Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Izumi Kyōka

Razor Sharpening Snow Gate Razor Sharpening

I “Damn cold, freezing cold! This is downright outrageous!”

A style with a part as straight as a skylight - that young man from the area. Clad in layered kimono beneath a whitish Chinese-twill workman's coat, Hakata sash, black Hachijō apron, and a neck-wrapped kerchief of white twill with chrysanthemum-vine brocade - the area under his nose slightly reddened by the wind as he ambled down the embankment slope along Ohaguro Ditch toward Ura-Tamachi behind Yagurachō. Dark tabi socks met weather-worn clogs with eroded heels - attire that might have spurred ambition in better times, but with the tenth and twenty-eighth days of February squeezing purses tight after winter's privations, his footsteps betrayed nagging unease.

Passing through this clutter of narrow shops crammed together like a rundown bazaar arcade—kintsuba shops, housewares stores, tobacco shops, pawnshops—one reached a single-bay frontage bearing a signboard. Meticulously painted on it were crossed scissors and razors, below which read "Gosuke." The illustration showed the old man Gosuke with his large magnifying glasses, leaning over his grinding bucket as he aligned a razor's edge—the lenses and water bucket rendered in cobalt blue, the blades painted stark white against pale ink-wash shadows. Even kamuro trainees from Takao's second and third generations would recognize at a glance: this was Gosuke the sharpener.

Inside the threshold lay an uneven packed-earth floor spanning roughly three square meters. In the shadow where the neighboring oden stall’s cart had encroached about a third of his shop front from under the eaves, there he sat cross-legged on an old cloth rag, a patched knee cover pulled up high—a posture so immovable it seemed not even the collapse of Mount Tai could stir a single hair. Though he sat properly before his whetstone, idleness permeated his posture as he clamped the brass pipe between oil-stained lips, coolly surveying the street—when through the threshold, mere steps away, stomped in briskly that very young man: Sutekichi.

With hands still tucked inside his coat and chest thrust forward, he struck a pose with both sleeves of his workman’s coat arranged in inverted mountain peaks, “It’s freezing, ain’t it?” “Oh, bitter cold.” “So you do feel that much after all, huh?”

The old man opened his mouth wide, as if about to spit out the pipe clenched between his teeth, “Hahahaha,” “Your carefree attitude’s a problem here. You ain’t putting in any effort.”

“Not a word to say, hahahaha.” “Look here, ain’t that exactly why we’re in trouble? Even if you keep staring blankly at the street, ain’t nobody gonna drop anything here. Moreover, even if someone did drop something around this time—what’re you gonna do? It’d be just like if you picked it up, lined it in your shop with a price tag, and hung it under the eaves—those crows’d come squawking in no time.” “Now, not to be rude, but I ain’t got a single item here with shady dates—everything’s got proper origins,” he said, flicking the chisel into the foot warmer’s firebox. Even this brass pipe would stand out conspicuously if placed among the jumble—heaps of junk, roots, cord fasteners and such. Old kitchen knives intermingled with copies of *Jinkōki* arithmetic manuals, arranged atop a coal box with storm shutters laid sideways and a red blanket spread beneath.

“Well naturally! Every piece here’s got clean provenance.” “Bestowed upon us by the gracious likes of Kawajiri Gonnokami, Mizonaka Chōzaemon, and Hakidashiemon no Suké himself, I suppose!” “Enough of your nonsense! Hold your tongue, Hei no Sutekichi! Coming here at this hour spouting such venom—shows plain you’ve no ground to stand on!” With this admonishment, Gosuke clamped his pipe sideways once more. At these words, Hei no Sutekichi’s face turned the ashen hue of Dan-no-ura’s vanquished.

“Hmm… Guess I went too far with the cruelty. I’d better mend my ways here,” he said, averting his gaze outside. The narrow town brimmed with midday returnees clattering past.

II

After that, the thoroughfare abruptly emptied, leaving a desolate path fit for demons to traverse in its stillness.

The sun of Kisaragi's nineteenth day shone directly, yet no footprints remained in the mud-trodden earth; still, a piercing wind swept coldly across distant heights.

“This ain’t some joke,” the young man said, straightening up. “I ain’t no dyer, so I won’t have you saying ‘the day after tomorrow’. There should be about three razors from the courtesan house. They should’ve been ready ages ago. Hurry it up already.”

“Right, right.” “No—but my trade here’s honest work... Mr. Sute.” “Hmm,”

“They’re done as done can be,” he said, slipping out from under his lap blanket and thrusting the foot warmer aside as he stood up briskly. The young man seemed to notice something and pursed his lips around one marked “Haato”. Gosuke turned his back, pivoted to face the three-tiered shelf, and scanned from right to left three times. From the roughly four to five hundred razors, he selected two boxed ones and one paper-wrapped blade, settling them in his palm as if weighing their heft before presenting them to Sutekichi,

“Here.” “Let’s see,” When he pushed the box, it opened smoothly, and the honed blade slid out obediently; he gave a brief glance at the inscription on the back, “This here’s Aoyagi-san’s—good—Umeka-san’s... Wait, this one’s unnamed. No mistake here?” “It’s fine—” “You sure?” “Even if a thousand blades got jumbled up, you can rest easy once I’ve taken ’em in hand. Just bring ’em here—so then, Sutekichi.” “Nah, even if there’s a mistake, it’s just a razor.” “This here ain’t no ordinary razor, you. “Today’s the Nineteenth Day.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t go startling folks—asking brothel courtesans the time and mentioning days past the fifteenth are both major taboos.” “Even the chronicles record it as the height of boorishness.” “Moreover, this year’s got no leap month.” “No—leap month or not—today’s plain the nineteenth day,” Gosuke declared through his eyeglasses, making Sutekichi grimace. “What’re you on?” “Yeah—” “Weren’t you rattled at the house?”

“What’re you—” “The razor—I’m telling you.”

Though he couldn't fully grasp what was being said, since Gosuke had abruptly become serious and earnest, he felt hesitant to inquire further,

“The razor?” “That’s weird.” “Ain’t nothin’ strange ’bout it,” “Nowadays any brothel worth its salt knows better—don’t ask me how they all synced up sendin’ three blades at once—but that there’s queer enough you best watch your step ’fore trouble finds ya.”

As his expression grew increasingly perplexed, “There ain’t nothin’ strange about it. It’s not like the courtesans all got together and planned this or anythin’.” “But those who’d come ain’t just three or four—if they could manage it, they’d have every last one from the brothel come.” “Everyone, you say?” “Ah,” “It’s getting worse now.” “But you—if you think a barber’s kept on staying here, there ain’t nothin’ strange about it.”

Gosuke gave a wry smile,

“This ain’t no joke, I tell ya.” “What’re you on about? This ain’t no joke—it’s the honest truth,” the young man insisted earnestly, planting himself firmly before the workbench.

Nineteenth Day

III

“Last night after closing time, you had three folks come barging in—some craftsmen’s crew from the Hongo area. When they said this mornin’ they’d get things fixed up, I thought it odd their shop closure was on the seventeenth—turns out I was right on the mark, eh?” After much back-and-forth squabbling—though they seemed taken with their own rationale—the twenty-one left from yesterday went out to Sugamo’s Youikuin institution with bamboo-sheath-wrapped rations, did their charity snip-snipping business, and through combined effort had five hundred sixty heads dealt with by sunset—a right peculiar tale that was.

The formation entered Toyokuni, and as their grand procession intersected with the stage route, they gathered at Ueno’s vantage point. Then, splitting into groups of two or three, they stormed Daimon Gate—and upon spotting helmeted heads beyond the lattices, raised their voices to declare their names. Of course their true intentions were known, but since they didn’t voice any intent to flee, they were allowed to work as much as possible. When they spouted their blustering nonsense about deploying ambush forces here and there—since they’d laid Korean landmines inherited from Chosŏn—declaring that Yoshiwara would go flying into the sky the moment they flicked the signal pipe, with such spirited banter did the front desk buy into it as the most lively tale.

“So since they needed one with a keen edge, they reckoned the one they’d ordered from your place would be ready in time and came rushin’ to fetch it—but what’s all this about the Nineteenth Day?” “Quit with the ‘this and that’—I’m being serious here.” “At your age, there’s no sense obsessin’ over every last blade.” “So I’m tellin’ ya,” “Figured you’d know by now—don’t you get it?” “This Nineteenth Day’s a cursed day.” “Ain’t like there’s some law forbiddin’ boatmen from sailin’ on New Year’s Eve.” “Other shops in our trade don’t deal with this nonsense—but since it’s only my place handlin’ the quarter’s [razors] like this, ain’t that plain cursed?”

“Hmm… Hm.” “As you can see here, we keep two-three hundred stored away like this.” “Specially these ones—each’s got its own wear from their owners’ hands.” “Even without that, we don’t treat ’em rough.” “And though nobody’d have call to take even a single blade—what with the numbers—we check ’em thorough once daily, mind.” “No way they should go missing—but mark me, today’s when it happens: come Nineteenth Day, they vanish one by one, strange as ghosts.”

“What,” he said with a strange look—seeming to grasp yet not fully comprehending. “I tell ya—it’s among th’ones we’re keepin’.”

“Oh,”

“Hey, take a look—ain’t this strange? Somehow or other, everyone’s taken a shine to me—insistin’ they won’t settle for anyone but Gosuke’s work—so they keep bringin’ their blades here. That’s why I’ve stuck around all these years, even saw off the old woman right here in the end. In the past too, there were times when they went missin’ now and then. But since I never noticed nothin’, each time I’d make excuses an’ manage to smooth things over.”

“It’s become a regular thing, see—every month when I check ’em proper, I think ‘Now that’s odd,’ and then without fail at bedtime, I go click-clackin’ through ’em all.” “Then before I know it, they’re gone—downright suspicious, I tell ya. The day I first stewed over this was four or five years back now, but that Nineteenth Day’s seared into my memory.” “Listen up now.” “Then last month too—one brought just the day before yesterday—the young courtesans came fetchin’ Miyako of Higashiya’s blade,”

Gosuke turned around to look at the shelf behind him—positioned in the shadow of that stall, cramped and sunless—where nothing but razors formed a gloomy array visible through the lattice bars, his face twisting in disgust.

IV “Then when you try to take one out from here—gone.” “Searched high and low, but not a trace.” “In the end Hei Ayamari here had to bow an’ scrape while the client stormed off—but get this: I’d checked it proper the night before, hadn’t I?” “Brought on the eighteenth, picked up twentieth mornin’, last inspected the evenin’ prior—means it vanished come nineteenth midnight without fail. Damned peculiar business.”

“Hey,” said the young man as he took the cigarette from his mouth. Gosuke leaned forward, squinting through the lattice bars,

“See? The days line up.” “Then when I started mindin’ it proper-like, there was that time Miss O-Kino from Edo-cho went home grumblin’ ’bout the same vanishin’ act—only to come marchin’ back next evenin’ special-like,” “(Somehow ended up on the mirror stand...)” he went on. “How’s it right that things left in my keep—brought here to be collected but gone missin’—wind up restin’ on some vanity top?” “The mirror stand’s bad enough—but mark me, come Nineteenth Day you’ll find ’em perchin’ on shoji rails like crows on a fence.”

