Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Yamane Shozo changed out of his Western clothes into the inn’s yukata, threw his exhausted body down sideways, and lay there with one arm pillowing his head as he began to smoke a cigarette.
The young thinker had left his Tokyo home that morning and arrived just past noon to find lecture organizers and local dignitaries waiting at the station to escort him to this inn. After resting briefly, he delivered a nearly three-hour lecture on modern thought at the public hall to an audience over half of whom were young men and women starting from two o’clock. Though trains bound for Tokyo had been available around eight and eleven that evening, he resolved to stay overnight to organize his thoughts for a magazine article he was contracted to write. Refusing even the organizers’ offer to accompany him back to the inn, he instead returned alone while watching green reed leaves tremble in muddy ditches under the setting sun.

It was a quiet dusk.
The cigarette smoke, exhaled in slow deliberate breaths, formed pale circular rings that drifted diagonally upward toward the window’s paper shoji.
Upon those shoji panels, amber sunlight writhed and flickered like some living organism.
Shozo mentally revisited the discourse on romance he had delivered at the public hall that day, scrutinizing its arguments.
What he meant to write for the magazine was a rebuttal to a certain Dr. X’s paper titled *The Harm of Excessive Romance*.

“I’ve brought your meal.”

Hearing the maid’s voice, Shozo turned his gaze.
The maid in charge—a woman around twenty—had brought the meal tray.

“Ah, food. Let’s eat.”

Shozo stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray before him and sat up, then noticed the futon he had been lying on under his arm, picked it up, and went over to the meal tray.

“Would you care for some sake?”

The maid had brought the black rice bowl and iron kettle out to the corridor and had just fetched them.

“I don’t drink sake, you see,”
After saying this, Shozo showed a smile on a face white yet tinged with red.
“Then I’ll bring it right away.”

The maid served rice.
Shozo received it and ate while thinking—*trivial as such worldly matters were, a cup of sake might have given this meal more substance*—moving his chopsticks absently, lost in thought.

“I heard you gave a lengthy lecture today. You must be exhausted.”

A voice, different from the maid’s—somber yet familiar—reached his ears.
Shozo, startled, halted his chopsticks.
There was only the maid’s face there—no one else.

“Did someone say something just now?”

The maid stared at Shozo with a puzzled expression.

“Not at all—it seems no one has said anything,”

“Is that so? Perhaps it was just my imagination.”

Shozo began moving his chopsticks again, but he could no longer maintain a calm and composed state of mind.
Suddenly overcome with melancholy, before his eyes flashed the face of a young woman with an abundance of hair—a face that habitually tilted slightly to the left.

“Would you care for another serving?”

Shozo raised his dark face.
The maid was holding out the tray before him.
He was about to hand over the bowl when he noticed.

"How many have I eaten?"

"This would be the third serving."

“Then, I’ll have another.”

Shozo handed over his rice bowl to have it refilled and began moving his chopsticks again, but noticing the black bowl at the tray’s left corner remained untouched, he lifted its lid.
It was carp stew.
He took the bowl and brought his lips to the broth, its surface glistening with fat.
It was a delicious, velvety taste.
As Shozo moistened his dry throat with it, an expanse of verdant reed leaves floated up before his eyes.
And between those reed leaves, a strip of water became visible, and two or three small boats moving back and forth with white sails fully spread glided soundlessly past.
When the rudder went slightly off course, the boat veered into the reeds, and the green leaves rasped harshly against its edge.
The pale red light of the early summer morning sun, filtering through the overcast sky, tinged the sails.
The boat moved onward and onward.
Whether looking right or left, the dull leaden water stretched beyond the blue reed leaves, and beyond that water, the blue reed leaves stretched on endlessly.

("Professor, might I now call upon your residence?")

The young woman tilted her head in her characteristic manner and said.

“Certainly! Please do come visit me,” he had said． “On Mondays﹐ Wednesdays﹐ and Fridays﹐ two days each week﹐ I go to school—but even so﹐ from around two o'clock﹐ I'm usually home﹔ I've arranged student meetings for Saturdays﹐ but you're welcome any time.”

“In that case﹐ Professor﹐” she replied﹐ tilting her head﹐ “I shall trouble you for a little while now.”

“Certainly﹐ please come﹐” he added﹒ “Let’s talk about poetry—isn't this scenery truly splendid?”

“Truly—it’s like reading someone’s poem—the way these reeds and water stretch beyond sight—”

“If the carp stew suits your taste, might I offer another portion?”

Shozo heard the maid’s voice and set down the carp bowl.
The carp meat and miso soup had mostly been eaten.

“That’s quite enough. It was so delicious I ended up eating it all at once—truly, that’s quite enough.”

Shozo hurriedly picked up his bowl and began shoveling rice into his mouth, but he felt awkward, thinking his brooding over unpleasant matters must have made the maid find him strange. Resolving not to dwell on trivial memories from the past, he ordered tea the moment his rice was gone.

“Would you care for another?”

“That’s enough.”

“Then I shall prepare tea.”

The maid touched the tea utensils.

