Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 Mr. Shuutoku Karasawa, who normally spoke little, had grown unusually animated over recent days—cracking foolish puns at meals to amuse the household. His naturally plump, ruddy complexion acquired a burnished sheen during these episodes, the rounded tip of his nose—where crimson capillaries showed through like woven silk threads—appearing to mirror the sunlit white of papered shoji screens along the veranda. Throwing open a mouth still lined with intact front teeth, he would rub his sides and roar with booming “wah-ha-ha” laughter; in these moments he seemed anything but a man approaching seventy. The family observed this rejuvenated vigor through uneasy gazes.

Although he had relinquished his demanding position as president of Karasawa Steelworks to his son-in-law, Mr. Yokoo, two years prior and now led a leisurely retired life, his inherently restless disposition refused to settle even in old age—he continued leaving for the office precisely at nine each morning as before, returning only after noon. There was no particular business awaiting him; it was simply that he couldn’t rest unless he went to the office out of long-ingrained habit. He would be driven by car to show his face in the president’s office—offering advice to the new president, relaying phone calls for him—then make a round through the company before returning home by car. In other words, this daily commute to the office served as a form of exercise for the old man. Lately, carried by this enthusiasm, he had even taken to inspecting the factory itself.

“If you push yourself so much, it might harm your health.” As the elderly madam Iyoko spoke these words in a placating tone, Mr. Karasawa waved his hand grandly,

“Oh, it’s nothing—this much is trivial! This body of mine hasn’t grown senile yet!” He rubbed his sides and let out a bellowing “wah-ha-ha” laugh. It was rare for Mr. Karasawa to be in such high spirits. For the elderly madam Iyoko, rather than feeling joy, a jarring unease came first. Though he had always been cheerful by nature, this act of rubbing his sides while laughing uproariously was something entirely new. The exhilaration of vitality surging within him seemed to erupt as unstoppable laughter. This transformation left the elderly madam’s heart peculiarly unsettled—one reason being how her mind fixated on Mr. Karasawa’s recent displays of exaggerated attentiveness. While kindness had always been his nature, there now seemed something calculated in how he flaunted that kindness.

Mr. Karasawa, whose custom it was to spend a moment in the garden before leaving for work tending to omoto plants, was again this morning crouching before the roofed omoto shelf and meticulously brushing dust from between the leaves with a brush tip moistened with water when he suddenly sensed the elderly madam’s presence on the veranda and turned around, “What do you think of the luster on this Irifune?”

He proudly arched his back sideways, assuming the pose of one gazing intently at the omoto plant pot at his feet. “Come closer and take a look at how I tend to them.” No sooner had he spoken than he hurried across the stepping stones, personally straightened the garden clogs, assisted the elderly madam—whose legs were stiff with rheumatism—down into the garden, and led her by the hand as he slowly guided her before the omoto shelf. The warmth of her husband’s palm left the madam flustered; she stumbled repeatedly on the stepping stones and staggered. And from that sudden attentiveness, distant memories began to resurface slowly; the madam gazed at her husband’s softened profile as if searching for something.

Whenever her husband showed kindness and tender affection beyond his usual demeanor, there had always been another woman involved behind the scenes—such had been the pattern until now. On such occasions, this deliberate kindness seemed less an act driven by genuine remorse toward his wife than a form of atonement—a way to purify himself from the defilement of his debauchery. The women who captured Mr. Karasawa’s interest were primarily professionals; there had even been a period when he became utterly besotted with a certain Kowaka of Yanagibashi—personally designing full sets of dance costumes for her recitals and having them custom-made in Kyoto—such was the depth of his obsessive devotion. This behavior gradually subsided starting around when he celebrated his kanreki sixtieth birthday, his heart turning instead toward antique collecting. After installing in the tokonoma alcove a gaudy antique Buddha statue with peeling gold leaf—who knows where he unearthed it—he would stroke it with apparent delight, tap its surface, or lean back to gaze at it until fully satisfied; in these mannerisms one could discern the repetition of his former indulgences through sheer inertia—nothing more than an elderly man’s substitution of objects to avoid societal censure.

After finishing his omoto plant care, Mr. Karasawa relaxed in the tearoom, drank a bowl of powdered tea prepared by the elderly madam, changed into Western clothes, and as usual went down to the entrance ten minutes before nine. While having the maid Oshimo tie his shoelaces, he turned back to look at the elderly madam kneeling on the entryway step to see him off. “Has the great doctor not gotten up yet?”

He asked. He had grown accustomed to calling their son Keitaro—who was studying at the university’s medical school—by this affectionate nickname. “What is it? It seems he was up quite late last night…” He showed no sign of heeding the madam’s interjection,

“Keitaro!” “Hey, Keitaro!” While shouting loudly toward the stairs, he impatiently tapped the shoe-removal stone with the rattan cane he gripped.

“That’s cruel, Father. I was up all night last night.”

Adjusting the front of his nightclothes, Keitaro reluctantly came downstairs. “No good, no good! What kind of doctor collapses after just one all-nighter?” Mr. Karasawa shouted loudly with a smile playing on his face, “If you keep slacking off like this, you’ll never become a great doctor!” He left through the entranceway with a booming “wah-ha-ha” laugh.

