Pathway to Japanese Literature

I “Heh heh.” “—So, what’d you go and do?” “Don’t tell me you turned tail and ran?” “But Master, please don’t laugh at me.” “I’m no Moronao from Chushingura, but I suddenly got scared for my life—pretended I needed the privy and ended up running off without even tying my loincloth…” “What the hell.” “You ran away…—” “Well… shameful to admit… but if I’d been pressed by that physique… don’t think my life would’ve lasted…”

“What spineless talk from a strapping young man!” “I don’t know how you got pressed by that physique, but she’s just a woman, ain’t she?” “Losing to a woman and slinking back here shamelessly—that’s a disgrace to an engraver’s name these days.” “But Master, you’re talking so bold ’cause you ain’t seen her—like I said before, that woman’s got a body just like the cannon in that *Five-Colored Inks of the Northern Provinces* you drew way back when.…”

“What’s bad about that?” “A cannon ain’t something you find lying around even if you go hunting for one.” “When you meet an Udonge bloom—a once-in-a-hundred-years chance—you don’t back off even if it cracks your spine! —Kids these days got no grit left in ’em!”

Utamaro—tall, slightly stooped, plump yet well-padded, with an oddly nervous air—rolled up the sleeves of his yellow-striped lined kimono to his forearms and gazed pityingly at Kamekichi, the engraver perched on the veranda. His tone carried a boldness unexpected in a man past fifty.

Kamekichi was still two or three years shy of thirty. With a physique more suited to a young dandy than a craftsman—flamboyant like a festival float—he sat shrinking awkwardly on the veranda edge, scrubbing at his sweaty face with a hand towel gripped like an eagle's talons.

Utamaro’s *Twelve Hours in the Pleasure Quarters* It was around this time that Utamaro discovered Kamekichi shortly after the sudden death of Takegashi’s Keihoan—revered as a master engraver across eras for his block proofs—who had last carved *Mosquito Net Men and Women* published by Moriji. Though young, Kamekichi’s fervent work ethic met approval, and from that point until *Beauties of Shimada in Eight Views* was published by Tsuruki this early autumn, nearly every principal block proof thereafter had come to rely on his chisel.

Since the censorship incident two years prior, Utamaro’s popularity was said to have halved—yet even so, publishers’ orders still flooded his studio, and he still commanded far greater influence than then-popular artists like Toyokuni and Eizan. Today being no exception, Utamaro had scarcely risen when the boisterous early-morning visitors began streaming in—Kyōden, Kikugai, and the publisher Izumiya Ichibē among them—using his morning return as pretext to parade themselves before him one after another. Leaving untouched the preliminary sketch of Kintarō he had lately taken up again and begun drawing, he found himself repeatedly sharing rounds of unremarkable sake with them for no particular reason. Yet once drunk, it was as though he had suddenly shed ten years—an irrepressible yearning for old flirtations now gripped him.

And then—after all the previous guests had departed—it was Kamekichi who suddenly appeared. Moreover, after hearing from Kamekichi about his effortless defeat by a courtesan he had purchased in Asakusa the previous night—and then learning that this woman bore not the slightest difference from the one he himself had depicted in *Five-Colored Inks of the Northern Provinces* some ten years prior—Utamaro found himself both reproaching the young man’s spinelessness and pressing a hand to his own strangely leaping chest.

“Kamekichi.”

For a while, Utamaro stared fixedly at his knees. Suddenly raising his eyes, he twisted his mouth as if yanked by a string and fixed his gaze on Kamekichi’s face. “Huh...”

“How ’bout you let me meet that courtesan tonight?”

“What did you just say, Master?”