“Ukifune-san had been confined to the warming room—couldn’t rise proper for ’bout seven days—right in summer’s swelter, strictly forbidden from bathin’, see? But she kept sayin’ her night sweats turned fierce, so past midnight she sneaks out crawlin’ to the bathhouse entrance an’ slashes her knee clean through. Died right there on the spot. An’ get this—they found a razor dropped where she fell.” “This was the Nineteenth Day—you recall last August, yeah?” “That same day another blade went missin’ too—though this ’un weren’t from Ukifune’s house nohow. Certain-sure it was Midori-san’s over at Kirokawa. How it wandered off or where it ended up—gods know—but ain’t that vile? Downright bone-chillin’.”

"All told, we lose one blade here, and within the quarter some brothel must end up with one extra—that’s how the count works, see? Don’t yet know which honored customer needs it, but seems dead set on takin’ whatever I’ve honed—and with such care too. Truth be told, they’re keepin’ it quiet to avoid upsettin’ clients—but you there! Should’ve known we don’t touch blades today. Those brothel folks still clueless too?"

“What?! You’re serious? We’ve been oddly close lately, but actually… Huh?” Twitching his facial muscles, he furrowed his brows and widened his eyes—the pale-complexioned young man involuntarily set down the box he’d been holding with a thud. “Well, now...” “Yes,” came his reply as he turned toward the lattice bars—then startled into motion himself—Sutekichi spun around in unison to face a hoarse voice. “You there, I beg your pardon.” Crouched by the threshold, Sutekichi wore at his shoulders faded chrysanthemum-green leggings, a grime-stained short work coat, a frayed sash, and a cap so misshapen it might have been an afterbirth—a hand towel wrapped around his neck—while opposite him stood a gaunt old man of about sixty, his face resembling a withered tree with eyes and a nose, shivering violently as he balanced on a shoulder pole two rattling boxes with drawers and stacked sea cucumber-shaped basins, one atop another.

Sutekichi brushed past a sleeve—a chill wind carrying his brusque remark— “What,” “Yes, if I may say so—this chill cuts to the bone.”

“It’s the north wind’s fault—ain’t none of our business.”

“Heh heh heh,” he let out a lonely laugh through the tip of his nose,

“Pardon me, but regarding what you just mentioned—you did specify a particular date earlier, did you not?”

V

Gosuke peered through the lattice bars at the old man’s face, “Ah, Sakubei-san,” he said, twisting off the thick-rimmed spectacles from his ears and placing them on his lap. He rubbed his mouth and blinked,

“Well now! What a rare visitor,” Gosuke said with forced cheer. Sutekichi shifted uncomfortably, “Sakubei-san, eh?” he muttered under his breath. Just then came the clack of wooden pattens at the back entrance—the door slammed shut with a bang. Through the shoji screen surged a woman’s presence as she roughly set down an iron kettle. “Oh ho! Lazing about again? The nerve!” “Right away.”

“Have ya gone home already?”

“O-Katsu-san?” Sutekichi half-rose as he said this, “Is it already that time?” “No, it’s about an hour later than usual.”

At that moment, through the gap around the handle of the double-layered shoji, two malevolent eyes became faintly visible near where cheeks would be. Being one who only slept during daylight hours, the trainee courtesan—who rented but half a room and struggled to manage her romantic liaisons—was said to be making her way back even now through back alleys from the Kyōmachi area, carrying no luggage. “It was a bit crowded, you see,” “Well, thanks for your efforts—are we wrapping things up leisurely now?” “But there’s no help for it—with staff being short, we’ve got to work double shifts.”

“Heading out?” said Gosuke. “Yes, it’s such a bother. Last night I didn’t sleep a wink either—shivering all over. It’s just too cold, isn’t it? This old woman can’t bear it anymore, so I thought I’d put on another layer underneath before heading out. Oh, it’s freezing!” With that, she clattered the iron kettle again.

Sakubei, already trembling without cause, remarked, “What a bitter cold this is! I don’t recall ever experiencing such a thing.” “Achoo! Hah,” Sutekichi exhaled sharply, seemingly unable to bear it as he pressed on—

“Achoo!” he sneezed, then frowned with an “Ugh.” “Some rumor this is—took me ages to get here! Never mind that. Just gimme three razors.” “Creepy business havin’ yours truly as errand boy—meantime I’m stuck twiddlin’ my thumbs in the back room waitin’ on replacements.” “Can’t show up empty-handed.” “Old man Gosuke—razors’re mine now.” “Though if this lid pops off mid-delivery and slices someone—” He broke off with a theatrical gasp toward the shoji screen, performing for no audience but himself.

“They say you’re real diligent,” “You sure do spout that often,” “The nineteenth day, eh?” came a voice from within.

“Yes, you know how it is, sir,” he said while stretching his back and rising briskly. “Rare occurrence, ain’t it.”

“Well now, what could it be after all?” said Sakubei, steeling himself to speak as he unloaded his cargo and propped a balance scale against his stall. Sutekichi made to shove three razors into his breast pocket but froze mid-motion, staring fixedly— “Oh! The nineteenth day.” Just then came two handcarts piled high with summer robe laundry, hauled through the sunlit patch by three apprentices whose faces were pinched from cold. At the alley’s far corner before a firewood shop—where charcoal briquettes dried behind stacked logs—a childminder suddenly popped out and clattered away. From Daionji’s precincts drifted the tinny melody of a candy peddler’s flute.

Red Plum Mansion

Six

After the handcart and childminder had passed each other, Sutekichi darted out into the utterly empty crimson alleyway of Tamachi. The instant a clear jingle rang out, a bicycle was upon him so close it nearly brushed against his sleeve—all in the blink of an eye,

“Danger!” came a shout as another bicycle approached. He leapt back with a gasp—then at his ear again came that crisp jingling! They came swiftly from the embankment direction—whether three vehicles, three birds, three small creatures, swallows or rabbits—indistinguishable—then vanished like a receding wave in an instant. Standing frozen in place, Sutekichi stared blankly after them,

“What the...? Acting high and mighty without a penny to your name—” “Not like it concerns you.” “Oh,” “What’s wrong?” “Nothin’,” “How’s your luck been lately? Heard you’re downright obsessed with that O-Kie from Kirishima.” “Wouldn’t know about that,” “No need to play coy.” “It’s meant for the other party—not your concern, sir.” “Is that so? Pathetic whelp,” came his booming laugh.

The balding crown of his head glistened under the skylight, framing a face with healthy coloration. A man of fifty-five or fifty-six years, he wore a Yuuki silk robe over a cotton-padded garment of eight-tan width, draped with a striped cotton haori that hung loosely about his frame, a white crepe silk scarf wrapped around his neck. This figure addressed as "sir" was Nijōya Fujisaburō—brothel proprietor, district notable, and current supervisor of the pleasure quarter's inspection office—who now emerged sauntering from the depths of the opposite alley.

The dormitory of Nijōya—which locals called Red Plum Mansion—stood newly built at the alley's dead end. Beyond the row of tenement houses lining the main street, crimson hues flickered distantly through the estate's grounds: plum blossoms already beginning to bloom their first buds.

Sutekichi adjusted his posture once more, bending at the waist and rubbing his hands together, "For you, sir."

“Oh, this is for the...” At this moment arrived Jūsuke Emon—his sharply angled half-coat bearing a dark blue signboard with pale green lining from which the character "ni" had been omitted, that garment alone retaining a spirited air—though the man himself must have been nearing seventy, his head wrapped in a cloth band.

Now another figure approached—her obi of Chinese crepe silk tied in a drum-shaped bow, hair arranged in an elegant takashimada style, a wrapped bundle tucked under her arm—moving from the dormitory toward the alley entrance.

Sutekichi saw this and, “Hey, old man! Look, sis!” “Ah! Today there’s some theater folk visiting privately—planned on having drinks at the dormitory—but when I came down to set up? What a damn mess! You see that?” “Right, right. Got it.” “Owaka says she can’t stand the racket from that Yan-chan fellow’s first-time antics.” “So I told her to go stay at the shop for just one night, but would anyone actually agree to that?” “Getting dizzy spells or having someone throw a fit—we can’t handle that.” “On top of that, you don’t fit in with the folks around here—since they despise actors like the plague—so what’s your point?” “We’ll send the customers over there and have Old Man Toco’s Otsuji help with the rooms.”

“Right, right, right. Got it. You folks sure have your hands full.” “Hahaha! The old coot holed up in his villa’s doing his Dog Days airing—what do we have here?”

“Good day to you,” said Otsuji amiably.

Fujisaburō was about to head toward the embankment when he suddenly peered into the grinder’s workshop. “You’re quite the diligent one.”

"Well—" Gosuke, who along with Sakubei had been watching the four figures, glanced up at the skylight,

“The fine weather is most welcome.” “But it’s cold,” said Fujisaburō, looking up at the sky with hands tucked into his sleeves, peering sharply in an arc. “I can see clouds over Mount Tsukuba.”

Seven “Ain’t no lie.” Gosuke later stroked his forehead again, “When I’m told I mustn’t be lazy—not that I’ve much room to complain there—but when you go praising my diligence like that, why, it’s enough to make a man feel downright honored.”

“Truth be told—and I say this of myself—I’ve turned downright lazy. When my old woman was around, I still had some fire to earn my keep... but that’s beyond mending now.”

“When a man loses his charm and appetite, he can’t work—those who earn their keep by drinking? There’s precious few of ’em, hey, O-Katsu-san,” he called out over his shoulder, but “You’ve already gone out—no, rather, how faithfully you make your rounds.” “Hahaha! Mr. Sakubei—c’mon, speak your mind! Ain’t anyone here. Why not come up this way and warm yourself at the kotatsu? Just slide open that shoji panel there. Stretch out and rest a spell.” “I can’t be doing that now—passing by like this, your words caught my ear—though it seems I’m hearing something that doesn’t quite make sense—but about those razors going missing you mentioned earlier... wasn’t the date you said the nineteenth?”

“Hmm, the nineteenth, the nineteenth,” he repeated with growing fervor, when something suddenly dawned on him. “Right! Wait now—today’s the nineteenth,” Gosuke twisted his torso—remembering abruptly—and retrieved a thick bound order ledger from atop a small shelf behind him.

He spread it open cleanly in two on his lap, flipped through the pages with a rustling sound, ran his fingertip swiftly along the edges, then scrutinized them with a ruler.

“Right, right, right,” he said, tilting his head back and tapping the ledger with his palm two or three times. Sakubei peered blearily through his eyes while, “A deadline job, is it?” “Nothin’ urgent-like, but there’s one blade I mean to sharpen proper and deliver by day’s end. Got so tangled in chatter I near forgot—ah well.” “That’s a bother I’ve made for you.” “Ain’t no bother ’tall—take your ease." “Now then—truth be told, you heard it plain enough? Today’s the day.” “On the nineteenth I rest from work—but when I do, there’s this custom: change the water, scrub the whetstone clean, then give one blade particular care—see?”