Scratching his head, Keitaro watched his unusually cheerful father depart with a look of bewilderment, then went into the parlor adjoining the corridor to search for tobacco. As the elderly madam followed suit, Keitaro’s eyes—having struck a match to the tobacco clenched between his teeth—remained fixed on the window as though drawn there. Following his gaze, when the madam casually looked outside, there was no sign of the driver—perhaps he had rushed to the garage for some forgotten item—and there was Mr. Karasawa, one foot propped on the automobile, hunched over as he drew Oshimo close and appeared to be cracking a joke. As Oshimo pressed her sleeve to her mouth, turned away, and burst into laughter, Mr. Karasawa—eyebrows raised in a mischievous expression—poked the area around her hips with his cane. In an instant—Ah, so it was Oshimo—the madam was struck by this unexpected realization, and through it, she felt she could now interpret the rejuvenated energy her husband had exhibited lately.

“Oh, Father dear—”

While feigning nonchalance, the madam suddenly stood to block the window—driven by an impulse to shield Keitaro’s gaze. Over her shoulder, Keitaro continued to gaze outside with curious eyes, “Father’s really something else.” He muttered to himself and let out a bright “hah-ha” laugh. The madam gazed vacantly at Keitaro for a while, seemingly at a loss for how to handle him. For the madam, who had only ever known these two versions of Keitaro—one averting his eyes in shame, the other becoming frantically indignant—this current laughter came as something wholly unexpected. She had shown what she hadn’t wanted to show. That feeling persisted incessantly. What struck her before her own emotional turmoil was Keitaro’s eyes observing it. She paced restlessly, her heart wanting to hide those eyes somewhere. How had Keitaro looked upon such a father and laughed? Precisely because she had kept her husband’s affairs hidden from Keitaro alone until now, the madam now thought this moment irreparable and felt ashamed as though exposing it had been her own doing. Suddenly, the madam doubted whether she, in her zeal to block her son’s gaze, was in fact using that very act as a pretext to shield her husband. For the madam, who had long blamed herself for her husband’s affairs and dreaded others’ eyes, shielding him with her own back had now become a habitual gesture. It was not so much that she held affection for her husband as that she believed this to be a wife’s duty. Because she remembered from childhood her mother’s way of handling a philandering husband, the part of her that sought to emulate this had gradually fashioned her into that very image of her mother. Yet despite approving of that mindset and believing herself to act accordingly, she would sometimes find her own demeanor observed with an aloofness as if she were wearing a mask. And so, she who had grown accustomed to convention—Is this my whole life but a masquerade?—the madam found herself engulfed in dark musings.

II

That Oshimo had received Mr. Karasawa’s favor was something the elderly madam Iyoko had never foreseen. Given that all the women Mr. Karasawa had been involved with until now had been of that sort, the madam’s shock upon realizing it was Oshimo was profound. Suddenly, with a frantic heart as if flames had erupted beneath her feet, she found herself panicking in disarray. Yet her spitefully clear surveillance eyes pursued Oshimo’s every move, determined not to miss a thing. Oshimo—large-framed for nineteen—displayed plump breasts beneath her apron that jiggled heavily whenever she bent over, breathlessly scrubbing floors. To the elderly madam, this appeared indescribably vulgar and animalistic. She turned her face away, seized by an urge to spit. Yet strangely her eyes remained fixed on Oshimo’s body while her hand slipped through her kimono’s underarm opening to probe her own withered breasts and trace her bony chest. Though she earnestly told herself “Old age cannot be conquered,” trying to resign to this truth, when her gaze returned to Oshimo’s vibrant form before her, fierce jealousy surged upward—and from her heart striving to suppress it, the madam adopted a tone more composed than usual,

“There’s still dust left there.” “Please wipe it again.” She pointed down the hallway. Oshimo humbly knelt on her plump, rounded knees, her large breasts swaying as she zealously began wiping. While making her repeat such motions, the madam’s gaze stubbornly refused to leave Oshimo’s body. How far could she endure this jealousy? It was as though she were testing herself.

Oshimo was something of a slow-witted, absent-minded girl, but her sole merit lay in working diligently and attentively for her master. Two years prior, someone had helped her leave her home in Fukushima to enter service, but now even this rustic mountain girl had somehow acquired a basic grasp of etiquette—enough that she could be presented before guests without disgracing herself. Her constant grinning became second nature; no matter how frantically she worked or even when being scolded for some blunder, she never once lost that cheerful smile.

“Oshimo’s face looks as though she’s perpetually at a festival.” The madam would often remark this mockingly. Even when seriously summoning [her] to the tearoom for reprimands, the sight of that grinning face would drain her of any resolve to speak. It was like dealing with a three-year-old—the madam would find herself laughing despite herself.

“Oshimo, you’re rather slow-witted, so you must properly learn from what Oharu does.” From time to time, the madam would issue such instructions, yet in truth, her affections leaned strangely toward Oshimo—who kept making blunders and causing needless trouble—rather than toward Oharu’s flawless efficiency, which extended even to providing stamped envelopes whenever writing paper was requested. And compared to Oharu, who had served the household for years, the madam’s trust in Oshimo ran deeper.

