Pathway to Japanese Literature

Razor Sharpener: The 19th Day at Red Plum Mansion — Sakubei's Tale at Dusk Lighting Hour

Gate of Snow — Two Messengers’ Left Breast Pocket — Traces of Rouge

Razor Sharpener

I

“Damn, cold, so cold! This is ridiculous!”

The architecture with its neatly partitioned skylights framed the young folk of the area. Clad in twin-layered kimono beneath a whitish Tang-striped haori, Hakata obi, and black Hachijō apron, with a white satin kerchief of chrysanthemum arabesque brocade wrapped about his neck—his wind-chapped nose ruddy beneath the embankment's gusts—he trailed down the slope along Iron Paste Ditch toward Yagurachō's rear paddies. Indigo tabi socks and weather-worn geta, their heels worn thin: gear that might have flaunted grandeur had times been flush. But with the first and second months' hardships compounding winter's scarcity into enduring privation, his footsteps betrayed preoccupation nonetheless.

Passing through the cramped row of shops—Kintsuba-ya confectioners, Aramono-ya sundry dealers, Tobacco-ya smokers' wares, Sonryō-ya rental goods—resembling some rundown bazaar at the district’s edge, one would come upon a single-bay storefront bearing a signboard. Meticulously painted upon it were crossed scissors and razors, with "Gosuke" inscribed below: an illustration of the old master leaning over his grinding bucket, large magnifying glass in place, aligning a razor’s edge. The magnifier’s lens and bucket’s water gleamed cold blue-white; blades rendered in vivid indigo against washes of pale ink—a composition even Takao’s second- or third-generation trainees would recognize at first glance as Sharpener Gosuke’s domain.

Inside the threshold lay a roughly one-tsubo expanse of uneven packed-earth floor. In the shadow where the neighboring oden stall’s cart encroached by about a third from under the eaves into this shop’s frontage, he sat cross-legged in an old padded kimono, a patched knee cover pulled deep over his lap—his posture so immovable one might think even if Mount Tai were to crumble, not a hair on him would stir. Though the whetstone sat properly positioned before him, lazily puffing at his brass pipe clenched between resin-clogged teeth and gazing vacantly at the street—it was that young fellow Sutekichi who came stomping in through the threshold mere steps away.

With hands still tucked into his sleeves and chest thrust forward, striking a mie pose with both haori cuffs arranged in iriyamagata style— “Cold as hell, ain’t it?”

“Oh, bitter cold indeed.” “So you do feel that much at least,”

Gosuke opened his mouth wide, as if about to spit out the pipe he’d been clenching— “Ha ha ha ha ha,” “Your laid-back attitude’s a problem—put some damn effort in.” “Not a word to say, ha ha ha ha!” “See? That’s exactly why it’s a problem—ain’t it?” “Even if you stare blankly at the street, ain’t nobody gonna drop nothin’ for ya.” “And even if someone did drop somethin’ nowadays, what’s the point? It’s same as you pickin’ it up, taggin’ it, and hangin’ it under the eaves—the kite’ll swoop down in a flash, ain’t it?”

“Well, beggin’ your pardon, but we ain’t got a single item here with shady dates—nothin’ but goods of clear origin,” he said, flicking the chisel into the hibachi’s firebox.

Even this brass pipe would stand out garishly amidst the jumble—odds and ends galore: rooted trinkets, cord-fastened miscellany. Old kitchen knives, Jinkōki account books, and such intermingled; using a coal bin as a base, storm shutters laid sideways, spread with a red blanket and arrayed there. “Of course they are—all of clear origin. From Kawajiri Gonnokami, Mizonaka Chōzaemon, Sōtame Emonnosuke, and such—they deigned to send them down, I reckon.” “Fool, fool! Silence, Hira no Sutekichi! For you to come here now spouting such spite—’tis plain you’ve no right to ground beneath you!” With this decisive rebuttal, Gosuke gritted his teeth and clamped his pipe sideways again.

When Hira no Sutekichi heard this, his face took on the pallor of Dan-no-ura's downfall. "Hmm... Guess I've been too bloodthirsty. Time to clean up my act here," he said, turning his gaze toward the doorway. The narrow town echoed with the rattling clatter of the midday cart.

II

Then all comings and goings abruptly ceased, leaving the road desolate as if bracketing a malevolent spirit’s passage. The sun of Kisaragi’s 19th Day beat down unrelentingly; no footprints lingered in the churned mud underfoot. Yet the wind soughing coldly brushed against some distant height. “This ain’t no joke,” the young man said, straightening up, “I ain’t no dyer—won’t have you callin’ it ‘the day after tomorrow.’ “Three razors should’ve come from the courtesans at the brothel—they’d be done by now. It’s urgent.”

“Yes, yes.” “Now, now—the family trade is conducted with utmost sincerity, Mr. Sute.”

“Hmm,” “Done—done!” he declared, slipping out from under his knee cover and rising decisively while pushing aside the hibachi. The young man, as if suddenly remembering, drew deeply on the cigarette marked “Haato”. Gosuke turned his back toward the three-tiered shelf fastened to the wall, scanning from right to left three times through the roughly four to five hundred razors. Selecting two boxed blades and one wrapped in paper, he settled them in his palm as if weighing their heft before thrusting them toward Sutekichi.

“Here,” “Let me see,” When he pressed the box, it slid open smoothly; the polished blade emerged obediently. He glanced at the inscription on the back, “This’d be Miss Aoyagi’s, aye—Miss Umeka’s... and then, hm—this one’s got no name. Ain’t mixin’ ’em up, are ya?” “No problem,” “You sure?” “Even if it’s a jumble of a thousand razors, you can rest assured once I’ve received them. Just hand them over, Mr. Sute.”

“Nah, even if you messed up, it’s still just a razor.” “This ain’t no ordinary razor, you. Today’s the 19th Day, y’know.” “Yeah, no need to scare me—askin’ brothel courtesans the time or mentionin’ days past the 15th, both big taboos, ain’t they? Y’know.” “Even the chronicles record it as the height of boorishness.” “Moreover, this year’s got no leap month.” “No—whether there’s a leap month or not, today’s undeniably the 19th Day,” Gosuke said, peering intently over his spectacles, which made Sutekichi pull a strange face.

“What’re you gonna do?” “Yeah,” “Didn’t you take care of things at the brothel?” “What?” “The razors, you see.” Though he couldn’t fully grasp what was being said, because Gosuke had suddenly turned serious, he felt hesitant to ask,

“The razors?” “That’s odd.”

“There’s nothing strange about it. These days, any decent brothel ought to know better by now. Don’t ask me how they all synced up their timing, but havin’ all three sent over at once? That’s fishy. You’d best watch your step—this smells dangerous.”

With an increasingly puzzled look, “Ain’t nothin’ strange ’bout it—wasn’t like them courtesans planned this together or nothin’.” “But them comin’ for ya ain’t just three or four—if they could manage it, they’d take every last soul in that brothel.”

“Everyone, you say?” “Yeah,” “It’s getting worse.” “But you—if you think barbers just keep on workin’, there ain’t no mystery to it.”

Gosuke forced a bitter smile,

“This ain’t no joke, I tell you.”

“What? This ain’t no joke—it’s the honest truth,” insisted the young man with growing intensity as he settled himself before the workspace.

The 19th Day.

III “Last night after closing time, you barged in here with two others all fired up—craftsmen’s apprentices from around Hongo.” “Since they said this morning they’d fix it, I thought it strange the closure fell on the 17th—and sure enough, that’s exactly what happened, ain’t it?” They’d squabbled back and forth but settled on an excuse that suited them—twenty-one in total had stayed behind yesterday. With bamboo-wrapped field rations at their waists, they’d gone out to Sugamo’s Youikuin institution. Snip-snipping away at their tasks, the whole lot worked together until sunset to dispose of five hundred and sixty heads—a most peculiar tale.

Their ragtag group entered Toyokuni, and after the stage intersected in a grand circuit, they gathered in full force at Ueno’s viewpoint; then split into twos and threes to storm Daimon—and upon spotting helmeted heads at the lattice front, they announced their names.

Of course their true intentions were plain; since they never outright said they'd flee, he let them work to their fill. They grumbled endlessly while planting ambush squads here and there—what with those Korean-style landmines they'd rigged up—so that once the signal pipe got waved, boom! Yoshihara'd go sky-high! Their bold scheme got rated as the most thrilling even by the brothel's ledger-keepers. “Since they needed something sharp-edged quick, I reckoned that order I'd placed at your shop might just make it in time—so I came rushing over to fetch it. But tell me now—has something gone queer with the 19th Day?”

“Enough with the ‘this and that’—I’m dead serious here. What’s the point of bein’ in your prime if you’re just gonna obsess over every last trifle?” “So then,” “I thought you knew already—you really don’t get it?” “This here 19th Day—it’s cursed through and through.” “Not like them boatmen got some sacred rule ’gainst sailin’ on New Year’s Eve.” “Others in our line don’t got this trouble, but seein’ as mine’s the only workshop handlin’ all them brothel razors—ain’t that what makes it ill-omened?”

“Well… Hmm.”

“As you can see, I’ve stored them here—two or three hundred of them.” “Especially these here—each one’s been broken in with its own particular adjustments by the ladies, you see.” “Even if that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t handle them carelessly.” “Even so, no one had any reason to do anything with just one razor, but since there were so many, I made sure to check them thoroughly once a day.” “It’s unthinkable that they’d go missing—but listen here: today’s the 19th Day, and sure enough, they mysteriously disappear one by one.”

"What do you mean," Sutekichi muttered with a strange look, seeming to understand but not having fully grasped it. "What do you mean? It's among the ones I've got stored here."

“Oh,” “Here—look at this. Isn’t it strange? Somehow or other, everyone’s taken to favorin’ my work—insistin’ that if it ain’t Gosuke’s razors, they just won’t cut proper-like—so they keep bringin’ ’em in. That’s why I’ve been settled here so long, even saw my old woman off to her rest right in this very place.” “In the past, there’ve been times when they went missin’ now an’ then.” “But since I never noticed anythin’ amiss, each time I’d make my excuses an’ let the matter drop—though...”

“They’d say it’s just routine—but when I keep track each month, why, that’s odd, isn’t it? Then every night before bed, I’d go tap-tap here, tap-tap there—‘Where could it be?’—checking them proper-like.”

“They’d vanish without a trace—an outrageous business, I tell you—and the day I first truly pondered over it was four or five years back now, but that accursed 19th Day? I’ll never forget it.”

“Listen here.” “Then last month too—they’d brought one over just the day before yesterday, belonging to someone called Miyako from Higashiya—and then those new courtesans came to take it.” Gosuke turned toward the shelf behind him—there in the shadow of that workbench, cramped and sunless, cluttered with nothing but razors in gloomy disarray—and through the wire mesh, his face contorted in disgust.

IV

“And if you try to take it out from here—there’s none left, right? I searched and searched, but there’s no trace of it. Finally, after much back-and-forth, we caved in here, but the esteemed client got all huffy—and what’s more—wouldn’t you know it—they’d gone and checked the thing just the night before! The one brought on the 18th, picked up on the morning of the 20th, inspected the previous night—it must’ve vanished on the night of the 19th. Ain’t that something?”

