Pathway to Japanese Literature

When the gong sounded,

It was long before the earthquake disaster.
Now it has become a tale of the past, but when that small theater Yūrakuza was first built, I stared in astonishment at the small lacquered signboard that hung outside, bearing its name in Kantei-ryū calligraphy.
This Yūrakuza was at that time still a rare example of purely Western-style architecture.
No matter where one looked, there was no trace of Japanese essence—yet solely in these Kantei-ryū characters lingered remnants of traditional theater.
I gazed at those characters for a time, then thought thus to myself:
This striking me as strange would last but a brief while.
This disharmony would soon be harmonized by time—the flow of time would inevitably reconcile any perceived discord.

The same could be said for the statue of an old man that stood atop the Imperial Theater’s roof.
(Pre-earthquake) At first, it somehow felt jarringly out of place, but soon became familiar to the eye.
Even when viewed from the train, whenever I saw this round, chubby statue of an old man standing alone amidst the many linear roofs, I felt my heart soften.
The initial sense of strangeness was stripped away with the passage of time, until what remained had become so thoroughly harmonized that no trace of disharmony—let alone any sense of wonder—remained.

When the Marunouchi Building was first erected, it gave one the impression that a remarkably large Western-style structure had been built in front of Tokyo Station.
I had already secured a room for the Hototogisu Publishing Office in the building before its construction was completed.
When I did that, those around me laughed,

“A kimono with shoes?”
“Well soon you’ll have to start wearing Western clothes too,” they said.
Other than during my school days, I had never worn Western clothes.

“Nah—Japanese clothing suits me fine,” I said though secretly I felt uneasy.

Once the building was fully completed, it was decided to relocate the Hototogisu Publishing Office to this Marunouchi Building. Geta clogs were replaced with zōri sandals. Moreover, there was a shoe storage facility. On rainy days, geta were switched to indoor sandals. I did not feel any inconvenience at all. However, those in Japanese clothing were extremely few. In reality, they were extremely few. Somehow, in the beginning, I myself felt a sense of disharmony. But now, I don’t feel anything of the sort.

Not only do I myself not feel anything of the sort, but the people around me also do not feel anything of the sort.
(or so I imagine)

Not only that, but when early spring or autumn came around, groups of old men and women from the countryside would come to tour the Marunouchi Building.
First they stood before the elevator,
"Oh! It's rising! Rising!" they exclaimed, gaping open-mouthed with unabashed curiosity.
Eventually one of them timidly stepped into the elevator wearing wooden clogs, attempting to ride it up themselves.

“Please change your geta into zōri sandals,” came the sharp rebuke. Not understanding what was happening, they wandered about in confusion for some time. Even such people were no longer considered particularly discordant visitors these days.

When the gong sounded, the crowds rushing from every office in the Marunouchi Building toward the downstairs cafeteria were something to behold. Every elevator was packed to capacity, and the throngs disgorged from them would surge into the crossroads below, creating a scene of jostling chaos. This might sound like an overstatement, but it was truly an extraordinary crush. I witnessed this spectacle nearly every day while...

"Old things and new, jostled about like this, will gradually harmonize," I thought with a wry grin.
I, wearing that wry grin, suddenly collided with someone, was knocked sideways, and I—a small man by nature—was instantly swallowed by the crowd, vanishing without a trace.

Having finally extricated myself from the crowd, I at last found a chair in a corner of the cafeteria and there satisfied my hunger.
There were dining halls serving bento boxes, sushi, tempura rice bowls, unagi donburi, sweet red bean soup, bush clover rice cakes, and soba noodles; and there were Western restaurants offering lunch plates, beef steaks, pork cutlets, fried oysters, meatballs, and cutlet rice bowls.
In this cafeteria, while shoes worn with Western clothing were rampant, Western-style food was not.
After all, it seemed rice passed down from their ancestors was better suited to Japanese people.
There—in that cafeteria—I heard from someone that while these Western-suited gentlemen (the executives from every office supposedly ascended to partake of Western cuisine at those celestial heights on the ninth floor), those who descended there from every floor belonged chiefly to the ranks of hired hands: what one might call Western-clad paupers.
Who was it that called them “Western-clad paupers”—better to say “Western-suited gentlemen”—but when hunger struck, they could no longer restrain themselves, abandoning all decorum to devour their bento meals ravenously before my eyes.
In other words, it was there that I came to witness old and new cultures meshing together effortlessly.

Grand entrance

At the time of the earthquake disaster, I walked from Kamakura to Yokosuka, boarded the Kantōmaru, and arrived at Shinagawa Bay.
That night, when rough waves made landing impossible, I transferred through an officer’s introduction to the battleship Nagato and finally obtained peaceful sleep.
While on land I had been ceaselessly trembling from aftershocks, aboard this castle-like warship floating on the sea, nothing existed to startle my slumber.
When hard-pressed, humans seek temporary ease.
Though returning ashore tomorrow would mean confronting various terrors—such things mattered not at all.
The mere acquisition of one night’s untroubled sleep became, in that moment, the ultimate solace.

The next morning, when I went ashore at Shibaura and looked around, the agitated restlessness of men and women rushing about in confusion was even more pronounced compared to what I had seen in the Kamakura and Yokosuka areas. Then, when I entered Shiba Park and was startled by the crowd of evacuees, after passing through the park, I saw that along both sides of the road—amidst the burned-out ruins—something was still smoldering.

I passed through Sakurada Hongōchō and saw the burnt ruins of the Metropolitan Police Department and the Imperial Theater; everywhere stood flags marked “suiton” relief stations where people swarmed like a dark mountain.

I had filled my stomach with this “suiton” on more than one occasion.
Yet while walking through Yaesu-cho this time—though I can’t recall exactly where (or rather, didn’t pay enough attention to note)—I spotted a sign at a Western-style building’s entrance reading “Rice Curry: 25 Sen Per Bowl.” Feeling as though I’d found clouds and rainbows amid great drought, I stepped inside.
The place bore traces of earthquake ravages yet remained a rather splendid dining hall.
The waiters wore proper white Western suits.
Then came before me warm white rice crowned with amber-glowing yellow sauce.
The previous night aboard the battleship, I’d eaten canned beef.
That beef had been splendidly delicious.
I’d also eaten bread.
That bread too was delicious.
But white rice—that I hadn’t tasted in ages.
To encounter such a feast as rice curry surpassed all expectation.
Having filled my stomach there, I made for the Marunouchi Building.

The Marunouchi Building had sustained some damage, yet still stood towering imposingly.
The interior of the Marunouchi Building too seethed with activity.
Amidst that throng stood Mr. Akaboshi—Department Head of Mitsubishi Real Estate—his legs wrapped in puttees.
When I nodded in greeting, he returned the courtesy nod though seemed not to recognize me.
I remained clad in Japanese attire—hem hitched up, white under-trousers worn beneath, a large hand towel dangling at my waist.
With this beard grown out and sunken eyes besides, he likely failed to discern my identity.
Moreover, his taut facial muscles betrayed deep preoccupation with some weighty matter.
Though fortunate to escape fire damage, Mitsubishi Village's various structures—not wholly spared from quake destruction—now rested entirely upon his shoulders.
What stark contrast between myself—preoccupied with our Hototogisu Publishing Office's single room in the Marunouchi Building—and him.