“A custom order you’ve taken a liking to?” “Hmm—just now went over there myself—to that Nijōya dormitory,”

He pointed at the alley across. “Ah! Ah! That’s it—see the Red Plum over there? That’s where Miss Owaka lives—eighteen years old she is. Well now, she’s the master’s prized girl.”

"She’s got looks worth parading—the dormitory’s newly built, mind—but raised in a brothel’s back rooms all the same. They say blood tells, Mr. Sakubei, but that ain’t the full measure." "Plenty’ve gotten charity enough to save their hides." "Fujisaburō’s old man dotes on her like mad too." "Clutch Miss Owaka’s sleeve, and the contracts of every courtesan under her could go up in smoke then and there—that’s the trick of it. O-Katsu inside knows it well enough—but what makes a courtesan tick? Beyond us mortals to grasp." "A shame to lower the skylight with her looks being what they are."

“I ain’t been helped by so much as a single copper coin, but what with one thing and another, you see—that Miss Owaka’s become my favorite. How ’bout it? Hearin’ this, even you’d end up takin’ a shine to her. She’s the spitting image of dead Tanosuke, I tell ya.”

Eight “By the way, this here order gets special handling.” “Today’s the only day I don’t sharpen other blades—what with work being what it is, and ’cause all I get here’s merchants’ razors—so I thought I’d use the purest separate fire and give Miss Owaka’s a proper grind.” He’d been forgetful, but one blade had come in—always like this. That nineteenth-day disappearance business was surely tied to the quarter. Since it’s courtesans doing the haunting—Miss Owaka ain’t no courtesan herself and don’t even live inside the walls—he reckoned there was nothing to fret over.

“Well, queer business all around,” he said. “Just you wait—today’ll bring someone to claim it sure enough.” Gosuke leaned forward, calloused hands gripping his whetstone. “Nah now, Mr. Sakubei—foxes turn demons after a thousand winters, and this razor trade o’ mine? Just some musty relic that don’t draw eyes in the marketplace. But this district’s soil breeds hauntings, mark me.” He chuckled dryly, frost clinging to his stubble. “Come to think—your mirror polishing’s as antiquated as my grindin’. We’re two old crows perched on Edo’s grave marker. How’ve you been faring?” The whetstone screeched against steel. “No faces o’ Shirai Gonpachi peerin’ from your second-floor mirrors lately?”

The gaunt Sakubei, bearing that box and basin upon his back, was indeed an old mirror polisher who retained vestiges of Edo’s vanishing ways—a man who made his living honing reflections. Nodding forlornly,

“But in truth, we’re much the same.” “Much the same?!” Gosuke glanced at the waning daylight—no doubt steeling himself to work, likely intending to sharpen the beauty’s razor at the dormitory. While washing the whetstone in the bucket, he hurriedly retorted. “I ain’t bothered by this ‘much the same’ business—you got some reason for sayin’ that?” “You think there’s a reason for that, my friend?” “Though I shouldn’t say such things—your razor sharpening in Tamachi, my mirror polishing over past Kōtokuji Temple to the right in Inari-cho—we’ve both become creatures of transformation by now, heh heh heh,” he said with a thin smile.

“Well now, never thought I’d hear you of all people bring up such talk,” he said, firmly adjusting the stone with careful precision. “But you see, with Tokyo’s new era dawning, we’ve become like Edo’s memorial tablets—dead relics of the past. The Rauya tobacco shops at least managed to modernize, but we’re now the same as Tanuki-ana’s raccoon dogs and Umebori’s loaches.” “Yet in those artisan picture contest single-sheet prints, they still dress up in ceremonial black hats and hunting robes to make their grand appearance.” “All the more reason our sins weigh heavier.”

“There’s not wholly no connection to that curse, mark you—this nineteenth day matter.” “You mean this concerns the razors going missing?” “Just four or five days past, Mr. District Manager crossed Mizogawa Bridge yonder and summoned someone out to that dim shopfront with its latticed shutters drawn.” “Hmm—must be about the rent notice.” “Even were we to move beneath Mannen-cho’s eaves, they’d still make us construct walkways for their mastiffs.” “Given this cannot be swiftly resolved, the eviction allows no delay.” “If matters stand thus, I’ll speak no more of later—shall I declare I’ll relocate to the river’s midst this instant?”

The manager forced a bitter smile—as if that old raccoon, drunk on cheap nigorizake and returning with a drunken stagger, might yet miss the pier’s edge. He claimed kinship with Mizoguchi shop’s founding master—a man who’d never waded through life’s mires since youth—yet kept spouting his carefree platitudes. “As you command,” came the reply. There was no telling how many unresolved matters lingered. “Ah well—the Jijiri watchman and I’ve been neighborhood nuisances since my days as a shorn-headed brat,” Gosuke grumbled. Though having no real business there, that fellow shouldered his sharpening tools daily to loiter through the pleasure quarter, detouring on his return to Minowa’s Jōkan-ji Temple where he’d greet the unclaimed stupas of courtesans he’d once patronized. “Without such riffraff in management ranks, they’d lack sway come festival time.” “My boy’s earning his keep,” Gosuke boasted, triumphant, “and the Inari-cho manager needn’t even make rent rounds—hmm!” At that moment, he pressed Owaka’s razor flush against the whetstone—then burst out,

“Perfect, perfect! And from my favorite Jinzaemon too!”

Sakubei's Tale

Nine “Now listen close—the Manager says to me, ‘Sakubei, put your whole heart into this work,’ and promises in return, ‘You’ll make good coin—a full reward,’ pulling out this crimson-tasseled brocade pouch from his swollen pocket all showy-like.” “Seems it’s a mirror from some grand house in Kōjimachi where the Manager sir does business—or so they tell it.” “There you have it.” “Tied to the nineteenth day, this is.” “‘Out of respect, I’ll not speak the name,’ says the Manager sir.” “The lady of that house stands a widow now—a dowager madam, should I say?” “And that master of hers? A proper samurai he was, though by then they called him a Kinmōru military man.”

“During the Kagoshima War, he performed a distinguished deed and was elevated to a status worthy of riding in carriages, they say.” “He was young at the time.” None could escape this very delusion. “After all, one among us grew deep with the flower patron—through rainy nights and snowy nights alike.” “In the bitter end—collapsed upon a mountain of bedding, with no desire beyond being carted off exactly as he lay—all hope utterly extinguished. That’s how it was, I tell you.” It was said to have happened on the morning after they had stayed through the night.

The courtesan, oblivious to her own scant clothing and disheveled hair, gazed intently at her lover’s face. The more emaciated he became, the more he seemed almost pleased with his manly bearing—though his beard had grown terribly long. Having made him sit before the mirror stand, while sprinkling water from a rinsing bowl onto his face thus, she moved behind him—or so one might imagine. Did the courtesan act thus with some burden upon her heart? An eight-inch extended mirror had been deliberately placed upon the mirror stand, yet the man never once looked away from his reflected visage.

Reflecting his noble face over her shoulder from behind, the courtesan resolved to die. When she peered in, saying, "You can see my heart, can't you?" he took that mirror, turned it face down, and pressed it flush against his chest.

“What’s with this ‘stranger’ act, you—” he said, flicking away from behind the hand that had gripped his shoulder. “No—it may sound like complaining, but I hold a grudge against you.” “Saying how inexcusable it was to see a face so resembling Mother’s here,” he slumped forward and wept like a man. Upon hearing this, the courtesan—who knows what thoughts crossed her mind—gripped the razor in her emaciated fingers that could barely hold such a thing, her face paling as she trembled violently. Then suddenly, she reversed her grip and, without a word, plunged it into the man’s throat from behind.

Gosuke pressed down on the razor’s flat with his finger and paused abruptly. “Whoa—close call.” “And stabbing with a blade? She wasn’t some woman who knew more about sticking needles in a pincushion than such deeds.” “Me—I never did learn that courtesan’s name or the slope’s name. Manager sir said he’d forgotten ’em too.” That courtesan’s true name was Osan—they say she wasn’t high nobility, but indeed the daughter of a proper hatamoto samurai, her house being in Bancho.

During Lord Tokugawa’s downfall, her father had gone into Ueno while the poor young miss laid out rush mats before their residence, selling lacquered tiered boxes, doll sets, and woodblock prints. It was there, they say, that passing by, they first laid eyes on each other—a cursed bond indeed. The man was a young samurai of the Chōshū domain. Though it sounds like some storyteller’s convenient trope of shifting heavens and transformed matter, theirs was a profound bond forged through impermanence—a chance meeting in Yoshiwara’s fleeting world.

“At Ushigome Mitsuke, there was this resourceful young woman who made one of her rough companions do a somersault while returning from delivering side work—the same lass who once had the entire pleasure quarter scattering at her presence—and she’s the one who fixated and stabbed him with a razor.” “Right.”

Ten "The man was utterly off guard—a life with not one chance in ten thousand of being saved—yet by some twist of fate..." Perhaps flustered, the courtesan—missing her intended mark slightly—pressed it against his chest and bowed her head. With the mirror, the razor blade clinked and stopped there.

“I won’t say which way was right.” “I’m not favoring the courtesan, mind—but if she’d resolved herself that far, I’d have let her finish the deed. For a woman of such sense to bungle it… well, what’s one to say?”

“Well then,” “With that same hand that returned it—ah, how splendidly the courtesan severed her own throat!” How vexing! How utterly vexing! To let other women see this darling person’s face—unbearable! Biting her lips, she remained thus. For when she truly gazed into that mirror and came to her senses with a start, she resolved with quivering resolve never again to tread the pleasure district’s paths. That courtesan who discerned through appearances possessed keen eyes indeed. The man—his clouds of earthly desire parted—beheld at last the moon of true reality, or so they say. “The mirror accepted its role as both life’s progenitor and wisdom’s fount—exactly as proclaimed.” “Aye, the brocade bag with tassels was just as expected—a treasure for the household, I tell you.”

“Please finish it with utmost care—the Dowager dotes on this nephew more than her own child.” “Without partaking in base pleasures, he graduated from a distinguished school.” “For this celebration, she intends to send it as both gift and moral lesson—the notion being that if he were to venture there too soon, he might grow careless and take to womanizing, meaning visits to the pleasure district.”

“Sakubei, I leave this to you,” said the Manager as he departed, leaving it behind. With due reverence, I finished it yesterday and presented it to the Manager, whereupon he promptly had it sent off to some residence in Kōjimachi. Around dusk, he returned and said, “Rejoice, Saku,” presenting a hefty three ryō coins. I wholeheartedly tried to decline, but indeed, the other party was overjoyed—for the tale concerning that mirror originated eight years after the Restoration, on the nineteenth day of Frost Month. “Though the month differs, the day remains the same—yesterday’s tale coinciding with today’s timing as they prepared to send it anew to that Master Nephew. The sharpening fee might’ve been generous, but ‘Treat me to a drink instead,’ they said—that’s how it went.”