Oshimo, who had vaguely sensed the madam’s disposition, became all the more stubborn in her absent-mindedness—determined not to betray the trust placed in her. She knew this absent-mindedness was her sole merit. And then, she repeated measured blunders. If told to bring chopsticks, she would fetch a rice bowl; if instructed to prepare clogs, she would line up sandals—such was her way. This absent-mindedness appeared endearing in the family’s eyes. As for someone like Mr. Karasawa,

“What a ridiculous creature!” There were times when he would clutch his sides laughing. When Oshimo spoke, flicking her tongue in childish coquetry, her face appeared so endearingly juvenile that the madam—utterly disarmed—would occasionally sneak out to buy her small accessories like obi clasps and half-collars behind Oharu’s back. Before long, these secret errands became a private amusement. Shopping trips now invariably meant taking Oshimo along as companion, with the madam personally selecting patterns for the girl’s everyday clothes. She would drape them over Oshimo’s shoulders and gaze at them through narrowed eyes, her demeanor radiating satisfaction. These secret errands became a sort of diversion for the madam.

Before long, Oshimo came to be treated less like a maid and more like an adopted daughter, joining their company whenever the mahjong table appeared. Having entered old age, Mr. Karasawa had taken up such pastimes to kill time, each occasion demanding both the elderly madam and Keitaro keep him company. As these sessions multiplied, the elderly madam grew ever closer to Oshimo—until using her own lame leg as pretext, she began entrusting her husband’s care to the girl. The elderly madam harbored no particular suspicion when Mr. Karasawa retired early to his bedroom and had Oshimo massage his head; indeed, his taking Oshimo into the storehouse to search for old books seemed perfectly ordinary. Less from trusting her husband than from having treated Oshimo as a child from the start, no shadow of doubt arose. This very fact made the elderly madam consider this incident her own failing. She burned with anger at herself for complacently lowering her guard against what she’d thought a mere child. Now gazing upon nineteen-year-old Oshimo, the madam felt she saw seductive arts worthy of a woman forty years older—whether through that coquettish tongue-flickering speech or this perpetual grin masking childish features that had lured her husband.

That day, shortly after Keitaro had left for school, a call came from Yokoo of Takehaya-cho to the elderly madam as she massaged her aching leg in the sun. It was the household into which the married daughter Sonoko had been wed. When she had Oharu listen in her place, it was Sonoko’s voice asking if she might come over now. The madam’s heart, which had been in turmoil with the impulse to summon Sonoko since earlier, suddenly regained composure as if soothed upon hearing these words. And now, the image of herself confiding everything flickered before her eyes, and tears welled up. She called Oharu and had her light a fire in the detached tea room that was not usually used. Today, she had steeled herself to send the maids away and confer with Sonoko—a resolve sharpened to its utmost edge. She had also arranged for tea and sweets to be brought in before Sonoko arrived. Before long, when there was movement at the inner entrance, the elderly madam did not go out to greet as usual but instead entered the detached room first and waited.

Sonoko entered, bringing the youngest girl who had turned six that year. “Mother, are you going to prepare tea?” With a look of curiosity, she sat down by the hearth,

“Today, you see, since it’s this child’s birthday, I prepared gomoku sushi.” “Since you seemed to like it, Mother…” As she said this, she removed the lid of the tiered box placed on her lap.

“Well, this is quite a feast!” “This Grandma carelessly forgot to celebrate, didn’t she?” “I’m sorry, dear.”

The elderly madam stroked her grandchild’s head and apologized. Just then, Oshimo entered with a beaming smile, “I apologize for the wait.” Having said this, she presented the small dishes arranged on the tray. “Even though I never ordered it, why on earth are you bringing this?” Suddenly, the elderly madam scolded in a harsh voice. Even Oshimo, who was accustomed to being scolded, felt intimidated by the madam’s unusually unsparing severity today—yet as she knelt with hands pressed to the floor in deference, she didn’t notice that her habitually beaming face still wore its ingrained smile. This smile irritated the elderly madam’s nerves. A sense of being mocked—as if she were being looked down upon—sent heat coursing through her body.

“Get out!”

She had intended to speak calmly, but her voice quivered as though strained. Sonoko was stunned to see her mother’s unexpectedly fierce expression. When Oshimo left,

“Mother!”

She called softly, as if to ascertain,

“I was the one who told Oshimo to bring the small plates, you know.”

Sonoko pulled the tray bearing small plates closer, “What a hopeless girl—she forgot the chopsticks,” she laughed. And, keeping that smile intact, she turned to her mother, “Has that girl made another blunder?” she asked gently. The elderly madam, who had been smoothing the hearth ashes, looked up and smiled faintly. And then, for no particular reason, she averted her gaze, “Her blunders are a regular occurrence.”

she said with a sigh. “Though it was a blunder, she really outdid herself this time,” she thought. “That girl was such a trouble.” The madam started to speak but then fell silent.

The girl who had been leaning against Sonoko’s lap peeling caramel earlier now completely forgot her candy amid the commotion, staring at the elderly madam with a look of rapt curiosity. Those small eyes troubled her strangely, making it difficult to speak out. And, as if to soothe her,

“Tamae-san, why don’t you go see the garden this spring?” “The scarlet carp have grown quite large.” When called out to like this, the child shook her head saying “No” and clung even tighter to Sonoko’s lap. “It seems this child has caught a slight chill—better she stays indoors.” “Now sit properly like this.”

Sonoko bent down over the child and draped her sleeve over them.