II

The shrill blast of a steam whistle trembled through the quiet air and reached his ears.
That was the steam whistle of the cruise ship navigating from edge to edge across the lake.
Shozo sipped the freshly made tea as the maid cleared away the meal tray, but he could no longer hear that sound.
He stared at his dark shadow from ten years ago with unbearable self-reproach.

That was his figure from when he had graduated from a private university—emerging as a new critic while dabbling in poetry during that period when society first began recognizing him.
At that time too, just like today, he had come to deliver a lecture after being invited by local literary youths; though his two companions who had accompanied him returned home on that evening’s train, he alone remained behind, determined to behold the charms of this water village he had long yearned for.

It was a night that lured the troubled heart of a young man into the ethereal realm of early summer.
At that time, he had deliberately stayed at an inn close to the water’s edge.
At that inn’s back entrance, just as on this evening, the cruise ship’s steam whistle could be heard blaring loudly.

That night, a blue moon hung in the sky.
He emerged from the lower part of the inn and walked along the water’s edge.
The spot marked where the lake merged with the town’s canal. Where he stood had been reinforced with stone embankments, but across the water, the original lakeshore remained—white poplars grew thickly there, standing black against the night, and from the darkness beneath their boughs scattered lights glimmered here and there.
He took one look and thought it was the light from the hut—visible earlier that evening—where the square fishing nets had been set up.

The lake water glistened gray.
Shozo’s cheeks still held the flush from the two or three small cups of wine he had sampled out of some peculiar curiosity during the meal.
Because of that, his thoroughly melancholy heart lightened.

The lakeshore opened to the left from there, the houses vanishing as sloping fields continued toward the hill.
The black hill ahead appeared to crumble and jut out into the lake.
Along that roadside as well, white poplars stood here and there, and young reed leaves stretching into the water made faint sounds in the lake wind.
In the shadow of the white poplars where the moonlight did not reach, one or two small lights could be seen.
Those were fireflies.
He stopped in his tracks while watching the fireflies and gently touched the tip of his walking stick to the reed leaves.

The sound of straw sandals with light rubber-like soles caught his ear.
He glanced behind him without consciously looking.
There stood a young woman.
The woman walked toward him without any fearful expression, keeping her gaze fixed on him as she approached.

“Pardon me, but might you be Professor Yamane?”

The woman bowed her head.

"Yes, I am Yamane. And you—"

“I have always been reading your writings, Professor, and today, as it happens, I am staying at the same inn where you are lodged—having learned of your presence from the staff here—”

“I see—then there must be some connection between us. Who are you? Where is your home?”

As he said this, he scrutinized the woman’s face and figure.
She had a well-proportioned face with slightly upturned lips, her head—covered in fine, abundant hair—tilted gently to the left.

“I live in Tokyo with my father, but since my aunt resides further ahead in △△△, I went there about ten days ago and returned here by boat this evening on my way back. However, returning to Tokyo late at night would be troublesome, so I thought I’d take the train leisurely in the morning—”

“I see. I also came here today with two companions, but due to obligations like the lecture during the day, I couldn’t see this area, so I decided to stay on until morning.”

“Then you’ll create more fascinating poems, I suppose.”

“No good—my poems are just imitations, after all.”

“Your poems feel so fresh—I’ve been reading nothing but your work, Professor.”

“That’s kind of you. Then you must write poetry yourself, I take it?”

“I merely read them.”

Having said that, the woman laughed.

“Even if you don’t compose poetry, you must write songs. The water village is lovely—have you written any songs about it?”

“Why, I merely dabble in imitations—I’m afraid someone like me could never manage anything proper.”

The two who had returned together from their lakeside stroll talked late into the night in his room. The woman showed him a notebook containing tanka she had composed at her aunt’s house and asked commonplace questions about the essentials of tanka poetry.

“Tomorrow, I was thinking of hiring a boat to go to ×× and catching the train from there. What about you—would you care to join me?”

When he said this during their conversation, the woman was delighted.

“I had thought the same when disembarking from the boat today—how splendid it might be to pass through the reeds in a small boat. If it wouldn’t trouble you, I should very much like to accompany you.”

“Then let us go together—the reeds must hold wonders.”

The following evening, as planned, he boarded a small boat with the woman, traveled along the lakeshore to ××, and from there took the train back to Tokyo.
She was the daughter of a moneylender residing on the second floor of an amateur house in Nihonbashi Hikawacho and attended Kanda’s vocational school.
From then on, she began visiting him during spare moments on Fridays or Saturdays.

At that time, he rented a house in Akagishita, kept an old servant, and lived a self-indulgent life.
And whenever his dissolute companions invited him, he would go to the dim second floor of a suspiciously bright house in the downtown area, and it became not uncommon for him to occasionally leave his own house unattended.

On one such occasion—after spending a night at a suspicious house near the Ōkawa River and returning home with an oppressive, restless heart—he lay sprawled out reading a newspaper when a woman’s voice called out at the entrance.
The maid had just gone out on an errand, leaving no one to answer the door; he would have to go himself—but recognizing the voice as hers, he remained motionless,

“Please come in—the maid isn’t here. There’s no need for formalities, so do come in.”

