured.

“Tomorrow night we’ll get to soak in the hot springs.” “Our legs’ll be so shocked they won’t know what hit ’em!”

Shūto had looked forward to the hot spring trip. The old housewife of Ura no Ieō, who had struggled with the same rheumatism, reportedly had her pain vanish completely after undergoing treatment at Reisenji Hot Springs in Shinshu last year. It was due to Shūto’s lifelong wish—having heard that story—that they had ended up making a detour on their way back home this time. “If my legs get lighter, how much easier it’ll be, I tell ya.” “Oh, it’ll be paradise, I tell ya.” Both Shūto and Seiko were visiting the hot springs for the first time. Shūto appeared buoyant. She chattered about tomorrow’s pleasures—this and that. She pressed and constantly talked. She acted flustered as though she might lose her listener, Seiko. Seiko found something heartbreaking about her mother-in-law like this. Precisely because her mother-in-law was normally a woman of few words, the lighthearted remarks she’d been making since Ryōjin’s death struck Seiko as profoundly sad. It felt as though she were clinging to Seiko, winding herself around her as she spoke.

During her late husband’s first-week memorial service, when relatives from their hometown casually brought up the topic of Seiko’s remarriage, her mother-in-law had agreed on the spot—but her subsequent loss of composure and flustered state pierced Seiko’s heart. Since being bereaved of her husband, Seiko and her mother-in-law’s hearts had grown closer together; in a sense, the two had become each other’s crutch. Precisely because she was elderly, her mother-in-law could not manage without this support. When Seiko took a bit longer with the shopping, her mother-in-law would come out to wait at the street corner. When Seiko began preparing to go out, her mother-in-law would fuss around restlessly attending to her, then suddenly gaze at her with uncertain eyes. Held back by such behavior, Seiko found it difficult to go out. One night, when Seiko was about to get up to go to the toilet, her mother-in-law suddenly called out to stop her—

“Don’t go nowheres.”

She clung to her in a strained voice. Though it later became clear she had been frightened by a bad dream, after this incident Seiko made even more of an effort not to leave her mother-in-law's side.

For Seiko and her husband, who had not been blessed with children, their mother-in-law had been the sole object of their affection. People often asked whether Ryōjin was an adopted son or a son-in-law, but even to others’ eyes, the relationship between Shūto and Seiko must have appeared that close. Ryōjin would often joke, "If you keep neglecting me like this, I’ll just up and leave somewhere!" he would jokingly threaten.

There had been times early on when even Seiko resented her mother-in-law to that extent. When Ryōjin had wanted to take Seiko as his wife, it had been none other than this mother-in-law who had raised objections because of her Shaguma hair. Shaguma Seiko later heard about this from her husband and felt deeply resentful. Although Shūto had been convinced when Ryōjin laughed, “Even the Buddha has curly hair, doesn’t he?,” this time it ended up with Ryōjin imposing a sense of obligation on Seiko indefinitely—a kindness that felt more burdensome than grateful.

When the mother-in-law first caught sight of Seiko at the deputy matchmaker’s house, she had been all smiles, “Shaguma may be Shaguma, but that bride’s got fortune-bringing ears—plenty of blessings’ll come to this house, I tell ya.”

and was said to be in the best of spirits. These ears were Seiko’s proudest possession among her features; their thick, plump earlobes were utterly charming. However, fourteen years had already passed since she married into this family, and though Seiko had unwittingly turned thirty-six with the passing years, not a semblance of good fortune had ever visited this house. Yet during the time when Ryōjin was in good health, this household had not a single hair’s breadth of complaint or dissatisfaction. Seiko’s sole wish had been to own a sewing machine. For ten years she had waited for her husband to buy it for her. When they went out together, Seiko would invariably urge Ryōjin to stop before a sewing machine shop on the main street. In the large display window, several splendid black-lacquered machines stood aligned with a Western doll wearing a pink dress and yellow braided hair. The couple would feel a mild exhilaration of expectation as they discreetly appraised prices and stood gazing at them for long stretches. Gradually Seiko resigned herself to her wish being too extravagant, finding full satisfaction whenever she borrowed the housewife next door’s tabletop sewing machine.