The basement cafeteria of the Marunouchi Building opened not long after that.
The crowds rushed in.
From that time onward, meal tickets came to be sold in advance.
When necessity presses, all manner of new things are invented.
From those rushing crowds and congestion emerged the devised solution of advance meal ticket sales.
And so today, this practice has become the general rule for dining halls of this kind.

Customers also rushed to the second-floor Daimaru Kimono Store.
Prior to this, Daimaru’s store had held a reputation for having fewer customers than staff.
After the earthquake disaster, customers suddenly began increasing rapidly.
That was only natural.
Prominent locations such as Nihonbashi, Kyobashi, and Kanda had all been reduced to ashes, while Marunouchi alone remained unharmed.
Moreover, the newly built shopping district within the Marunouchi Building alone remained safe.
The customers of greater Tokyo all gathered at this Marunouchi Building.
For a time, not only the dining halls and kimono stores but every shop established at the Marunouchi Building’s crossroads flourished without exception.
The center of Tokyo’s prosperity seemed to reside in the Marunouchi Building.

After Mitsukoshi, Matsuya, and others were restored, the prosperity of Nihonbashi, Ginza, and other areas returned to its former state. However, the Marunouchi area—the grand entrance facing Tokyo Station—has undergone a major transformation compared to its pre-earthquake state and is poised to become the new center of prosperity.

Tokyo Station

A sister building was said to be constructed nearby, across Gyokō Road from the Marunouchi Building.
It would become a hotel.
Thus, the left and right wings of the grand entrance would be fully completed.

As for the grand entrance, Tokyo City’s main gate was Tokyo Station.

One morning, when the train carrying me from Kamakura pulled into Tokyo Station, a sea of people swarmed toward the ticket gates all at once.
(At both boarding and alighting gates) Of course, those weren't just train passengers.
Passengers from trams that arrived at the same time also mixed into the throng.

Among those passengers mingled a single small boy.
Dressed in Western clothing with legs exposed below the knees, carrying a randoseru backpack and wearing a mask, he darted nimbly through the throng of passengers.
He seemed to be just kindergarten-aged or at most a first or second grader in elementary school, yet there was no one accompanying him.
He was alone.
He nimbly wove through the adults and descended the stairs.
In an instant, his figure vanished from sight.
Before long he could be seen ascending the stairs of a Yamanote Line train at Third Platform.
He could be seen nearly every day.

The crowds of those passengers surged toward the ticket gates.
They came in droves from behind, one after another.
Even as they were still piling up into a mountain of people, another train arrived.
The disgorged people surged toward the ticket gates again like an avalanche.
But this was Tokyo Station after all.
The whirlpool of people at the ticket gates vanished immediately.
People coming from behind flowed away like water through a well-cleaned gutter.

The people who exited the ticket gates scattered in all directions from there.
A figure who appeared to be a schoolgirl gave a slight bow to the ticket gate attendant and promptly disappeared into the station attendant’s room on the right.
She would likely soon appear at the ticket sales counter wearing a black gown over her clothes.

Among those alighting at the boarding gates, some passed through the space between the Marunouchi Building and Mitsubishi Main Building. Others turned left in front of the Mitsubishi Main Building. Others boarded Meguro-bound, Naka-Shibuya-bound, Shinjuku-bound, and Suiten-gū-bound streetcars. And many of them appeared to be people entering the Marunouchi Building.

The Marunouchi Building had one hundred rooms on the first floor and eight hundred rooms on the eighth floor; with an average of ten people per room, nearly ten thousand individuals passed through its doors daily. And if you were to count those entering and exiting dining halls and shops as well, the numbers would become truly staggering.

Automobiles dashed across the people being drawn into the Marunouchi Building.
Every one of those automobiles dashed unreasonably.
They careered through pedestrians as if they were mere trifles.
Thus, even after spotting the Marunouchi Building ahead, the act of charging toward its entrance became a perilous ordeal.
It was a desperate scramble for survival.

When the present-day Mitsubishi Village was still a field, Tokyo Station was built in a corner of that open land.
In those days, the station stood as a vast emptiness - travelers scattered here and there, station staff nowhere to be found unless one searched for them.

“What did they mean by building such a sprawling inconvenience?” I had heard people mutter.
And what of it now?
Before an express train departed, the station would become so crammed with passengers that no one could budge an inch.

“If they’re going to the trouble of building it, they should’ve made it a bit bigger.”

Such murmurs had begun to be heard.

As a result, both the boarding and alighting gates had their entrances remodeled several times.
(This wasn’t an entrance, but when the Yamanote Loop Line was established, the stairs leading to its platform were rebuilt.) Initially, separate entrances were designated for automobiles, rickshaws, and pedestrians, but this arrangement proved inconvenient instead.
Next, bricks were laid in the open-air area.
In that section alone, since automobiles could not enter, the danger decreased.
However, this time, automobile passengers had to be exposed to the rain during downpours.
There, a portion of those laid bricks was dug up, pillars were erected, and atop them a glass-paneled roof was installed.
With this, it seemed that matters had finally settled for the time being.

But what could be the reason they had recently started digging up a portion of the boarding gates’ bricks again to conduct some sort of construction work?
From what I heard, this came about because Shōji had donated something over 200,000 yen to the Ministry of Railways, which led to establishing a barbershop, bathhouse, and other facilities in the underground area there.

I also heard that before long, a Tokyo Underground Railway station would be built in front of this Tokyo Station.
That was all well and good.
This Shōji’s barbershop was also well and good.
However, more than those things, I wish they would create an underground passage connecting Tokyo Station and the Marunouchi Building, allowing us to safely reach the entrance from the gate.
Rather than starting construction by digging up bricks again after two or three people have been run over by automobiles, I wish they would fulfill this request while everyone’s lives are still safe.

Activity began.

When he arrived early at Tokyo Station and, with the cold north wind striking one cheek, rushed into the Marunouchi Building, two or three elevators were already moving—it was around 8:15.

He got off on the seventh floor, took out a key from his pocket, opened the door to the Hototogisu Publishing Office, and stepped inside. The steam heating had yet to come on, but the steel frame retained yesterday’s warmth, leaving the space vaguely warm.

The neighboring rooms were still quiet.
There was a great deal of mail that had been thrown through the door slot after he left yesterday.
First, he organized it.
Then he removed his hakama trousers, put only the key into his pocket, closed the door again, and headed to the restroom.

In the restroom, the woman cleaner had just begun cleaning.
She poured something like soapy liquid over the white glazed bricks and began scrubbing vigorously.
I silently entered the restroom.

“Morning,” came a voice.
It was a man’s voice.

“Good morning,” came a voice.
This was the voice of the cleaning woman.
Then, after exchanging a few words of small talk, the man left.
He had likely urinated.
Though the man himself was out of sight, he was likely either an employee of the Mitsubishi Real Estate Department or perhaps an office attendant from some administrative room.