After saying this and waiting with his head raised, the woman quietly entered.

“Last night, a game of Go started at a friend’s house—we kept playing until morning and only just returned. Literary types are all fools, you see… There’s a futon over there. Please take it and lay it out.”

The woman had a face that was both relaxed and beautiful.

“Thank you… Shall I fetch the pillow for you, Professor?”

He felt toward his woman the same emotions he had directed at the woman from the previous night.

“Yes, perhaps I’ll have you do that. It’s in the back closet, so please take it.”

The woman stood up, went to open the back closet, brought over a velvet pillow draped with a white cloth, and crouched by his pillow. He looked into her eyes, which flared like instantaneous flames.
He went to see off the woman who was leaving around noon that day, accompanying her to the tram stop at the bottom of the hill.
Trusting the woman’s words that she would come the afternoon of the day after next, he went to school that day but, forgoing lunch in the school cafeteria—a usual habit—hurried back home.

But the woman did not come even when night fell. Thinking that if some circumstance had arisen preventing her visit, she would at least have sent a letter, he waited for correspondence to arrive—yet when the morning mail came, there was no letter. He then reasoned that the absence of a letter meant she still intended to come that very day, which explained why she hadn't written, and so he waited from morning without venturing out for a walk—but by day's end, she neither appeared nor sent word.

He thought that even so, the reason no letter had come was likely because an opportunity to come immediately had appeared before the woman, and so he waited again the following day—but on that day as well, neither she herself came nor did any letter arrive.
He, exhausted from waiting, walked around the vicinity of the school the woman attended under the scorching sun from around two to three o'clock, but even as many women emerged from the school, his woman was nowhere to be seen.
He also tried going back and forth in front of the house in Hikawacho where the woman was said to live, but even then, he could not catch sight of her.
However, he lacked the courage to go next door and inquire about the woman's condition.

After a little over a month had passed, a letter from his woman—whom he had already given up on—arrived from Tsukiji Hospital.
It was a terrifying letter.
The woman had suddenly developed a high fever and severe arthritis starting the day after their meeting—leaving her left knee permanently bent—and been hospitalized for treatment; though her fever subsided, the joint remained unhealed. She was to be discharged within a day or two and return to her hometown of Maebashi before seeking prolonged convalescence at some hot spring—all this scrawled in pencil with a plea for him to visit tomorrow afternoon while her father would be absent.

He gripped the letter with a feeling as though his head had been struck by an iron hammer.
Confined by shame and regret over having sacrificed a virgin's life through momentary caprice, his weak-heartedness ultimately prevented him from going to her.

From her came another imploring letter immediately—begging him to arrange matters and come see her just once—yet still he could not go.
Unable to go, he writhed in torment.
She sent word that she would finally depart on the following evening's train, urging him to come at once even should her father be present.
She had added that if he couldn't wait until the train's appointed hour to come to the hospital, he should at least meet her at the station.

Weak-hearted as he was, he could not fulfill even that wish.
And then, two or three days later, a postcard that appeared to have been written on the train arrived.
It read: “Professor, goodbye—I bid you farewell forever.”

About two days later, a newspaper article reported that during the journey of a Maebashi-bound train, a female passenger had been run over and killed.…………

“Professor... Professor...”

Shozo, who had been silently lost in thought, abruptly raised his face.
In the dimming room sat a pale-complexioned woman, her left leg rippling faintly as she moved it in a crawling motion.
Then a blue light flickered—and the lamp flared on.

There was no one in the room.
Shozo looked at the lamp again as if relieved.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the first maid entered.
The maid was holding a small pink envelope in her hand.

“A letter has arrived.”

Shozo had his curiosity piqued upon seeing the pink envelope.

“Where did this come from? Was someone sent to deliver it?”

“The rickshaw company brought it.”

Shozo accepted the letter while asking,

“Is someone from the company still waiting?”

With that question still hanging, he turned over the envelope to check for a sender’s name—but found none.

“They told me simply to hand it over before leaving,”

“Is that so? I wonder who—today’s committee members or supporters perhaps?”

Yet despite this assumption, the pink envelope struck him as peculiar as he carefully opened it. Inside lay a letter penned in fountain ink with feminine script on ruled stationery. Shozo had barely skimmed its contents before shifting his gaze to the maid’s face.

“Very well, thank you.”

“Did everything make sense?”

“Ah,”

“Then, should you require anything further, please do call for me.”

“Thank you.”

When the maid left, Shozo turned his eyes to the letter's text.
It was from a woman who had attended his lecture at the public hall that day and appeared to be of some standing.
He began imagining the woman's status while still holding the letter.
His heart cleared completely.

Three

Shozo, driven by curiosity, left the inn just before eight-ten and set out for the embankment where the canal met the lake. At that place was supposed to be the woman who had sent the pink envelope letter. A red moon had emerged after casting about an hour of evening darkness. It was a windless, spring-like night. After passing a pair of laborers who seemed drunk, when he moved to walk on and glanced to his right, a lantern blurred crimson caught his eye. That was the lantern of an inn where he had once stayed. Yet he felt nothing toward that lantern.