“With pleasure, with pleasure! Were it drink money, I’d never refuse even a hundred ryō—so drank I did, drank all last night.” “Ah well now, Mr. Gosuke—come to think on it, that landlord’s gone and reformed himself proper. Splendid indeed.” The Orenmei’s current dowager hadn’t forgotten—preserving it with care she did—her devotion splendid beyond measure. That mirror with its storied past, now enshrined as a treasure, lay once more in its brocade bag. “This one’s splendid too.” “The Manager who roped me into that polishing job was pleased enough—and old Sakubei here who did the work ain’t half bad neither.” “The nephew who’s climbed to such fine station’s splendid too.” “Even got this commission under the guise of it being some cautionary gift they’d send.” “That gripe about turning non-labor into drink money’s splendid—and the sake’s good too, Mr. Gosuke.”

"That which started it all—the hatamoto’s daughter, the courtesan who died by razor—just put yourself in their place; you’ll find no tale more wretched than this." "Madness—madness it may be—but to think she gave up all hope simply from hating others seeing her beloved’s face, then grew so desperate as to resolve on killing him and dying herself—what state must her heart have been in?" "Thinking on that, you’d reckon even sake wouldn’t pass your throat—but no, that wasn’t so." "The souls clinging to this earth showing thanks to me for pilgrimages to Jōkan-ji Temple; acting as proxy for those pious women without kin while sending Kōjimachi’s treasure all the way to Inarichō—they’re minded to treat me to drinks, or so I’d fancy, but truly it’s just my own conceit." "Making excuses just to drink—well then, rousing me up, spurring me on—what say you, Mr. Gosuke?"

“The reason my complexion is poor—though I hesitate to say—is not due to poverty today.” “A hangover-induced good mood that comes once every three years, ha ha ha,” he said with apparent cheer.

Evening sky

Eleven

At that moment, Gosuke handled waste paper and wiped the finely sharpened razor, then adjusted his grip into his palm.

As dusk deepened, clouds from Mount Tsukuba had already crept over the rooftops like a great eagle’s beak peering down into Tamachi’s sky, while the figures of passersby growing ever more frantic became nothing but black shadows crossing and mingling chaotically.

At this moment, what stood out most vividly in its rich hue were the red plum blossoms visible beyond the rooftops in the distance. The setting sun, streaming through a break in the clouds, cast its light upon the west-facing glass windows of Nijōya’s dormitory as though flowing downward.

The razor blade glistened with a three-inch cold blue light in the dimness of his hands, its sharp swish echoing as it glided over skin like bone being sliced. "This's why—not that I'm crowin'—but botch it, an' this turns proper murder gear." "Hmm... That nineteenth day," he muttered, voice thickening with gloom.

“Well now—it being so long since my last visit, and me feeling somewhat chilled besides—I thought I’d first make my rounds through the pleasure district again for old times’ sake, then head to Minowa. Figured even if it’s just moss-covered ground down there, I’d barge right in thinking it the young lady’s grave and pay my respects,” he said, strolling out from within. “When I came by your place on the appointed day, ‘tis a strange tale.” “Even if I don’t fully understand the rest, my ears perked up immediately at the mention of the nineteenth day.”

“Can’t say what exactly—but since the day lines up, this’s gotta be it.”

“Mr. Gosuke, if your place has such entanglements, I shan’t call it ill—chant the sutra proper.” They’d grown late in their talking. “Well then, today I’ll just make my rounds to Minowa and be done with it,” declared Sakubei, already shifting to rise. With a corrugated clatter, a handcart materialized before them; dragged through the pedestrian stream, its earth-shaking passage set Gosuke’s entire frame quivering within the dirt-floored workshop.

“Ah,” he said, raising his previously bowed, vacant face as he removed his eyeglasses.

"Sakubei, you’re the one nursin’ grudges! Even without that—since mornin’ I been feelin’ like it’s my old man’s fastin’ day, prayin’ no customers show on this cursed date—so right here in my gut, it’s all prayer beads churnin’." "I heard your ‘chant the prayer’ bit, but you’re skimpin’ on sense—this mess I’m tangled in’s gettin’ worse by the minute." "No doubt—not a shred of it—that hatamoto’s daughter, how could she bear such?" "If it’s just talk, grudges fade—but seven generations they’ll haunt ya, mark my words—haunt ya proper."

“Ain’t no jest—I did think ’twas some grudge-harboring courtesan’s ghost, but not knowin’ which house or which girl offers some small comfort. When the day matches up an’ there’s a razor ’bout—once that curse takes hold, there’s no escapin’ it.”

“And then you said you stabbed her throat, didn’t ya?” “Like this—right here—” Sakubei exposed his grime-caked, wrinkled Adam’s apple and demonstrated the motion with a clenched fist. Gosuke instinctively gaped his mouth wide, “Ah! Ah! The blood must’ve poured out—the blood—”

“Of course it did—drip, drip, drip,” he said, drawing a straight line down his chest with a stick. “Ugh, and so bright red.” “Darkish, like tuna entrails—drip, drip, drip.” “Cut it out! What’re you on about? Then she went grinding her teeth bitter-like,” “A vengeful death. With her hair clenched like this—a terrifyingly beautiful courtesan, they say—one so frightfully elegant, and then, you see—like this,” he said, twisting his mouth. “Oh! Oh! It’s agonizing—grabbing those pale, delicate hands like a whitefish’s, legs trembling violently,” Gosuke cried out, writhing in agony himself,

“And you—did you see her corpse?” “What’re you sayin’? I only heard the tale.” “Don’t even know the courtesan’s name neither.” Gosuke’s eyes flew open as he exhaled sharply,

“What’s all this? Now, don’t go frightening me.”

Twelve Sakubei also gave a wry smile, "But it’s because you were carrying on about how it wasn’t funny at all—asking if the blood was red, going on about fingers trembling and such."

“It’s as if I can see it.” “I can as well.” “Can you see it, eh?” “Well.” “There’s no call to act like ghosts got kinfolk! Even if this were the same case—some fragile courtesan who died from her aunt’s snow-driven punishment—then I, Gosuke, am man enough.” “Wouldn’t rattle me up to here—but hearin’ it’s some hatamoto’s daughter, skilled enough to make a servant flip head over heels? That freezes me solid.”

“Mr. Sakubei—now that it’s come to this, you’re my only match. I ain’t lettin’ you go.” “I’ll get us a whole sho of sake—so I’m beggin’ ya here, you’re stayin’ tonight an’ keepin’ me company at the kotatsu, ain’tcha.” “Normally this’d be a day Miss Okatsu takes off, but wouldn’t ya know she’s gone out—makes it all the harder.”

That said, at my age I couldn’t go imposing on inns—but barging recklessly into the pleasure district would’ve been like getting captured alive by the enemy. When night deepened like this, with just oil and lamp wicks—they wouldn’t hold out. How terrifying. “A razor’ll come crashin’ down from the Nameya Room’s ceiling—life or death! Hey, the neighbor’s got good broth—we’ll trouble ’em for hanpen stew an’ thick tuna slices too. Boatman! Groom! You an’ me’ll swap old tales again,” he declared without shame, peering through his spectacles.

Sakubei, not one for unbridled joy, sniffled back his runny nose before shedding tears of happiness. "You sure can talk. Though the mention of sake makes my legs go weak, I can't settle here like a palanquin—wouldn't do right by the Flower Master." "I told you not to mention that! This habit of yours—calling unmarked graves 'Flower Master' and consorting with demonic things! So what now?"

“Since it’s already late, I’ll skip making rounds through the pleasure district and head straight to Minowa.” “Hmm, that’s how it goes, I suppose. “I may pray proper myself, but you ain’t been bowin’ your head enough to beg forgiveness neither. “Not just the pleasure district—you’d better make a quick run through Jōkan-ji Temple too. “I can’t manage this alone—you’d better leave the luggage with me for sure.” “I’ll go find some good dried goods or something and bring ’em back—you wait here, all right?” Sakubei said as he trudged off, “There are so many people passing by, aren’t there?”

“Hmph—there ain’t a single trustworthy soul walkin’ these parts with morals enough to help vengeful spirits find peace.” “And when it goes quiet like this again and again—that loneliness comes on just like winter drizzle clingin’ to the air.”

Sakubei looked up at the sky, “It’s gone full cloudy and dark—but with this cold snap defying the season,”

Gosuke hurried.

“A white thing? Forbidden—absolutely forbidden!”

Around lamp-lighting time.

Thirteen

“Hey, hey, hey! Who’s there?” Gosuke, having lost sight of Sakubei’s tottering figure, found his field of vision dim, but when he looked around, the surroundings remained unchanged—it was already lamp-lighting time. Though objects retained their colors, an oppressive gloom lingered—whether imagined or not—prompting him to consider lighting the Western lamp earlier than usual. Just then from Daionji Temple’s direction came a surge of rickshaws hauling passengers: five or six at first, then three or four more in rapid succession, their procession continuing unabated. The clattering wheels and rumbling axles mingled with ground-shaking vibrations—a familiar yet wearisome spectacle he observed with fatigue. When they finally ceased, commotion stirred at the back entrance.

Gosuke deliberately raised his voice, "Miss Okatsu...? Oh, no—the neighbor," he muttered dismissively, but— "Well now, Your Honor—don't stand on ceremony, come right in. Who might you be?" He listened intently, "Damn it! That mutt startled me again with its tricks just the other day—in the dead of night no less! Knock knock knock! I ask who's there and get silence. Pull the futon over my head—knock knock! 'Who is it?' Still quiet. Then another knock—makes me jump—knock comes again!" At last they'd circled around from outside and were causing trouble at the neighbor's place. "How much he'd lowered his cowardly face and entertained terrible thoughts was beyond knowing—damn it all—thinking himself a coward," he surged upright from his seated position when suddenly the edge of his knee covering caught on his foot, sending him crawling like a turtle hatchling.

He stumbled as if stepping on something slippery, awkwardly kicked off, dropped to one knee and crawled upward before sliding open the troublesome shoji screen—only to find the next room plunged into total darkness. Shifting his feet, he stomped out without catching on the familiar tears in the tatami mats. The kitchen lay sideways—from before the long brazier, he could reach and grab the ladle where it rested. Just as he scooped a full measure, an abrupt urge struck him to pour it down from the skylight. Though Okatsu handled such household matters—being after all a proper woman who had securely shut the water hatch—he threw it open with a clatter.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed, but the anticlimax left him deflated—there was nothing, not even a dog. When he craned his neck out to peer around, the trash heap behind made no rustling sound—nor had anything dug in to escape there.

In the distance, black walls pressed densely—stretching in unbroken rows, bending once only to resume their ranks—three-story rooms multiplied endlessly, their numerous rooftops still unlit in every direction, with no shamisen music drifting through the forest-like stillness. Alone piercing high into the sky—amidst clouds turned pitch-black that night—casting a ghastly dark green light, the great roof resembling a one-eyed, single-horned demon thrusting upward was Nijōya’s permanent lantern.

Gosuke stood with half his body thrust out from the water hatch, but overwhelmed by the incessant sensation of being watched, he slammed the ladle down.

“Tsk,” he clicked his tongue, turned around, and peered through the darkness—from the still-open shoji screen, as if partitioned off, came the distinct sound of people outside.