As I was taking my time in this restroom, someone suddenly began violently banging on the door of the neighboring stall and shouting in a shrill, hysterical voice—

“You mustn’t climb up there! Get down, I said get down!” someone shouted. It became clear this was the voice of the cleaning woman who had greeted the man with that gentle “Good morning.” They should have known climbing up was prohibited—this rule had been clearly posted on the restroom door when the Building first opened—yet it appeared someone had climbed up as one would in a Japanese-style toilet.

The cleaning woman worked with such faithful diligence that sweat beaded on her forehead even in the cold season.
I once heard from the person in charge:
"If you're not careful even a little, this restroom gets dirty right away.
There are those who leave filth splattered around them.
Occasionally there are those who scribble graffiti.
There are even those who go to the trouble of rolling up the paper hung in the restroom and vigorously thrusting it into the hole.
But rather than reprimanding them, we take the initiative to keep this area clean ourselves.
If we keep this up, eventually even their mischievous urges will cease."
Whenever I saw the cleaning woman's faithful diligence in her work, I always recalled what the person in charge had said.

When entering the restroom either early in the morning before the cleaning woman arrived or during daytime hours when she had stepped away, one might indeed witness a most startling phenomenon. It was that in every restroom without exception, yellow masses floated here and there. One could not help but ponder the mentality of those who departed without even bothering to take the slight effort of flushing with a bit of water.

I left there and unlocked my office door once again with the key.
The room had already grown warm as steam began flowing through.
Office workers started arriving.
Voices and noises began drifting from neighboring rooms.
Gradually, the Building's activities were stirring to life.

Soon came mail carriers delivering letters crammed into shoulder bags until they nearly spilled over.
These carriers reportedly handled only the Marunouchi Building.
The building contained nearly a thousand offices.
Spread out on level ground, this would amount to a town of a thousand households.
The volume of mail requiring delivery must have been considerable.
This necessitated specially assigned carriers for the task.

There was a room where the telephone had been ringing incessantly since earlier.
It appeared none of the clerks there had arrived yet.

In the neighboring room, the sound of typing began to echo.

Across the courtyard, human faces appeared in the window of a room on the opposite side.
There was a dentist's office where electric lights blazed brightly even in daytime.
Someone leaned back in a chair receiving dental treatment.
A female assistant was cleaning medical instruments.

The window of the room above remained with its curtains drawn.
That was a billiards room.
It stood to reason mornings would be slow there.

Noh stage

The corridors of the Marunouchi Building saw heavy foot traffic.
The same could be said of the comings and goings in this corridor.
People could come and go as they pleased.
Those demanding donations and those coming to beg alms mingled among these crowds.
For a time, Koreans who came pleading "Please buy some candy" were common sights, though nowadays they were rarely seen.

Vendors dressed like schoolgirls would often appear, asking "Would you care for a necktie?"
Then there were these so-called gentlemen in Western suits who entered proclaiming "How about purchasing this such-and-such photo album?"
There even came a terrifying long-haired man who announced himself as president of the National Essence Such-and-Such Society.
Moreover, special visitors would call at our Hototogisu Publishing Office.
At times seven or eight visitors of varying types would crowd in simultaneously, leaving us utterly overwhelmed by their demands.

In the midst of this, we would sometimes hold haiku gatherings.
Some found it strange that one could compose haiku in such a bustling place, but with familiarity came acceptance.
What had once been gatherings held seated on tatami mats had imperceptibly transformed into affairs conducted in chairs.
This shift had already persisted for ten years.
Moreover, this custom of convening at companies' and government offices' closing time to conclude meetings before dinner—within two or three hours—originated when we established the Hototogisu Publishing Office in the Marunouchi Building.

At the Hototogisu Publishing Office as well, they handled business until the stipulated time of four o'clock. After the office workers left, they took out the tatami chairs stored in one corner of the room, arranged about twenty chairs in total, and this single room was promptly transformed into a haiku gathering space. When haiku gatherings were held at buildings in Marunouchi such as the Railway Association, the Electric Club, and others, they generally took place from around four or five o'clock until about seven. And in each case, they sat around tables, leaned back in their chairs, and composed.

It was either during a haiku gathering at the Railway Association or in an informal chat during a bit of free time after the meeting had ended,

“There was a time when Mr. Kanze Yoshinari said he wanted to build a Noh stage on the top floor of a building and perform there,” one person remarked.

I found it interesting and committed that story to memory.
Indeed, the Marunouchi Building’s roof had a vast space lying empty and unused.
Building a Noh stage there and holding Noh performances in about the same timeframe as haiku gatherings would create another form of entertainment utilizing the time between office closing and dinner.
Noh must be shown to people even when requiring persistent effort.
Imparting its appeal to people at large is itself a form of virtuous deed.

If I say such things now, they may sound like mere fantasy, but I don’t think they are necessarily so.

The very fact that the Hototogisu Publishing Office had set up shop in a room of this Marunouchi Building was initially met with people's ridicule as something too outlandish.
But now, just as my Japanese clothing no longer felt disharmonious with this building, there was no disharmony in the slightest.
The fact that the Hototogisu Publishing Office existed in a corner of this Marunouchi Building had come to seem so natural as to be almost too natural.
The fact that haiku gatherings were held there had also come to seem so natural as to be almost too natural.

The burning of the Hōshō stage in the earthquake disaster meant that the Hōshō-ryū Su-utakai came to be held at the Hōchi Auditorium. Does anyone still find that peculiar now?

Not only that, but each building in Marunouchi had established entertainment facilities where groups sharing interests—Go, shogi, Noh chanting, waka poetry, haiku, and so on—formed, each convening several times a day.

The top floor of the Eiraku Building had a Japanese-style room established where Go stones clattered and voices practicing Noh chants drifted out.
The top floor of the Bankers' Club was no exception.
It was said that the Electric Club then under construction would have a Japanese-style room equipped with even more complete facilities.
That these Japanese-style rooms existed within steel-framed buildings seemed not at all strange.
Before long they might come to occupy every structure in this Mitsubishi Village.
At that time one who rode elevators up to find such rooms abruptly awaiting on top floors might have felt surprise—but such wonder would prove fleeting.
The flow of time renders even marvels mundane.
Were a Noh stage built upon Marunouchi Building's roof today, tomorrow would find it unremarkable.

Imperial Theater

Every day, the two major Hochi newspapers stood towering across from each other, separated by the street.
Moreover, nearby, both the Tokyo Asahi and Jiji had newly constructed grand buildings.
It appeared that all major newspaper companies were converging on Marunouchi with visible momentum.

When walking late at night from the Imperial Theater to Yurakucho Station, what startled one was Nichi Nichi and Hochi automobiles loaded with next day's newspapers emerging from their company buildings.
Every window on every floor was brightly lit within which signs of people's activities could be imagined.
As one walked along absentmindedly gazing at this scene an automobile suddenly honked its horn and emerged from a building.
No sooner had it reached the street than it sped away headlong.
Startled by that automobile and jumping back—this time an automobile carrying people came charging out of darkness from one side.
Standing there in darkness I felt my soul grow cold and leapt aside once more.
From behind and behind again automobiles came.
They all came at full speed.
In this late-night area there were far more nerve-wracking occurrences than during daytime bustle.