He felt enveloped in a sweet haze. From a small restaurant on the road's right side came the twang of a shamisen mingling with women's voices and the raucous singing of two or three people, yet to his ears it only seemed like a song being sung from somewhere far away.

The faintly whitish waters of the lake came into view as the houses lining the right side disappeared. He thought he must have reached the embankment where the canal met the lake. There he could see lumber piled up and large barrels resembling cement drums scattered about. He supposed these were remnants from the industrial fervor that had peaked two or three years prior.

Perhaps clouds had covered the moon, for the surroundings appeared blurred into gray.
Shozo looked at the protruding hill in the lake to the east on his left, and a pale yellow cloud was passing across the moon’s surface.

“Professor… Might you be Professor Yamane?”

A woman was standing before his eyes.
She was a tall woman with a pale, oval face.

“Yes, I am Yamane,”

“I must sincerely apologize for being the one who sent you that letter earlier and made such an unreasonable request.”

“Is it you?”

“Yes, I must sincerely apologize for the trouble. But after attending your lecture today, Professor, I simply had to meet you immediately—I couldn’t restrain myself. So I inquired where you were staying and sent that letter.”
“I truly must apologize for the imposition, but if you could spare just a short while, I would be most grateful if you would come to my home.”

“Where might that be?”

The woman glanced back slightly and pointed toward the edge of the hill.

“It’s just around the edge of that hill. By boat, it wouldn’t take more than about ten minutes.”

“Is there a boat?”

“Yes, I have brought a boat.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, that’s right. I must seem quite forward, don’t I?”

The woman laughed seductively.

“Well, I suppose so,”

Shozo paused to consider.

“There’s no one to mind except the maid and the old manservant.”

“Well then, if I can return immediately, I’ll accompany you.”

“I’ll have you back right away.”

“Well then, I shall go.”

“Then please come this way.”

The woman went first, passing by the mat-wrapped straw bales piled nearby, and emerged onto the embankment.
At that spot, there was a pier made of something like old ship planks slanted down into the water, and where it met the water floated a small boat that appeared mouse-gray.

“That would be it—must look rather ridiculous.”

“How intriguing,”

Shozo stepped onto the planks—which had been nailed to prevent slipping—in his geta and descended toward the boat.
The planks swayed and flexed in the water as they moved.
The boat was moored with something like a red sash.

“Please board as you are and take a seat at the stern.”

Shozo had no particular experience with boats, but he found it unbearable to let the woman row while he merely watched.

“You should board first—I’ll row.”

“No one else can handle this boat properly. I must row—please do come aboard.”

Shozo complied—removing his geta, clutching them in his right hand—and gingerly stepped into the boat. Bracing for rocking motions, he carefully balanced his weight, yet the vessel remained unexpectedly still.

The woman then moved into the midsection of the boat.
In that motion, the scent of perfume she wore grated against Shozo’s very soul as it wafted over him.
Shozo was settling himself at the stern.

The two oars in her hands flickered into motion, and the boat glided out across leaden water.
Perhaps due to some trick of moonlight, their surroundings grew bright as if under electric lamps—her gaudy haori, patterned with vertical stripes like brocade, now appeared as a pale purple flame.

“Shall I take over? I have a bit more strength than a woman.”

Shozo looked at the woman’s dazzling white face and said.
The woman received this with an alluring smile.

"No, since I row this boat every day—being rather forward—I don’t consider it any more effort than using a toothpick."

"In that case, shall I simply watch?"

"Please look at the surroundings—the view over the lake is always lovely."

The woman cast a brief glance to the left.
Shozo also tried to look where she had turned her face, but upon lowering his eyes to the water’s surface nearby, he started.
The surrounding water appeared covered with pitch-black fish heads.
It resembled carp swarming when wheat gluten is tossed into ponds at shrines or temple grounds, but their numbers here defied comparison.
The fish thrashed the water with wet slaps as if embracing and tangling together, their bodies entwined.

“Are they carp?”

Shozo widened his eyes.

“There’s no need to make such a fuss. Quiet down now—you’ll startle our guest.”

The woman looked toward the fish and said reproachfully.
To Shozo’s ears, her words came through fragmented.
He looked at her face.

“When we go out in this boat, all the lake’s fish come gathering around.”
“But isn’t it rather bothersome when too many gather?”

“They must be carp, right? I’ve never seen carp like this before. Do they not catch them in this lake?”

“They do catch them—there are plenty of fishermen making their living by catching carp in this lake.”

“I see. Even with so many being caught, for this many to gather... there must be an extraordinary number of them indeed.”

“They must have gathered to welcome you, Professor—but I have already sent them back.”

Shozo looked at the water’s surface.
The carp that had been there were now gone, and the leaden water lay still and thick.

“They’ve all disappeared now, haven’t they? There.”