Eventually returning to his seat in the old workshop, he suddenly thought—Ah!

“Huh, that’s strange.” Gosuke raised one knee, half-crouched, crawled on all fours to grope around, shook out his knee warmer, and peered about restlessly,

He wondered—because of how things had been earlier... still holding onto it... wait—Sakubei had left... hmm... On this very day, he had misplaced somewhere the razor he had just finished sharpening—the blade belonging to Owaka of Red Plum Mansion, that courtesan-in-training. Even as he muttered I didn't put it in my pocket—he frantically thrust his hand into said pocket before freezing with it pressed against his chest, his face paling. After some time— Surely not on the shelf—he blurted involuntarily. When he abruptly looked up, there at the edge of the single opened shoji panel—using the threshold as her hemline while gripping her sleeve-edge near the obi sash—stood a figure clad in a mouse-gray house robe dusted with snowflake patterns. Every detail burned clear: vivid eyebrows above a straight nosebridge, pure white cheeks framed by disheveled sidelocks, a slender back supporting hair coiled so high it might brush the lintel. This vision stared fixedly his way until Gosuke shrank and froze like ice.

“Mr. Gosuke,” she uttered in an indescribably deep voice, opening her collar with her left hand. As she unsteadily slipped the hand holding her sleeve hem into an opposite sleeve, the robe’s skirt fluttered down—her back seeming to lengthen several inches—then from the warmth of her ample bosom where even her breasts were visible, she extended a pallid palm directly toward Gosuke, clutching a razor that glittered like a viper’s scales, “This is it,” Gosuke’s ears clanged with a roar; the voice reverberating in his skull grew faint as if heard through mountains, rivers, and distant fields—thinner than a thread.

“A purification fire to ward off impurities, they say. Hohohohoho,” Her slightly parted lips glossy with black tooth dye—the illusion now loomed directly before his eyes. “Gah!” With that cry, Gosuke jerked his head down—whether he’d come back to his senses or not.

“There’s a Shiba no Umi in every back alley—look straight through the tenement and you’ll see the quarter.”

And yet, how carefree the outdoors seemed at this moment.

“Oh! Snow! It’s snowing!” he cried out—but through the clamor came students, thoroughly plastered, trampling through the icy snow-march as they surged past with a roar.

Snow Gate

Fourteen

The snow that had flurried briefly at dusk rustled against fence joints, wooden door edges, eaves, the cheeks of passersby, strands of hair, and hat brims—but soon fell silent, continuing invisibly until tree crowns, roof ridges, paving stones, and gutter boards all whitened imperceptibly. Around the tobacco shop’s lamps, oden stall lanterns, and rickshaw pullers’ lights—anywhere illumination existed—cotton-like fragments swarmed in waves like pale moths battering their wings against the glow.

By the time early night deepened, the traces of clogs and horseshoe geta that had crisscrossed chaotically in all directions gradually became two, then three, leaving only slight depressions, while cart ruts stretched into a single lingering line reaching far into the distance.

The hollow echoes of voices calling out across distances had already faded. At the crossroads lingered a policeman half-buried in snow, his coat’s folds turning black each time he shook off the powder—a figure retreating eight or nine ken ahead of the razor sharpener’s shop beneath the eaves. From Mishima Shrine to Daionji-mae Avenue and Tamachi, all stretched a monochrome expanse.

A sudden gust swept through - first scraping low across the ground, brushing the snow's surface like a sieve to uniformly flatten it, obliterating both footpaths and the very color of night. Swiftly it crossed fences, blew through eaves, grazed verandas, rustled treetops, then spread into the pale void with a fierce roar. Heavy snowflakes drew fine powder into their wake, swirling chaotically through every direction before settling soundlessly downward.

If this were the season when red plums bloomed, such snow would likely have vanished without resistance alongside the morning sun, melting away like frost—yet here in the capital at the Hour of the Ox and Boar [around 2 AM], nearing February’s end, this phenomenon felt utterly divorced from what should be. What was this thing that assailed this metropolis, undeniably laying out its battalions of swirling white? Thus around Nijōya’s roof ridge—where a blue light flowed like some exposed dragon lantern—the sky veiled by Yoshihara’s faintly glowing electric lamps became a stage: women’s raucous laughter crumbled toward Tamachi in time with fragmented, piercing shamisen strings, as if malevolent spirits traversing the heavens seized this moment of the earth’s altered hue to whisper their ghastly incantations.

Midnight had swiftly passed into the hour around one o’clock, when both snow and wind raged at their most violent.

Beneath the blizzard came a muffled voice as someone quietly knocked upon the Red Plum gate of Owaka’s dormitory.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. “Yes, I’ll open it now, right away, r-right away—” came a voice from inside that seemed to have been dozing—a somewhat flustered tone laced with drowsiness—as a hand extended from the upper frame and secured the latch with a clank.

At that moment, the one standing outside— “Wait a moment. Are you from this household?” he said with suggestive intent, though affecting an air of nonchalance.

“Yes, um, this is Sugi,” she said in a tone that seemed to apologize for having been asleep. In the meantime, he called out once more, “Is it truly acceptable to open this? The hour grows late.” “Yes…,” Seeming to notice the slightly unusual manner of speech for the first time at this moment, Sugi remained perfectly still and restrained her hand. As the relentless snow poured down indiscriminately over eaves and all else, rendering the man’s figure nowhere to be seen, the wind grew increasingly fierce.

Fifteen "Sugi, is that an old man?" came a voice from deep within as the wind raged outside—the snowy night sinking heaven and earth into deepening silence, the tatami mats trembling with the delicate rustle of approaching footsteps.

Though she had drawn near, her voice remained exceedingly faint and clear, “Has Tsuji returned?”

“Hush,” the middle-aged woman checked herself in a low voice, her manner wary of the gate. “If you would please open up—there’s no acquaintance of mine here,” “…………” “I made inquiries at the house at this alley’s end—they say it’s called Red Plum Mansion, yes?” “Yes... And who might you be?” “No, I’m not someone known to you—I was asked to come on a small errand. It’s fine—I’ll explain here. Well then—” “Open it.”

“…………” “This way—come on.” “It’s acceptable.”

Thereupon, “Well, please do come in,” she said, swinging open the half-latched lattice door with a clatter. The light from the Western-style lamp placed on the threshold dimly extended a single beam from the doorway into the snow. Simultaneously capturing the figure who stepped back while opening his posture—his coat draped diagonally—the residual light outlined in white the sleeve fence partitioning the front garden to the left, reflected on intertwined red plum branches, and illuminated the nearby crimson buds. Yet what this light revealed most clearly and beautifully was neither the snow’s poetic aspect, nor the flowers’ hues, nor even the honmonji-patterned comb worn by Sugi. It was Owaka of the dormitory in her flamboyant attire—a dark navy komon crepe haori with willow-frame patterning over an unseen underlayer, her striped crepe kimono fastened with a black satin collar—leaning one hand against the shoji screen as she stood turned away, her underrobe spilling from the open side seam and the ring glittering on her finger.

The maid Sugi lowered her head with its round chignon,

“Please, sir,”

“Well then,” he said, stepping forward—whether unable to contain himself or not—with a momentum poised to leap inside. With his trilby hat pulled low over his eyes and a black overcoat glimmering faintly over his Western suit, even the shikkui-plastered earthen floor and polished shoe-removal stone lay completely buried under swirling snow. “What a dreadful situation,” Sugi inadvertently said with evident concern, whereupon he drew a sharp breath, “Ah, how brutish. My apologies,” he shivered, lightly stamping his boots twice as he removed his trilby hat. Gently brushing back his disheveled bangs, he wiped around his pale ears—a handsome youth of twenty-three or twenty-four, with vivid eyebrows and eyes of refined distinction. The clarity of his enunciation and absence of regional accent clearly conveyed his refined character. When Sugi caught sight of him, she immediately felt as though she were seeing Kongara Dōji—attendant to her long-revered Narita-sama—appear in a dream visitation,

“My, oh my...” she murmured in her captivated state before suddenly coming to her senses. Slipping into garden clogs, she ducked behind the guest and swiftly latched the double-layered gate against the blustering snow. “I shall take my leave shortly.” “Even so, how dreadful this snow keeps blowing in.” Looking over, Owaka stood motionless with her hand resting on the shoji screen, remaining dazedly fixed in place as she had been all along. “Miss Owaka, do greet our guest properly now.” Owaka smiled wordlessly, then suddenly braced her hand and sank down as though collapsing under dejection, a vivid flush blooming across her translucent earlobes.

The roots of her topknot swaying gently, she laughed with childlike innocence while rubbing her sides—then suddenly stood and disappeared in a flurry. The guest sat awkwardly; Sugi too found herself at a loss. As this state persisted, an unnervingly clear voice came from beyond the sliding door in the next room.

“Sugi, is it improper to be by the long hibachi?”

Sixteen “No, it’s improper for you to stand on ceremony—there’s truly no need to go to the parlor when it’s this cold.” “And please do wear this—there’s nothing ominous about it, having been tailored just recently,” [she said of] what might have been an inside-out or brand-new Yuuki pinstripe sleeping haori, still bearing its basting threads. As it was being draped over him,

“Wha—why—” he reacted as though accosted by a bandit, the haori’s floral-patterned lining so sleek it twisted his shoulder. Having removed his snow-covered overcoat—his fragile frame shuddering with cold—he sat cross-legged before the long hibachi once the garment was smoothly draped over his Western-suited shoulders from behind, wide sleeves hanging loose: not quite resembling Daikokuya Sōroku, but rather exuding an air of S. DAIKOKUYA. “Why on earth would they send a courtesan back on a night like this? It’s utterly cruel, don’t you think, Miss Owaka?” “Heaven’s name—that’s not proper at all! You mustn’t blow on the fire like that. Simply not done.”

“What in heaven’s name are you doing now?” The maid’s shock transformed her flower-petal lips into something resembling a bird’s beak. Owaka knit her beautiful brows, composed herself, and pressed her snow-pale cheeks against the hibachi’s edge as she ordered: “Fetch the ember remover.” “I’ll tend to it immediately—you must excuse me, sir,” Sugi replied. “With the master away, I’d borrowed the foot warmer from Miss Owaka’s room rather presumptuously and had you reading that serialized story when—”

“I simply drifted off, didn’t I?” Owaka said with a delicate smile. “Yet on such a night as this, the drowsiness sweeps over one in relentless waves—truly unbearable, sir.” “Utterly cruel.” “How pitiful—no, rather—indeed veritable, your knocking upon the door was unquestionably real.” “Having been half-asleep myself, I cannot fathom how long you endured waiting.” “In earnestness, sir, you must cease frequenting establishments that cast one out on nights such as these.” “Let it trouble you not—a courtesan thus discarded shall crystallize into rock sugar ere dawn breaks,” she declared with grave conviction, as though reciting an oracle. Owaka had likely mistaken this man for a patron of the main brothel house.

“I haven’t been to such establishments.” “The sin only deepens when you conceal it so,” “Why on earth would I hide anything? But it’s been a terrible bother—a stranger waking me at night, feeling so guilty I hesitated to come in—but you spoke so kindly that confessing felt like finding a ferry midstream, and I was simply perishing from cold.”