In the dark area by the roadside stood a dimly lit Chinese noodle shop. Constructed atop a cart with a noren curtain hanging down, inside were two or three people leaning in. Through the warm-looking steam, their profiles could be seen.

At the entrance to Yurakucho Station too, there was a small oden shop.
There, too, two or three people were eating oden that looked warm.

When one ascended Yurakucho Station and looked out, numerous electric lights blazed upon the roof of the Imperial Theater, making one realize that this place marked the boundary of revelry.
After the earthquake disaster, the statue of an old man on the roof had been removed, and particularly anything that would have marked the Imperial Theater as distinctive vanished; yet when night fell, the mere fact that these numerous electric lights were lit still served to make one realize that this place was at least a theater.

I tried to recall the plays I had seen until then, but nothing remained in my mind.
Only my eyes felt fatigued and ached.

Fifteen or sixteen years ago, when construction began on the Imperial Theater and the clamor of hammers striking iron resounded vigorously, I was guided by someone to enter inside and look around. While crossing a dangerous scaffold, I heard explanations that roughly this was the stage and that was the dressing room. And then, upon exiting that place, I was immediately guided to the neighboring actress training institute as well. There, I observed actresses' dances and play rehearsals. I committed to memory names such as Mori Ritsuko, Murata Kakuko, Hatsuse Namiko, Kawamura Kikue, and Suzuki Tokuko. All those people were still around twenty years old, in the very bloom of youth.

Then, since Mori Ritsuko was the daughter of Mr. Mori Hajime from my hometown, I met her two or three times. Moreover, since my friend was acquainted with Suzuki Tokuko, I was made to meet her two or three times.

When construction of the Imperial Theater concluded and it opened in splendid ceremony, I too had been invited as one of the guests. On stairs carpeted in crimson, everyone trod with tentative steps. Even those who appeared to stride about with an air of worldly familiarity secretly worried about soiling their shoes.

The new production titled "Yoritomo" (I cannot recall precisely—perhaps my memory errs) proved rather uninspiring, yet its beautiful architecture and grandiose stage mechanisms nonetheless drew people's eyes.

Since then, every month I received invitations and attended this Imperial Theater nearly every time. There I saw Baikō and Sōjūrō gradually grow old, while Baikō's son Eisaburō and Sōjūrō's sons Kōsuke and Tanosuke became full-fledged actors. I learned that Suzuki Tokuko had quietly vanished from the stage to become Sawamura Sōnosuke's wife. Then I discovered that both Sōnosuke and Eisaburō had all too soon joined the ranks of the departed. I frequently saw the new child actors born of Sōnosuke and Tokuko as well.

I didn’t watch other plays much, but I often saw the ones at the Imperial Theater. While watching each time, I felt some measure of interest, but once I stepped outside and stood on the street, I could no longer even remember what I had just seen. Only my eyes felt fatigued and ached. And so, while being harassed by automobiles, I finally arrived at Yurakucho Station.

the statue of the old man

Travelers coming to the imperial capital from the Keihanshin region would likely begin to feel they were nearing their destination after passing Yokohama and reaching the Ōmori area.
Yet upon seeing these cramped houses built in such disorderly fashion, one could not help but feel a wretched impression—was this truly the imperial capital?
Especially when observing the barracks-like structures around Shibaura and the heaps of bricks resembling ruins left among them, one would lament how long such conditions might persist after the earthquake.

As it finally passed Shimbashi and entered our Marunouchi, its appearance transformed for the first time, and one might begin to sense something faintly befitting the imperial capital.

Relatively grand buildings stood in orderly array.
They stood in stark contrast to the diminutive structures seen until then.
The roofs of each of those buildings soared into the vast sky.

When viewed from today with its elevated railways, the roofs of these buildings became the foremost issue.
What unwittingly delighted the eyes of these travelers—not to mention daily commuters from as far as Zushi and Kamakura to nearby Ōmori and Shinagawa—was the shape of these roofs.
They would grow weary of uniformity.
They found vulgar grotesqueness detestable.
While square structures like the Marunouchi Building—severed as if cleanly cut—were acceptable, one also yearned for something resembling a forest of irregularly standing towers.
Even so, I found the Imperial Hotel’s roof pleasing.
At the tip of the pole jutting from its center was something—I didn’t know what it represented—that simply intrigued me.
To my eyes, it held no meaning yet fascinated nonetheless.
Though I often cite it as an example, the Imperial Theater’s roof was better when it bore the statue of the old man.
Why was that removed after the earthquake?
It must have been damaged by seismic fires—but why wasn’t it restored?
Was there some argument that such elements clashed with Western architecture?
Then wouldn’t performing traditional kabuki on that stage be equally absurd?
Wouldn’t attaching a hanamichi walkway there be ridiculous?
Wouldn’t employing traditional actors become nonsensical?
To casually adopt those features internally while rejecting only the old man’s statue externally struck me as utterly illogical.
In architecture, they should dare repeat such bold experiments to shatter monotony.
How regrettable that they overnight removed those distinctive roofs which had so splendidly adorned Marunouchi.

Even when arriving by train from Ueno, passing through makeshift barracks as far as the eye could see to west and east, upon suddenly entering Marunouchi, one would be greeted by grand edifices for the first time and feel an indefinable sense of delight.
(It would be good if grand buildings stood closely packed together, but depending on location, they don't quite achieve that.)
(The area entered from Ueno rather stands like missing teeth—that would be more apt.)

Standing on the platform and looking back toward Nihonbashi and Kyobashi, one could see buildings—Mitsukoshi, Mitsui Bank, the Bank of Japan, the Chiyoda Building, Daiichi Mutual Insurance Building—jutting up like wooden stakes among the barracks.
Before long, those high-rise buildings would stand lined up like a fence, and our Tokyo too would come to resemble European and American cities.
The buildings now standing sparsely in Marunouchi being remarked upon as novelties would likely remain so only a little while longer.

When I gazed at the steel frame of the Diet Building now standing far off in Nagatacho, I somehow felt heartened.

Present-day Tokyo still bore vivid remnants of the earthquake disaster, and those buildings likely remained insufficient to comfort the hearts of travelers coming to the capital.
Yet as the steam train approached Tokyo Station, the sight of numerous electric trains—some lagging behind it, some forging ahead, others rushing parallel—all packed to bursting with people who poured out like a bursting river the moment they reached Tokyo Station could not help but stir a heartening feeling.
The individual strength of those people would soon build the new Tokyo.

Thirty years ago.

Around the 35th year of Meiji (1902), I lived in Sarugakuchō, Kanda, and often had business that took me to Uchisaiwaichō, Kōjimachi.
I would cross Takebashi, enter Wadakura Gate, proceed from Nijūbashi-mae to Sakuradamon, and then pass by the Ministry of Justice—but walking at a leisurely pace required over an hour.
Even when riding a rickshaw pulled by an elderly driver with feeble legs, considerable time was consumed.