Kamekichi, at these unexpected words, widened his triangular eyes into diamond shapes. “There’s no call for such surprise.” “It’s just a matter of letting me meet the courtesan you bought, ain’t it?” “Don’t joke about this!” “No matter how you look at it, for Master to be with a courtesan…” “Ha ha ha! “Spare me the polite nonsense.” “I ain’t some fancy lord—whether I meet a courtesan or a back-alley prostitute, there ain’t nothin’ to bat an eye at.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s how it goes—but even if you meet that woman, it ain’t gonna amount to a thing.” “Whether it amounts to anything or not, I don’t give a damn.” “I just—as long as I avenge your defeat, that’s all I want.” “You’ll avenge my defeat.— D-don’t joke about this!” “If we were talking about the Master of old, that’d be one thing—but even if you’re still spry, for you to handle that woman nowadays…—”

“You saying it won’t even be a proper match?” “Hate to say it, Master—doubt you’ll last long enough to make it one.”

“Kamekichi.”

Utamaro sat up proudly, straightening his posture.

“Huh...” “Whatever you do, once you hear the six bells of Ishichō, come back here again.” “If they say it won’t even be a contest, that’s a disgrace to Utamaro’s name.” “I’ve got to meet that courtesan no matter what and avenge your defeat.” Though he spoke of avenging *your* defeat, Kamekichi’s shadow had long since vanished from Utamaro’s mind. In its place rose—vividly and powerfully—the bursting-at-the-seams magnificent physique of Wakatsuru of Myōgaya, the back-alley parlor courtesan he had casually befriended ten years prior and immortalized in brocade prints for all Edo to purchase. A joy akin to unexpected happiness—as though some wondrous vision were about to materialize before his eyes—began suffusing his chest, wave after wave.

“Master, is that really true?” “No need to fret.” “This’s turned into one hell of an outrageous situation.”

Kamekichi stroked his own drawn face two or three times in a circular motion; though he felt some interest, it was a look of bewilderment—vivid and unmistakable—that rose to his features at this sudden outcome.

But for Utamaro, what Kamekichi might be thinking was now of little concern. The ceaselessly surging carnal desire swirled into a vortex, and even the daylight still blazing high in the sky began to fill him with agitation.

“So, Kamekichi.” “Huh...” “The woman said—uh—how old is she?” “She said she was twenty-four or twenty-five.” “Twenty-four or five? That’s twenty-five for ya. For men, age ain’t nothin’, but for women, thirty’s the limit. That Wakatsuru woman you mentioned from *Five-Colored Inks of the Northern Provinces*—she was exactly twenty-five too, heh heh.”

In Utamaro’s chest surged a tense pleasure—as though Wakatsuru’s very skin clung to him—in great waves. They must have come straight from the riverside. Outside, a boisterous sardine vendor was projecting his clear-washed voice as if to make it echo throughout all Edo.

Two

The sun, which until now had left its final vestige of light upon the finial of the five-storied pagoda, vanished without notice. Then Asakusa—so bustling earlier with people coming and going—thickened into an oppressive gloom beneath the trees, while only the autumn wind blowing at collars pointlessly chilled skin with its caress.

With blazing eyes, it was the tall Utamaro and the short-statured Kamekichi who stood beneath the willow tree at the corner of an alley in Umamichiura. Kamekichi was covering his cheeks with a hemp-leaf-patterned hand towel. “Master, you mustn’t ever let slip that we know each other, not even in your dreams. You must stick to the story that we heard it all from Tora of Zaruya.—” “Don’t worry. Mentionin’ the name of a coward like you’d be my damn disgrace.”

“Tch, not funny at all.” “After all, ain’t it just ’cause I lost that you had to step in, Master?” “Just leave it be.” “I’ll take down the enemy for you.” “The row house is the third one from the back.”

“Understood.” “The name’s Ochika.—” “Hey, Master! Your tobacco pouch’s about to fall!”

But Utamaro had already taken two or three more steps forcefully treading on the alley's gutter planks. While Kamekichi watched through darkness beneath his cheek coverings Utamaro vanished straight into its depths; soon halting before what appeared to be a row house where storm shutters were presumably opened from within. Before faintly cast light Utamaro's face resembling Nakazo floated yellow like magic-lantern projection. "Oh my do you require some service?" This was unmistakably Ochika's mother's voice.

“Just a small matter with Ochika-san.” “Well, ’scuse me!”