Shozo, taken aback, kept his eyes fixed on the water’s surface.
Then a fish about two feet long surfaced and, turning its white belly upward, lay on the water as if dead.

“Is that carp dead?”

“That is the carp that treated you to its flesh, Professor.”

“Huh?”

“No, Professor—you must have dined on carp stew at the inn this evening.”
“Since this area abounds with carp, the inns serve them in every dish—morning and night.”

The woman said this and laughed in a bewitching voice.

IV

Shozo looked around his surroundings as though awakening.
In the bluish-lit room, he sat before an ebony table, and on his left side, the woman wore a smile that seemed to carry a fragrance.

“How did I come to be here?”

Shozo retained only the memory of seeing a school of carp and what appeared to be dead carp floating up around the boat; he had no recollection whatsoever of disembarking from the boat, walking along the path, or entering this house.

“You walked briskly with me. Often when one arrives at an unfamiliar place at night, they become dazed—as if bewitched by a fox.”
“I must apologize for the impropriety.”
“I must apologize for inviting you to such a place resembling an otter’s dwelling,”

“Not at all—it’s a quiet, ideal residence facing the lake.”

Shozo felt as though he had understood the position of the house.

“When it grows colder, we’ll have to seal it shut completely—but for now, the vista remains quite splendid, I must say.”

The woman stood up, went over, and opened the shoji screen directly across from Shozo.
Outside the shoji was a small corridor with a railing, and beyond that railing lay the hazy waters of the lake, blurred by moonlight, drifting indistinctly.

“It’s right by the water—truly ideal. You compose poetry, don’t you?”

Shozo said while straining to look up at the water’s surface.
The woman stood leaning against the shoji screen.

“I dabble in such things, but I’m quite hopeless at them.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case. It’s because you reside in a place like this.”

“No matter how fine a place one may reside in, those without poetry in their heart are doomed to fail.”

The woman said this and laughed, then turned and returned to the original futon.

“That can’t be the case. Even we would start to feel settled if we stayed in a place like this for a month.”

“Whether it’s a month or two months—if it pleases you, do stay even a year. Though I’m sure keeping company with this old woman must be tiresome for you,”

The woman said this and, taking the black jar that was on the table, poured it into the cup beside her and placed it before Shozo.

“I will serve you red wine instead of tea. You don’t dislike it, do you?”

“I’ll have a little, though I can’t drink much,”

“If I were to call the maid, we might have some proper conversation—but that would be a bother. Please do help yourself—I shall join you.”

The woman poured the wine into a separate cup and took a sip.

“Then I shall partake.”

Shozo bowed his head and took the cup.

“I always read the pieces you write in magazines, Professor.”
“And so I had long wished to meet you somehow—then today, when someone who frequents my house informed me of your lecture, how eagerly I awaited it! Yet when that wish was finally fulfilled, ah—how fathomless human greed proves to be! Merely listening from afar left me unsatisfied, hence this presumptuous request. You must find it quite troublesome to be sought out by such an old woman.”

The woman laughed again.
Shozo, too, had no choice but to laugh.

“Though I cannot claim to fully grasp it, Professor—the lecture you delivered today on romance was truly fascinating. The tale of that female poet within your narrative imparted tremendous power upon us.”
“Of course, someone like this old woman has no clever lover like that one—but thanks to that story, I feel as though trivial worldly morals have lost all their power.”

“When someone like you genuinely listens to my insignificant lecture, it brings me great joy.”
“But it’ll be another ten years before I can deliver a proper lecture—my mind remains utterly empty.”

“How can that be? Every last person in today’s audience was moved to tears by your words.”

“It’s hopeless—I must read more books henceforth. Though when I say ‘henceforth,’ I’m already advancing in years.”

“Forgive my rudeness, but may I ask how old you are?”

“How old do I appear?”

“Well, let me see...”
The woman stared intently at Shozo’s face with her black eyes and said, “Are you thirty-two or thirty-three?”

“Oh, I’d have to stand you to a treat then—it’s thirty-six.”

“Thirty-six? You simply don’t look it at all.”

“And how old are you?”

“How old do I appear?”

“Well, thirty? You haven’t yet reached forty, I suppose.”

“Oh, but I have—forty.”

“Oh, but I have—forty. It seems your eyes are mistaken after all, Professor.”

“Do you have any children?”

“I have no children.”
“I was once married as well, but I couldn’t have any children.”

Shozo felt a sense of relief upon hearing that the woman was single despite her circumstances.
He took the cup that the woman had poured for him a second time.

“So then—are you currently alone?”
“That’s correct—having become such an old woman, there’s no one left to pay me any mind, so I live alone as I please.”

“On the contrary—being free of dependents must be quite carefree.”

“Carefree it may be, but it is lonely—hence why I end up making selfish requests like today’s.”

“If it’s a place like this fairyland, I will come to visit often from now on.”

Shozo was already drunk.

“Please stay in this fairyland tonight as well,”

The figure of a woman as voluptuous as a blooming peony was before Shozo’s eyes.

“Let me see...”

“Please indulge my selfishness.”