At that time, Hibiya had not yet become a park but remained a vacant lot overgrown with grass.
Though military drills were no longer conducted, traces of the drill ground still lingered unchanged.
Outside Wadakura Gate too lay mostly vacant land, where only the Meiji Life Insurance building, Chamber of Commerce, and what are now called Building No. 1 and Building No. 2 stood.
This was when they called it the Four-Unit Row Houses of Mitsubishigahara; what followed was a field where foxes and raccoon dogs seemed likely inhabitants.
Among them lingered artificial hills from the days of daimyo residences, left in decay.
It was also during this period that the notorious Oen Murder occurred.

At that time, there was only a horse-drawn railway running from Shinagawa to Asakusa. Even when pressed for time, nothing outpaced a rickshaw. Many of those rickshaws were pulled by elderly drivers who gripped both shafts and strained forward laboriously. Passengers too felt none of today’s urgency; when I commuted to Uchisaiwaichō, completing my business there and returning home would conclude the day’s affairs.

I remember once riding in an old rickshaw puller’s carriage and listening to his life story as we traveled along the way.
An old rickshaw puller who slowly drew his vehicle while sharing tales of his past—such figures can now likely only be found on country roads during spring’s lingering daylight.
Even on rural paths where automobiles might come charging at any moment, one absolutely cannot afford to be careless.
When I imagine the scene of an old rickshaw puller’s carriage moving unhurriedly beneath moatside willows—with but a single such sight to behold—what a carefree and unhurried tableau it was.

In those days, Marunouchi was a realm of darkness and stillness—desolate yet perilous.

When passing before this Meiji Life Insurance building at night, one would find beyond it a pitch-dark field where only stars blazed in the great sky.
The area around present-day Tokyo Station stretched as endless darkness too, with just faint lights from Kyobashi visible in the distance.

Eventually houses began sprouting here and there, filling the gaps between those four-house row dwellings until people colloquially dubbed this area *“Ichō London”* (One Block London).
They say Nakadori became fully lined with buildings around Meiji 44 or 45 (1911-1912).

Many buildings in the Nakadori area had numerous entrances, and certain companies or offices occupied every room up to the top floor—they could not function properly unless completely segregated from others.
This was likely because vestiges remained of the samurai class's old customs—those who had once erected great wooden gates and encircled their estates with high earthen walls.
It was not until Building No.21 emerged in Taisho 3 (1914) that an apartment-style layout first appeared, followed by further development when the Kaijo Building was completed in Taisho 6 (1917).

In Taisho 12 (1923), with the completion of the Marunouchi Biruding—that is, Maru Biru—a great transformation was brought to the atmosphere of Marunouchi.

The Marunouchi Building's dining hall and shops housed many waitresses and female office workers. It was said there were numerous beauties among them, though I could not speak in detail. Yet when summer arrived, the washrooms on the sixth, seventh, and eighth floors became visible from my room across the courtyard. Rows of mirrors hung in those washrooms. Before these mirrors, contingents from those groups of women formed lines. They kept applying more white powder over already thickly layered foundations, souls absorbed into their reflections as they daubed ceaselessly—some even baring their necks to powder the nape. Viewed from afar across the courtyard through our eyes, they all appeared uniformly pale and beautiful. Ah yes—there truly were many beauties here, I concluded.

If you wanted hot water, you went to fetch it from the boiler room.
If you wanted to put on makeup, you went to the restroom.
Everything was open, with no barriers whatsoever.

When night falls, bright lights illuminate the windows on every floor.
This is not limited to the Marunouchi Building.
The Yusen, Kaijo, and other buildings are also the same.
The place that was merely a pitch-dark field thirty years ago is now a sea of lights.

Rain.

When rain and wind raged fiercely, the journey from Tokyo Station to the Marunouchi Building became an ordeal.
The wind howled through gaps between towering structures.
Winds colliding with Tokyo Station particularly spawned whirlwinds that defied directional comprehension.
After such tempests, torn umbrellas littered the route with predictable regularity.
Along that brief stretch between station and skyscraper, I witnessed four or five such casualties cast aside.

On rainy days, the clatter of our high-geta wearers scurrying up and down the stone steps grew particularly pronounced. I had heard that the late Stationmaster Takahashi once complained about "that infernal clatter-clatter," but there was no remedy while muddy streets persisted. As long as Japanese clothing remained in use, we had no choice but to endure it. I would tolerate light rain in zōri sandals myself, but when downpours came, I inevitably joined the clattering ranks. Truth be told, navigating stone stairs in high geta proved treacherous enough. Add asphalt's slippery surface to the equation, and one risked calamity at every step. Worse still came the nuisance of changing into indoor shoes each time I entered the Daiichi Building—shoes ultimately offered far greater convenience. Though I'd contemplated pairing rain boots with traditional attire, I still hadn't mustered the courage to attempt it.

Zōri sandals too were gradually being improved.
Among those sold at Awaya on the first floor of the Marunouchi Building, there would likely gradually come to be ones that could be worn even in light rain without issue.
They would likely devise improvements driven by the practical necessities of those commuting to the buildings.

Necessity!
That necessity became various forms of ingenuity and invention, and finally emerged as a new harmony.

The new civilization of Marunouchi?
Thus was the new civilization of Marunouchi being brewed.
While wearing rain boots with Japanese clothing, I might devise new innovations.

Entering the Marunouchi Building, I walked inch by inch across the paved bricks to avoid slipping, finally reaching the shoe storage area to change into indoor sandals. Once I settled into a room on the seventh floor, the state of the storm became even less clear. Occasionally, rain pounded against the windowpanes, but I had no idea where the wind might be blowing.

Indoors, engrossed in work when someone entered. And they said there was a terrible storm raging outside. Indeed, I recalled when earlier my Western-style umbrella had been nearly crushed, barely enduring it. Unable to look ahead while clutching my umbrella to fend off the sideways rain, a tram came, an automobile came. I thought of the time when I had finally managed to reach this Marunouchi Building at the risk of my life.

“Still raging out there?”

“It’s blowing like mad.”

“Did you get so drenched because you didn’t use an umbrella?”

“As if I’d use an umbrella!”

Those friends too, after a while, grew accustomed to the indoor atmosphere and, as if having completely forgotten about the storm, were engrossed in conversation.
Then another friend entered.
That friend too seemed to have been troubled by the storm.
Once again, the tempest became the subject of discussion for a time.

However, that friend too soon appeared to have forgotten about the storm and was again engrossed in conversation.

“Still pouring out there?”

“Hard to say.”

“The wind must have died down by now.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

After a while, as we were talking about such things, there was a sudden flash of light, and at the same moment, a roaring sound was heard.
Since it was heard at the very moment it flashed, I imagined it must be quite nearby, yet the sound seemed to reach us through something thick and muffling.
In this steel-framed building, not only were the sounds of rain and wind inaudible, but even the roar of thunder did not resound so much.
However, far from the rain and wind having abated, their intensified fury could finally be imagined through this roar of thunder.