Having said just that, Utamaro’s figure—carrying a bamboo-grass-wrapped meal from Chushun-tei—slipped into the storm shutters and vanished. “Damn.” “The Master’s used to this after all.…”

Kamekichi, who had been watching blankly, once he confirmed that Utamaro’s figure had been swallowed up, left a click of his tongue tinged with jealousy beneath his cheek cover and turned back toward the earthen wall of Enshōin Temple from where they had come. Having entered inside, Utamaro—handing Ochika’s mother the gift the moment he stepped in—climbed up into the three-tatami room as though already a regular patron. Yet even he must have felt hesitant at last, for he took a hand towel from his breast pocket, wiped the sweat beading on his forehead, and inquired in a low voice while still standing:

“Is Miss Ochika out?” “No.” “With those big eyes of yours, you sure don’t see well, do you?” “Isn’t she right there behind the folding screen, sleeping like a caterpillar?” “Caterpillar.—Hmm, this one’s got me beat.” Indeed, just as her mother had said, there in the six-tatami room of the adjoining chamber—surrounded by a two-panel folding screen and lying with the solid weight of a rolled Satsuma-ware ornament—was what Kamekichi had called the “Five-Colored Inks.” Appearing burdened by her own body—swollen from daytime drinking—she lay sprawled to every corner of the cramped space in a Mooka cotton yukata, her slender obi carelessly tied and breasts like watermelons fully exposed; this was the vision that registered in Utamaro’s eyes.

“Miss Ochika.”

“Huh?—” Suddenly awakened by an unfamiliar male voice, Ochika started and stared at Utamaro’s face. “So you were here after all.” “Who’re you?” “I’m that Kamekichi’s uncle you took care of last night.” “Huh? You’re his uncle?” “That’s right.” “There’s no call for you to be so shocked.” “It’s not like I came to complain about you bein’ kind to my nephew, or to get back the money you spent on your fun.” “I’ve got a little favor to ask of you—that’s why I went outta my way to bring Chushun-tei’s food here.”

“Oh my, what an eccentric man you are!” “You have a request for someone like me.—” As she said this, Ochika finally sat up, plopped down cross-legged, and stared holes into Utamaro’s face. “You think it’s strange?”

“That’s right. I’m not as reliable a woman as you think I am.” “Yeah—I came askin’ this favor ’cause I’m countin’ on you bein’ unreliable. Here—it ain’t much, but I’ll pay upfront.”

From the tip of his thumb, as if flicking it off, he tossed a single two-monme gold coin onto the tatami with a metallic clink; it stood upright between the frayed edges like a shogi piece. “Oh, that’s a two-monme gold coin, isn’t it?”

Ochika used the bowl of the kiseru pipe she was holding to rake the freshly minted two-monme gold coin toward herself, but she must have felt somewhat unsettled. Without picking it up, she stared fixedly at the gold and Utamaro’s face, alternating between them.

“Well? How ’bout it—do me a favor?”

“Well...” “When you show me a gift like what Ōmagaki’s senior courtesans get, I can’t exactly refuse, can I?” “But really—what’s this request from a stranger like you?” “If it’s something my body can manage, fine—but if you want me to drag in some Kannon-sama priest to borrow Kanezukuri-dō’s bell or such, no matter how much gold you toss around, I can’t just agree.”

“Missy, you’re quite the stylish one, aren’t you?” “Don’t flatter me.” “I’m not flatterin’ you, but I do like that Kannon-sama bell.” “But my request ain’t that.” “I want you to let me have that body of yours—big as Kannon-sama’s bell—for a couple of hours.”

“My body.—”

“That’s right.” “True to the rumors, I’ve taken an intense liking to those magnificent cannon-like breasts of yours.” “You might find an old man lackin’, but that don’t mean I’m aimin’ to bed you.” “All I need is for you to do exactly as I say.—What do you say, Ochika?” “How ’bout it—won’tcha give me a favorable answer?” Utamaro, who had abruptly leaned forward, burned with the passion of a twenty-year-old man; he seemed on the verge of reaching for those bell-shaped breasts without even waiting for her reply.