The presence of the child had an odd way of halting the conversation. The elderly madam was growing restless with a feeling she couldn’t quite step forward, but—

“Regarding Oshimo, I’d been wanting to discuss this with you for some time—but since that girl has come of age now, I’ve been thinking of marrying her off to some decent household...” The conversation had strayed before they noticed.

“There may be no immediate prospects, but do you know of anyone at the company?” “I’ll speak to Yokoo too and have him keep watch.”

“If you could arrange that, I’d feel much more at ease. She may be a bit scatterbrained, but well—her heart’s in the right place.” As she said this, the elderly madam felt her own mouth as something strangely foreign.

III

They had just opened the gomoku sushi that Sonoko had brought and finished their late lunch when Mr. Karasawa returned home. With small, hurried steps, he entered the detached room, “My eyebrow’s been itching all day—thought we’d have a rare visitor, but turns out it was just this baldie.” With his large palm, he stroked his grandchild’s bobbed hair as if tousling it, but upon spotting the gomoku sushi on the dining table, he pinched a portion with his fingers and tossed it into his mouth. “Come on, baldie—let’s go to Grandfather’s room.”

He bent down to the child’s height, and hand in hand, they scurried down the hallway. He looked every bit the doting grandfather. “Father, you look so well.”

Sonoko, who had been tilting her head toward the hallway as she watched them leave, muttered to herself. "He hasn’t been particularly energetic lately." The elderly madam smiled bitterly.

“Really though, Father—I hear you’ve been making rounds to the factory lately? I heard from Yokoo that since your oversight is quite thorough, the workers’ productivity has improved remarkably. They say efficiency has risen so much that Yokoo claims he can’t possibly keep up.”

To that account, the elderly madam nodded sincerely. And her heart that revered her husband’s vitality suddenly came to regard Oshimo’s existence—linked to it—as necessary. How many wives must fall into this delusion? By attributing the source of her husband’s vitality to Oshimo, Oshimo’s presence became permissible. The raison d’être of mistresses often lay, in part, in wives’ resigned attitudes such as these. In her childhood, the madam had lived seeing only such aspects of her mother. Her father had been a renowned sake brewer in Ugo—brands like “Tsuru Kame” and “Yorozuyo,” which even now bore the seal of premium quality, were the fruits of this father’s painstaking efforts. His inherently active constitution had him entering the sake brewery before dawn to encourage the master brewer, inspecting the sake barrels, joining laborers in packing during shipments, assisting the head clerk with ledger entries—all without a moment’s rest—in a manner that consumed him entirely. This father had but one troublesome habit—he could not do without mistress residences—and had grown accustomed to making rounds between two or three such houses, scarcely ever staying overnight at the main residence. Having grown accustomed to living in the main house with her mother and sisters, Iyoko rarely ventured into the sake brewery or shop, so on ordinary days she never caught sight of her father. Only during New Year’s or ceremonial occasions would Father return home. Father, who still refused to abandon his chonmage topknot, had freshly styled hair with taut, glossy sideburns that looked truly splendid, while his imposing figure in a crested kimono and hakama trousers exuded the dignified bearing of a grand household’s master. Young Iyoko, who retained no memories of her father except in such splendid attire, had concluded that fathers always wore crested kimonos with hakama trousers. Therefore, on the rare occasions when she glimpsed Father in casual clothes at the main house, she couldn’t immediately accept him as her father. With the feeling of looking at a stranger, and yet out of some strange nostalgia, she would tag along even when her father went to the toilet. Iyoko, who had grown accustomed to falling asleep in her mother’s arms each night, would often be roused by her mother’s muffled weeping and then burst into loud cries herself.

“There, there—a good child like you shouldn’t cry.” “Mommy was the one who was wrong.” Her mother, who had been crying with her forehead pressed against the box pillow, wiped her eyes stealthily with her sleeve cuff, then sat up and lifted Iyoko into her arms. Her eyelids were swollen, and in the dim lamplight, her tangled hair cast a lonely shadow across her forehead. From that face, with a girl’s sensitivity, Iyoko felt she faintly grasped why her mother had been crying. “Mother,”

Calling out, Iyoko felt unbearably sad and pressed her face against her mother’s chest, continuing to sob quietly. For no reason at all, she simply thought of her father in his crested kimono as a bad person. And then, her face—which had been crying while being jostled on her mother’s lap—jerked upward the small head tied in a tobacco-pouch-style bun and began to let out faint sleeping breaths. One day, Iyoko had heard her mother speaking in this manner to the head clerk.

“I fully understand your intention in offering counsel out of concern for Master’s well-being, but I believe this may be somewhat premature.” “Master’s womanizing serves to invigorate his work and should never be considered mere amusement.” “Indeed, since that very womanizing brings prosperity to the shop, please do consider his welfare.” “I implore you.”

To the impatient head clerk, Mother appeared to be bowing deeply in apology. In public, it was Mother’s custom to staunchly defend Father’s misconduct. She lived with a sense of guilt, treating his misconduct as her own sin. The mother Iyoko had observed ended her life steeped in such dark, gloomy thoughts. Now, the aged Iyoko saw that mother within herself. The feeling of pitying and cherishing her mother flowed naturally toward herself. But within this feeling lay something vexing, something smoldering with resentment. And this heart that sought to cast it off was, unbeknownst to her, driving her mother away from within herself.