Shūto’s hair was unruly. She would jut out her side locks slightly and place a small ready-made topknot at the crown, but this Japanese-Western hybrid hairstyle had been the custom ever since Seiko married into the family. “Well now—did our little moon hide itself proper?”

Shūto carefully adjusted her hair, lifted Seiko’s pocket mirror, and craned her neck back and forth to check her reflection. Ever since Ryōjin had teasingly likened the bald spot concealed by her thin hair to "a moon veiled by midnight clouds," both Shūto and Seiko had taken to calling it "our little moon."

As Seiko went down to the sink to wash her oily hands after finishing up her hair, Nishio came bustling in with his usual hurried air.

“I’m really late… What about the luggage?” “Ah, I’ll handle the rest, I’ll handle it.”

No sooner had he taken off his shoes than he began attending to the luggage scattered about there, but was stopped by his mother-in-law and settled for tea. “Today as well, at the office, Mr. Suzuki came up in conversation—acute pneumonia just doesn’t suit him. If only it’d been a more… stylish illness, something gut-related—you’d think there’d be a way for a foodie to kick the bucket that suits him, wouldn’t you?...”

Nishio gulped down his tea with a throaty sound, his jaw muscles twitching as he greedily devoured the rakugan from the sweets bowl. “I’ve resigned myself to this as fate.” “Hey now, Mr. Nishio—our boy was such a glutton through an’ through, ain’t he? Bet he’s stuffin’ himself with feasts even in the afterlife till his belly aches somethin’ fierce.” “Next time he’s born again, if he don’t bring back a heap o’ souvenirs for us, it ain’t gonna square up proper-like.” While pouring tea for him, her mother-in-law looked up at Nishio with glistening eyes and laughed.

“That’s right, Ma. By now, he must be eating to his heart’s content.” Nishio drank tea aimlessly while averting his eyes from the old woman’s face but called out when Seiko came upstairs.

“Mrs. Suzuki, when you return to the countryside, it’ll be lonely for a while, won’t it? You won’t easily forget Tokyo.”

“After all, we’ve been here a long time,” she said. “But being around children in the countryside will keep me occupied.” “Ah, so you’ve settled things with the school then?” “I’ve asked the deputy mayor… And I received a letter from the principal confirming everything’s arranged.” “That principal’s a kind man,” Nishio remarked. “He taught me in higher elementary—we called him Old Redbeard. He’d come in with his runny nose all shiny.”

The conversation turned to their elementary school days. Both Nishio and Seiko had graduated from that elementary school in their hometown, but of the teachers from those days, only that old red-bearded principal still remained. “I had intended to ask at Umakawa or Iidagawa schools if Gonoheme didn’t work out… At Iidagawa, most of the teachers from my time are still there, you see.”

Seiko had been a substitute teacher at that Iidagawa elementary school before her marriage.

Regarding how Seiko would live after returning home, her parents and relatives from her maiden family had interfered quite intrusively, but Seiko had resolved to take up a position at a school while protecting her mother-in-law. She couldn't bring herself to go anywhere that would leave her lonely mother-in-law behind.

“Oh right, I’d forgotten—the magazine came out earlier, you know.”

Nishio pulled the bag on the entrance step closer and took out a copy of *Nutrition and Home* reeking of printing oil.

“The manuscript we received from Suzuki-kun has been published.” “It was on the 25th of the month before last—yes，just before he took to his bed.” “So this would be his final work then,”

He flipped through the pages absently but then stood up abruptly and placed it before the ashes in the tokonoma alcove. “Ma, it was good you kept this desk after all, wasn’t it?” “Perfect.” Nishio tapped the nearby desk with a rhythmic knock and opened the drawer. “Oh, there’s some doodling here. …What’s this—a geometry problem?” “After all, I bought this for him when he started middle school…” “So, it’s already been twenty-six or twenty-seven years then.”

Seiko also stood up to peer. “A clever tanuki’d be shape-shiftin’ ’bout now.” The mother-in-law said this and made the two of them laugh.