“Hey,” said the young man, removing the rolled cigarette from his mouth.

Gosuke leaned forward, squinting through the wire mesh, "You see, the dates align perfectly." “Then when I checked—there was that time Ms. O-Kino from Edo-cho went home grumbling about another one of those disappearances too—and then the next evening, she specially came back,” (For some reason, there it was on the dressing table.) The razors left in my care that vanished when someone came to retrieve them—how could they be upon the dressing table?

The dressing table was one thing, but worse yet, there’d been times when they ended up perched on the shoji frame come the 19th Day. Ms. Ukifune had taken to the heated room and couldn’t rise from bed for seven days—it being summer, she’d been strictly forbidden from bathing—but claiming her foul sweats were unbearable, she’d secretly crawled out past midnight to the bathhouse entrance, where she slashed her knee wide open. And when she died right there, they say a razor had fallen at that very spot. This happened on the 19th Day—last August, you know?

On that day too, one went missing—but that wasn’t from Ms. Ukifune’s brothel; it was definitely Midori of Kirokawa’s. Where or how it got misplaced, I couldn’t say—but isn’t it dreadful? Terrifying. To put it all together—another razor disappears here, which means somewhere in the brothel district, one house must’ve gained an extra blade. Though I’ve no idea which honored customer required it, it appears someone took the very one I’d honed to perfection with such deliberate intent.

“If we let it slip, we’d rile up even the customers—so we keep it quiet—but you ought to know we don’t touch razors today. You think the brothel hasn’t caught on either?” “Huh?! You’re gettin’ cozy with me? Lately though… Wait—” His face muscles twitched, brows knitting and eyes flying wide as the sallow-skinned youth involuntarily thumped down the box he’d been holding.

“Ah—well—”

“Yes,” he directed his wire-meshed gaze toward him—and as Sutekichi, startled, turned in unison, a voice hoarse with age rasped out: “I beg your pardon.”

Sutekichi crouched at the threshold; before him stood an old man around sixty—gaunt, his eyes and nose protruding like knots on a withered tree—thoroughly chilled in appearance. The man wore faded blue-green work pants draped over his shoulders, a grime-stained short work coat, a frayed yard-long cloth sash, and a cap so worn it might be mistaken for an afterbirth, with a hand towel wrapped around his neck. Balanced on a shoulder pole were a rattling box with drawers and two stacked small basins—one shaped like a sea cucumber—carried in divided loads.

Sutekichi brushed past a sleeve; a chill wind cut through, carrying a brusque remark— "What—" "You must be feeling this cold."

“North wind’s to blame—ain’t none o’ my business.”

“Heh heh heh...” he let out a hollow laugh through his pointed nose, “Pardon me—regarding what you were just saying—you did mention a specific date, did you not?”

V Gosuke was gazing at the old man’s face through the wire mesh,

"Ah, Mr. Sakubei," he said, twisting the thick-framed facegear from his ears and setting it on his lap. Rubbing his mouth, he blinked,

“Well, isn’t this a rare sight,” he remarked with familiar ease. Sutekichi seemed ill at ease,

“Mr. Sakubei, huh?” he muttered under his breath. Just then, the clatter of wooden clogs echoed—then came to an abrupt halt at the back door.

“Oh, lying around again? You’re shameless,”

Whether the scolding voice belonged to a dog or thieving cat, someone flung open the kitchen door only to slam it shut with careless force—yet such Asama-worthy intensity meant the iron kettle already clinked sharply within moments, the shoji screens trembling with a woman’s formidable presence beyond.

“I’m here.” “Have you returned, then?”

“O-Katsu?” Sutekichi called out while rising from his crouch. “Is it already that time?” O-Sugi murmured.

“No, it’s nearly an hour later than usual,” At that moment, from the gap in the pull-handle of the double-layered shoji, two baleful eyes appeared, their cheek areas faintly visible—for she only rented half a room for daytime naps, this trainee courtesan ill-adapted to amorous dealings and lacking proper luggage, said to be returning now from Kyoto-cho through the back alleys.

“It was a bit hectic, you see.” “You’ve worked hard. Will you be wrapping up at a relaxed pace now?” “But there’s no helping it—with so few hands, we’ve ended up working two shifts.”

“Heading out?” said Gosuke. “Yes, it’s been so trying. Last night I didn’t sleep a wink—my whole body’s been shivering. It’s just so cold, don’t you think? Since Granny here can’t take it anymore, I thought I’d put on another layer underneath... Ohh, so cold.” She clattered the iron kettle again. Sakubei, already quivering despite himself, “What a bitter cold this is—I don’t recall ever experiencing such a thing.”

“Hah-choo, hoo,” Sutekichi exhaled, seeming unable to bear it any longer, and continued in rapid succession— “Hah-choo!” “Ah,” he said, frowning,

“Just rumors? Took a hellish effort—anyway, let me take three razors back.” “Eerie business indeed, but with Sutekichi here—living up to his ‘discard’ name—as messenger, what with him planted in that back room playing substitute all this while...” “Can’t have him returning empty-handed.” “Mr. Gosuke, I’ll take ’em regardless.” “If this lid pops off by itself mid-delivery and lops my hand clean—whoops, taboo talk!” Sutekichi barked at nothingness, his words slicing through paper screens to reach unseen ears.

Gosuke was diligent, but

“You’ve got some nerve saying that,” “The nineteenth, eh?” came a voice from within. “Yes—you’re aware,” said Gosuke as Sutekichi stretched his back and stood up briskly. “What a rarity.”

"Well, what could it be after all," said Sakubei, steeling himself to speak as he unloaded his cargo and propped the scales against the stall. Sutekichi was about to forcefully thrust three razors into his pocket but stopped and stared fixedly, "Oh! The 19th."

Just then, two handcarts piled high with yukata laundry passed by, three apprentices grimacing from the cold as they heavily dragged them through the sunny spot. At the corner of the alley across, in front of a small firewood shop, from behind drying coal briquettes, a childminder popped out and clattered away. Near Daionji Temple front, the festive drumming of a candy stall.

Red Plum Mansion

VI After the handcart and childminder had passed each other, Sutekichi darted out into the utterly empty crimson alley of Tamachi. Suddenly, a tinkling bell rang out, and right where it nearly brushed against his sleeve, a bicycle shot past in the blink of an eye,

“Danger!” came a shout as another bicycle whizzed by—he recoiled just in time, only for that shrill jingling to pierce his ears anew. They’d swept in from the embankment—three cycles perhaps, or three sparrows, three hares—indistinct shapes melting like ripples across water. Rooted to the spot, Sutekichi gaped after the vanishing forms, “The hell? Struttin’ round without a damn sen to your name.” “As if that’d ever be you.”

“Oh,”

“What’s the matter?” “Yeah,” “How’ve things been lately? Struck any luck? They say you’re quite taken with Kirishima’s O-Keshi.” “Nothin’ to it,” “There’s no need for reserve at all.” “No, it’s for the other party—not for you, sir.” “So that’s how it is. Pathetic spineless wretch,” he guffawed without reservation. Beneath a skylight that gleamed on his thinning crown emerged a man with a ruddy, well-complexioned face—aged about fifty-five or fifty-six—from the depths of the opposite alley. This figure addressed as “master” wore a Yuuki silk overrobe, an eight-tan length of flat-weave fabric, and a striped cotton-padded haori draped loosely over his shoulders, with a white crepe scarf at his neck. He was Fujisaburou of Niagamiya, proprietor of a brothel and a respected figure in the district who currently served as overseer of the courtesan registry.

The lodging of Niagamiya—newly constructed at the very end of that alley, called Red Plum Mansion by locals—stood where, beyond the row-house-lined street's residences, red glimmered faintly in the distance: plum blossoms already beginning to bloom from their buds.

Sutekichi bent at the waist once more, rubbing his hands together, “Off to join you, Master.” “Oh? From now on—” Just then arrived Jūsuke Uemon—his stiffly tailored workman’s jacket with pale green lining bore a navy signboard missing the “ni” character, this being his sole mark of vigor—though the man himself was pushing seventy, his head wrapped in a forehead band.

Now another woman approached the alley mouth from the direction of the dormitory—her Chinese crepe silk obi tied in a drum-shaped knot, her hair arranged in an elegant high Shimada chignon, a furoshiki-wrapped bundle tucked under her arm.

Sutekichi saw this, “Heya, old-timer! And this here’s the lady,” “Ah, today we’ve got a bit of private business with an actor client, see? I was plannin’ to have a drink over at the dormitory myself, but when I came down to get things ready—what a pain in the neck, eh?” “Right, right. Got it.” “O-Waka says she can’t stand that Yan-chan fellow’s racket on his first visit. ‘Just spend one night at the shop,’ I told her—but who’d agree to that? If she gets one of her dizzy spells or starts havin’ fits again, we’re done for. On top of that—you know how folks round here treat actors like vermin. So here’s what we’ll do: We’ll send the customers over to the east wing—get the old-timer and O-Tsuji to help with the rooms.”

“Right, right, right. Got it. Must’ve been tough for you folks.” “Hahahaha! That shut-in old codger at the villa—airing himself out like it’s Doyō season!” “Good day there,” O-Tsuji greeted warmly.

Fujisaburou was about to head toward the embankment when he abruptly peered into the sharpener’s shop, “You’re quite diligent.” “No,” O-Tsuji demurred—she and Sakubei had been watching the four figures—as the skylight rattled, “The fine weather is most welcome.”

“But it’s cold,” Fujisaburou remarked, hands tucked in his sleeves as he gazed up at the sky, then peered around in a sweeping arc. “I can see clouds over Tsukuba way.”

Seven

“Ain’t no lie.” And then Gosuke stroked his forehead again,

“On days when I’m told I mustn’t idle about—though I might have a small complaint there—when you go praising my diligence like this, I can only feel deeply humbled.”

Truly, I must admit I've grown idle myself. Back when the old woman was around, I still had some will to work, but now it's beyond me. "When a man loses his spark and his appetite, he can't work—and those who earn their keep through drink are few and far between, eh? O-Katsu?" He turned to call out, but... "You're heading out already? No—you've been making your rounds diligently enough." "Hahaha! Sakubei—go on and talk! There's nobody here. If you like, come up and warm yourself at the kotatsu. Just slide open that shoji—no need to stay sprawled out there resting."

“I can’t be lingering like this—just passing through as I am—but your words caught my ear. Though it seems I’m meddling in unclear matters… You did mention that the day the razors vanish is indeed the nineteenth?”

“Hmm, the nineteenth, the nineteenth,” Gosuke echoed with sudden interest, then abruptly seemed to recall something— “That’s right—wait a moment! Today’s the nineteenth—”

Gosuke twisted his body and, instinctively reaching backward, took down a thick bound order book from atop a small box on the shelf. On his lap, he snapped it open cleanly in two, scattering the edges as he flipped through the pages, ran his fingertip swiftly along them once, then peered through the pages with a ruler—

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, tilting his head back and tapping the ledger with his palm two or three times.

Sakubei peered through bleary eyes, “Work for today’s deadline?”