“Hohoho. Since you put it so proper-like, I thought it’d be some grand impossible favor—turns out all that buildup for nothing.” “Two hours or three—if my body’s what you need, then have your way till you’re satisfied.” “Hmm. So you’ll do it then.” “Fine, I’ll agree.” “But if you ain’t plannin’ to bed me, what’s your game?” “You ain’t fixin’ to slice off these melons o’ mine and make off with ’em, are ya?”

“Heh heh, don’t go worrying ’bout such trivial things.” “Your life ain’t in peril.” “I just want you to strip down completely naked for me, that’s all.” “I’ll strip down.—” “Are you embarrassed?” “There’s no call for embarrassment now.—Meeting a woman with a body like yours after ten years is heaven’s blessing; my request is to let me draw you on this paper while I take my time caressing every inch of you.” “So you’re an artist, then?”

“Well, maybe somethin’ like that.” “What a dull man you are to barge in here. My body’s no model for pillow prints—this’ll just be wasted effort.” However, even as she said this, the woman suddenly stood up, pushed the pillow screen aside, then undid her thin obi with a smooth motion and swiftly shed her yukata before Utamaro.

“Come on—hurry up and draw me however you like.”

It was likely due to the lingering effects of the sake she had drunk during the day, which she had slept off in dishevelment. Her Shimada chignon—its roots loosened—tilted heavily sideways. Beneath disheveled hair at her nape, greasy sweat seeped thickly through, giving the flaking white powder a sickly blue-green sheen across flesh that swelled from neck to shoulders like a tuna’s arched back—a mass thrust upward from her belly into two hatefully taut breasts whose insolent fullness strained against their own contours. Moreover, the flesh cascading from those mountainous peaks—billowing in a great wave around her hips before narrowing smoothly toward her knees—ended in feet too small for her frame, now pressing fiercely against sun-browned tatami matting with toes curled inward like clenched fists.

“What’s the matter with you? If you don’t start drawing soon, you’ll waste all the lamp oil!” But Utamaro, the inkbrush case still pulled from his waist, stared fixedly at Ochika’s chest as though his gaze had been nailed there, making no move to act.

“Tch, what a spineless you are!”

The moment the woman said this with a wry smile— No sooner had the storm shutters at the entrance opened than the old woman’s voice—“Oh my, it’s the sir”—was heard, but immediately overhead, drowning it out, a man’s sarcastic voice—“Well now, this is a rare sight—Utamaro himself”—suddenly sent a tremor through Utamaro’s earlobes. “Ah—” “Hey, wait—” “There’s no need to run.” “Huh—” However, by the time Utamaro gave this reply, he had already crossed the entrance threshold and was stepping onto the alley’s drainage boards.

“A—a palanquin bearer! K—Kayabacho!—”

Barefoot Utamaro couldn’t even properly raise his voice to call a passing palanquin bearer.

III

Even after sitting on the tatami in his own home and gulping down two cups of water fetched by the hired housekeeper in quick succession, Utamaro's pounding heart refused to calm easily. That face, that voice, that footfall—they formed the figure of Watanabe Kinbei, a constable of the South Magistrates' Office whom he could not erase from his mind no matter how desperately he tried. —— "Tsune." "Tighten the crossbar on the front storm shutters, and no matter who comes, you mustn't open them under any circumstances!" "Yes, sir." "Sake." "And then hurry up and lay out the bedding."

Urging the flustered housekeeper to hurry, Utamaro gulped down the still-chilled sake in one breath, then his massive frame shrank into the bedding like a sea cucumber. “Oh, I can’t stand this.—” Once more, Utamaro’s body shuddered violently as he desperately tried to banish Kinbei’s figure from his vision. But the more he did so, the more vividly that demon-like face of Kinbei loomed before Utamaro from within the darkness of his bedding.

“I never want to tread on that shirasu gravel again.”

Utamaro clasped his hands together as if in prayer and uttered these words to no one in particular.

That memory was none other than the incident from the year before last, when he had suffered fifty days of handcuff punishment.