Her voice came to sound soft and languid, like a candle’s light fading away.
Shozo leaned against the table with both elbows and said something, but it was inaudible.

The woman stood up, removed the haori she wore, turned it inside out, grasped it with both hands, and stepped closer to Shozo. From the corridor came a gurgling noise—neither frog nor fish—bursting forth all at once as though from countless throats. She made a disgusted face and peered beyond the open shoji. Outside, where moonlit water had shone moments before, something like a massive storm cloud now loomed blackly, layering itself in endless billows.

“You fool! What brings you here? I won’t abide this idiocy.”

The woman said in a scolding tone.
Even so, the gurgling sound did not cease.
A fragment of black cloud billowed into the room with a soft, swelling motion.

“This is no jest.”

The woman’s right hand reached her head, and the black pin was pulled out.
The woman thrust the pin into a fragment of cloud that had entered the room.
Then, the strange crying sound abruptly ceased, and the cloud, with the pin still stuck in it, crumbled away as it drifted out of the room.

Shozo, hearing the woman’s voice at the boundary between dream and reality, suddenly opened his eyes.
At the same moment, the haori that the woman had put on him from behind fluttered down.

Shozo was returning by boat, having been seen off by the woman.

It was a cloudy evening; across the lake’s surface fading into ashen gray, patches glistened ominously like snail trails.

Shozo was about to return after staying at the woman’s house for two or three days.
He was sitting at the stern exchanging silent smiles with the woman when he suddenly cast his eyes toward the water on the left side of the boat—a large catfish lay dead with its white belly upturned.

“A large catfish is dead,”

Shozo turned his eyes toward the catfish again to examine it closely.
A black pin-like object stood embedded in its throat in a pine-needle pattern.

“The throat has been pierced by something, hasn’t it?”
“It must have been pierced for its mischief.”
“More importantly, it will surely be next Friday, you know.”

“It’s fine.”

Five

There was a slight wind, and young leaves were brushing against the surface of an arc lamp in the early evening.
Shozo, who had been walking silently through Ueno Hill, descended the stone steps facing Shinobazu Benten, waited for the tram bound for Ugouzaka to pass, then slowly crossed the tram tracks and began heading toward Benten.
There, a thin mist hung, making the lights around the pond appear deep and distant.

He was once again thinking over what he had pondered for an hour on the hill.
……If things have come to this, I can’t afford to worry about societal appearances—I should resolutely separate. It’s pitiful for the child, but there’s no help for it. And if she refuses to accept a separation, then I’ll proceed with a formal divorce. The child is already three years old; hiring a reliable nanny should suffice. Tonight, I’ll start by declaring my intent to separate. I mustn’t be weak-willed—indeed, my weakness has cost me in various ways until now.
I must resolutely do it—day after day of hearing ignorant words and being shown unpleasant faces is unbearable…….

He recalled quarreling with his wife that evening.
Since going to give a lecture in the water village town at the beginning of last month, after anywhere from four or five days to a week at most had passed, he would leave home nonchalantly.
His wife—who harbored hostility toward him each time he failed to return home for two or three days—paid no heed to what the neighbors might think.

(Since it’s been completely torn apart already, there must be no further use for it...)

(Someone like me should just die already—being alive only causes trouble since no woman comes bringing piles of money...)

The wife had brought with her an inheritance from her father of about three thousand yen.……

That day, intending to compile the manuscript for his essay collection scheduled to be published by a Kanda publishing house, he had brought out magazine and newspaper clippings beside his desk and was making red-ink corrections when the little boy came scurrying in and began clawing at the manuscript.

(Hey, if you don’t do something about the boy, this’ll be a problem.)

Just as he thought this,

(Come here, boy. That father of yours is no longer your father here, so he’s no good.)

Having said that, the wife entered with cold eyes.

(Idiot.)

(I’m a fool anyway. Because I’m a fool, I end up like this. Come here, boy.)

The wife went to the child, who was still playing with the magazine clippings in his hands, snatched away the clippings, and suddenly embraced him.
That violent, venomous act set his nerves on edge.
With the red brush still in hand, he lunged at the wife from behind, seized her neck with both hands, and yanked her down.
The wife seized the moment and plopped down.
At this, the child, startled, began to wail loudly.

(Idiot. What a thing to say.)

He stood glaring down at the wife’s head.

The wife's weeping soon reached him.

What a fool! Doesn't she consider her status?...

He walked underneath the tower gate.
People in white yukata flitted intermittently into view.

...If these days were to continue for another month like this, my head would be utterly ruined and I'd become incapable of anything—and if I couldn't do anything, life would only grow harder.
If life kept hounding me like this, I'd be unable to stand or crawl. No matter what, I must separate—by separating, I'll quietly take up my pen to complete my philosophy, and in the meantime, make time to meet her...

He went from beside Bentendo Hall to the approach of Togetsukyo Bridge.
This place differed from Bentendo Hall's front area - with fewer passersby, it lay still as though belonging to another world.
He peered into the gloom.

“Isn’t that you, Professor?”