“It’s not that I’m in any particular hurry, but there’s one razor I mean to sharpen and present today—though I nearly forgot while caught up in our talk. Well…” “How rude of me to keep you.” “Nothin’ of the sort—I wasn’t lazing about.” “Truth is—didn’t you hear? It’s today.” “On the nineteenth day, I take a full day’s rest from work—but when I do, there’s this custom: changing out the water, scrubbing the whetstone clean, and giving one blade an extra thorough sharpening here.”

“A ritual you’ve taken a liking to, perhaps?”

“Hmm, someone just went over there—to that Nijo-ya dormitory,” Gosuke said, pointing at the alley across the way. “Ah, ah—that’s it! You can see the red plum over there, right? That’s where Miss O-Waka lives—she’s about to turn eighteen. Well, she’s the master’s prized girl. That’s a face worth flaunting—the dormitory’s newly built, but she was raised in the backrooms of a brothel all the same. They say blood tells, but Sakubei, that ain’t the whole story. There were plenty who had received charitable acts significant enough to save their lives.”

Fujisaburou’s father doted on her obsessively once again. “If he clung to the young lady’s sleeve,” Gosuke continued, “the contracts binding his courtesans might’ve gone up in smoke then and there—but that was just his convenient excuse. Though O-Katsu inside knew his tricks well enough… Courtesans—ah—ordinary folks could never fathom such women.” He tapped his whetstone for emphasis. “See, he finds it vexing to lower the skylight ’cause Miss O-Waka’s beauty’s so damn striking.” “I ain’t owed even a brass farthing,” Gosuke added with a raspy chuckle, “but between you ’n’ me—you’re her biggest patron through ’n’ through.”

“How ’bout that? Hear this an’ even you’d take a shine to ’er, wouldn’tcha? She’s the spittin’ image o’ dead Tanosuke, ain’t she.”

Eight “By the way, your order gets special treatment today. Won’t sharpen any other razors—see, when you call it work, what’s inside here’s all merchants’ tools anyway. Gotta do a full purification fire ritual for Miss O-Waka’s blade.” “Been careless, but one had come in—always like this.”

“The whole matter of the disappearances on the nineteenth—no mistake it’s tied to the Brothel District.” “Since it’s the courtesans doin’ the cursin’, see—Miss O-Waka ain’t no courtesan, an’ she ain’t even in the Brothel District, so I reckon there’s no call to fret over her.”

"Well, it's a strange affair all around. Just you wait—today too, somebody's sure to come and take it. No, Mr. Sakubei—they say a fox that lives a thousand years becomes a demon. My razor workshop's just an old relic that doesn't stand out amidst the business traffic here—and given this location, I reckon it's prone to demonic mischief."

“Come to think of it, Mr. Sakubei—your mirror polishing’s a relic of its time too. We’ve both been at this trade for ages. How about you? Everything in order?” “You haven’t gone and seen Shirai Gonpachi’s face peering from the second floor now, have you?”

The gaunt Sakubei, laden with that box and washbasin, was indeed an old man who made his living polishing mirrors—a lingering vestige of Edo’s transient world. He nodded desolately, “But if I may say so, it’s much the same for you.”

“The same as me?!” Gosuke glanced at the waning daylight, his mind now fixed on work—on honing the beauty’s razor from the dormitory. While rinsing the whetstone in the bucket, he snapped back hurriedly.

“I ain’t the same as you! You got somethin’ to say ’bout that?” “Do I have my reasons? Well, you...” “Though I shouldn’t speak ill,” he gave a dry chuckle, “Tamachi’s Razor Sharpener here—me turnin’ right past Kōtokuji Temple to Inari Town’s Mirror Polisher—we’re already like shape-shifters, heh heh heh.”

“Well now, never thought I’d hear you call yourself such a thing,” he said, firmly aligning the whetstone with meticulous care. “But you see, ever since the capital changed to Tokyo, we’ve become like memorial tablets of dead Edo. The Rao-ya lot managed to open up new paths, but we’re now one and the same with the tanuki of Tanuki-ana and the loaches of Umebori.” “Yet in craftsmen’s contest prints, we’d be depicted wearing ceremonial court caps and robes.” “All the more reason your sin weighs heavier.”

“It’s not entirely without connection to that curse, mind you—the nineteenth day business.” “Is this something about the razors vanishing?” “Just four or five days ago, Mr. District Manager crossed the Mizogawa Bridge and had [someone] show up at the dimly lit shopfront with its wooden shutters lowered.” “Well now, a rent collection notice.” “Even if one were to move to Mannencho’s crawlspace, they must first secure passage from the fierce dog.” “Given that such preparations cannot be swiftly made, it would seem an eviction brooks not a moment’s delay.” “If that’s how it must be, I shan’t speak of delay—should you demand we relocate to Kawanaka this very instant.”

“The manager forced a bitter smile. ‘You old tanuki—gorged yourself drunk on cheap sake and staggered home? What, you think he’d miss the pier boards?’ “‘Brothers with the venerable founder of Mizodana,’ am I—one who’s never waded into muddy roads since youth—yet you spout such carefree talk.’” “As you command.”

The extent to which they remained unresolved was beyond counting. “Ah well, Banta of Jishiri and myself—we’ve been nothin’ but nuisances stuck here since back when we were little shaven-headed brats,” he said. Even though there was no point, they shouldered their sharpening tools daily, wandered the Brothel District, then detoured to Minowa’s Jōkanji Temple on their return to pay respects at the unclaimed stupas of courtesans who’d once patronized them. “Such fellows gotta stay within the district management—otherwise, they can’t throw their weight around come festival time.” “My boy’s earnin’ good money, see—the Inari Town manager don’t even gotta come ’round for rent no more! Mmm,” Gosuke boasted triumphantly. At that moment, he pressed Miss O-Waka’s razor firmly against the whetstone, then burst into booming laughter—

“I like it, I like it! That’s my favourite patron Jinzaemon for ya!”

Sakubei’s Tale

Nine

"Now listen here," [he said], "the district manager tells me, 'Sakubei, handle this with utmost care and you'll profit well—a full generous payment,' then pulls from his bulging pocket this vermilion-tasseled brocade pouch, all grand-like." "Apparently it's a mirror from an esteemed household in Kōjimachi that the manager frequents." "Now here's the thing." "It's tied to the nineteenth day—" "'Out of discretion,' says the manager, 'I shan't mention names.'" "That esteemed household is now under a widow—or should one say 'the honorable dowager'?" "Now this master was a proper samurai—by then he'd already become a military man of Kinmōru."

“During the Satsuma Rebellion, he performed distinguished service,” they said, “rising to such lofty station that he rode about in a carriage.” “He was still young then.” No soul escapes this labyrinth of delusion. For he had formed profound ties with a flower patron—one who stayed through rainswept nights and snow-laden evenings alike. In the end came collapse upon bedding’s mound—no hope left but swift removal, such became his wretched state. This transpired at dawn after their vigil’s keeping—so the tale was told.

The courtesan, oblivious to her own thin garments and disheveled hair, gazed intently at her lover’s face. The more gaunt he grew, the more his countenance took on an air of strange contentment—though his beard had grown wild and unkempt. She made him sit before the mirror stand, wet her hands in the rinsing bowl and pressed them against his face like this while slipping behind him—as if guided by some phantom thought. Had some unspoken burden driven the courtesan’s actions? An eight-sun elongated mirror had been deliberately placed upon the stand, yet the man’s eyes remained fixed on his own reflection.

From behind, over her shoulder with their noble faces reflected together in one place, the courtesan resolved to die. When she peered into the mirror, saying, “You can see into my heart,” the man took that mirror, turned it downward, and pressed it tightly against his own chest. “Ah,” he murmured, “please forgive me.” “Don’t act like some stranger—” He flung off from behind the hand of the woman gripping his shoulder. “Nay... It may sound like whining, but I bear you a grudge.” Saying that seeing a face so resembling Mother’s here was inexcusable, he slumped forward and wept like a man.

When the courtesan heard this—who could fathom what thoughts arose—her gaunt fingers, scarcely able to grasp such an object, clenched the razor as her pallor changed. She quivered violently, then abruptly twisted her grip and, wordless from behind, plunged it into the man’s throat.

Gosuke pressed his finger against the flat of the razor and abruptly stopped his hand.

“Whoa—careful!” “Moreover, she wasn’t some delicate lady who’d fumble with a blade—why, she knew more about plunging needles into pincushions than that. As for me—I never did learn that courtesan’s name or the slope’s name, see. The manager claimed he’d forgotten ’em. That courtesan’s real name was O-Nui-san—they say she wasn’t of high birth, but she was indeed the daughter of a hatamoto samurai, her residence in the Bancho area. It was during the collapse of Lord Tokugawa’s reign that her father joined the forces at Ueno. ‘You,’ he said to his daughter, ‘poor thing’—there she sat spreading straw mats before their mansion, selling off heirlooms: lacquered tiered boxes, doll sets, brocade pictures. It was there that a passing man first laid eyes on her—a cursed bond forged between them. The man was a young samurai of the Chōshū Domain.”

Though it might sound like a storyteller’s trope—shifting constellations and transformed times—theirs was a bond forged through impermanence, a profound connection that converged in Yoshiwara. “The skilled young lady—who made one of her rough companions perform a somersault upon returning from delivering side work at Ushigome Mitsuke, and who once caused such an uproar in the brothel district that they had to clear the area—was the one who steeled herself and stabbed him with a razor.” “Right.”

Ten "The man was utterly off guard—not a chance in ten thousand he'd survive. What cruel fate." Whether from impatience or not, the courtesan missed her mark slightly—pressing against his chest, she bowed her head—and in the mirror, the razor's blade came to rest with a metallic clink. "I'll not say which was which." "I'm not one to side with courtesans, but if she'd resolved herself to such a degree, I wish she could've seen it through. For a woman of her understanding to botch it—well, what can you say?"

“In that case,”

“With that reversed hand—the courtesan’s figure as she severed his throat! Such magnificence!” How maddening! How maddening! To show this person’s lovely face to another woman—how utterly maddening! She remained thus, teeth sunk into her lip. When he truly gazed into that mirror and came to his senses with a start, they say his heart hardened with resolve—never again would he set foot in the pleasure quarters.

The courtesan who discerned his state possessed keen insight. The man—his clouds of earthly desires now scattered—gazed upon the moon of enlightenment for the first time. This mirror had been entrusted to him as both life’s progenitor and font of wisdom. Ah yes—that fully embroidered brocade pouch must be why they consider it a household treasure. "Finish it meticulously," [the Manager said]. "Her ladyship the dowager dotes on that nephew more than her own flesh and blood. He abstained from vulgar indulgences and graduated from an esteemed academy. For his celebration, she means to send this as both gift and admonition—so receiving it promptly might curb any careless tendencies toward womanizing or brothel visits."

"Sakubei, I leave this to you," said the Manager as he left the mirror behind. I humbly accepted and finished it yesterday. When I handed it to the Manager, he promptly took it to that mansion in Kōjimachi. He returned around dusk-lighting time and declared, "Saku, rejoice!" while pressing three hefty ryō coins into my palm. "Oh my—I refused most earnestly," I protested, but the client had been delighted. Truth be told, that mirror’s tale traces back to Year Eight of Meiji’s Restoration—the nineteenth day of Frost Month. "The month differs, but not the day—yesterday’s story retold today as they prepared to send it anew to that nephew," he explained. Though the polishing fee seemed excessive, he insisted: "Drink this away."