While both engaged in similar indulgences, Father had been accustomed to staying at various mistress residences, whereas Mr. Karasawa did not establish such houses, instead taking to fixating on favored geishas.

“I may visit teahouses, but with professionals like these, you can’t possibly be jealous.”

Occasionally, Mr. Karasawa would say such things in a jesting manner. In his tone lay an implication—that if she were to stir up jealousy, he would be the one inconvenienced—thereby tacitly admonishing the madam, as though driving a nail into her heart.

“My indulgences are simply another facet of my work.” For the madam, who was constantly made to hear this, harboring jealousy toward the objects of his dalliance was akin to harboring jealousy toward her husband’s work. And this “work” of her husband’s thwarted all interference from his wife. Yet within the sphere of his work, this officially sanctioned husband could play unabashedly and contentedly without restraint from anyone. Merely out of a sense of obligation toward the madam, Mr. Karasawa assigned their son to her. Having grown accustomed to seeing the madam suffer from rheumatism since her youth, he would habitually remark,

“You’ve always been frail, you know,” he would say. Every time she heard this, the madam felt a sense of inferiority. Since she was sickly, she resigned herself to there being nothing to be done even if her husband amused himself elsewhere. “I’ll have Keitaro trained up as a doctor and make him look after you,” he would tell her gently. This consideration delighted the madam beyond measure. And thus her heart—enthralled by such attentiveness—gradually grew accustomed to overlooking her husband’s indulgences. Eventually these dalliances would be excused through his solicitude, until each tender word made her forget everything and drown in gratitude.

For Mr. Karasawa, steering his heir Keitaro—originally meant to inherit the steelworks—toward a medical career required considerable resolve. But Keitaro himself became far more wholeheartedly enthusiastic about this plan than Mr. Karasawa had been, arbitrarily selecting Science Course B for his high school entrance exams and proceeding to enter medical school. He had always been dexterous with his hands and had been the sort of child who became engrossed in collecting insects from the age of seven or eight, so Mr. Karasawa must have given up and decided to employ his son-in-law Mr. Yokoo instead.

The madam, having been assigned Keitaro, found her husband's dalliances no longer affected her as deeply. Taking advantage of school vacations, the mother and son would often go on hot spring tours together. They would sometimes spend an entire winter at their mild Katase villa. By nature, Keitaro—ever his mother's favorite—would attend to her with the meticulous consideration befitting a medical student, treating her more like a child than a patient. Whenever his mother, needing to urinate frequently due to the cold, got up at night to use the toilet, he would lend her his shoulder and take the opportunity to relieve himself as well. This became a habit, and nowadays, even on nights when his mother didn't need to get up, he alone would wake to relieve himself. Even when at home, feeling that his mother's care couldn't be entrusted to others, he would come down from his second-floor room repeatedly at night to check on her. And he would forcibly wake his soundly sleeping mother and insist on accompanying her to the toilet.

As the mother and son were often away from home, necessitating someone to entrust with household duties, they had once invited a middle-aged widow named Otsune-san from the madam’s distant relatives. Skilled at sewing and with her cooking being quite thorough, the family came to value Otsune-san highly.

It was five or six years ago.

The mother and son, who had been staying at their Katase villa during summer vacation, returned home two or three days earlier than planned to find Mr. Karasawa’s shoes unusually left in the main entrance. Since Mr. Karasawa had not been home at night during this period, the madam was struck by an unexpected feeling. One reason was that neither the maids who usually came running out to greet them nor Otsune-san were anywhere to be seen. Keitaro called out “Hey, hey” as he walked from the maids’ room to the sitting room, looking around. A noise came from the detached room, and Otsune-san appeared.

“Welcome back.” The madam’s eyes went to the freshly combed hair that had just been parted with a comb as she bowed politely. Those eyes slowly turned to gaze toward the detached room. Mr. Karasawa emerged halfway and, “You’ve returned at just the right moment! I was just about to ask Otsune-san for some tea.” His voice was abrupt. When the madam remained silent, he made a clinging gesture and— “How about it—won’t you join me for a cup?” He invited them with a smile.

“Amateurs just lead to trouble later—I’ll pass.” Mr. Karasawa, who had habitually made such declarations, was now abandoning that pretense and involving himself with an amateur. The madam—who had resigned herself to abandoning jealousy by considering the world of professionals made pliant through money as something distant—now found herself suddenly pierced by stinging jealousy in Otsune-san’s presence.

“What about the maids?”

Strangely, only her voice retained its usual calmness as she inquired.

“Yes, by the Master’s order, I sent them out to see the moving pictures.” Otsune-san kept her eyes lowered as she responded. “Prepare yourself and go see it as well.”

Leaving the words unspoken, the madam tightened her pallid face and dragged her unresponsive leg as she slowly withdrew— The jealousy she had forgotten at that time now reared its head within the old madam. The same emotion she had felt toward Otsune-san was now directed toward Oshimo. Yet, even to herself, it was strange that she now observed Oshimo with a vigor so explosive compared to back then.

IV

Though November had only just begun, the piercing cold of morning and evening persisted, and on the leafless persimmon tree in the back garden, four or five vermilion-ripe fruits—lightly frosted—swayed in the chilling wind. In the tearoom, the sunken kotatsu had already been prepared, and the old madam had claimed this spot as her own and was warming her aching legs.