Butterfly

When in the Marunouchi Building, I grew drowsy toward natural phenomena. At least whether rain fell or snow fell could still be discerned through the windowpanes. However, there were times when even that could not be fully discerned. (My room only looked out onto the central courtyard.) There were times when I went outside convinced it wasn’t raining, only to find scattered drops falling. At other times, only during lightning flashes could I finally discern them.

I recognize the reddening of sunset clouds through that sliver of sky above the ninth-floor roof—where the Seiyōken stands. Therefore I don't often encounter poetic material. I don't even catch sight of birds often.

Sometimes an airplane would fly.
Hearing the roar, I stuck my head out the window and saw an airplane flying near the vast sky.

Sometimes airships would also come.
There were times when something that couldn’t quite be called a fish or a bird passed right near the roof of the Marunouchi Building.

There were no fleas and no mosquitoes.
However, there was occasionally a single fly.
Mosquitoes did not fly up to the upper seventh floor, but did flies come from the world below?
The vegetable washing area of the basement dining hall was visible from here.
It had a somewhat grimy look, but did flies ascend from that area?
Or did they perch on people’s backs and come all the way here?
However, even they did not stay long.
They stayed for a day or two and then were gone.

I was startled to find a mouse.
That was not in my room.
When I had business on the eighth floor and was ascending the seventh-floor stairs, there behind the gas pipes was a large rat trying to hide.
How could any hiding place be found within these white-painted iron walls?
He was frantically going up and down beside those iron pipes, appearing utterly at a loss.
Finding it unusual, I watched for a while, but the rat too merely raised and lowered its long tail while staring back at me, and since this seemed endless, I simply continued up to the eighth floor.

Three or four men from Morinaga on the first floor had come outside and were vigorously striking at the ground; wondering what was happening, I looked and saw they were pelting mice that had escaped from traps with whatever objects they could find. When I looked closely, five or six mice were caught in separate traps.

Mice and flies are not particularly poetic material. However, flies are a seasonal topic in haiku.

At one point, when I absently turned my gaze out the window, my eyes caught an unusual sight—a single yellow butterfly fluttering lightly through the central courtyard. "This is unusual," I thought, drawing closer to the window to look. The butterfly fluttered its tiny wings down to the basement level, but finding no exit anywhere, it fluttered back up again. And so it would ascend to around the seventh or eighth floor, but then stopped climbing higher and fluttered back down once more. At times it flew near the windows on the far side, and at times near those on this side.

I observed the butterfly for some time, but when I shifted my gaze to the windows encircling the central one, faces of people watching this butterfly appeared in both those windows and these.

The butterfly, like a dancing maiden on stage, fluttered up and down through the courtyard all by itself, having the space entirely to itself.
In truth, it must have been desperately seeking an exit, but to our eyes there appeared not the slightest sign of such urgency—only a fluttering dance throughout the broad courtyard.
In the midst of that monotonous view—rugged walls resembling castle ramparts and windows aligned like embrasures—to have chanced upon the dance of a yellow butterfly became an unexpected delight.

I left the window and returned to my tasks.
Then, letting go of my work and looking out, the butterfly was still flying.
When I looked again after some time, the butterfly was still flying.

When I stood by the window to leave after finishing my tasks that day, the butterfly was already gone.
There was nothing but the bleak shadows of office workers in every window.

Sunday

It was a day when snow was falling.
As I looked down at the courtyard from the seventh-floor office window of the Marunouchi Building, something fell onto the pure white, unblemished snow and instantly left a large black mark.
Wondering what it was, I looked up and saw through one of the ninth-floor windows of the Seiyōken—a boy in white Western clothes with neatly parted hair, and a waitress wearing a red obi and applying face powder—laughing as they gazed downward.
And then my eyes caught sight of a clump of snow being packed together in the boy’s hand.
Soon, snow was thrown again by the boy’s hand.
Instantly, the snow in the courtyard was marked black.

Though called a courtyard, it was actually the roof of a kiosk, precisely where the Marubishi’s roof aligned.

The clump of snow broke through the layer beneath, causing the black roof of the kiosk to emerge.

The boy and the waitress were laughing in amusement.

The boy was rolling the snow that had piled up right by the window frame into his palm and throwing it.

Today is Sunday.
Moreover, snow is falling.
The clock struck twelve a moment ago, but there are few customers at the Seiyōken, and the boys and waitresses must be at a loss for what to do.
They appear to be amusing themselves by doing such things.

My office too was closed today.
I had come out alone on some business.
The curtains of every room’s window were all drawn down, lying quiet and still.
Now and then, the sound of a typewriter resonated from my neighboring room.
Perhaps a single typist had come to this neighboring room as well.

The Marunouchi Building was lonely on Sundays.

Half of the elevators were also idle.
Even the half that were moving had few riders.

Even in the shops, customers were few.

The dining hall was no different.
There was just one person stationed over there, another here—that’s all.
And most of them were customers from outside.
Originally, the customers of this dining hall were mostly office workers commuting to the Marunouchi Building.
Moreover, there were many employees from nearby companies.
On Sundays, with those customers dwindling away, it felt desolate.

It was only natural that the boys and waitresses at the ninth-floor Seiyōken were passing the time by throwing snow.

Not only was the Marunouchi Building desolate, but Tokyo Station was desolate as well.
While there might have been no difference for guests arriving from distant regions or those departing for distant regions, there were none of the commuters who came from the suburbs.

However, on clear days, there were different kinds of customers.
Women and children were numerous.
Even those who commuted daily changed into Japanese clothing just for that day, adopting a relaxed appearance as they headed to Tokyo for leisure with their wives and children.
They would occasionally browse the Marunouchi Building’s shops or eat lunch in its dining hall.
However, most would likely go to Ginza, Mitsukoshi, or Asakusa.

For salaried workers returning home after completing shopping errands assigned by their wives, the Marunouchi Building was the most convenient.
Even if not, most would pass through the Marunouchi Building once when leaving work to come to Tokyo Station.

The cross street beneath the Marunouchi Building bustled at two times: noon mealtime and this after-work hour.

Those people were absent on Sundays.
When the hour of bustling Ginza promenading arrived, the Marunouchi Building grew quiet.
Around five o’clock, when the office workers had left, the shops generally closed up.
The dining hall also generally closed its doors around seven or eight o’clock.

Not only the Marunouchi Building—the entire Marunouchi area became quiet.

Sundays, especially the dusks of snowy days, were lonely.
At Tokyo Station, only travelers bound for distant places gathered.
From the automobiles emerged family groups, looking cold.
Passengers with coat collars turned up and heavy bags in hand alighted from the streetcar.
They stepped through the mud and stood at Tokyo Station’s entrance.

Entarō, carrying few passengers, comes running energetically while scattering snow sweat.
Five or six of them had gathered, their black forms standing out starkly in the snow.