“I humbly accept, I humbly accept—if it’s for drinking money, I’d never refuse even a hundred ryō,” and so we drank and drank all through last night.

“Well now, Gosuke—come to think of it, it all makes sense. That landlord’s had a complete reformation—most commendable indeed.” The mirror—now treasured with utmost care by Her Ladyship O-Rengō, whose devotion shines most splendidly—rests again in its brocade bag as a storied heirloom. “This one’s splendid too, I say!” “The Manager who enlisted me for that polishing job was pleased as well—and Sakubei here did a fine job polishing it.” “The nephew who’s attained such an esteemed position is splendid too.” “Claiming it was for moral instruction, he accepted the scheme of presenting it as a gift.” “That excuse about ‘no trouble—just drink money’ was splendid enough—and the sake was good too, Gosuke.”

“That was the beginning—try putting yourself in that hatamoto daughter’s place, the courtesan who died by the razor. You’ll find no story more wretched than this.” “Delusion it was—delusion pure and simple—but to think she couldn’t bear other women seeing her beloved’s face! Resigned to impossibility, she resolved to kill him and die herself—what manner of heart is that?”

“Considering that, even alcohol wouldn’t go down my throat—but no, that’s not it. The spirits remain in this earth—their gratitude toward me who visits Jōkanji Temple; the representative of the unattached devotees sends the treasure from Kōjimachi to Inarichō, intending to treat me to a drink—ah, how presumptuous of me! Cobbling together excuses just to drink—urging and prodding—how about it, Mr. Gosuke?” “If you'll pardon my saying so, my pallor today isn't due to poverty. A hangover’s cheer—once every three years, I tell you! Hahaha,” he said, looking thoroughly pleased.

Evening sky.

Eleven

At that moment, Gosuke spread out a piece of scrap paper and wiped down the finely honed razor, then adjusted his grip to hold it in his palm.

As dusk darkened the sky, clouds from Tsukuba loomed like a great eagle’s beak over the rooftops, peering down upon Tamachi’s sky. The figures of passersby, hastened by the sudden intensifying storm, became naught but black shadows crossing and mingling in disarray. What stood out with particularly vivid intensity at this moment were the red plum blossoms visible beyond the rooftops in the distance—for in that fleeting interval through a break in the horizontal clouds, the setting sun cast its light onto the west-facing glass window of Nishigamiya’s dormitory, streaming down like liquid.

The razor’s blade glided through the dimness at his fingertips—three inches of cold steel hissing sharply enough to slice bone from flesh. "This’s why it ain’t no boast—mishandle this thing and you’ve got yourself a murder weapon." "Hmm," he muttered darkly, "so that cursed nineteenth day’s come round again." "Well now—been too long since I felt this chill in my bones and neglected these parts. Thought I’d take a stroll through the district for old times’ sake, then head out to Minowa. Figured her grave’s buried under moss by now, but meant to pay respects to the young lady’s tomb all the same—just wandering out careless-like when…"

“Strange how it turned out—coming to your shop as agreed.” “Even if I don’t grasp all the details, my ears pricked up at the mention of the nineteenth day.”

"I don't know what it is, but since the day matches, this means something." "Mr. Gosuke, if your shop has such dealings, I shan't call it ill—go ahead and chant the prayer." The conversation ran long. "Well then—today I'll just make my rounds to Minowa." With only those words, Sakubei began to rise.

As a handcart clattered over the corrugated iron and materialized before his eyes, dragging through the stream of people, the ground rumbled—and throughout the earthen-floored workshop, Gosuke’s entire body quaked violently. “Hmm,” he said, raising his blankly bowed face and removing his eyeglasses, “Mr. Sakubei, you’re the grudge here—and even without that, since this morning I’ve been feeling as solemn as if it were my father’s day of abstinence, hoping there’ll be no customers coming for their final orders today. Frankly, in my gut, it’s all prayer.”

“I heard you tell me to chant the prayer, but you’re skimping on the details—now that my place is mixed up in this, it’s a right heavy blow.” “No—not a shred o’ doubt, not a speck o’ mistake—that hatamoto’s daughter, how could she bear it?” “If it were just some tale, there’d be no grudge lingerin’—but this curse’ll haunt seven generations, mark me. Haunt indeed it will.” “Ain’t no jokin’ matter—I did think ’twas some courtesan’s ghost nursin’ a grudge, but not knowin’ which brothel or who’s haunted gives a scrap o’ comfort.” “When the day lines up and a razor’s about—once it strikes, there ain’t no escapin’.”

“And then you said she stabbed ’er throat, didn’t ya?” “From here—to here—” Sakubei exposed his grime-caked, wrinkled Adam’s apple and demonstrated the motion with a clenched fist. Gosuke gaped his mouth open without thinking—

“Ah, ah—there must’ve been so much blood… the blood…”

“Course there was—drip after drip,” he said, dragging a straight line down his chest.

“Ugh… and then bright red?” “A darkish color—like tuna guts—dripping down, dripping down.” “Stop it! What’s with you? Then gritting your teeth in frustration—” “It’s a vengeful death. “A courtesan so terrifyingly beautiful, holding her hair like this—so refined it’s frightening—and then she, you see, like this,” he said, twisting his mouth. “Ohh, ohh! It’s agony—grabbing at hands pale as whitefish, legs trembling violently.” Gosuke writhed as if experiencing it himself,

“And you—did you see the corpse?” “What’re you on about? I only heard the tale.” “Don’t even know the courtesan’s name.”

Gosuke opened his eyes wide and let out a relieved breath, "What’s all this about? Now, don’t go scaring me like that."

Twelve

Sakubei also gave a wry smile. “But it’s you who kept saying things like ‘the blood’s bright red’ and ‘fingers trembling’—there’s nothing funny about it.”

“It’s as if I can see it.” “I can see it too.”

“Can you see it, eh?”

“Not quite.” “There’s no reason to settle this as if ghosts have relatives! Even if this were the same one—some fragile courtesan driven to her death by an aunt’s snowbound torment or whatnot—I’m still a man! I wouldn’t be spooked by that much—but hearin’ it’s a hatamoto’s daughter, deft-handed enough to make a retainer do a somersault single-handedly, and I’m frozen stiff.”

“Mr. Sakubei—since it’s come to this, you’re my only match. I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

“I’ll buy a whole sho of sake—so I’m beggin’ you, stay tonight and keep me company by the kotatsu.” “If it were any other day, O-Katsu’d be takin’ her rest—but of course today she had to go out. Ain’t no easy thing to handle.”

"That said, I’m too old to go imposing at some inn—and charging into the brothel district’d be no different than lettin’ the enemy take me alive. Once night falls proper, stuck with just an oil lamp’s measly wick—unbearable, I tell ya. Terrifyin’. ‘Razors’ll come crashin’ down from that nameya room’s ceiling—life or death matter! Hey, the joint next door’s broth hits right—we’ll mooch us some hanpen stew, snag a fat slice o’ tuna too. Boatman! Horse handler! You ’n me’ll swap old yarns again—’ he rattled on through his spectacles, shoulders hunched without a shred of shame."

Sakubei’s joy was genuine—sniffing back a runny nose before even shedding tears of delight, “You’re quite the talker—though the mention o’ sake makes my knees weak. If I were to plant myself here like this, it wouldn’t sit right with our usual Flower Master.” “I told you not to mention that.” “Callin’ unmarked graves the Flower Master and consortin’ with demonic things—that’s your problem. So what now?” “Since it’s late, I’ll skip the brothel rounds and head straight to Minowa.”

“Hmm, that’s true too. “I’ve been devout in my faith, but you ain’t been properly bowin’ your head and askin’ pardon. “Not just the brothel district—you’d do well to dash over to Jōkanji Temple too. “Can’t handle this alone—I’ll make sure to mind the luggage.” “Reckon I’ll find some decent dried goods to fetch back. You wait right here now,” Sakubei said as he trudged off, “Ain’t there a crowd out tonight?”

“Well, round these parts, ain’t a single soul decent enough to help vengeful spirits move on.” “And each time it goes quiet again and again—that loneliness sticks like late autumn rain lingerin’ in the air.” Sakubei looked up at the sky, “Turned right gloomy and dark—but with this cold snap outta season—”

Gosuke hurried.

“Something white? Forbidden, forbidden!”

Dusk lighting hour.

Thirteen

“Yes, yes, yes—who’s there?” Gosuke, having lost sight of Sakubei’s shuffling retreating figure, found the path before his eyes dim; yet when he looked around, the surroundings remained unchanged—it was already dusk lighting hour. Though colors remained discernible, the gloom felt heavier than usual—Gosuke considered lighting the oil lamp earlier than normal—when from Daionji Temple’s direction came a clamor of rickshaws being pulled in: first five or six, then three more, then four, an unbroken procession. The clattering wheels and rumbling noise mingling with earth’s vibrations, though familiar, weighed on his gut as he watched wearily—until finally they ceased, leaving only commotion at the back entrance.

Gosuke deliberately raised his voice, “O-Katsu? ... No, just the neighbor,” he muttered dismissively, “Huh? Come right in then—no need to dawdle! Who goes there?” He strained his ears,

"Damn it! That mangy mutt startled me again with its tricks last time—and at midnight no less! Knock-knock-knock—I ask who's there and get silence. Pull the quilt over my head—knock-knock. 'Who's there?' Still quiet. Another knock—made me jump—then came a final knock!" Finally, it circled around from outside and caused trouble for the neighbors. How long had he hunched in cowardice, stewing in vile imaginings? Damned fool—thinking himself weak—he surged upright from his core, only for the knee cover's edge to snag his foot, sending him into a turtle-like scramble.

Stumbling as if stepping on slime, he kicked out, dropped to one knee and scrambled up, then slid open the shoji screen in question with a quiet whoosh—but the next room was already pitch-dark. Shifting his feet, he stepped out briskly yet avoided catching on the familiar torn tatami edges. The kitchen lay to the side—from before the long hibachi, his outstretched hand found the ladle directly. Filling it to the brim, he suddenly felt as if something poured down from the skylight. Though O-Katsu's trade might permit carelessness, her womanly diligence had tightly sealed the water inlet door—now he flung it open with a clatter,

“Damn it!” he spat, only to feel deflated—no dog or anything was there.

When he stuck his head out and peered around, the debris heap in the back alley showed no rustling movement—nor had anything burrowed into it to hide. In the distance, black plaster walls pressed densely—stretching far in a row, bending once before continuing in another row—three-story rooms upon rooms, their rooftops numerous yet nowhere were lights lit, and no shamisen notes pierced the forest-like stillness. Only far into the sky-piercing darkness—amidst the pitch-black clouds of that night—a dark green lamp emitted its sinister glow; atop the grand roof, something resembling a one-eyed, single-horned demon standing erect: this was Nijouya’s constant lamp.

Gosuke stood with half his body thrust out from the water inlet, but unable to bear the persistent sensation of being watched, he dropped the ladle with a clatter.

"Tch," he clicked his tongue and turned around. Peering through the gloom, passersby outside appeared segmented through the still-open shoji screen.