After tying up the luggage and leaving the rest for morning, when Nishio had gone home, Seiko soon put her mother-in-law to bed. Given that Shūto was an early riser and it was already past ten o'clock. As she packed her personal belongings into the duffel bag, the thought that this house too would only remain in her memory after tonight made it hard for Seiko to bring herself to go to bed. The aged house, with its atmosphere somehow stained with hand grime, felt sorrowful. Seiko stood up and turned a page of the wall calendar she had forgotten to remove. Then she stood up again and went to touch the single remaining white Seto ware hat rack in the entrance. Traces of Ryōjin were everywhere. Seiko lightly shook Ryōjin's back,

“Goodbye now, goodbye,” she urged. Ryōjin’s figure—slightly hunched, his right shoulder raised rigidly—seemed forever anchored to this house. Suddenly noticing, Seiko picked up the magazine Nishio had left in the tokonoma alcove earlier. With no desire to encounter Ryōjin’s writing, she flipped through the pages. It was a magazine packed with home cooking recipes, short comic tales, and humorous novels. Seiko read “Nutrition Manzai” and nearly let out a stifled laugh. When she finally came across Ryōjin’s writing, she felt herself stiffen involuntarily.

—What I still cannot forget is Hiroshima’s “dancing whitefish cuisine” from early summer. A red-lacquered vessel—though more precisely a small tub-shaped container—held whitefish swimming inside. Each splendid specimen was well-fleshed, surely exceeding three sun in length. A red vessel with whitefish! A truly beautiful contrast. I nimbly plucked the swimming ones—of course with chopsticks. This fellow proved quite tricky to grasp. I dipped the wriggling fish at my chopstick tip into the prepared yuzu-infused soy sauce for a quick swirl before eating—its deliciousness defies description. Vinegar miso also made for a fine accompaniment. Some claim that little black eyeball tastes too earthy, but that very earthiness makes it exquisite. To call it “dancing whitefish cuisine” without understanding that flavor is wretchedly uncouth. What else lingers on my tongue? The “raw-prepared sea bream” from Hiroshima and Izumo’s famed “thread-crafted carp.” For the bream, they brought a lively large specimen whole to the table. When I dripped sake onto its eyeball, suddenly the entire fish fanned open like rippling waves. A magnificent sight. They slice into live bream to make sashimi—cruel indeed for the fish, but no delicacy rivals how it delights the tongue. As for “thread-crafted carp”—sliced into thread-like strands, each elegantly wrapped with roe—a dreadfully intricate luxury.

Ryōjin’s writing continued on, with even the preparation method of Tosa’s *katsuo no tataki*—a style of searing bonito—being described in meticulous detail.

As she read, Seiko— “Lies… all lies.” She rebuked the invisible Ryōjin. Though infuriated by his writing of lies about dishes he’d never tasted, strangely enough, delicacies began escaping from Ryōjin’s text to line up before her eyes—so vivid she nearly reached out—and Seiko found herself salivating uncontrollably.

The train was nearly full by the time it reached Ueno.

The cherry blossoms along Kumagaya’s embankment were eight-tenths in bloom, and vendor stalls lined the area bustlingly. However, once they passed through Usui Pass, the season seemed to roll backward, and both the mountains and trees still bore their winter attire. Occasionally, plum blossoms were blooming in sunny spots.

It was a journey of three with the ashes, but her mother-in-law was so buoyant it was almost sad, talking nonstop, sharing nori rolls with the student in the neighboring seat and offering candies to the old man in front.

For her mother-in-law, who needed frequent bathroom breaks, Seiko had taken a seat near the door, but the constant opening and closing made such a racket that she couldn’t even doze off. The bustle of that morning’s train came back to her. Having never ridden an early morning train before, Seiko was jostled about and let out screams while desperately trying to protect her mother-in-law. Nishio, who had seen them off with both hands full of luggage, ended up in a comical state with his jacket shoulders slipping down and his tie twisted. In the midst of being unable to move, she suddenly noticed her own posture—the right shoulder raised high, body rigid with nervous tension—and felt an odd sensation. Her posture was exactly like Ryōjin’s.

Between Shūto and the old man, a lively conversation about buckwheat was in full swing. Komoro was near. The old man invited them to get off and try the local specialty of buckwheat noodles on their way. Then he took down his furoshiki bundle from the luggage rack, put on a faded double-layered workman’s coat, and bid farewell to stand ready to leave even before the train reached the station. She recalled Ryōjin had said that soba must be made with second-grade flour for fresh noodles—Takinogawa’s Yabuchū or Ikenohata’s Rengyokuan.