As he spoke with the diffident countenance of one unaccustomed to such situations, Sugi—already devout by nature—gazed intently at the principal image's visage while,

“Now that you mention it, your complexion does look rather poor. Since I’ve just prepared some, shall I make you a hot broth?” “Would you care for some?” Owaka glanced at the maid, her tone betraying ironic awareness of the other’s teetotaler nature. “Why is it that just hearing ‘sake’ makes me shiver so?” As she spoke, she raised her face and stared intently at Sugi beside her and Owaka’s striking figure in the distance, then gazed delightedly at the bright lamp and charcoal now emitting blue flames before letting out a soft sigh,

“You must think I’m strange.”

Seventeen

“Even I feel like I’m dreaming.” “No need for medicine—I’m quite alright now.” “So this is Nijōya—a Yoshiwara lodging house—and you’re the maid... Ah, and the elder sister here is Miss Owaka?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Owaka replied with a graceful smile. “Let me see—when I leave here, there’s a house at the dead end, right? Passing through there and turning left brings me to a slope like this—yes? Then straight to the main gate from there? Right—got it, elder sister,” he said, turning fully toward Owaka. “I have something to deliver to elder sister,” he said while turning toward Sugi, “If I recall correctly, before the embankment leading into the licensed quarter, there’s a single slope when approaching from this side.”

He nodded once, then nodded again,

“I’ve got it now—that’s the spot. When I tried climbing that slope, I sank into the snow, but the rickshaw supported me, so I finally came to my senses.”

On this day, there was a farewell banquet for Wakiya Kinnoosuke’s departure to Germany.

“The truth is, today there was a gathering with friends and many others at Iyo Mon—a farewell party they’d arranged since I’m heading off somewhere far away—so I ended up being toasted by everyone and got terribly drunk.” “Had I been lying down asleep? Where did I get into that rickshaw on my way back? It’s all a complete blur.” “Though there was supposed to be a rickshaw waiting, when we came rushing from Yotsuya through Shitaya—right where you see the clocktower at the corner trying to turn from Ochanomizu to Soto-Kanda—in their rash attempt to cut across the horsecar tracks, they collided with a cart, broke one of its wheels, and got thrown out.”

“Oh my, how dangerous!” “Just a few scrapes—nothing worth calling an injury.” “So because of that, it seems I hopped into a passing rickshaw and came here dozing off in a daze.”

It was the slope leading up to that embankment they’d been discussing. Because it had supported him snugly, he finally came to his senses—and when he looked around, he must have been quite startled. Before he knew it, the surroundings had turned pure white, just like an open field. To his right, an electric lamp cut through the snowy sky like a half-moon, and he wondered if he might be dreaming of that distant capital’s winter realm—the place he intended to visit next.

“So there I was riding a proper Japanese rickshaw—that laughing puller must’ve been Japanese, don’t you think? He gripped the snow-caked mudguard—‘Where’re we? Hey young man! Where’s this place—’ When I asked, he just said ‘All a jest.’ Claims he’s gotta get back to Yotsuya—when I pushed him some, ‘S’alright then,’ he goes—you hear that? ‘Don’t mock me,’ I said, and when I asked why we went wrong way, turns out no friend dragged me there or nothing. When I climbed in that rickshaw, I was alone reeling through snowfall—right by Itō Matsuzakaya’s front—when he goes ‘Need a ride, sir?’ and I apparently answered ‘Ah take me,’ so he says.”

“You said ‘take me there,’ so I dragged you to the quarter—acting all innocent like there’s nothing odd about it.” “Arguing won’t get us anywhere.” “It’s a blizzard out here—just take me home or wherever! I’ll pay you well!” But I was at my wits’ end.” I tried reasoning with him, but he was already drenched in sweat just getting this far—no way he could make it up the slope to Yotsuya through this snow. “What’s this—Hakone’s Eight Ri that even horses struggle with?” he sneered. “Besides, I’ve got plans to bed down by the riverbank tonight—why not join me?’ Acting so damn high-handed—it made me so mad I suddenly leapt out of the rickshaw boots-first.”

Two Messengers

Eighteen

Kinnoosuke drained a bowl of tea as if it were sacred water, “Though it’s mortifying to admit, I actually can’t even discern which direction leads toward Ueno. Yet though Yoshiwara lay visible right there, not a single rickshaw moved through its streets—not a soul passed by.” No one to ask—trying to check what time it might be, he went to take out his pocket watch, but strangely, it was gone—whether stolen or dropped, chain and all. Having even lost track of time, he stood blankly at the top of that slope for some time.

I felt utterly forlorn—compounded by this blinding blizzard, my drunken stupor, the biting cold—Yotsuya seemed a hundred ri away. Then somehow I slipped back into that dreamlike state again. Since this was the first time I’d become a lost child since being born, I wondered if something was wrong with my own body—that maybe that’s why this had happened—and though it was utterly foolish, I grew frightened. If I’d only been mistaken for a rickshaw puller—and with this snowfall despite it not being summer robe weather—there’d be nothing odd at all. But...

What troubled me was—the rickshaw had been broken during daytime, then at Iyo Mon when seating arrangements settled and we’d exchanged cups two or three times—being a five-cup lightweight drinker, I’d already begun staggering—that’s when the maid whispered in my ear: “Could you come to the entrance? There’s someone who absolutely must see you,” she said. In other words, someone had summoned me.

When the lights came on, the entrance remained dim. Thinking there might be some business at home, I absentmindedly followed the maid across the courtyard stepping stones and went out to the entrance, where I found a woman standing there—one who had been under my aunt’s care and taught my cousin her books. Earlier, the lady had—referring to my aunt—visited her home in Yotsuya only to find she had already departed. As the promised item had been completed and delivered yesterday, she stated she wished to present it to you and accordingly brought it here. But upon finding you absent, she took it back as it was. With that boy—though I thought he’d be fine—that might not hold true; should he accompany friends elsewhere it might be tolerable, but if they venture to Yoshiwara, it would prove dangerous. ‘Go where he has gone out and deliver this,’ she said, entrusting it to me—so I came posthaste by rickshaw.

“Apparently it had been polished by that master sharpener near Kōtokuji Temple—so out from this purple fukusa wrapping she pulls an eight-sun mirror in a brocade bag, and would you believe she tried handing it over right at the restaurant entrance?” The young man drew a breath.

Owaka and the maid hung on his every word, their eyes and ears fixed intently. "I know the mirror's history because Aunt would recount it like a mantra." "Apparently my uncle had been carousing in this quarter until his life hung by a thread—she took him under her wing and made him human again." "I don't consider it proper either, though I know its ways well enough—but when Aunt's involved, she becomes convinced any young man entering Yoshiwara will meet his end there." "Having been coddled by her since childhood like some precious heir—forgive my bluntness—I still find this quarter terrifying despite knowing its workings; I know Aunt's temperament too, but really—what manner of 'admonishing mirror' gets brought to drinking halls where brash youths carouse freely, with painted beauties flitting about their sleeves?"

On the day she came telling me to tuck it into my pocket and take it home, I felt as though a will-o’-the-wisp had pressed upon me—my spirits sank. "And then for the messenger to be a female teacher—and on top of that, a devout Christian—there’s just no helping it, I tell you."

He forced a smile, “My apologies, but please deliver it to your home,” I humbly entreated, to which the messenger replied, “My principles differ from yours.” “I don’t believe in such things, but the intentions of one who cares for you from the heart must be honored.” “I too was moved by your kindness and came gladly—this sort of errand is the first in my life,” she said. “Why, absolutely anyone would say the same.”

Nineteen “But when the snow blocked my path beneath the embankment and I lost even my way back—that’s when I remembered—ah, had I accepted and kept that thing with me, perhaps none of this would have happened.” “When you think about it, even for an aunt, bringing a mirror all the way to Iyo Mon isn’t something done lightly.” That someone had brought and sent it over must have been some omen; my sending the female teacher back without accepting it, the rickshaw breaking, being mistaken for a puller—perhaps these all meant I was fated to come near Yoshiwara despite having no business here. Trivial as these connections seemed, the realization sent a chill through me.

“Of course, even then, I didn’t scornfully refuse it through the skylight—had they slipped it into my pocket, I would’ve accepted it, but...” He peered at his chest area as if inspecting it. “You must find this costume troublesome, no? I asked you to secretly deliver it to Yotsuya from your end while pretending to Auntie it’d been received, but that teacher with her modest evening coiffure seemed unconvinced—‘Then I’ll take it straight to your residence by rickshaw,’ she declared and off she went.”

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

And then. Thinking that as long as I turned back the way I came, there’d be no reason to worry about entering Yoshiwara, I trudged along only to be met with a headwind. To my right was a great ditch, rows of small houses blanketed under snow, and beyond them loomed the rear of a massive three-story structure, its dimly lit form visible through the storm—drawbridges, countless drawbridges—hung like the upturned sleeves of deutzia-patterned armor, this way—" I tugged at the sleeve of the borrowed haori.

“They’d been flipped upside down with the ditch before them, raised higher than the house roofs.” This novelty pierced even his muddled thoughts; while idly observing and counting roughly one drawbridge for every two or three steps amid four or five paces, Kinnoosuke pressed through snow deep enough to swallow boots—each laborious step carrying him toward Tamachi. Where the iron-stained ditch bent sharply as if severed, there remained one bridge alone—its white outline slicing clean through the ditch’s hue—still lowered across the waterway.

“There stood a woman alone at that spot—ah, just as I thought to ask directions, to call out—” As someone approached, she startled like a white heron taking flight. She briskly started walking ahead, so somehow feeling self-conscious, I too stopped in my tracks. Her figure vanished into the fiercely falling snow, but when I looked again, she had returned to the edge of the drawbridge and once more went gliding off into the distance. When I started walking again, she would turn around and come back toward me, so I too would stop—this happened three times until we passed each other, with the woman remaining at the drawbridge.

I walked past her as we crossed paths, and this time found myself turning to look back. Then the woman walked like this and stopped, looking down in a manner that seemed utterly at a loss—so dejectedly pitiful that... I retraced about two steps. There must have been something she couldn’t manage alone; at such times, she would want someone unconnected to lend their strength. If she didn’t flee at the sight of me, I thought I’d call out to her—whatever secrets she might harbor—without prying.

"To tell the truth, I too wanted an ally. After all, I thought there might be some arrangement where consulting about a rickshaw wasn't entirely impossible." "What's happened to you?" "How kind," Owaka murmured involuntarily, the voice of her heart slipping through lips parted in rapt attention. "When I approached and looked, there she was barefoot as expected - truly disheveled in appearance, wearing only an underrobe with its sash still fastened and a mouse-gray coat thrown over it. The Hyogo-style hairstyle became clearly visible, though tousled as if she'd just risen from bed. Though I didn't know her personally, there could be no doubt - she was a courtesan."

"She was tall, you know—a courtesan of terrifyingly elegant bearing."

Twenty “That woman asked me to. “Sis,” he began, then turned his beautiful face squarely toward the woman.