Eventually returning to his seat in the old workshop, he suddenly realized—he’d left it behind! “Huh... That’s strange.”

Gosuke raised one knee, half-crouched, crawled on all fours to fumble around, shook out the knee cover to check, and peered about restlessly,

"Hmm... Just now—because of that—I was holding it... Wait, Sakubei left... Hmm." On this very day, he had misplaced somewhere the razor he had just finished sharpening—the one belonging to Red Plum Mansion’s brothel ward O-Waka. "I didn’t put it in my pocket," he muttered while frantically thrusting his hand into his breast pocket—then froze with his hand pressed against his chest, face paling.

After a moment,

"Surely not the shelf—" Gosuke blurted out involuntarily. When he jerked his head up, there stood a figure at the threshold of the single opened shoji screen—her hem brushing the floor frame, grasping the hem of her sleeve near her sash. Her mouse-gray sleeping robe bore snow-scattered patterns. Every detail stood clear: vivid eyebrows above a straight nose bridge, pure white cheeks framed by disheveled sidelocks, a slender back supporting coiled hair that nearly grazed the lintel. She stared fixedly in his direction. Gosuke shrank inward and froze solid.

"Gosuke," came an indescribably deep voice. As her left hand opened her collar, the hand that had been clutching her hem trembled unsteadily into a sleeve opening. The skirt fluttered down, her spine seeming to lengthen several inches. From within her bosom—still bearing traces of fleshy warmth—a pale palm extended directly toward Gosuke, clutching between its fingers a razor that glittered like viper's scales.

“This must be it,” Gosuke’s ears roared violently; the voice reverberating in his head grew faint, as thin as a thread winding through mountains, rivers, and distant fields.

“A purification fire to ward off defilement, so they say… hohohohoho,” Her slightly parted lips glistened with black tooth dye—the apparition now loomed directly before him.

When Gosuke let out a "Gah—" and jerked his head down—had he come back to his senses?

“In every alleyway there’s a Shiba no Umi—look—you can see straight through the tenement houses to the brothel district.”

At this moment, the outdoors maintained a carefree air.

“Ah! It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” he shouted—but through the clamor came students, thoroughly soused, advancing across icy snow in military formation before surging past with a roar.

The Snow-Clad Gate

Fourteen

The snow that had fluttered down briefly in the evening rustled against fence joints, door edges, eaves, passersby’s cheeks, sidelocks, and hat brims—but soon fell silent, invisible yet persistent. Tree crowns, roof ridges, paving stones, and gutter planks all whitened imperceptibly at first. Around tobacco shop lamps, oden stall lanterns, rickshaw pullers’ lights—any source of illumination—clusters of cotton scraps swarmed in wave after wave, like pure white moths fluttering their wings against the glow.

By early nightfall, even the crisscrossed traces of wooden sandals and clogs—once tangled in all directions—gradually dwindled to two, then three, leaving mere indentations behind, while cart ruts stretched into a single distant line.

The voices calling out here and there had already faded; at the crossroads lingered a policeman half-covered in snow—each time he shook himself, the black folds of his coat reappeared—having retreated under an eave eight or nine ken ahead of the Razor Sharpener’s shop. From Mishima Shrine through Daionji-mae Avenue to Tamachi lay nothing but white.

The wind that now swept through first skimmed low across the ground, brushing the snow’s surface like a sieve to level it uniformly—erasing both footpaths and even the night’s hues. Yet in moments, it surged over fences, whipped eaves, grazed verandas, and rattled treetops before expanding into a pale void with a fierce roar. Thick snowflakes lured finer ones into their dance, swirling chaotically in all directions before settling silently downward.

Though at Red Plum's blooming season such snow would surely vanish with dawn's light—melting faster than frost—by the Hour of the Ox's peak, this relentless shroud over the capital felt inconceivable for Kisaragi's final days. What force was this assailing the metropolis, deploying its disorderly white battalions—a strategic blunder most dire? Thus where azure light streamed along Nijouya's rooftop like a dragon lantern laid bare—enveloping skies faintly mirrored by Yoshihara's electric lamps—the women's raucous laughter disintegrated toward Tamachi in time with shamisen notes slicing through fractured clarity. All seemed to harness this transformed earth's hue, as dreadful as whispers from maleficent specters coursing through the void.

Midnight had long passed—around one o'clock—when both snow and wind reached their fiercest intensity.

Beneath the blizzard, with a voice drowned beneath the storm's roar, someone softly knocked at the Red Plum gate leading to O-Waka's quarters.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

“Yes, I’ll open it now—right away—right away—” came the reply from within in a slightly flustered voice tinged with sleepiness—as if its speaker had been dozing—while a hand reaching down from the upper doorframe undid the latch with a decisive clatter. At that moment, whoever stood outside— “Wait—are you from this household?” she asked pointedly, though her manner showed no particular awareness. “Yes—ah—this is Sugi,” he responded in a tone that seemed to apologize for having been asleep.

In the meantime, she called out again, “Is it truly acceptable to open the gate? The night has grown late.” “H-hey…,” Seeming to notice his slightly odd manner of speaking for the first time, O-Sugi remained perfectly still, her hand pausing mid-action.

The unrelenting snow poured down indiscriminately, not sparing even the shelter of eaves, and with the man’s figure having vanished from sight, the wind only raged wilder.

Fifteen

“Sugi—is that you?” came a voice from deeper within—the wind raged outside as the snowy night sank heaven and earth into hushed profundity—while on the tatami rustled footsteps bearing seductive allure. Though she had drawn near, she spoke in a voice so faint and clear— “Has Tsuji come back?” “Ah—” hushed the middle-aged woman, casting a wary eye toward the gate.

“If you could please open up—he’s not an acquaintance from our side,”

“…………” “I asked at the house at the end of the alley—this is the place called Red Plum Mansion, isn’t it?” “Yes—and who might you be—” “No, I’m not someone you know, but I’ve been asked to come here on a small errand. It’s all right—I’ll say it right here, you see…”

“Open up.” “…………”

“This way.” “Very well,”

And so it was here that— "My, do come in now." With a clatter, she flung open the half-latched lattice door.

The light from the lamp placed on the doorframe faintly extended a single beam from the doorway into the snow. At the same moment, someone stepped back—their figure clad in a coat tilted askew—as the lamplight cast its glow. The remaining illumination whitened the latticed fence partitioning the front garden to the left, fell upon intertwined red plum branches, and lit the crimson buds nearby. However, what it illuminated most clearly and beautifully was neither the snow’s elegance, nor the flowers’ hues, nor even O-Sugi’s mottled silk comb. What the light revealed most vividly was neither snow nor blossoms—it was O-Waka of the residence in her ostentatious attire: a dark navy haori with willow lattice patterns over small-patterned crepe silk, layered atop an unseen undergarment and a striped crepe kimono adorned with black satin collars; her figure leaning against the shoji with one hand, the side-opening of her robe spilling an underrobe as she stood turned away, and the ring glittering on her finger.

The room maid O-Sugi lowered her head with the round chignon,

“Please, sir.” “Well then,” he pressed forward—perhaps unable to endure any longer—with the momentum of one leaping in. His bowler hat pulled low over his eyes, the black of his overcoat—worn over Western clothes—glimmered faintly against the storm; both the lime-plastered earthen floor and the polished shoe-removal stone lay blanketed entirely in swirling snow. “How dreadful this is,” O-Sugi inadvertently said in a tone of genuine concern—and upon hearing this, he caught his breath with a sharp intake, “Ah, how rough! “Excuse me.” He shivered, lightly tapped his boots twice, then removed his bowler hat and gently brushed back disheveled bangs clinging to his forehead. Wiping around his pale ears, he appeared a refined youth of twenty-three or twenty-four years with vivid eyebrows and dignified eyes. His speech—particularly clear and free of regional accent—distinctly revealed his refined character. When O-Sugi saw him at a glance, she immediately felt as if witnessing the venerated left attendant of Narita-sama—Kongara Dōji—appearing in a dream visitation,

She had been murmuring *My, oh my... How utterly...* in rapt admiration when suddenly snapping to awareness. Slipping into her garden clogs, she stepped behind the guest and swiftly latched the double-layered gate against the blizzard’s onslaught.

“You’ll be taking your leave shortly.”

“Even so, it’s blowing in awfully.”

Looking over, O-Waka stood motionless in a daze with her hand on the shoji screen, having remained there since earlier. “Miss O-Waka, do give your greetings now,” O-Waka smiled wordlessly, suddenly braced herself with her hands, and sat down as if collapsing into dejection—yet crimson bloomed swiftly across her pale ears. The base of her chignon swaying, she laughed with such artless innocence as she rubbed her sides—then abruptly stood and vanished in a clatter of footsteps. The guest was at a loss; O-Sugi too knew no way to handle it. Just as this impasse persisted, from beyond the sliding doors of the next room came a voice—clear and solemnly dignified.

“O-Sugi, is it improper to receive him by the long charcoal brazier?”

Sixteen “No, it’s rather rude of you to insist on formalities, sir. There’s no need for the parlor—it’s bitterly cold here.” “And please wear this haori—there’s nothing uncanny about it, freshly tailored just now,” she said of what might have been an inside-out or newly made garment—the basting threads still visible—a Yūki striped night robe. As it was draped over him, “What—this—” he reacted like one accosted by a cutpurse, shoulders twisting at the suspiciously smooth floral-patterned lining. Having shed his snow-caked overcoat—shivering and wretched—he now wore the wide-sleeved robe effortlessly slipped over his Western suit from behind, sitting cross-legged before the long charcoal brazier. His bearing resembled yet contradicted that of Daikokuya Souroku, exuding an air of “S. DAIKOKUYA.”

"Why on earth would they send a courtesan back on a night like this? It’s utterly heartless, don’t you think, Miss O-Waka?" "Oh my, that’s absolutely not—you mustn’t blow on the fire like that—absolutely not!" And what now—what in the world? The room maid’s shock was such that lips as soft as flower petals might instantly transform into a bird’s sharp beak. O-Waka furrowed her beautiful brows, composed herself, and pressed her snow-like cheek against the brazier’s edge while—

“Fetch some live charcoal.”

“At this very moment, we’re just—well, you must pardon us, sir. Since the master was away, we took the liberty of borrowing the kotatsu in Miss O-Waka’s room for a bit of comfort and were having you read a serialized novel when—”

“I simply grew drowsy, you see,” O-Waka said with a faint smile.

“Even so, on a night like this, such a wave of drowsiness sweeping over one is truly unbearable.” “This is simply beyond endurance!” “Poor dear—no, truly—it was indeed you who knocked upon our door.” “I was drifting into sleep—I can’t imagine how long you must have waited.” “Truly—you must never again visit establishments that would send you back on such nights.” “I don’t mind in the least—courtesans like that turn to frosted sugar within a single night,” she declared solemnly, as though sharing profound wisdom.

O-Waka must have concluded that this person was a guest from the main house of the brothel. "I didn’t go to such a place."