Whenever the white bellies of swallows flipped over one by one, the color of the sky grew clearer—it was mid-May. From the dissolution of the previous night’s painting gathering, the sake he had drunk with Kyōden, Shokusan, and Enju—the four of them—at Matsue in Fukagawa Nakamachi still hadn’t worn off, and a hangover headache mercilessly pressed on his head. There he lay, about to begin on the first of the morning-after drinks Otsune had prepared for him—when landlord Jirōbei, handling the lattice door roughly and without seeking permission, came up in such panic that his teeth chattered uncontrollably as he scurried to Utamaro’s bedside.

“Well, this is...—” The moment Utamaro saw his landlord’s face, he instinctively sensed something was wrong—yet even so, he couldn’t grasp what it might be. Lifting his heavy head from the pillow as though yanked by a string, he sat bolt upright on the futon. “To come so early—what business brings you here?—” “Mr. Utamaro.”

Jirōbei first called Utamaro’s name once more, then gulped down a hard lump of nervous anticipation. “Huh—” “You there—I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come with me to the magistrate’s office right now.…”

“To the magistrate’s office…?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m being called as some kind of witness or—” “But that’s not it.” “Early this morning, an official notice came from the watchpost about you.” “Huh? About me?—”

Utamaro stared fixedly at Jirōbei’s face, unable to utter another word.

“The village headman and the monthly duty officers are all already waiting at the watchpost.” “We don’t know what official business has led to your summons, but if it’s a call from the authorities, there’s nothing to be done. I’m sorry about this, but get ready at once and come with me.” “————”

“Unlike other matters, I understand your reluctance to go—but you really must comply straightforwardly just this once.…” “Huh—”

He complied. ——That he had complied needed no reiteration now. In his fifty-one years of life, though he had indulged freely in pleasure districts and known ten times more women’s skin than any ordinary hedonist, he had never once quarreled over dice—much less stolen so much as a speck of another’s property. Thus far, he had never set foot not only in the Magistrate’s Office but even on the soil of a watchpost, and even on the sole occasion when he had received a summons from the Tamachi watchpost to retrieve his precious dropped tobacco pouch, he had feigned illness and sent his disciple Hidemaro in his stead. Given that he would always say as a catchphrase that his favorite place was Yoshiwara and his least favorite was the authorities, they should have understood his feelings all too well.

To Utamaro, of all people, the summons from the town magistrate’s office remained an insoluble enigma that defied all comprehension. With his heart clouded by a dreamlike dread, Utamaro followed his landlord’s instructions to prepare himself without misstep; then, tormented even by the thought of others glimpsing his face, he made his way first to the watchpost. At the watchpost, just as Jirōbei had said, village headman Kouemon and three other monthly duty officers waited with darkened faces pressed together. When Kouemon saw Utamaro’s face, he addressed him in a voice meant to comfort.

“This is truly an unfortunate turn of events—but rest assured, this must surely be some error on the authorities’ part.” “For someone of your standing to be summoned to the magistrate’s office—now that’s a true calamity.—But you needn’t worry.” “Heaven has eyes.” “There’s no way honest folks could ever be found guilty, no sir.” Though their words sounded bold, even the town officials must have been unable to fully hide the unease in their hearts. Everyone secretly shared the same prayer—that Constable Watanabe Kinbei’s arrival would be delayed, if only by a single moment.

Moreover, the May sky had cleared as if wiped clean—a vivid indigo blue—and a gentle breeze caressed the fledgling swallows’ wings, but Utamaro’s heart, like a northern sky, remained heavily overcast and unrelieved.

IV

It was truly a crime he could never have imagined. Commissioned by Kaga-ya Yoshiemon, the local publisher of Ryōgoku Hirokōji, to create illustrations in the same vein as Ishida Gyokuzan’s *Illustrated Chronicles of Toyotomi Hideyoshi*, Utamaro had drawn several images that proved calamitous—and when informed during interrogation that he was to be imprisoned, he came perilously close to collapsing right there in the white-sanded interrogation ground. The three days he spent in prison with a deathlike numbness felt longer than three years in the outside world. During those days, Utamaro noticed his cheeks had hollowed out.