When the train entered Komoro Station, the student in the neighboring seat kindly pointed out the direction of the castle ruins and Fujimura’s monument as he began his explanation. A fluttering sound came, and a pigeon flew past the window, nearly grazing it. When she followed it with her eyes, it darted about over the railway gravel before busily taking flight again. The pigeons walked around atop luggage boxes and across the concrete baggage area with the hurried air of creatures searching for something lost. Some lightly perched on a laborer’s shoulder only to fly off toward the roof moments later. The roof too held many pigeons. Their deep-throated cooing resembled Buddhist chants muttered in devotion, while the older ones—their feathers worn—moved with a certain sluggish dignity. Under the railway overpass lay a large corrugated iron sheet, its shadowed gap seemingly transformed into a pigeon’s nest. Both overpass and iron sheet had been blackened by train smoke billowing beneath them, making the sight of pigeons nesting in such grime appear profoundly pitiful.

The two pigeons that had been precariously moving about on the edge of the corrugated iron descended to the tracks one after another—only for one to immediately return to the sheet as if abandoning its companion. The remaining pigeon chased after it in a hurried turn-around but was met with utter indifference. It doggedly pursued anyway. Pressing close, it rubbed its beak against the other. When it tried to land on the companion’s back, flapping wings drove it off. Seiko averted her eyes without quite knowing why.

By the time they arrived at the inn at Reisenji Hot Springs, even Shūto had grown weary. This was partly due to having been jostled for so long in the shared carriage along the way. However, as soon as Shūto entered the bath, she immediately regained her vigor. She gargled with water from the faucet, placed a wet hand towel on her head as everyone did, and had Seiko massage her feet—all of which left her in high spirits. “Look here,” she said. “My feet’ve gotten so light… The hot spring’s a blessin’, it truly is.” Shūto demonstrated her brisk walk before Seiko and then went out into the garden—now tinged with evening dusk—not heeding attempts to stop her.

It was a simple structure. It felt less like an inn and more like a meticulously maintained farmhouse. The garden, too, was better for not being half-heartedly manicured. From their room in the detached annex, Seiko and the others could immediately gaze upon an ancient plum tree right before their eyes. At only the tips of its branches, countable white rings wafted with an unexpectedly rich fragrance. It was as if one were witnessing the noble obstinacy of a withered, ancient tree.

A meal tray was brought onto the kotatsu. Had they gone all the way to Maruko Town to prepare this? There was even sashimi and simmered fish arranged on the tray. Alongside blanched field parsley sat a large lacquered bowl containing grated yam soup bubbling with frothy foam. Perhaps it was a local specialty yam—the pale-skinned grated paste clung thickly. For this mountain hot spring inn, it seemed an excessively lavish spread. While moving her chopsticks, Seiko found herself thinking of Ryōjin again. Now she felt an inexplicable irritation—an urge to shove every dish from this tray into Ryōjin’s mouth. She wanted to pry open those silent lips and force it down, this wretched restlessness she couldn’t endure.

Behind the bamboo thicket came sharp calls of small birds. It was a quiet room where one could view mountains without leaving one’s seat. The mountain trailed dusk’s hem at its base while its faintly lit summit bore a meager cap of snow. From afar drifted a mother’s voice calling her child. In the clear air, that voice echoed with a lingering resonance as though it would float eternally through the sky. The room’s side stepped down one level into a covered walkway leading to the bathhouse. With such a low roof overhead, from the kotatsu one could only occasionally glimpse the feet of passersby there. While Shūto bathed, Seiko—having nothing to occupy herself—gazed vacantly in that direction. Her eyes kept drifting there naturally, filling her with an odd sense of embarrassment. Unbidden came memories of pigeons she had unexpectedly seen at Komoro Station. The image of two birds keeping affectionate company had burned itself into her vision. A lively footstep accompanied by whistling sounded as someone in a tea-striped tanzen passed through the lower corridor. Whether from the garment’s brevity or careless wearing style, their freshly bathed crimson shins lay exposed beneath its hem—hairy legs spilling from slippers with veins bulging robustly—radiating rude health. Seiko had been listening absently in her flushed state when suddenly—as if struck—she started and hurried down to meet her mother-in-law at the bathhouse.

That night, for the first time in a long while, Seiko dreamed of Ryōjin. It was her first dream since his death.