“The more you go to the trouble of hiding it, the graver your sin becomes,” “What on earth would I have to hide?” “But I’ve imposed a terrible nuisance—a complete stranger roused me at midnight, and I felt so guilty about intruding that I nearly turned back. Yet your kindness compelled me—confessing felt like a timely rescue from the storm. I was about to freeze to death out there.” As he spoke with the naive air of one unfamiliar with such encounters, O-Sugi—devout by nature even without this exchange—stared fixedly at the principal Buddha’s visage while,

“Now that you mention it, your complexion does look rather pale. Since we’ve just fetched some, shall I make a hot infusion?” “Would you care for some?” O-Waka inquired, glancing back at the maid—her tone suggesting she knew of the woman’s teetotalism. “Why does hearing ‘sake’ make you shudder? I mean...”

As he spoke these words, he raised his face—looking intently at O-Sugi beside him and the arresting figure of O-Waka in the distance—then gazed happily at the bright lamp and charcoal now emitting blue flames before letting out a soft sigh, “You must think I’m strange.”

Seventeen "I myself feel as though I'm dreaming. "No—it doesn't even require medicine. That's quite all right now. "So this is Futagamiya—a Yoshiwara brothel? You're the maid, ah—and the lady here is Miss O-Waka?"

“Yes, that is correct,” O-Waka smiled with elegant grace. “Well—if I leave here and go straight to the house at the end—then pass through and turn left—there’s a slope there? Then straight to the main gate? Yes—I see—Miss,” he said turning directly toward O-Waka. “I have something to deliver for Miss,” he said while turning toward O-Sugi,

“If I recall correctly, just before the embankment leading into the Brothel District—if you go from this way—there’s a single slope.” He kept nodding,

“I’ve got it now—that’s the spot. When I tried climbing that slope, I sank into the snow, and the rickshaw supporting me finally snapped me awake.”

On this day, there had been a farewell banquet for Wakiya Kinnosuke’s departure to Germany. “The truth is today I met with many friends at Iyo Mon—a gathering formed for my impending journey abroad. Being made the target of countless toasts from all quarters, I became terribly drunk.” “Had I been lying down asleep? Where did I even board that rickshaw on my way back? It’s all hazy.” “Though there was supposed to be a rickshaw waiting—but coming from Yotsuya toward Shitaya, on the way from Ochanomizu trying to turn toward Sotokanda—right where the clock tower stands at the corner—in our haste to cross the horse-tram tracks, we crashed into a cart, shattered one wheel, and were thrown clear.”

“Goodness, how perilous!” “Just a few scrapes—nothing serious, really.”

That being the case, it seemed he had hastily boarded a rickshaw and made his way here while drowsily dozing off during the journey. It was precisely the slope from his account—the one leading up to that embankment. Thanks to its firm support, he finally noticed—and upon looking properly, must have been startled indeed. Before he knew it, his surroundings had turned completely white, resembling an open field. In the sky to his right, an electric light cut through the snow-filled darkness like a crescent moon, making him wonder if he might be dreaming of that distant winter city he intended to visit next.

“So I myself was indeed riding a Japanese rickshaw—and that rickshaw puller you couldn’t help but laugh at was Japanese after all. I grabbed the snow-covered mudguard—‘Where is this? Hey, young man! Where are we? This place—’ When I asked, he just said, ‘Quit yer jokin’, mister.’”

“He says he’s gotta head back to Yotsuya—so when I got a bit flustered, ‘Well fine then!’ I told him, ‘Just listen!’” “Don’t mock me,” I pressed about why we’d gone astray—but there was no tale of any friend dragging him here. “When I boarded the rickshaw, I was alone—staggering through falling snow. When we reached just before Ito Matsuzakaya’s shop and the puller said, ‘Will sir board?’, I apparently answered ‘Yes, take me,’ and climbed in.” “Since I said ‘Take me,’ he saw nothing strange about bringing me to the brothel district—acted all nonchalant.” “Arguing won’t settle anything.” “It’s a blizzard—just drag me home! I’ll pay proper!” I pleaded desperately.

“I tried pleading my case, but just getting here left me drenched in sweat—there’s no way I could climb that slope all the way to Yotsuya in this snow.” “Crossing Hakone’s eight ri would be hard even on horseback,” he scoffed mockingly. “Besides, I’ve got plans to lodge ’round the riverbank tonight—do me the honor if you fancy,” he added with brazen insolence. Exasperated, I suddenly leapt down from the rickshaw in my boots.”

Two Messengers

Eighteen

Kinnosuke drained a bowl of tea as if it were sacred water,

“It’s rather embarrassing, but I don’t even know which direction leads toward Ueno.” “Yoshiwara was visible right there, yet not a single rickshaw passed by—not a soul walked through.” “No one to ask—trying to figure out what time it might be, I went to take out my pocket watch. Strange—had it been stolen? Dropped? The fob chain and all were gone.” Having lost all sense of time, he stood blankly at the foot of that slope for some time.

Utterly forlorn I was—what with this blizzard too blinding to face, my head still fogged from drink, the cold biting cold, and Yotsuya feeling a hundred ri away. Then somehow that dreamlike sensation came over me again. Since being born, this was the first time I'd become a lost child—maybe something's wrong with my body that brought me to this state—ridiculous as it sounds, I grew frightened.

If it were merely being mistaken for a rickshaw puller—even in snow, this being no season for unlined robes—there’d have been nothing strange about it at all. What troubled me was that during the day my rickshaw had broken down—then at Iyo Mon, once our seats were settled and two or three rounds of toasts exchanged—being a five-drink lightweight, I’d already grown unsteady on my feet when a maid whispered for me to come to the entrance: ‘There’s someone who absolutely insists on meeting you.’ In short, someone had summoned me.

At the time the lamps were lit, the entrance remained dim. Wondering if some business had arisen at home, I absentmindedly followed the maid—crossed the stepping stones in the central courtyard and stepped out to the entrance—where there stood a woman who had been under my aunt’s care and who taught my cousin her books. Earlier, the mistress—referring to my aunt. When she went to the Yotsuya residence, it seems my aunt had already departed. The promised item had been completed yesterday, so she had come to deliver it to you—but finding you absent, she simply took it back. Given your nature, I thought it would be fine, but perhaps not. If you’re keeping company with friends elsewhere, that’s one thing—but if you’ve gone to Yoshiwara, it’s dangerous. “Go wherever he has gone and deliver this,” my aunt had instructed; thus having been entrusted with it, she came by rickshaw in a great hurry.

“You see, she said it was polished by a master sharpener near Kōtokuji Temple—then pulled out this eight-inch mirror wrapped in purple silk from a brocade bag and tried to hand it over right at the restaurant’s entrance! Can you imagine?” The young man paused for breath. O-Waka and the maid hung on his every word, neither loosening their gaze nor their attention. “I know the mirror’s history—my aunt repeats it like a mantra. They say my uncle nearly lost his life carousing in this brothel district until her protection made him human again.”

“I don’t exactly think it’s a good place either, but I generally understand how things work here. Yet whenever I’m with my aunt, she becomes absolutely convinced that any young man who enters Yoshiwara will have his life extinguished there.” “Having been spoiled by her and raised like a cherished child—if you’ll pardon my bluntness—she persists in viewing the brothel district as nothing but terrifying despite knowing its ways. While I understand my aunt’s disposition… What madness possessed her to send that accursed mirror into a den where would-be drinkers mingle with unchaperoned young bravos, while painted women flutter about like moths?”

“On the day she came telling me to put it in my pocket and take it home, I felt crushed like a ghostly fireball had been pressed against me. And with that messenger being some schoolmarm—a hardcore Christian to boot—there was no saving that situation.”

With a sudden smile,

“I’m terribly sorry, but please deliver it to my residence,” I apologized humbly. The messenger woman replied, “My principles differ.” “Though I don’t believe in such things myself, the goodwill of those who cherish you from the heart must be honored.” “I too recognized your kindness and came gladly—this being the first such errand I’ve undertaken in my life,” she declared. “Why, anyone would say as much.”

Nineteen "But when the snow blocked my path beneath the embankment and I lost even my way back—ah, I thought—had I accepted and kept that mirror, perhaps none of this would have happened." "When I think about it, even for my aunt, going out of her way to send the mirror all the way to Iyo Mon couldn’t have been easy." That she had sent it over must have been some omen; my refusal to accept it and sending the female teacher back, the rickshaw breaking down, being mistaken for a puller—all these might have been signs that I was fated to come near Yoshiwara, though I shouldn’t have been here at all. A trivial thought, yet it sent a chill down my spine.

“Of course, it wasn’t that I refused outright when she criticized me through the skylight—had she just slipped it into my pocket, I’d have accepted it, but...” He peered at his chest area as if inspecting it. “You must’ve found this outfit quite troublesome.” “I asked her to tell my aunt I’d accepted it and secretly deliver it from you to Yotsuya instead—but that prim teacher with her little evening-updo seemed unconvinced. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’ll take it straight to your residence by rickshaw,’ and off she went.”

After that came heavy drinking. After all, I ended up waking up beneath the embankment.

“And then…”

Thinking that if I just retraced my steps back the way I’d come, I wouldn’t have to worry about entering Yoshiwara, I trudged along—only to be met by a headwind. To my right was a large ditch, small houses lined up under a blanket of snow, and what appeared to be the rear of a three-story building with a dim light glowing faintly. There were drawbridges—so many of them—resembling the checkered sleeves of samurai armor, like this—" [Someone] tugged at my borrowed haori’s sleeve. "It had been raised higher than the house roofs, as if flipped over, with the ditch before it."

Even so, driven by curiosity amidst his restless thoughts, he distractedly counted his steps—two, three, four, five paces for every one—as he trudged through snow deep enough to swallow his boots. Kinnosuke was making his way toward Tamachi when the iron-stained ditch curved sharply ahead, its flow interrupted where a single drawbridge—white as if slicing through the ditch’s hue—remained raised. “There was a woman standing alone there—and just as I thought to ask her for directions or call out,

As if startled by my approach like a white heron taking flight, she began walking briskly ahead. Feeling self-conscious, I stopped—her form disappeared into the violently falling snow, only to reappear moments later turning back toward the drawbridge’s edge before slipping away once more. When I resumed walking, she wheeled around and came straight toward me, forcing me to halt again—this dance repeated until our third encounter, when we finally passed each other at the drawbridge.

I walked past her as we crossed paths, then found myself turning around to look back. At this, the woman halted mid-step and looked down with such an air of being utterly lost—her dejection so pitiful that... I retraced a couple of steps. There must have been something she couldn’t handle alone; in such moments, one would surely want help from someone uninvolved. If she didn’t flee at the sight of me—whatever secrets she might harbor—I resolved to call out without meddling.

"Truth be told, even I needed someone on my side," he reflected. "And given how things stood, I supposed there might be no harm in discussing arrangements for the rickshaw." "What's come over you?" he called out.

“My, such kindness,” O-Waka murmured, the words slipping from her lips unbidden as she remained entranced by his tale. "When I approached for a closer look, she was indeed barefoot—her appearance thoroughly disheveled, wearing only an underrobe fastened with a sash and a mouse-gray coat thrown over it. The Hyogo-style topknot was clearly visible beneath its tousled state, as though she’d just risen from bed. Though I knew nothing of her circumstances, there could be no doubt—she was a courtesan."

“Tall she was—a courtesan of such terrifying refinement, I recall.”