“With it being this cold, it must be taking a toll on your body.” “How about taking the renowned doctor and going to Katase for a while…” Perhaps unable to bear seeing the madam remain fixed at the kotatsu, Mr. Karasawa made this suggestion in his usual gentle tone. The madam could no longer receive those words with the same guileless heart she once had, for she now felt a sense of caution—she couldn’t leave the house with her husband and Oshimo remaining there. In the mornings, she suspected even his summoning Oshimo to the inner parlor—ostensibly to assist with preparations for going out—was merely a pretext for flirtatious antics; at night, anxiety over him having the maid massage his head in the bedroom drove her to periodically send Oharu to check. She found her own paranoid thoughts unpleasant, yet she could do nothing to stop her heart from being eaten away by dark imaginings. And then, whenever she looked at Oshimo’s ever-smiling face, she felt as if being provoked—her whole body flushing hot—until she suddenly realized that she too had reverted to a girl’s raw emotions and was now openly challenging her. At such times, she could momentarily forget the pain in her legs; a strange vitality would come over her, and leaving the kotatsu for the first time in ages, she would try walking around the garden relying on a cane. It was as though her intense jealousy were reviving the madam’s ailing body. As these things continued, the old madam gradually regained her vitality. She would go down to the kitchen entrance to place orders herself with the errand runners, then inspect the house and point out inadequacies in the cleaning. Due to the established custom that Oshimo was responsible for attending to the madam’s personal needs, they would meet face-to-face numerous times each day. Despite that childish face of hers, how dare she cause such trouble, she thought hatefully. She thought she was a woman who repaid kindness with enmity. Each time she thought this, the old madam felt a surge of vitality. This was strangely pleasurable, so whenever she saw Oshimo, she would involuntarily grow excited. She would try to provoke jealousy. And now, compared to when they had been bound by affection in the past, her connection to Oshimo’s presence—rooted in hatred and jealousy—had become something she could not sever.

One night, as the old couple warmed themselves at the kotatsu while listening to nagauta on the radio, Keitaro came down and—

“Since we’re all here tonight, how about playing mahjong for the first time in a while?” he invited. Mr. Karasawa too caught the enthusiasm and promptly summoned Oshimo to have her prepare. Concerned that the madam would suffer if she left the kotatsu, he instructed them to place the mahjong table atop the stand. When preparations were complete, the seating was arranged: Oshimo to Mr. Karasawa’s right, followed by the madam and then Keitaro in that order. Oshimo took the tiles with her usual smiling face, forgetting some and mixing up their order. Each time this happened, Mr. Karasawa would laugh heartily, take the tiles for her instead, and instruct her on the sequence with meaningful glances. Keitaro watched this with curious eyes that kept darting toward the old madam—a mischievous urge to make his mother aware of it all. The old madam found herself unsettled by her son’s gaze. She noticed that since that incident, Keitaro’s way of looking at Oshimo had changed—those eyes that had once seen only a maid now observed her with keen interest as a woman. Lately, she sometimes caught Keitaro peering into the maids’ room without reason to tease Oshimo, who in turn seemed delighted by this attention, bursting into high-pitched giggles. At such moments, her wariness toward Mr. Karasawa would extend simultaneously to Keitaro, leaving her unable to look away from either. The old madam—who had come to feel Keitaro was her sole hope and reason for living—grew all the more unsettled when she recognized her husband in her son’s bearing. Might Keitaro be bound more deeply to his father than to herself? This suspicion kept recurring insistently. She remained vigilant, knowing she couldn’t leave the house for even a moment if she entrusted this father and son to Oshimo.

How many housewives in the world could entrust their husbands and sons to a maid and go out untroubled?—this thought too now occurred to the madam.

From Mr. Karasawa’s seat, one could see all of Oshimo’s laid-out tiles at a glance by merely craning his neck slightly. Mr. Karasawa was carefully throwing the tiles Oshimo needed for her. The old madam had noticed this some time ago. Thanks to Mr. Karasawa, Oshimo had already won twice. Keitaro would widen his eyes each time,

“Oshimo’s on a roll tonight. Treat us! Treat us!” he taunted. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly! You’re the one who should treat us!”

Oshimo waved her hands with exaggerated flair and burst into shrill giggles. “Look! The young master’s done it again!” When Keitaro raised a loud voice intended to intimidate, Mr. Karasawa—who had been laughing while holding his stomach—poked Keitaro,

“Young master, it’s your turn.”

he said. Though she normally called him "Keitaro-sama," this casual setting inevitably drew out her use of "young master." It seemed almost like she deliberately adopted this playful affectation. To the madam, this was grating, but Mr. Karasawa and Keitaro appeared to find it unbearably endearing. During the North Wind round, the madam found herself with an unusually promising hand—one tile away from victory with a two of characters. She waited for that tile with bated breath. This felt like direct competition against Oshimo, who had already won twice. Then Mr. Karasawa discarded the very two of characters she needed.

“Pung!” Just as someone cried out and reached for it, Oshimo’s hand shot out from beside them and pinned down the tile. “Oshimo was first.” Mr. Karasawa said. “Oshimo was faster.” And then, he pushed the tile toward Oshimo.