Owaka turned slightly aside with a brightened air, taking measured breaths as she locked eyes with Sugi, who had been listening in silence. "Who?" “Hai.” He stared unblinking. "To Sis—that courtesan had something she was meant to deliver tonight to Miss Owaka at the dormitory—though we share the same master, this mustn’t reach the proprietor’s ears nor be known by friends nor noticed by junior courtesans—she’d been trying since noon to find an opening but couldn’t slip out unnoticed."

This very night—with a confidential banquet underway and snow falling—she stole away when all throughout the rooms had fallen asleep, coming this far yet hesitating even to tread the earth, legs stiffening and trembling besides, for one of her station shouldn’t be venturing to such places nowadays—who could know what dreadful predicament might await. The dormitory was already visible there. "It’s just a block away—if I say Red Plum Mansion, you’ll know it immediately—but with all those dogs barking like that, there was nothing I could do. Thinking to save her life, she pleaded, ‘Please deliver this,’ as if in prayer." "Indeed, now that I think about it, the dogs were barking terribly around that area."

“Well, being asked posed no trouble at all—but for her, given the unfathomable circumstances of the pleasure quarter—it seemed like a matter of grave importance. So there was something she urgently needed delivered.” “When I asked if simply handing it over would suffice, she said that even without names or details, the sister at the dormitory would know well enough—so I agreed.” “When I asked about the dormitory—they said it lay about a block away—‘enter the left alley there’—conveniently along my return route.” “After parting ways like that and making my way here—I came to that row house with a light visible along the street at the alley’s dead end where I’d asked earlier—when I turned back—the woman still stood there—she seemed to point this way—but through the haze I couldn’t tell for certain—so I simply headed toward that light.”

‘Enter the alley,’ instructed a voice that seemed to belong to an old man—possibly drunk. There’d been no need to explain every detail, but upon entering here and first seeing this bright light, the snowy path somehow felt dreamlike—both to steady myself and because appearing at a women’s quarters late at night without explanation would seem suspicious even if requested. “That’s the situation. At any rate, let me give you what was requested,” he said, casually spreading his arm and reaching into the inner pocket high on his left chest.

Having stiffened while listening, they both shifted—Owaka propped her adorable cheek on a pale arm where her underrobe sleeve had caught, tilting slightly backward as she narrowed her silver-like eyes in apparent thought. "I wonder what it could be, Sugi." “That is correct,” was all she could say regarding matters of grave importance, life-and-death promises, and rescues—though she hadn’t the faintest idea what any of it meant—yet she showed no trace of doubting the guest’s words. "Wait," he said at this moment, once again searching his right pocket and tilting his head slightly,

"Hmm—must've been in my coat after all," he muttered while rising to one knee.

"Sugi," "I will." "It should be in the left inner pocket," As she bent forward, someone brought it over from the entrance—thinking it belonged to him—unbothered by its dampness, cradling it carefully as if it were precious.

She spread it diagonally across the threshold and reached into that inner pocket again—whether from cold or shock, she seemed to shudder.

Twenty-One

“That’s quite all right. Even were you to drop it, you needn’t worry in the slightest.” When he—after fruitless searching and shoving aside his coat—removed his wide-sleeved outer garment with a flustered air while reaching into his jacket’s inner pocket once more, his complexion shifting as he fell silent and stared fixedly in contemplation, Owaka spoke in a tone both magnanimously unconcerned and suffused with compassion, offering consolation instead:

Sugi, her mind unsettled, gazed at the boy’s condition with evident concern yet found herself unable to interject at this juncture. He showed an increasingly bewildered expression, “It’s fine, perfectly fine, perfectly fine,” as if scolding herself, “There’s no chance you’d drop it—the person who entrusted this has their very life at stake,” she said rapidly, glancing around again.

“What manner of item might this be?” Sugi drew nearer to the youth and spoke protectively. “I did not properly inspect it either—no, truthfully I never conceived to look in the first place.” “It was merely this elongated object wrapped in paper—possessing some heft when received.” Owaka gave a slight nod, “Sugi,” “Yes,” “Mr. Segawa’s... you recall, that matter,” she intimated. “Ah yes, indeed! You see sir—we had lent it to our retained Mr. Segawa—that courtesan who made entreaty being tall and refined with sorrowful countenance—ah! Given her profound distress we naturally assumed... precisely!”

She declared emphatically. "I did tell them I'd return it by tonight, but Miss Owaka never meant to have it returned—it's only just now I remembered." "What do you mean?" she asked, regaining some composure. Whispers suggested it was money—even now, convinced this must be so, her fingertips brushed against a small pouch within the inner pocket. Wakiya Kinnoosuke, soon to depart for Germany to further his studies through an aunt who was widow of the late Army Major General Matsushima Chikara, possessed funds he could discard here without consequence. Thus equipped with disposable wealth, he found himself more than capable of redeeming his hollow vanity before this beauty through such expiation.

When asked, Sugi took over, "It's a small amount of funds." Kinnoosuke beamed cheerfully,

“Then I’ll make amends. No, please leave it as is. If it’s something significant, I’ll have you wait until I return. If not, I have something suitable I can use,” he said with conviction. “Preposterous, you—” said Sugi. Owaka maintained an air of ignorance, smiling faintly.

He said earnestly, “Please—it’s perfectly fine this way. Otherwise I’d be utterly disgraced." “Just sitting face-to-face like this brings cold sweat—it’s beyond mortifying. Some stranger forcing their way in at midnight... it’s all too strange.” “You needn’t concern yourself,” she said, disarranging the crimson-lined sleeve hem from where she’d been sitting primly upright. Throwing one knee sideways, she rested her jewel-like arm on the brazier while slanting a glance at Kinnoosuke. “I’ve ample funds—coins untouched, paper notes unspent—” Neither form nor visage could have borne words more beautiful in all the world—words trusting without reservation, frank without hidden thorns.

Left inner pocket

Twenty-Two

At these unexpected words, the boy stared with astonished eyes—and now Sugi scrutinized his face—when an indescribably beautiful thought struck a chord within him. Moreover, in an unreserved tone, “I’ll make proper amends later and return to express my gratitude anew. But first, please settle the rickshaw matter immediately. “Given this establishment’s nature, you must know the accounts office. If it’s nearby, I’ll accompany you there myself, my good woman.”

Sugi glanced briefly at the woman but, “What time do you suppose it is? While such matters do not occur here at our establishment, in society it must be past two in the morning. As you saw earlier, the outdoors remains just as it was.”

The boy felt the ferocity of the driving snow against his body and, perhaps recalling something from his journey, shuddered once more.

When conversation in the room ceased, across the ethereal expanse of snowy wilderness—as if calling from some village beyond—vividly conjured in the mind, there came the distant crow of a rooster. “Miss Owaka, I will have you stay here. Rest your mind, and then you may return.”

"Though it may be presumptuous of one in my position to say so, I cannot help but feel you labor under some ill omen. Your complexion remains pallid still, and your condition seems uncertain—perhaps you were exposed to the snow. Somehow it seems as though you stand at the brink of grave illness—your bearing appears so desolate, and you sit there utterly listless. Though you maintain proper composure, I must humbly observe your mind does not seem entirely sound."

“When I recount them, it’s nothing but misfortunes—the rickshaw summoned from your residence was damaged, the one from before Matsusakaya—I mistakenly took you to some errant place—and your watch has vanished. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself further, but even the items you entrusted have disappeared. That’s twice now, and this too—misfortune upon misfortune. As they say, what happens twice will surely happen thrice. From here to Yotsuya slope, we could certainly send two or three reliable young men—as seasoned as those with ten years’ service—to accompany you. In snow or rain’s hardship, everyone would share the burden of inconvenience bit by bit to keep your person unharmed. But truly, your current state seems most peculiar. You mustn’t suffer any injuries. Even regular patrons granted access to the inner quarters—no matter how intimate with Miss Owaka—have never once set foot in these chambers. Yet here you are, arriving so late on such a night—could this too be under Lord Narita’s orders to provide care?”

"I won’t say anything unpleasant, so please stay here tonight. Come now, do as I say." "And Miss Owaka—come to the kotatsu now—I’ll prepare something warm to ward off ill fortune for you—" "Well, setting everything else aside—it’s this snow, isn’t it?"

“To tell the truth—I don’t know why—but tonight every time a single snowflake touches my body, it feels like being stung by poisonous insects.”

What was this fine youth to do? Entangled in bewitching threads until he lost all vestiges of his natural grace, he succumbed completely to such cold.

“So please do as I say. Come now, rest assured.” “Would that be acceptable to you, Miss Owaka?” “The master is resting over there and won’t be receiving anyone until midnight. Once day breaks and the old man and Otsuji-san return, I will handle the arrangements. You see, Miss Owaka?” While Great Deity Sugi trembled through her earnest entreaties, Owaka drifted like a wind through empty sky—paying no heed, appearing drowsy in her trance. No sooner had the thought struck than—compared to the boy—Sugi jolted in shock, left gaping with unease; Owaka took a brief glance at her troubled face, chuckled faintly, and averted her gaze.

“I’d hate it if you leave as soon as dawn breaks!” “In that case,” Sugi exclaimed, suddenly seizing the opening of the coat’s inner pocket with force. “Then please do stay like this.”

Twenty-Three

Having likely changed into sleepwear, Owaka emerged listlessly from the six-tatami room in the rear—her figure deeply bowed to reveal a gaunt chin visible through intervals of movement, the nightclothes pressed against a slightly disheveled collar area as she cradled an armful of outer garments and short jackets against her chest, opening the sliding door with her bowed posture.

Inside the sliding door lay the kotatsu's hem and the folding screen's edge.

Closing the door behind her with one hand pressed against her back, she disappeared into a dark three-tatami space, then emerged quietly in a ten-tatami hall. Beyond two rooms with double-layered sliding doors—all left slightly ajar—lay another six-tatami area near the entrance where a large Western-style table lamp burned over an elongated brazier. Its light slid across indigo tatami mats, making Owaka’s cold-looking toes—barefoot now, tabi socks removed—glisten there like scattered snowflakes. By this lamplight, Owaka peered forward while keeping half her body in shadow—leaning slightly—to see the brass medicine kettle hanging over the brazier, where one small pot still simmered. Sugi sat properly dozing without movement, her glossy round chignon displaying the mottled cloth-wrapped comb squarely at its front.

Peering in, she swiftly drew back and remained utterly silent for a time—then suddenly dropped what she was clutching onto the tatami mats. A muffled sob escaped, thick with gloom.

After a while, she quietly took up the kimonos once more and hung them one by one on the clothes rack by the wall. Owaka listlessly put on Western-style trousers, fastened a short jacket, then draped an overcoat—yet kept holding it without releasing her grip. She stood motionless before stealthily rising on tiptoe again. Peering across the space as though viewing an illustration from a woodblock chapbook—where even the stripes of garments showed clearly—she gazed at the serenely sleeping Sugi. Returning, she repeatedly hung and rehung the overcoat’s inner pocket on the clothes rack.