Twenty “I was asked by that woman. ‘Older sister,’” he began—turning his beautiful face squarely toward her— O-Waka appeared cheerful yet turned slightly aside with measured breath before locking eyes with silent-listening O-Sugi.

“Who?” “Here,” he replied, staring fixedly. “The courtesan has an item she must deliver to you by tonight, Miss. Though Miss O-Waka at the dormitory shares the same patron, this mustn’t reach the master’s ears—nor must friends learn of it—and if senior courtesans noticed, it’d be disastrous. I tried slipping out since noon whenever chances arose, but there were always eyes about.” “Tonight of all nights—with a major guest visiting discreetly and snow falling—I waited until all rooms had fallen asleep before slipping out and making it this far. Yet even setting foot on solid ground felt perilous, my legs stiffening and trembling. Moreover, someone of my station shouldn’t be venturing to such places nowadays—who knows what misfortunes might befall me.”

The dormitory was already in sight. "The dormitory was just a short distance away—you'd know it immediately if I said 'Red Plum Mansion'—but with those dogs barking so fiercely, there was nothing to be done. Thinking to save her life, she begged me, 'Please deliver this,' pressing her hands together in supplication." "Indeed, now that I think about it, the dogs were barking so fiercely around here." "Well, for the one being asked, it was no trouble at all—but for her, entangled in some unknown circumstance within this unfamiliar brothel district, it seemed a matter of grave urgency. Hence she had entrusted me with delivering an item immediately."

"When I asked if simply handing it over would suffice, she said that even without mentioning names or anything else, 'the Miss at the dormitory would know well,' so I agreed." "When she asked about the dormitory, I told her it was just a short distance from here—down the left alley—and that it conveniently lay on my return route." "After parting ways like that and making my way back, I came to a row house with a visible light at the dead end of the alley I'd inquired about earlier. Arriving before the illuminated row house, I turned to look back—the woman still stood there, seeming to point toward me through the dimness—but with visibility so poor, I simply made straight for that guiding light."

“Enter the alley,” came a voice that seemed to belong to an old man—likely drunk—instructing me. “Well, there was no need to explain every detail,” I continued, “but when I entered here and first saw this bright light, the snow-covered path somehow seemed like a dream—so to steady my own nerves, and also because it would be strange to enter a place full of women late at night without stating my purpose, even if requested.” “That’s the situation. In any case, I’ll hand over the item I was asked to deliver,” I said, casually stretching out my arm and thrusting my hand into the high breast pocket on the left side of my chest.—

The two had been listening rigidly; now they stirred. O-Waka, while supporting her adorable cheek with a pale arm and gathering the sleeve cuff of her underrobe, tilted her head slightly upward and narrowed her silver-like eyes as if in thought,

"I wonder what it could be, Sugi." With nothing more than "Indeed it is," she had not the slightest inkling of the grave, life-risking promise to save her—yet showed no sign of daring to doubt the guest's words.

“Wait,” he said at that moment, searching through the right breast pocket and tilting his head slightly. “Ah! Then it must be in your overcoat,” she said, raising one knee. “Sugi,” “It’s me.” “It must be in the left breast pocket,”

As he leaned forward, someone—presumably this person—emerged from the entranceway, heedless of its sodden state as she carefully cradled the wet item and brought it over. He spread it diagonally across the threshold and reached into that breast pocket again—whether from the cold or some other cause, he shuddered.

Twenty-One

“It’s perfectly fine—even were you to drop it, you needn’t fret in the slightest.” Having searched in frustration, pushed aside his overcoat, and hurriedly removed his wide sleeves, he thrust his hand into his jacket’s breast pocket once more—his complexion paling as he stood frozen in contemplation—when O-Waka, in a tone both magnanimously detached yet suffused with compassion, spoke as though to console him instead.

O-Sugi, her mind elsewhere yet gaze fixed with visible worry on the boy's condition, found herself unable to interject at this critical moment.

He grew increasingly flustered, his bewilderment plain upon his face, "This won't do—no good, no good," he muttered as if berating himself, "There's no way I could've dropped it—it's impossible! The person who entrusted me—their very life depends on this," he rattled off in a rush, casting another furtive glance around. "What manner of item could it be?" O-Sugi drew closer to the boy and said protectively. "I didn't even inspect it properly—no, truth be told, I never even thought to look." "It was something long and narrow wrapped in paper—had a bit of weight when I received it, you see."

O-Waka gave a slight nod, “Sugi,”

“Yes,” “Segawa-san’s… you know, that thing,” she prompted. “Ah! Now I see—you must’ve lent it to Segawa-san, that courtesan under your patronage! The one who requested it—tall, refined, with that sorrowful complexion—ah, since she was so distressed, I was certain of it!” he declared with conviction. “Though I did say I’d return it by tonight, Miss O-Waka never intended to have you return it—and it’s only just now that I’ve managed to recall this much.”

“What do you mean?” he said, regaining some composure. From the tone of her words it seemed to be money—even now, thinking that must be it, what met his fingertips in this breast pocket was a small pouch that had slipped from his sleeve. Wakiya Kinnosuke, soon to depart for Germany for his studies through his aunt—now deceased—who had been the widow of Army Major General Matsushima Chikara, possessed funds here that he could part with without consequence. Thus with this, he had more than enough to atone for the sin of his futile empty energy before this beauty.

When questioned, O-Sugi took over, "It’s just a bit of money."

Kinnosuke, looking delighted,

“Then I’ll make compensation.” “No—please let it stay as is. If it’s something major, I’ll have you wait until I return home; if not, I’ve got something here that’ll do,” he insisted resolutely. “Out of the question, sir,” said Sugi.

O-Waka feigned ignorance with a faint smile. He pressed earnestly, "Please—this way is perfectly acceptable. Otherwise I'll be utterly disgraced." "Even sitting face-to-face like this—it's so mortifying I'm breaking into cold sweat. Some stranger barging in late at night—it's all too peculiar." "You needn't trouble yourself," she said while loosening the crimson-lined hem of her stiffly formal sitting posture, resting her alabaster arm on the brazier as though carelessly extending a knee, tilting her gaze toward Kinnosuke's face. "I've money enough—untouched pocket funds aplenty. Silver coins, sir, paper notes."

In all the world, there could be no words as beautiful and unburdened—words spoken with such unreserved openness by one who trusts utterly in another concealing nothing—matching so perfectly both in form and countenance.

Left breast pocket

Twenty-Two At the unexpected words, the boy stared with a look of bewilderment—his face now scrutinized—and in that moment, a beauty beyond words pierced his own heart. And in an unreserved tone, “I will make proper amends later—I shall return to express my gratitude anew—but for now, I must apologize for the trouble. Please arrange for a rickshaw at once.” “Since this is that sort of establishment, you must be acquainted with the accounts office. If it’s nearby, I’ll accompany you there myself.”

Sugi cast a brief glance toward the young woman, but— "What hour do you suppose it is?" "While we in this establishment pay no mind to such things, in the outside world it's past two in the morning." "As you can see, sir—the outside remains quite like that."

The boy, feeling the driving force of the falling snow upon his body, perhaps recalled something from his journey and shuddered once more. When the conversation in the room lapsed, across the vast, misty snowfield—as if calling from some village beyond, vividly imagined in his chest—the distant crow of a rooster could be heard.

“Miss O-Waka, let me have you stay. Rest your mind before departing.” Though it’s presumptuous for one of my station to say so, it seems you’re under an unlucky day. Your complexion still looks rather poor—your condition not quite steady—perhaps from being exposed to the snow. Somehow it’s as if you stand at illness’s threshold—there’s a lonesomeness about your bearing, and you seem so downcast.”

“You may carry yourself with composure, sir, but I perceive your mind isn’t quite steady.” “When I inquire after such matters, ill tidings abound—the rickshaw summoned from your residence likely broke down; the one from Matsuzakaya’s front was mistakenly taken to where it dashed off; your watch will vanish.” “There’s no need to trouble yourself over it, but the item you entrusted will disappear too.” “Twice now this has happened—twice over with these misfortunes. They say twice foretells thrice.” “From here to Yotsuya descent—though I could send two or even three reliable young men, ones as steadfast as if they’d served you ten years—if snow or rain brings hardship, everyone would share the inconvenience bit by bit to keep you unharmed. Yet your condition seems… altered.” “You mustn’t suffer any injuries.” “Even among our regular patrons—no matter how intimate with Miss O-Waka—none have ever deigned to enter these quarters. Yet here you are, arriving so late on such a night. This must be Lord Narita’s instruction for us to tend to you.”

“I mean you no ill, so do stay—there now, do stay.” “And Miss O-Waka—come now to the kotatsu—I’ll prepare something warm to mend your fortune—” “Well—setting all else aside—isn’t this snow something?”

“To tell the truth—I don’t know why—but every time a snowflake touches me tonight, it feels like being stung by some venomous insect.”

And so this fine young man—by what manner of misfortune?—entangled in eerie threads until he lost his inherent dignity, was weakened by such bitter cold. "So please do as I say—now, rest assured." "Miss O-Waka—are you quite alright?" "The master is over there resting from his duties until midnight. Once day breaks and the old man and O-Tsuji return, I will handle that, you see, Miss O-Waka." Contrary to what might be expected of a trembling consultation with Great Deity O-Sugi, O-Waka—like a wind blowing through empty sky—paid no heed, appearing dazedly sleepy.

No sooner had the thought struck her than O-Sugi—startled rigid—stood dumbfounded with unease writ across her face. O-Waka cast a fleeting glance at this discomposed visage, laughed faintly, then lowered her gaze,

“If you mean to leave the moment dawn breaks—I won’t have it!” “Then that settles it!” declared Sugi with sudden vigor, seizing the opening of his coat’s breast pocket in a firm grip, “Please stay like this, now.”

Twenty-Three

Likely having been changed into sleepwear, she emerged listlessly—pressing the bundle of her outer robe and short jacket against her slightly disheveled collar, clutching them to her chest, with deeply bowed head revealing an emaciated chin—as she slid open the six-mat fusuma door at the rear.

Within the fusuma panels lay the hem of a kotatsu and the edge of a byobu. Using one hand behind her back to quietly close the door, her figure vanished into a dim three-mat space, only to reappear soundlessly in a ten-mat expanse where double-layered fusuma panels—all left slightly ajar—stretched across two rooms. Near the entrance lay another six-mat area, where a large standing lamp clanged against a long brazier, its light sliding across blue tatami to illuminate O-Waka’s cold-seeming toes that flickered there like scattered snowflakes, her tabi socks removed.

By this light, O-Waka—half her form in shadow—peered through while slightly rising, revealing a brass medicine pot hung over the brazier with another small pan left sitting there. O-Sugi sat properly, her glossy round chignon displaying its mottled cloth comb head-on, motionless in a light doze. She peered in; withdrew smoothly and remained utterly still for a time—then abruptly dropped the bundle clutched to her chest onto the tatami, a muffled sob like thickening shadows escaping.

After a while, she quietly took up the garments again and hung each one on the clothes rack by the wall. O-Waka listlessly put on her Western-style trousers fastened her short jacket then draped her outer garment yet kept holding it without releasing her grip She stood motionless rose quietly on tiptoe once more and peered across the space as though examining an illustration from a storybook observing stripes visible through clothing upon peacefully sleeping figure Returning she rehung her outer-garment’s-breast-pocket onto-the-clothes-rack once again.