Then came a woman’s voice he recognized.
Shozo stopped in his tracks and glanced back behind him.
A pale face came before his eyes.
That was the woman from the water village town.

“When did you arrive?”

“I came on the current train.”
“It was just perfect timing, wasn’t it?”

“Where have you been?”

“I had intended to go toward Choshi when I left home but came because I wanted to meet you. I had meant to visit your house now and wandered my way here—but something felt off, so I found myself rather troubled.”

“Is that so? That was perfectly timed.”
“What about dinner?”

“Not yet. You must have already finished yours, I presume.”

“I had some trifling matters to settle, so not yet.”
“Shall we go somewhere nearby for dinner?”

“If you’re troubled by such things, why don’t we simply go to Choshi now?”

“Yes…”
“That would be agreeable.”

The two turned back and walked toward the front of Bentendo Hall.

VI

Shozo got off the train and returned home through the sunset, but even when opening the lattice door, he could no longer open it with his usual indifference.

He first looked toward the tea room near the entrance as soon as he stepped inside to check whether the wife was present.
The place was quiet and devoid of any human presence, so he looked at the inner room on the left side.

The wife’s figure was visible there.
Wearing a medium-patterned yukata made last year, she sat facing this direction, placed the hand holding a fan on her lap, and gazed at the face of the child lying before her.

When he spotted that, he let out a sound—something between a nasal breath and a grunt—but since the wife did not raise her face, he had no choice but to enter the study on the right side.

The gloomy day finally came to an end.
Shozo sat in front of the desk.
He made no move to go for dinner, nor did the wife come to call him.
In that oppressive silence, the child’s voice was heard once or twice, but even that faded away.

Shozo came to his senses and swatted at the mosquitoes that had settled on his cheek and neck with his hand. He tried to loosen his head—now heavy as lead with memories—but it refused to clear.

A faint, strange moan reached his ears. Shozo listened intently. The sound seemed to come from the entranceway. Gripped by a terrible premonition, he hurriedly stood and moved toward the front door.

At the threshold separating the inner room with its blue mosquito net from the tea room lay his wife facedown, her head turned toward him. Beside her sat a young woman showing her back to him, a cup in her hand. Shozo approached them wondering what had happened—only for the young woman to vanish, leaving his wife alone convulsing in agony.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

In Shozo’s eyes came into view a cup rolling by his wife’s pillow and a suspicious bag that looked like a patent medicine package.

“What on earth have you done,”

Shozo reached his hands under his wife’s arms to lift her up but let go when something occurred to him.

“You don’t care about our child? Why would you do such a foolish thing? Pull yourself together—I’ll get you help right away,”

Shozo ran toward the entrance, hurriedly put on the geta he had left discarded, opened the lattice door, pushed aside the storm shutters that had been left drawn but unlatched, and went outside.

“Oh! If it isn’t Yamane!”

Just then, someone coming from the opposite direction called out.
Shozo halted mid-stride.

“Who’s there?”

It was Nomoto, a fellow man of letters.

“Nomoto! Nomoto—I need your help. My wife’s in a bad way—could you rush to fetch a doctor? Go out here and turn right—five or six houses down, there’s a place with a red electric light.”
“He’s our regular physician—just give my name and he’ll come at once.”

“What happened?”

“She’s done something foolish—seems to have swallowed something.”

“Alright, I’ll go then.”
“Please take care.”

Nomoto ran off.
At the same time, Shozo also ran into the house.

The wife pressed both hands on the floor, lay prone, and was vomiting a yellowish, viscous substance over an overturned cup.

“Did you vomit? If you did, then you’ll be okay,”

Shozo hurried into the kitchen, groped for the rice bowl on the shelf, scooped water from the bucket, and brought it back.

“I’ve brought water. Even if you drink this water, it’s good to vomit a little.”

Shozo crouched down and brought the water to his wife’s mouth.
The wife looked at the bowl with icy eyes and did not open her mouth.

“Why won’t you drink? Wouldn’t it be better if you drank? You must drink—don’t you need to drink and vomit?”

Shozo forcibly pressed the bowl against her mouth.
Water plopped and spilled out of its corners onto her chin and neck,
but she did not swallow any of it down into herself through those tightly sealed lips—

“Don’t you love our child? Why won’t you drink?”

With hurried clattering sounds from wooden sandals,
Nomoto came rushing into their home through its entranceway then.

“The doctor will be here soon. How is she? Is she alright?”

“She vomited. She vomited.”
“Since she vomited, I think she’ll be okay.”

“She vomited?”
“It’s good if she vomits.”

Nomoto came and stood nearby.

“Mrs. Yamane—what’s wrong? It’s alright—you must stay strong.”

The wife’s face turned toward Nomoto.
Her eyes rapidly filled with tears.

“Nomoto, even when I try to make her drink water to vomit, she won’t drink. Please make her drink.”

Shozo held out the bowl in his hand to Nomoto.

“That may not be necessary, but if you permit me, I’ll make her drink,”

Nomoto took the bowl and crouched down.