“From now on, I’ve become too afraid to hold a paintbrush.” After his release from prison—fifty days in handcuffs followed by house arrest under his landlord’s custody—Utamaro sat once more in his studio, now timid as if he were another man entirely. He would seize every publisher who came to visit and regale them with the same tales of the prison’s horrors; perhaps because of this, the vigor that had once let him boast “I’ll bed women till I’m eighty” had vanished overnight. Now he seemed to have aged ten years in an instant, body and spirit both withered. Not a drop of wine touched his lips, nor was there even a shadow of his former eagerness to mix paints—no remedy could be glimpsed for such a state.

It was a softly drizzling afternoon. Utamaro was leaning against his desk as usual, staring blankly at the drizzling rain falling on the hydrangeas in his small garden. Just then, Otsune hurried in and announced a visitor. "I don't know who it is, but if it's someone I haven't met before, tell 'em I'm sick and turn 'em away."

“But Master, the visitor says they’re an urgent messenger from Lord Sakagami Mondo of Warihesui.” “What? A messenger from a hatamoto?” “Yes, that’s correct.” “He insists he must meet with you—says there’s something he wishes to request.” … “I don’t know what business they have, but especially since it’s a messenger from a hatamoto—in this state, I can’t possibly receive them.—It’s rude of me, but tell them I’m laid up and turn them away.”

Utamaro’s words had barely ended when—

“Master, there’s no need for such modesty,” declared a dewy-skinned beauty of twenty-seven or twenty-eight as she strode briskly through the garden’s woven-branch gate, her hair coiled into a large round chignon. “Well now… you coming here of all places…”

The woman swiftly restrained a flustered Utamaro. "It is I." "It is Okita." "Huh—"

Utamaro raised his sharp, sunken eyes and recognized the large round chignon as unmistakably that of Okita of Nada-ya—once celebrated as Edo’s foremost beauty—and finally let a lonely smile rise to his cheeks.

“Oh—Okita… What brings you here?” “How heartless of you to ask why.” “I have come to pay my respects.”

Gliding over, Okita settled beside Utamaro and gazed at his gaunt face with evident frustration. Her skin, likened to pearls since her twenties, had only grown more luminous with the fullness of maturity; now, as a hatamoto’s concubine, she carried an air of refinement befitting a manor—a terrifying beauty that overflowed like witnessing Kikunojō’s downfall.

But Utamaro’s smile was cold. “When I heard it was a hatamoto’s messenger, I thought it best to avoid any blunders and had them turn you away—so why didn’t you just say you were Okita from the start?” “If I had said that, Master, you would never have agreed to see me.—A woman who repaid your long-standing kindness with betrayal, fleeing all the way to the backwaters of Kōshū, only to return to Edo and enter service at Lord Sakagami’s residence.” “You must have thought me a hateful wretch.—But Master.” “Okita’s heart remains as it was in the past.” “By chance, I heard of your recent misfortune, and though I knew I had no right to see you, I could no longer restrain myself—thus I donned a disguise and came to visit.” “What a terrible ordeal you’ve endured—truly, I’d love to rub your back for you.”

Utamaro sat silent with closed eyes, feeling the warmth of Okita’s hand near his knee as she slid closer with those words. “Nah—’preciate the thought, but no need for that. Even if you rubbed me down now, this cracked-up body of mine ain’t got no fixin’ left in it.” The Utamaro of yesterday wouldn’t have refused Okita even once in a hundred times. Hell—up till seven or eight years back, hadn’t he thrown himself into her so hard it made younger men gawk—even staked his life on her? He should’ve yanked her straight to his lap without being asked—but Utamaro’s wrists, shriveled inside their cuffs, stayed locked and still.

“Master.” “—” “Does it frighten you that I’m now in the service of a Lord?”