Moreover, tightly gripping its left side, O-Waka involuntarily—

“Ah,I just can’t bear this,” she murmured as if fading away. Ah—if only we could seal our pledge for eternity like this—Sugi had urged—like this! Seal our pledge for eternity! O-Waka,trembling while gripping tightly as though losing herself,caused a clink against corrugated iron.A chill pierced her toes before spreading through her body like needle pricks.When she looked,a single razor lay there. “Oh how terrifying!”

Moreover, what touched the edge of her sodden sleeve was the familiar scrap of paper—still wrapped as when prepared for Gosuke.

O-Waka shuddered violently, but as she took it in her left hand and stared, her complexion abruptly changed.

“Ah!” At this, Gosuke the razor sharpener shouted and jolted upright. On the other side of the kotatsu lay Sakubei the mirror polisher, sprawled out with a poor man’s sake bottle for a pillow; his frayed quilt had been flung aside, and in a sleep-slurred voice,

“What’s all this racket?”

Gosuke—clothes half-off with limbs still splayed in a spread-eagled posture, crouched toad-like at the waist, face thrust forward and eyes wide open—gazed through the shoji toward Red Plum Mansion while trembling uncontrollably, “It’s terrible, Mr. Sakubei! Terrible! M-m-murder!”

“Is this a sign the god of poverty’s escaping? You’re trembling something awful—pull yourself together now, pull yourself together!” exclaimed Sakubei—unable to ignore Gosuke’s alarmingly frantic demeanor—as he too rose. At the bedside lay a large plate of sashimi garnishes, sake cups and chopsticks scattered haphazardly. “No—you’ve got to pull yourself together! It’s terrible—this is a dreadful curse! Such relentless malice!”

Remnants of Makeup

Twenty-Four “Finally—just like that hatamoto courtesan lured in a descendant of the man she loved—by the same logic, O-Waka will use that r-razor taken earlier—since their status difference makes their feelings impossible—she’s going to kill him! She’s in the bathhouse right now—” “What drivel! Hahaha! You’ll catch cold. No—it’s a dream, I say—just a dream.” “Hmm… But was it a dream?” he muttered vacantly, crossing his arms.

“Wait—if that’s how it stands, hasn’t someone come by here earlier asking about Nijouya’s quarters?”

“Oh!”

Sakubei slapped his knee. “Now that you mention it, there was. You were dead drunk snoring away while I lay there staring at nothing, couldn’t sleep a wink. Must’ve been around half past one—heard it clear as day through that howling wind. A young man’s voice for sure.” “That’s it! That’s exactly it! Hell’s bells—this is bad! Listen—she must’ve gotten hold of some courtesan’s razor! Once O-Waka finishes killing him, she’ll want to clean up proper—take a bath in the bathhouse, right? Dump that scalding water from the brass kettle into a bucket, strip down without a second thought—and I swear she had that blade clenched in her teeth! I was watching through the glass door when I looked up sudden-like—the moment I did, she went clawing at her Shimada bun where it’d come undone. Her face—spitting image of that ghost we saw earlier! Wouldn’t you let out a scream? That’s why I’m saying—we need to stop her now!”

“And you’re saying she meant to kill the man?” “No—my dream’s your dream, see? All knotted up.” “This is all because you told them about Red Plum Mansion.” “Am I still half-asleep even now? They took Miss O-Waka’s razor—the one I honed just this evening—and it’s been eating at me, eating at me till I can’t bear it!” “Then when night deepens and someone goes searching—how queer! If this wretch harms my Tanosuke—my favorite—I meant to follow straightaway. But being the coward I’ve always been, couldn’t manage it alone. So I dragged your good-for-nothing self out—damned if we’re not paired up even in dreams.”

“Well, well—what a grand ordeal you’ve put yourself through.” "Then when we stepped outside, the snow had already stopped; arriving in front of the dormitory, it stood deathly quiet. "I thought no one was making a fuss, but we apologetically called out and knocked on the door—no response." I thought things were truly amiss, so I shouted at the top of my lungs and pounded on the door—but of course, this was all a dream after all? When I knocked, there was no sound; my voice wouldn’t come out as I intended. Even to myself, it felt like I was hailing a ferry at the opposite bank; I tried to force it open regardless, but the latch was firmly secured.

As I circled round and round the dormitory searching for any possible opening, a light began to shine through the bathhouse window. How strange, I thought—at this hour? When I peered in there, Miss O-Waka emerged carrying a brass kettle in disheveled nightclothes. At first I felt relieved, but when I saw that terrifyingly beautiful face—her eyes were swollen from crying, you see. While I wondered what was happening, she flung off her crepe silk haori—its fawn-spot pattern familiar—behind her back; gathered the hem of her undergarment; stepped to the washing area; poured the brass kettle’s water—and with a hiss, a thick mist-like steam billowed up. Then she took soap from the small shelf, stuffed it into the hand towel, and bent forward to wash her face. From that moment, hadn’t the base of her Shimada hairstyle been coming undone unsteadily?

Then she wiped her face clean—letting me feel momentary relief—when what do you know, she then took off both layers of her full underrobe! That alone was chilling enough, but when I thought about it, there was something odd—right at her chest was a razor, you see— "(Gosuke, this must be it,)" she had said—exactly like the scene the evening courtesan had enacted. With a start—like the clang of sheet metal—he turned his back and lay supine. Yes—there it was—the full-length mirror hung near the upper entrance. “Then her hair came crumbling coarsely loose—and the face reflected in the mirror, damn it all, was that courtesan’s very own! I let out an ‘Agh!’ I tell you.”

Twenty-Five

Thus, what Gosuke saw in his dream was not the detailed sequence of how Kinnosuke—through some strange fate—came to lodge at Red Plum Mansion's dormitory with O-Waka on that snowy night, nor even the courtesan's spirit shouting about making the Nijouya woman kill a descendant of her abandoned lover. These were but fragments of imagination—a sudden flash upon waking—yet they proved, most tragically, to be fact. Though Sakubei had dismissed it as merely remnants of the evening's disturbance and never imagined matters would escalate so gravely, he had indeed given directions to the soft-voiced man about the path to the dormitory. Unable to abandon the situation entirely, he rushed out in haste—the comical sight of the coward clutching a stick under his arm as he hurried off.

When they stepped outside, what had been faintly obscured and vividly revealed amidst the passing clouds beneath the falling snow was now fully transformed into a moonlit night. The night watchman’s final iron staff clanged in the distance—spring’s moonlit dawn over the brothel district.

Because someone passed them at the crossroads, they suddenly thrust out their stick—but no, it was nothing suspicious. "Mornin' to you," he said clearly before heading toward the embankment. Even the ends of stacked firewood looked snow-dusted as they entered the charcoal shop's alley at the corner. Faint footprints—or what might have been—lay only slightly sunken here and there. Exchanging glances, they advanced to the entrance where silence reigned within. Though it all felt dreamlike, their hearts pounding, they tried knocking—a sound that around Kozukahara might have been mistaken for a fox's cry—clanging under the waning moon of Kisaragi-month snow, yet no reply came.

Without delay, they passed the garden's sleeve fence on their left, rounded the kitchen entrance, and wound their way through the shrubbery. As they did, ahead glittered the bathhouse window like flowing mercury amidst the snow. Then, in what seemed to be a ditch before them, thin steam sporadically billowed up to roughly the height of a person. Startled by this, Gosuke and Sakubei rushed to the bathhouse—but by the time they arrived, they were already panting. As Gosuke hesitated, Sakubei intervened abruptly—finding the door unlatched (whether by someone’s forgetfulness), they opened the glass window and clambered inside. Under the snow-brightened moonlight streaming through, there lay clearly visible—the large brass kettle. Separated from its lid and overturned face-down, with a soaked hand towel in the bucket—the hot water seemed not to have been plentiful—dried-up rivulets resembling frost patterns lay thoroughly soaked in a net-like formation.

Leaping in from the upper entrance—their footprints pressing into the wet floorboards as they rushed toward the light with their blood running cold—the oil lamp had been dimmed slightly, yet O-Sugi sat perfectly still: her hairstyle, her comb, her entire form, as if frozen in place with a small pot still hanging. Before anyone noticed, someone had draped the Yuuki half-coat—which Kinnosuke had left discarded when he went to bed earlier—over her. And O-Sugi, having said this, still wept quietly.

Gosuke and Sakubei approached from either side and frantically struck her back two or three times. With an “Ah!”, Sugi regained consciousness—

“The oiran… the courtesan…” she said plaintively. The short coat—O-Waka, in her kindness, must have struggled to drape over him even in her final moments.

Later, while fully conscious, O-Sugi had known that O-Waka had come before her to fetch hot water—had even seen her roll up her sleeves and carry the heavy kettle toward the bathhouse. But before this, a dazed courtesan unfamiliar to her—tall, refined, draped in snow-flecked nightclothes—had paced back and forth around O-Waka countless times within the dormitory. Whenever O-Sugi tried to rise, this woman would fix her with a piercing glare, rendering her utterly immobile.

There was no time to voice such thoughts—as O-Sugi regained her senses, she too became deeply concerned for O-Waka’s safety—and so the three of them burst into the inner room like startled birds. Alas—

It was already too late—the snow’s purity, the red plum blossoms, all lay in violent disarray, splashed crimson. When O-Sugi lifted her up with maddened frenzy, O-Waka was still breathing but clutched the blood-dripping razor, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” she uttered twice—though the wound had merely grazed her skin—she did not live to see dawn. The man had a deep wound but was conscious; when he saw those who had just rushed in, “You there, save me! This body must be preserved.” At these words, Gosuke and Sakubei collapsed, their legs giving out.

This fact was well concealed when early the following morning a carriage came from Kanasugi around to the back entrance of the dormitory and retrieved the corpses laid side by side. However those who had boarded the carriage were a female teacher named Tachibana—who the previous night had been on an errand for the wife of a major general from the Iyo-mon family—and a medical doctor.

When it had been determined through that medical examination that they could not be saved, there existed a suicide note from O-Waka—presented by Nijouya Fujisaburou, that is to say her foster father—who had been waiting in the adjoining room. After taking and unfolding it, Tachibana approached the bedside and read it aloud clearly, her voice clouded with emotion.

The meaning here was exactly as one would imagine. Muttering under his breath, *“What a pity it must end now,”* the boy kept repeating this, occasionally gritting his teeth. He strained his ears until the sound faded completely, then lingered in a daze—his pallid face, already bearing death’s hue, softening—as he gestured three times over. When the medical doctor nodded, Tachibana presented the brush. He slightly raised his pillow and, on a half-sheet of crimson paper with heaven and earth margins—where traces of pale ink in pitiful brushstrokes smudged at the edge of the writing, above where "Waka" (with a cursive "humbly") was written—inscribed slightly larger in a fine hand "Wakiya Kinnosuke, spouse," then peacefully closed his eyes.

A solemn hush fell over the gathering.

Sakubei wept quietly, “How blessed…”

Gosuke placed his clenched fist on his knee, “O-Waka, there’s no joy in this.” Meiji 34 (1901), January