Suddenly, the old madam rose from her seat. "This is too much." No sooner had she spoken than she ran out of the room, dragging her unsteady legs while choking back sobs. “Mother, what’s wrong? Mother?”

Keitaro chased after her. The old madam had just descended into the garden, still barefoot in her tabi socks.

Five Such matters had leaked from Keitaro to Mr.Yokoo as well, and Oshimo’s marriage arrangements suddenly began progressing swiftly. Lest matters grow complicated, Sonoko fretted alone. Mr.Yokoo, who was told about this matter daily by Sonoko, found himself increasingly preoccupied with Oshimo’s situation and even while at work began casually seeking out unmarried employees. One was Yasuo Kimura—a twenty-eight-year-old man working in the accounting department with a commercial background and earning sixty yen in salary; the other was Kyuushichi Andou, a forty-year-old janitor who had long been employed at the company and was said to be looking to fill that vacancy after his wife passed away last year. Mr.Yokoo tentatively decided on these two as candidates and entrusted all arrangements to Sonoko.

Today as well, summoned to the telephone, the old madam was compelled by Sonoko to provide an answer, "Well, since we haven’t yet properly consulted with Father... Once tomorrow comes, we should be able to give a clear answer..."

she said reluctantly. In Sonoko’s view, she wanted to marry Oshimo off to the young Yasuo Kimura. The same went for the old madam. However, for some reason, Mr.Karasawa was refusing it.

That night, while relaxing in the kotatsu as usual, the old madam, “There was a call from Sonoko today as well.” she broached. Mr. Karasawa, engrossed in reading the evening paper, “Ah.” he responded and abruptly flipped the page. Though his face was hidden behind the newspaper and couldn’t be seen, his displeased expression was all too clear. Since the incident the other night, Mr. Karasawa appeared to be avoiding facing the madam directly; even when sitting across from her like this, he would either read the newspaper, pass the time engrossed in a book, or close his eyes and listen to folk songs from the radio. At such times, the old madam felt restless and at a loss for something to do. Even now, as she was troubled by his indifferent reply cutting off the thread of conversation,

“If it’s about Oshimo, I had left that to them...”

Without taking his eyes off the newspaper, he said. “Even so, if I don’t consult you about this matter—”

The madam brought up Yasuo Kimura and Kyuushichi Andou. And though their stations might differ, she slowly expressed her feelings—that if Kimura would take Oshimo as his wife, there could be no greater happiness.

From behind his newspaper barrier where he had been listening to this, Mr. Karasawa seemed to ponder for a moment but— “Kimura is unsuitable. “Andou would be preferable.” His tone was insistent. “But there’s such a significant age difference, and Oshimo would…”

Without letting her finish, Mr. Karasawa— “A janitor would be suitable for a maid.” He hurriedly put down the newspaper and stood up while removing his glasses. Even if there had been another reason behind it, the master’s endorsement of Andou was unexpected. The madam had convinced herself that even if the master—who had been so deeply involved with Oshimo—might be feeling displeasure at parting with her, it was only natural for him to arrange her match with Kimura out of their longstanding affection. Those were his words now. In this, the madam felt she saw a man’s tyranny, heartlessness, and coldness—and found herself confined within a chillingly cold emotion.

Having detected Mr. Karasawa’s movement toward the bedroom, the madam summoned Oshimo. “Regarding that marriage proposal we discussed—which do you prefer, Mr. Kimura or Mr. Andou?” Oshimo, who had been listening while kneading her frost-chapped, swollen hands on her knees, lifted her smiling face and answered immediately— “Either would be perfectly acceptable.”

She replied. She wore a carefree expression, as though being consulted about someone else’s affair. “That kind of ambiguous reply won’t do.” “If Oshimo herself doesn’t decide, we can’t move forward with the matter.”

While saying this, the old madam resolved that just this once, she would spurn her husband’s words and steer matters according to Oshimo’s wishes. “Either would be perfectly acceptable, but…”

Oshimo repeated the same words and seemed troubled, looking down and scratching her cheek. “What did Master say about it?” she asked, looking up.

“Do you intend to act based solely on Master’s opinion?” “No, it’s just…” Oshimo lowered her eyes. It was clear she meant to proceed while weighing Mr. Karasawa’s sentiments. “Since it’s Oshimo getting married—not Master—Oshimo must decide alone.”

As she said this, the old madam felt her eyelids grow hot. Rather than pitying Oshimo—who stood frozen timidly out of deference to Mr. Karasawa—what she lamented was the foolishness of leaving the girl in that position. That night brought no resolution, but several days later Oshimo herself came pleading to be married off to Andou. Her reasoning held that forty-year-old Andou seemed more reliable than young Kimura. Though Mr. Karasawa had likely coached her, since Oshimo presented this as her own wish, the madam found herself unable to refuse. She promptly summoned Sonoko to relay this decision. Sonoko brokered discussions with Andou, and soon Kyuushichi Andou himself arrived at the Karasawa residence in formal haori and hakama, posture rigidly proper. Oshimo appeared quite pleased—disliking only his bowl-cut hairstyle—for he otherwise made a remarkably handsome figure. Through the old madam’s arrangements, wedding preparations commenced. With December’s arrival hastening hearts, Sonoko helped by taking Oshimo department shopping nearly daily. Anxious that shoddy arrangements might shame the parents traveling from her hometown, the madam carefully assembled a chest of drawers, dressing table, and complete bedding set. During one such hectic afternoon—as the old madam had Oshimo try on a chrysanthemum-patterned brocade haori delivered by their regular kimono dealer and stood admiring the effect—Mr. Karasawa entered.