“Mrs. Yamane—I don’t know what’s happened between you, but if Yamane has wronged you, I’ll admonish him myself. Please drink—it’s good to drink and vomit.”

The wife began to drink the water.
Shozo sat beside her with a pained expression as he watched.

The red-faced doctor came in carrying a medicine case.
The doctor went to the wife’s side and looked intently at the surroundings.

“She’s vomited, hasn’t she?”

“She’s vomiting. I thought it would be good to make her vomit more, so I’ve just had her drink a full bowl of water.”

Nomoto showed the doctor the bowl he had been holding.

“That’s very good,”

The doctor now turned toward the wife and said.

“Mrs. Yamane, you’ll be okay.”
“There’s no need to worry.”

The wife let out a cry and began to sob.
“Doctor, this is so shameful.”
Shozo finally stopped speaking and lowered his eyes.

“How long has it been?”

“When I noticed, I believe it had only been about twenty minutes or so,”

“I see.”

The doctor opened his medicine case, took out a small bottle, and poured its contents into a tiny measuring device.

“Shall I bring some water?”

Nomoto said.

“Let me see—a little, please.”

Nomoto took the bowl and headed toward the kitchen, then soon returned with water.

The doctor poured that water into the liquid measurer and brought it to the wife’s lips.
The wife drank it while sobbing convulsively.

“This should take care of it, so please stay calm.”

By the time the doctor looked up after saying this, Shozo was already gone.

Seven

Shozo was lost in thought on the second floor of an inn overlooking a river that had become a tributary of the Tone River on the evening of the following day.

“Mr. Sekine, your companion has arrived.”

Sekine Yuuichi was the pseudonym Shozo was using at this inn.
Shozo, finding this strange, looked in the direction from which the maid’s voice had come.
The woman who had parted ways with him yesterday morning in Choshi was standing beside the maid, laughing.
The woman was wearing flamboyant Akashi silk.

“You must be surprised. Somehow I had a feeling you would come here, so I took yesterday evening’s train back.”

The woman entered, laughing all the while.

Shozo and the woman were walking along the embankment facing downstream.
It was a clear, cloudless evening, and the voices of frogs could be heard clamoring loudly.

“The time has finally come for us to board the boat,”

The woman suddenly said such a thing.
Shozo didn't understand what she meant.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s time to board the boat.”

Shozo could not make sense of it no matter how hard he tried.

“When you say it’s time to board a boat—is there even one here we can just take? If we’re going to board one, shouldn’t you have told the inn to prepare it?”

“It’s all right. I’ve already summoned it.”

“Is that true?”

“It certainly is true. Let’s go down there.”

The tall grasses swaying in the river wind stretched endlessly before them, and nothing resembling a path could be seen in that area.

“Is it possible to go down here?”

“There’s a proper path here.”

Shozo found this strange, but since the woman insisted so definitively, he went to the edge of the embankment and peered over.
There was a path where a narrow strip of bare earth could be seen.

“So there really is one.”

“There certainly is.”

Shozo took the lead and went down that path.
A blue light like a firefly drifted past before his eyes.

“It’s a firefly.”
“What do you think?”

A boat that seemed crafted from yellowish glass, as if containing fire within, floated among the reeds.

"What an eerie boat. Is this even a boat?"

"Does it matter? It's the one that's been waiting for you."

Shozo had never heard such harsh words from her before.
He suspected she was scheming something.

"Get in now."

"Let's board."

As Shozo tried to pull the boat closer by examining where the rope was fastened, it drifted over on its own, making dry rustling sounds through the reed stalks.

“Get in now.”

“Is the rope secure?”

“Just get in now.”

Shozo, thinking that since the woman knew more about boats he should follow her instructions, boarded as told. As if footlights had been lit somewhere on the vessel, the space around their feet glowed yellowish and translucent.

“Since I’ve finally gotten you aboard, take us away now.”

While saying this, the woman then boarded, sat down in the middle of the hull, and faced Shozo.
The woman's body appeared bluish-yellow and translucent.

“What are all of you dawdling for? Hurry up and take us away.”

Shozo felt his body shudder.
Then, the boat began moving as if powered by an engine.

“What sort of boat is this?”
“Isn’t this strange?”

“It’s not strange.”

“But it’s moving without any engine or mechanism, isn’t it?”

“There’s no engine, but with so many hands at work, it moves.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll understand soon enough. Just keep still.”

“I see,” he said.

The woman burst into loud laughter.
Shozo fearfully turned his gaze to the woman’s face.
In a yellowish, fiery light, the woman’s face floated.

“Why are you so surprised?”

Her neck tilted to the left, and her abundant fine hair appeared heavy.
It was the face of the woman from Maebashi.

“Gah—”

Shozo let out a terrifying scream and threw his body from the boat in an attempt to flee.

About two days later, Yamane Shozo’s corpse—still locked in an embrace with a young woman’s body—washed ashore at the river’s mouth and was claimed by his wife. As the woman’s identity remained unknown, she was buried in the local communal cemetery, an event reported in several newspapers.