Central Post Office

When reading newspapers back then，I often came across stories of postal carriers freezing to death in snowy mountains.
“O poor postal carriers，” I felt my eyelids grow hot each time I read such accounts.
That postal carrier too was a human being.
They must certainly not have wanted to traverse deep-snow mountain paths.
If possible，they would have likely wanted to laze about and stay huddled by the kotatsu all day long.
At times，they must have cursed their superiors who did nothing but cling to fireplaces.
I never considered that dead carrier an admirable person.
Nor did I think them particularly devoted to their duties.
(Not that I believed them negligent either，) but I could only marvel at a postal system that drove its workers to such extremes.
It might have sounded strange to praise an organization that killed its own carriers，but I couldn’t help respecting mail operations so rigorously organized that they achieved delivery even at such cost.

I often took mail myself to Tokyo Central Post Office.
The Central Post Office was right in front of Tokyo Station.

This Central Post Office had been a crude wooden structure even before the earthquake disaster.
After the earthquake disaster, it became especially a makeshift barracks built overnight.

Even the front door was crude.
There were two narrow entrances, one of which was left wide open.
For the convenience of the many people coming and going, the handle had been tied back with a thin cord or something, leaving one door open.
Although the wind whistled in, making it cold, the postal workers paid no heed to such things.

The counters were divided into those for selling stamps, accepting registered mail, receiving express mail, handling regular mail, and so on—all briskly and casually handled.

At the registered and express mail counters, a crowd would sometimes pile up like a mountain. When bringing express mail myself, I'd toss it onto the desk from behind that human mound with a plop,

When I said, “Please handle this,” the postal worker—even while processing other registered mail—glanced at it and nodded. Then, seizing a brief moment between shifting to other tasks, they stamped the date onto the postage and tossed it into the front basket with a plop. Everything was brisk and casual. No attention was paid from the outset to who might have sent it. Errand boys, waiters, rickshaw pullers, office workers, waitresses, bald-headed men—people of all sorts crowded in, yet each received identical treatment. In many third-class post offices back then, when you brought express mail, they would leisurely spend ample time processing just one piece of registered mail someone else had submitted earlier; only after finally finishing that would they move on to weigh your already-known quantity with meticulous care before accepting it—a world apart indeed.

At times he wondered if they would deliver it safely with such casual handling, but three or four hours later, a call would invariably come confirming that the recipient had indeed received it. Even regular mail was set up to be tossed into a postbox, but if one handed it to the postal worker stationed there, they would accept it. He received them while sorting them by region. When magazines and such were brought in by vehicle, one could immediately see them being processed over there.

The red postal trucks were constantly exiting from the back entrance.

Everything was straightforward and required not the slightest extra effort.
Moreover, the postal workers were diligent and casual.

I like this barrack-built Central Post Office.
Perhaps all the current postal workers are good people, but that can’t be the only reason.
This post office, which indeed sees many visitors, must naturally be this way.
And perhaps the very fact that it’s barrack-built also helps lighten the postal workers’ spirits.

The Central Post Office would soon construct a splendid building.
If that happened, another beautiful building would be added to Tokyo Station’s forecourt.
Once a splendid building was completed, perhaps things would no longer be handled in such a casual manner.
However, my beloved Central Post Office, I wanted you to remain forever in this casual manner.
It was to construct the service counters in such a way that they remained casual.

I paid my respects both to postal carriers freezing to death in the mountains and to these Central Post Office workers.

Reluctant Farewell

At the Hototogisu Publishing Office in the Marunouchi Building, employees were sending out newly published magazines.
Two or three haiku poets had also gathered to assist with the task.
There appeared a man with a lonely face.
Since they had known he would be coming soon, both the publishing office staff and those haiku poets had been quietly waiting for this moment.

That man too was one who composed haiku, from a remote countryside in Niigata. Whether his business had fared poorly or there was some other reason, he had decided to emigrate to Brazil. It was said his departure would be soon.

“What’s become of him?”
“He hasn’t been in touch at all lately,” murmured one of the haiku poets particularly close to him, who had earlier been discussing the rumors.
The one who now entered the hastily tidied room with such nonchalance was precisely that man.

“Oh, you’re here,” said one of the haiku poets.

“You look terribly haggard.”
Another one also said.

“It’s because I didn’t sleep for two or three days.”

The man laughed forlornly.

“When did you come to Tokyo?”

“Yesterday. I went straight to Yokohama and came right back.”

“When do you set sail?”

“The 23rd.”

Counting from today, there were only four days left.

All members of the group grew serious and looked at this man’s face.
Speaking of Brazil, it lies on the opposite side of the Earth from us.
To this was added their sympathy for this man’s resolute determination to depart within three or four days.

By then, noon was approaching.
With the magazine shipments fully sorted out, the entire group decided to go down to the cafeteria for lunch.

At the far end of the corridor, there was a woman and a youth in a school uniform.

“That over there is my wife and brother,” the man said.

The wife was a slender person.
The brother had handsome features and resembled that man.
Both stood forlornly, but joined the group as we urged.

Those gathered around the dining table were ten in total.

The haiku poet close to the man said.

“You’ll be doing farming, I suppose?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

He then talked about having bought a plot of land measuring twenty-five chō for something like a few thousand yen.

“Then you’re quite the landowner,” laughed the haiku poet.

“Yes,” the man also laughed forlornly.
When I had left the capital before, I hadn’t felt it to this extent, but this time, there was an undeniable loneliness in his words and actions.

“Can you really do farming?” said the haiku poet, looking at the man doubtfully.

“I suppose I can manage,” the man said, laughing hollowly.

I looked at that slender wife.
The brother wasn’t what you might call a bedrock foundation.

“How many days does it take?”

“It takes about fifty-six or fifty-seven days, I hear.”

“Is that enough time to make it?”

“If you go around the Cape of Good Hope, that’s about how long it takes, I hear.”

“Cape of Good Hope!” The entire group looked at the man again.

“But if it takes fifty-six or fifty-seven days to reach it, what seems distant might actually feel close.”
“If airplanes advance a bit more, perhaps we could make the trip in two or three days.”
“Maybe people could even come back to Tokyo for quick visits.”

“Yes,” the man replied with a smile.

As they conversed, the dining hall filled with people.
One table remained occupied by this lingering farewell gathering longer than others.

Around that area,

Having secured about an hour of free time starting around half past two one afternoon, I left the Marunouchi Building and walked around that area. First, I went to the front of Tokyo Station's exit. There, the automobiles that formed long queues in the morning waiting for passengers—at a glance, one might think there were nearly a hundred—had now dwindled to about a third of their number.

There stood a bronze statue.
It read: “Statue of Senior Second Rank, First Order of Merit Inoue Masaru.”
I had heard this man was the inaugural chief administrator of Japan’s railways and a founding-era luminary.
Behind the statue lay a broad vacant lot.
I understood this area had been designated as Ministry of Railways land years prior, though budget issues left its development timeline uncertain.
The forlorn atmosphere surrounding Tokyo Station’s exterior stemmed partly from these accumulated circumstances.

Heading toward the Eirakuchō tram stop, a temporary structure on the left bore signage for something like the Katsudō Shashin Corporation, rows of garish painted billboards cluttering its facade.
These advertisements continued up to the entrance of the Tokyo So-and-So Corporation occupying half the same building.
With automobiles and trams ceaselessly streaming past, pedestrians scurried through the thoroughfare too harried and precarious to notice—yet a closer look revealed vulgar paintings hung in gaudy profusion.