“Might be.” “I… nowadays, whenever I hear ‘samurai,’ it feels like everything goes dark before my eyes.” “Ohoho! How can you speak so meekly?” “If the handcuffs are so loose, it’s as if they’re not even on. I’ll take them off for you—let’s be done with it once and for all.……”

Okita casually placed her hands on Utamaro’s handcuffs. “Ah, wait!” “Such tactless reserve isn’t fashionable here in Edo.”

The instant the handcuffs were yanked backward, Utamaro felt a stabbing pain in his right wrist—and in moments, dark blood began dripping steadily onto the blue tatami mat. “Ah!” Even Okita was startled into releasing her grip. “I’ve done something dreadful—” The handkerchief she had swiftly drawn from her obi now clung to Utamaro’s bleeding wrist.

“Does it hurt, sir?”

“—”

“Shall I fetch some medicine, sir?……”

But Utamaro remained bowed and did not utter a word. The voice of a blinds seller passing by outside could be heard, rising and falling.

“Master.”

“Eh?!” Startled by the voice, Utamaro looked up—and there, reflected in his sunken eyes, was the figure of Constable Watanabe Kinbei standing in the garden.

Five

From that moment on, Kinbei’s figure clung to Utamaro’s mind like a demon, never fading for an instant.

It was there, of all places—at the courtesan’s house he had visited for the first time—that he encountered that Kinbei. Utamaro, who had fled barefoot, could not even manage to call for a palanquin bearer—and this was hardly unreasonable.

“Master.”

He must have wanted to hear about last night’s events without a moment’s delay.

Though the sixth hour had just rung, the engraver Kamekichi placed his hand on the studio’s shoji door while smirking. “Master.—Oh, this ain’t good.” “Still dreamin’ away from last night’s exertions, are we?” Having retrieved a straw pouch and hatchet-shaped pipe from his pocket, Kamekichi chuckled once more and began puffing briskly through two or three successive draws from the tobacco tray Otsune had provided—but Utamaro lay buried under the futon from head to toe without so much as a twitch, leaving him somewhat deflated. After muttering something under his breath for a moment, he stood and headed toward Granny Otsune in the kitchen.

“Granny Otsune.” “Since Master still doesn’t look like he’s getting up anytime soon, I’m gonna head out to Namiki for a quick errand and come right back.” “It doesn’t suit you either, Kamekichi—isn’t it perfectly obvious that Master wouldn’t rise this early?” “I know that, but I figured just this morning might be different, you know.” “As if that would ever happen.” “I can’t say it out loud, but last night something must have happened—he came rushing in like a madman and just had me lay out the futon before collapsing right into sleep.” “There’s no way he’d rise this early.”

“Hmph, that’s why—” “So I wanna ask Master all ’bout what happened—slow an’ proper-like. —Ah, never mind.” “I’ll be back in ’bout half an hour, so hold things down while I’m gone.”

When Kamekichi’s footsteps faded beyond the back gate, Utamaro—like a frightened child—poked his face out from the futon collar and glanced around at the lamp. "He had to go and startle me." "Coming this damn early—"

Clumsily crawling out from under the futon, Utamaro opened a nearby cupboard and pulled out a print from *Five-Colored Inks of the Northern Provinces*, published in the sixth year of Kansei (1794). It was the figure of Myōgaya Wakatsuru, identical in every detail to the courtesan Ochika he had met the previous evening.

“Hmm... Perhaps these are sisters after all.” “But before I could even properly touch her skin—that damn bastard had to go and show up there—”

Utamaro muttered this as he attempted to set down the brocade print he held beside his pillow. And then, in that instant, he suddenly felt his fingertips go numb. “Th-this ain’t good—”

However, by then his tongue had stiffened, and he could no longer form the words as he intended. “O… tsu… ne…”

Like a flipped-over turtle, Utamaro’s massive frame could only flail helplessly on the floor.

“It’s terrible! Master is in grave trouble!”

Utamaro heard Otsune’s voice—shouting at the top of her lungs to reach Shūmaro, who was hard of hearing—as if in a dream.

On September 20th, Bunka Era Year 3 (1806), an autumn wind as clear as a mirror streamed through the main streets of Edo.