Moreover, Owaka involuntarily took firm hold of its left side— “Ah, I said I hate this!” she muttered despairingly. Ah! Seal an everlasting bond this way—Sugi had urged—this way, seal it forever! Owaka trembled while maintaining her desperate grip, as if losing all self-awareness—then when she clung tighter, a metallic clink sounded. A chill pierced her toes; her entire body shuddered with needle-like cold—and there she saw it: a single razor.

“How dreadful.” What she touched at the edge of her drenched sleeve—still wrapped as when prepared for Gosuke—was a familiar scrap of paper. Owaka’s body quivered violently, but as she took it in her left hand and stared, her face abruptly paled. “Ah!”

At that, Gosuke the razor sharpener shouted and abruptly sprang upright. Sakubei the mirror polisher—who had flopped down beyond the kotatsu and was sprawled using a poor man’s sake bottle as a pillow—had his coarse futon flipped off, leaving him mumbling in a sleep-slurred voice, “What’s all this racket?” Gosuke, his clothes still bearing the imprint of his spread-eagled posture, crouched toad-like with his face thrust forward and eyes wide open, peered through the shoji screens toward Red Plum Mansion while his teeth chattered uncontrollably. “It’s terrible, Mr. Sakubei! Terrible! M-m-murder!”

"A sign the god of poverty's escaping? Quaking like that won't help—pull yourself together now, pull yourself together!" Though half-drunk himself, Sakubei rose too, unable to ignore Gosuke's frantic state. At the bedside lay a large plate of sashimi garnishes, with sake cups and chopsticks scattered haphazardly. "No—you need to steady yourself! It's calamitous—a fearsome curse! Such unrelenting malice!"

Remnants of Makeup

Twenty-Four

“Finally—just like when that hatamoto courtesan lured a man from her lover’s bloodline alone into Red Plum Mansion—Miss Owaka will use that razor taken earlier to kill him too! She’ll say their stations are too mismatched for love to ever bloom!” “She’s bathing right now—” “What nonsense! Hahaha! You’ll catch cold! Hmm—it’s a dream, I tell you! Just a dream!” “Hmm… But was it a dream?” he muttered vaguely, crossing his arms, but

“Wait—following this line of thought—hasn’t someone come here earlier asking about Nijōya’s quarters?” “Oh!”

Sakubei struck his knee.

“Now that you mention it, there was! You were drunk snorin’ away—couldn’t sleep with you starin’ so hard. ‘Bout half past one, in that awful howlin’ wind, I heard it clear—a young man’s voice.” “That’s it! That’s exactly it! Damned madness!” “You—some courtesan handed Miss Owaka a razor! She’s gonna kill him! For her toilette maybe? Her bath—you know the ablutions—in the bathhouse there, she poured medicine kettle water into a wooden bucket, stripped bare without a care, then clenched that razor from her robe ‘tween her teeth I tell ya!” “I was peerin’ through the glass door—she jerked her head up sudden-like, and when she did, the base of her Shimada came loose all at once. Grabbed at it rough-like—her face! Spittin’ image of that ghost I saw earlier! Near let out a proper scream! So get goin’ quick and stop her!”

“And you’re sayin’ she’ll kill the man?” “No—my dream’s your dream, eh? Quit your yappin’.” “This all started when you told ’em ’bout Red Plum Mansion.” “Am I half-dreamin’ even now? Since they took Miss Owaka’s razor—the one I honed fresh at dusk—it’s been gnawin’ at me, gnawin’ till I can’t bear it.” “Then when night fell deep, someone came sniffin’ round—odd duck, that one. Thinkin’, ‘If my favorite Tadanosuke gets hurt...’ I meant to tail ’im right off, but my damned cowardice held me back. So I dragged you out—useless as you are—pairin’ up even in my nightmares!”

“Well, well, what a monumental fuss.”

“Then when I stepped outside, the snow had already stopped. When I went to the dormitory’s front, it was dead quiet. “I thought there wasn’t any commotion, but just in case I’d misjudged, I called out and knocked on the door—no answer.” Since things felt truly off, I shouted my lungs out and banged on the door—but sure enough, it was all a dream. When I knocked, no sound came; my voice wouldn’t carry like I wanted. Thinking it felt like hailing a ferry from the opposite shore, I tried forcing the door open regardless—but that latch held fast.

As I circled round and round the dormitory looking for any possible opening, a light began to shine through the bathhouse window. "Hmm, that’s strange," I thought—at this hour… When I went over and peered in, there was Miss Owaka emerging in disheveled sleepwear, carrying a medicine kettle. At first I felt relieved, but when I saw her astonishingly beautiful face—her eyes were swollen from crying, you see. In the span of wondering what had happened, she pulled off the crepe haori jacket with its familiar deer-spotted fastening behind her back, gathered its hem, stepped to the basin, and poured out the medicine kettle’s water—steam billowed up in a mist-like cloud. She took soap from the shelf, thrust a hand towel into it, then bent forward to wash her face. "From that moment on, the base of her Shimada hairstyle was coming loose unsteadily, don’t you think?"

She wiped her face thoroughly, and just as that brought some relief—would you believe it—she then stripped off her plump undergarments. The mere sight was enough to shock, but what’s truly strange when you think about it—there at her chest was the razor, you see— “Mr. Gosuke, this must be it.” The scene was exactly like the one from earlier when the courtesan had acted. The moment she realized—with a start—she turned her back and lay faceup, and yes—caught sight of the full-length mirror hung near the upper entrance. “Then her hair came tumblin’ down all rough-like—and that face in the mirror! Looked just like a courtesan’s ghost, I tell ya! She nearly let out a scream.”

Twenty-Five

Thus, what Gosuke saw in his dream was not the meticulous sequence of how Kinnoosuke—through some uncanny twist of fate—came to lodge with Owaka at Red Plum Mansion’s dormitory on that snowbound night. Even the courtesan’s spectral cry—urging a Nijōya woman to slaughter a descendant of her forsaken lover—lingered only as a half-formed fancy sparked upon waking... yet this proved tragically real. Though Sakubei had dismissed it as mere aftereffects of that evening’s earlier threats, he had indeed directed the soft-voiced man toward the dormitory path. Unable to disregard the matter, he rushed out regardless—the farcical sight of that timorous soul tucking a stick beneath his arm as he scurried off completing the absurdity.

When they stepped outside, what had been faintly concealed and vividly revealed within the depths of falling snow and shifting clouds since earlier now fully transformed into a moonlit night. The night watchmen’s final clang of iron rods echoed distantly through the pleasure quarter, its spring night lingering like a reluctant dawn. As they turned a corner and encountered a lone passerby, they immediately thrust out their stick—but no, it was nothing suspicious,

“Mornin’ already,” remarked a passerby coolly before heading toward the embankment. When they entered the charcoal shop’s alley—where even the split ends of stacked firewood seemed dusted with snow—faint footprints dipped sporadically as though formed by spirits. Exchanging wary glances, they advanced to the entrance where silence reigned within. This too felt dreamlike. With hearts pounding, they knocked—the clanging echoed through February’s waning moonlight so starkly it might have been mistaken for fox cries at Kozukahara—but no answer came.

Without delay, they saw the garden’s sleeve fence to their left, passed the kitchen entrance, and wound through thick plantings—when suddenly, glittering like quicksilver flowing through darkness, the bathhouse window became visible through the snow. Then, before what seemed to be a ditch ahead, steam rose in faint, sporadic wisps roughly matching a person’s height. Startled by this, Gosuke and Sakubei rushed to the bathhouse—but by the time they arrived, they were already gasping for breath. As Gosuke hesitated, Sakubei intervened and suddenly took action. Finding the door unlatched—someone must have forgotten to lock it—they opened the glass window and climbed inside. Under the moonlight reflecting off the snow, the large brass hot-water kettle stood clearly visible. The lid lay separate, the kettle overturned face-down, a wet hand towel in the bucket. The water seemed scarce—a dried-up, frost-like trickle soaked the floor in a pattern resembling a cast net.

When they jumped in from the upper entrance, stepping on the lingering footprints on the wet floorboards, their blood running cold as they rushed toward the light—the lamp had been dimmed slightly—there sat Miss Sugi rigidly upright, her topknot, her comb, her entire figure as if frozen in place with a small pot still held aloft. Unnoticed by anyone, someone had draped the Yuuki half-coat—which Kinnoosuke had taken off earlier and left behind when he went to sleep—over her. And Sugi, at this, still wept quietly.

Gosuke and Sakubei, approaching from either side, frantically struck her back two or three times. Sugi gasped and regained her senses in the same instant,

“The oiran… the courtesan…” she said plaintively. The half-coat—in her kindness, Owaka must have earnestly draped it over someone even in her final moments. Afterward, even in her dazed state, Sugi had known Owaka had come before her eyes to fetch hot water—had known too how she’d rolled up her sleeves and carried the heavy bucket toward the bathhouse—but earlier still, a refined, tall, unfamiliar courtesan in snow-dampened nightclothes had drifted through the dormitory, circling around Owaka countless times. Whenever Sugi tried to rise, the woman would fix her with a piercing glare, freezing her in place.

There being no time to voice such thoughts, as Sugi regained her senses and grew deeply concerned for Owaka’s safety, the three of them rushed into the inner room—but alas,

Already too late—the snow’s purity, the red plum blossoms, all lay in violent disarray, stained crimson. When Sugi lifted her up as though mad, Owaka still had breath, but she clutched the blood-dripping razor, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said twice—though it was merely a surface wound—she did not live to see dawn.

The man had suffered a deep wound but remained conscious, and when he saw those who had just rushed in—

“You all, help me—this valuable life!” At these words, Gosuke and Sakubei collapsed in shock. This fact was kept well under wraps along with the carriage that, early the next morning, circled around from Kanasugi to the rear, reached the dormitory gate, and took away the corpses from Dōitsu Makura. However, those who boarded the carriage were Tachibana, a schoolteacher who had served as an envoy for the major’s wife to Iyomon the previous night, and a medical doctor. When they concluded through that examination that they could not be saved, there was Owaka’s suicide note presented by Nijōya Fujisaburō—that is, Owaka’s adoptive father—who had been waiting solemnly in the next room.

Tachibana took it, opened it, then approached the bedside and read it aloud in a clouded yet clear voice.

This meaning did not differ in the slightest from what people had imagined. The boy, who had been muttering "How regrettable it ends now" beneath his breath while intermittently grinding his teeth, strained to listen until the end. For a time he remained entranced, his pallid face—already bearing death's pallor—softening faintly as he made three deliberate gestures with his hands. When the Medical Doctor nodded, Tachibana pressed the brush into his hand. With slight effort he raised his pillow, and upon a half-sheet of crimson-bordered hanshi paper bearing faded traces of delicate brushwork in pale ink—including smudged characters reading "Owaka"※ (the cursive script for "I humbly submit")—he inscribed "Wakiya Kinnoosuke, spouse" in slightly larger, elegant strokes before serenely closing his eyes.

A heavy silence fell over the gathering. Sakubei was sobbing while— “How blessed we are…”

Gosuke placed his clenched fist on his knee, “Miss Owaka… no joy.”

January 1901 (Meiji 34)