Ryōjin, his hair disheveled from sleep, gently tugged at Seiko’s earlobe while rambling in a muddled voice about something. Irritated by his endless talking, Seiko within the dream sullenly kept silent.

The morning at Reisenji dawned with the song of small birds. A wagtail flying with its pale green back glistening first caught her eye. As it flew, it let out sharp, rapid chirps—tsu-tsu-tsu… Perched on the roof, it tapped the tiles with its long tail and projected clear tseeu-tseeu calls. Its voice was pure and beautiful. The one that had descended to the pond’s edge to drink water kept tapping its tail while chirping. Over the pond stretched maple branches; near their roots grew a clump of bamboo grass; and in the bright sunlight, adonis flowers bloomed with bashful grace.

Before breakfast, Seiko went out for a walk accompanied by her mother-in-law. There were only four or five hot spring inns, small shops selling sundries and cheap sweets, and beyond the river, farmhouses scattered here and there. The temple building on a hill near the mountains stood with grandeur incongruous to its surroundings. The decaying temple gate, the massive zelkova tree hollowed at its core, the moss-clad eternal lantern—even the shachi ornaments crowning its canopy had been torn away or broken. Though erected in Bunsei 6 (1823), the aged lantern's stately presence revealed itself through the deep moss shrouding its form. A large plaque bearing “Reisenji Temple” hung before the main hall's entrance. It appeared to have remained shut for days. Peering through gaps in the storm shutters showed tatami mats stained crimson by stray sunlight—coldly gleaming—while deep within the altar's shadows, the principal Buddha image stayed beyond reach of worship.

They turned back along the river. The current was swift and transparent. At every doorway, women were squatting, washing leafy greens and rinsing rice. There were also children picking parsley.

Seiko clasped her hands behind her back for the first time in a long while and recalled her friends from her maiden days. And she felt as though the modest life she and her mother-in-law would lead in the years to come had now begun before her very eyes.

“My, how hungry I am! I’m so hungry I can’t stand it!”

While saying this with apparent discomfort, the mother-in-law quickened her pace. She laughed that while the fresh air was medicinal, being this hungry made it impossible to economize on rice. “Once again, grated yam soup this morning,” Seiko said. “Earlier, the landlady was working so hard turning the grinder.” “Grated yam at dawn, grated yam at dusk—that’s our lot now, ain’t it?” The two of them chuckled together.

The inn was close by. At the doorway of a farmhouse, children jostled to thrust their hands into an empty can to pluck out earthworms and peer into the wire mesh. Inside the wire mesh was a single crow. In the beak’s not yet fully darkened hue and the restless appearance of feathers that seemed puffed out, there was an air of not yet fully matured youthful innocence. When a child dangled an earthworm through the mesh, the crow jerked back, opened its red mouth, and flapped its wings while cawing "caw-caw-caw" in haste. The tips of its wings had been cut, leaving them oddly stubby and giving it a clumsy appearance.

Inside the wire mesh was a small chipped bowl with rice grains scattered about. Having confirmed that the crow chick wouldn’t compete for the earthworms, the children turned their attention to opening the door and working on the drawer. After a while, it wobbled unsteadily toward the door but soon retreated into the mesh and huddled there. From the children’s explanation, she learned it had been taken from its nest while still a nestling. They had raised it on table scraps, but now it refused to eat anything except rice grains, they said. Just the other day, they had tried offering frog meat—to no avail—and stood there looking thoroughly disappointed.

While watching the crow chick with cowering eyes inside the wire mesh crawling with earthworms, Seiko remembered Ryōjin. Once, he had been invited to his first magazine roundtable discussion where they treated him to Chinese cuisine, but upon returning home, he immediately developed a stomachache and declared he’d had enough of lavish meals. Whenever he ate something unusual, he would inevitably complain of stomach pain afterward. Ryōjin was someone who took such joy in porridge.

The mother-in-law, who had returned to the inn earlier, was drinking tea by the hearth in the tidied room. From the back thicket came the song of a bush warbler.

“Mother, a bush warbler!” She didn’t seem to hear it.

“Mother, a bush warbler is singing!” The mother-in-law turned around, still holding the bowl to her mouth, “This here tea’s brewed up just right.”

she nodded. Seiko left it at that and did not mention the bush warbler.