Furthermore, in one room of the building bearing the name So-and-So Corporation, a barbershop called Such-and-Such had staked its claim. There was also something called the “Such-and-Such Dining Hall, Grill Room.” Then, on the opposite side under the railway viaduct, there were shops nestled within. This was something like the lower-grade stalls of Asakusa’s Nakamise shopping arcade. Western goods stores, barbershops, sushi restaurants, tempura rice bowl shops, soba noodle shops, and the like—fourteen establishments stood in a row. There were also some where cafes and bookstores coexisted.

The impression when passing through there was that of a lively entertainment district on the outskirts. That one would suddenly encounter such an entertainment district just twenty or thirty steps beyond Tokyo Station's main gate struck me as quite an unusual phenomenon. Then crossing the tram tracks near the Marunouchi Hotel and passing alongside the Chosen Bank, I found all buildings in this area reduced to makeshift structures pitiable to look upon after meeting the earthquake's flames. Occasionally among them stood large brick buildings where stones wedged between bricks remained scorched and crumbled away pitifully. Even in those buildings, people were living and working.

Passing by the makeshift buildings housing the Ministry of Communications, Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry, Central Assembly Hall, Printing Bureau, and others, then emerging back onto the tramway, I found similarly provisional structures for the Ministry of Finance and Home Ministry.
All these makeshift-built government ministries were like horse stables in a vast field.
The only differences were that there were no horses whinnying and no horse manure.

However, I heard that all these government ministries had been tentatively scheduled for relocation to Sakuradamon-gai.
If the ministries were to gather together in one place across the tramway from the current Ministry of Justice and construct splendid buildings, it would make for a spectacular sight.

However, the aftermath would be the problem. If one removed those horse stables, what remained was simply a vast field. Marunouchi had since ancient times been established as a place with a castle, a moat, and a wild field—grassland—as its defining features. Perhaps it would be best to leave it as a wild field after all.

But the influence of Mitsubishi Village, where eight- and nine-story American-style buildings were rising up, might extend even here and turn this entire neighborhood into a grand building district.

With Tokyo Station as its main gate and the Marunouchi Building as its entrance, then considering the building district extending along the left flank and the large buildings gradually lining up on the right flank as well—judging from these developments, this entire area would likely not be permitted to remain a wild field for much longer.

The present-day Marunouchi had large buildings that towered strikingly.
More were rising up even as one looked.
The Yaesu Building and Showa Hall stood as examples of this.
Yet beyond those structures, vacant lots still remained in considerable number.
There were crude makeshift buildings too.
Small shops nestled under the railway viaduct.
The current development of Marunouchi had reached a stage where buildings were just beginning to rise sporadically amidst Shinkaimachi's rice fields.
To complete this into a splendid town and build up the new Marunouchi district would still require considerable time.

For about an hour, while being menaced by automobiles, I trudged back to the Marunouchi Building.

Pale red plum blossoms

When eleven-thirty arrived, the dining halls in the basement, first floor, and ninth floor of the Marunouchi Building all opened.
He entered Takeba Dining Hall in the northwest corner of the first floor.
He took a seat at one of the tables still devoid of customers.

On the walls and pillars here were written numerous Manyoshu poems.
He looked at them without really looking.

Whose garden’s plum blossoms now come scattering here in this clear moonlit night of ages past?

The cuckoo comes crying loud; who will gaze upon this garden where citrus blossoms scatter?

The Milky Way’s mist spreads across; the sound of Hikoboshi’s oar can be heard as night deepens.

The wild geese that cried and departed this morn—has the chill tinged this field’s bush clover so?

The dew settled on autumn bush clover by my dwelling—how starkly white it gleams! Ah, how I long for her.

He fondly recalled the Manyoshu poets who sang forthright emotions in resounding tones.
In the vase beneath the pillar were arranged pale red plum blossoms.
When he looked at those pale red plum blossoms, he was reminded of court nobles from the Heian era.

The Kaijo Building towered across Gyoko-dori Avenue.
Immediately nearby, the large Yusen Building could be seen.

The old map I had seen earlier came to mind.
That was several maps of Marunouchi from the Kanei, Genroku, Tenpo, Bunka, and Kaei eras.

When examining that map, one saw that Marunouchi had long appeared lined with numerous daimyo residences since ancient times.
Though the occupants of those residences changed with each era, what remained constant was that Kajibashi-uchi—the area around present-day Tokyo City Hall—had housed the domain residences of Tosa and Awa, while the vicinity of what was now the Ministry of Railways' grounds had been the estate of Hosokawa Etchu-no-kami.
As for other major domains' residences—while they too had existed here—most had since been relocated.

The location of our Marunouchi Building was Matsudaira Shintaro’s residence during the Kanei era, became Matsudaira Naizo’s and Toda Hyōbu’s residences during the Genroku era, served as Mizoguchi Komanosuke’s residence during the Bunka era, and was likely Oda Hyōbu’s residence during the Kaei era.

＊ ＊ ＊

He handed the 60-sen unadon meal ticket to the waitress.

＊ ＊ ＊

The size of one of those daimyo residences appears to have been even larger than the present-day Marunouchi Building. If that were the case, then this Marunouchi area—where those grand mansions surrounded by earthen walls once stood in rows—must have been a desolate place indeed when night fell.

Within one of those mansions, there must have been a retainer row house as well. Among the retainers, there must have been those who brought wives and children. There must also have been a fair number of lower-ranking servants and young retainers as well. There must have been a great number of tea attendants, pages, and even chambermaids as well. There must also have been chief retainers and other officials as well. And the feudal lords must have sat composedly upon thick cushions with armrests at their sides, as if performing in a play. However, those people must have been caught in a whirlpool of desires, conflicts, schemes, uncertainties, and resignations—just like people of the present day. They must have lived in a society that depicted the form of the present world just as it is there. People’s jealousy, exclusion, petty wisdom, and obstinacy must have been no different from what we now see before our eyes. Such a world must have been repeatedly unfolded and closed, unfolded and closed, until it reached the present day.

Moreover, no matter which era one isolates and examines, the people of that time must have praised the civilization of their era as the most splendid.
For instance, they must have kept at hand such extravagantly crafted items as writing boxes and tea utensils—like those now displayed in the Hyokeikan hall of the museum—and gazed upon these embodiments of their civilization with pride.

The pride held by people of ancient times must be the pride held by modern people and also the pride held by future generations.

The records of people perpetually arising and perishing while dwelling upon the earth could be said to differ little between past and present.
Across Gyoko-dori Avenue from where the Kaijo Building now stands, Matsudaira Buzen once resided.
(Kaei era) If one were to compare the civilization now filling every room of the Kaijo Building with the civilization that had been secluded within Matsudaira Buzen’s inner palace, it would be impossible to say which would prevail.

The unadon arrived.

＊ ＊ ＊

A pale red plum blossom fell.