“What’s that? Oshimo’s clothes?” He remained standing and gazed.

“Might it be a bit too plain?”

When the old madam looked up as if to gauge his reaction, Mr. Karasawa averted his eyes,

“Such extravagance…”

He muttered sullenly and left the room. When the kimono dealer left, the old madam was summoned to Mr. Karasawa’s living room. “For a mere maid, brocade is too extravagant. Mind her position,” Mr. Karasawa said in a decisive tone.

“Even if it’s brocade, that’s just the one piece, and for her wedding it’s hardly too…” “No—I’ve disliked all this fuss from the start.” “Besides, you’re spending too much money.” Having said this, Mr. Karasawa looked toward the garden. He maintained a cold, unapproachable demeanor.

The old madam remained in her formal kneeling posture—hands pressed to the floor from listening—and continued to think intently. Eventually, she slowly raised her face and looked at her husband. “No matter how harshly you reprimand me, I must see this matter through.” Having said this, she slowly rose from her seat. The madam, who considered her husband’s misconduct her own failing, wanted to make the fullest atonement permitted to herself out of remorse for having defiled Oshimo. Mr. Karasawa, who did not comprehend the madam’s true feelings, simply dismissed this entire commotion as trivial. The madam and Sonoko fussing over Oshimo as if it were their own affair was disagreeable to him, but more than anything, he disliked the wasteful expenditure.

Her parents and relatives came from her hometown, and the day of the wedding ceremony arrived. They set up a gold-leaf folding screen in the inner tatami room to serve as a temporary ceremonial space. Oshimo, wearing Sonoko’s bridal kimono with her hair styled in a high Takashimada updo, had flushed crimson with excitement and paced restlessly around the corridors and kitchen quarters. Before the sake-sharing ritual commenced, Oshimo—accompanied by her parents—went to formally greet the master and his wife once again.

“Thank you for all your kindness.” Seeing her parents bow, Oshimo too placed her hands on the floor and gracefully lowered her head. “We are the ones who have been in your care.” Having said this, the old madam gently pressed a hand to her eyes. Oshimo raised her face and, noticing the madam’s tears, suddenly burst into loud sobs. “Your makeup will run.” Mr. Karasawa forced a bitter smile and left the room.

When the wedding ceremony ended, the young couple withdrew to Andou’s house in Ogu.

Mr. Karasawa exaggerated his sullen expression, repeated “I’m tired,” and immediately retreated to his bedroom. Left alone in the tearoom, the old madam smoothed ashes in the hibachi with some relief—a lightness as if a burden had been lifted. Yet whenever she imagined her husband’s displeased countenance henceforth, her heart found no joy. Mr. Karasawa grew obsessed with handling antiques. For four or five days after Oshimo’s departure, he sequestered himself in the inner parlor, ceaselessly contemplating that familiar Buddha statue displayed in the tokonoma. Each morning and afternoon, he had the new maid Oume bring tea, yet showed no awareness when she addressed him. Though maintaining his daily commute unchanged, he abandoned former idle chatter; even Keitaro’s jests met only an irritated wave of dismissal. As he scurried back to his room hunched forward, his receding figure now laid bare the marks of aging—compelling mother and son to exchange involuntary glances.

One night，after Mr．Karasawa had—unusually—gone out antique hunting，Keitaro entered the tearoom with a smirk． Drawing close to mother and putting his feet into the kotatsu，

“Mother, shall I show you something interesting?”

He said while taking out a sealed letter from his pocket. “This morning, when I peeked into the mailbox on my way out, this was left inside.” “Alright? I’ll read it now.”

Keitaro unfolded the flower-patterned stationery, put on an overly solemn expression, and began reading. “Dearest Master, How have you been since then? Morning and night, I think of your well-being and shed tears. The kindness and warmth you showed me—I could never forget it even if I died. Whenever I remember, my chest stings with pain. The ruby ring you once bought for me never leaves my person. Since I can no longer meet with you often, Master, I gaze at this ring as if it were you. This longing—please understand it.

My husband treats me with great kindness, but somehow I cannot help feeling unsatisfied. Ah! If only I could be by Master’s side—how happy I would be—I can’t help thinking of nothing else. In time, I will surely come to see you. If my husband is present, I beg you—please do not look only at me. My husband is the jealous type—the neighbor’s wife told me so. When you have the chance, please give my regards to the Madam as well.

Master’s Oshimo “From,”

Having finished reading, Keitaro flopped onto his back with a thud and burst out laughing—"Ha ha!" Caught up in the moment, the old madam began to laugh as well, but her face failed to form a smile, and she sadly lowered her eyes.

“The bath preparations are complete.”

When Oume called out from beyond the shoji screen, Keitaro let out a “yoisho” as he sat up and left the room. Before long, just as the old madam reached to pick up the discarded stationery, Oume’s shrill giggles came cascading from the direction of the bathhouse into her ears. It seemed Oume was being entertained by Keitaro.

Involuntarily, the old madam began to rise from her seat.