Pathway to Japanese Literature

One

"The single-leaf reeds of Naniwa Bay, tangled and knotted—ah, well now!"

And with that, he staggered—

"This’s it… Ah, steady now."

He switched the travel hat he'd been carrying from hand to hand over to his left, then recklessly jabbed forward the shoulder bearing both bundles—the indigo-wrapped package and camphorwood oil parcel—their bat-like cling nearly shaking loose as he staggered one final step.

“Am I to come undone, unraveled... and meet?”
“What am I blathering about? ...I’m the one about to melt away here.”
“…Ain’t there a summer rain comin’ soon... or has it gone wanderin’ off somewhere.”

The sound of waves abruptly subsided.
Pines along the shore—each tree, each branch—adorned their sparse boughs and dense crowns one by one with emerald and pale crimson window lamps from inns and villas as if painted. Pine dew burned with longing's fever; red lanterns scattered faintly between houses, casting shadows on white sand where dusk's sprinkled water still dampened tea house reed screens now tinged blue-gray. Women's figures glimmered faintly—an atmosphere ripe for beckoning from husked twilight.
This place followed along Futami Bay.

A midsummer night's darkness.
For these four or five days of unrelenting heat, the daytime had blazed as if scorching glass—fierce and pitiless—yet with evening calm came clouded skies; water and air alike appeared exhausted, clouds sagging listlessly like soot-colored syrup that clung stickily across the heavens until dusk spilled its ink, and the sea’s waves ridged like lacquer.
And yet there would be no rain tonight either.
Yet persistently, not even a whisper of breeze carried the brine’s scent to rouse a single droplet.

The man stood with his straw sandals and leggings-clad legs held straight, like a single stake driven into the ground; gazing up at the pine, he halted... then turned the sharpened corners of his eyes toward the waves.

“Ah, this ain’t no song… but I could use a good downpour…”

He struck his forehead abruptly,

“Don’t panic. Roku-chan—no, ain’t cut out for proper titles.
Rokukō, Roku denashi, Rokuin, Tsuki Rokusai—that’s what they call me.”
“Ha ha ha!”

He hunched his shoulders with a wry smile, then staggered unsteadily across the sand—

“Rain’s the last thing you want when sleeping rough.”

At that moment, he stumbled……

“This’s it!”
“So much for staying calm.”
“Ah—pine roots.”
“Damn this… whatever this is!”

The teahouse along the shore—no, rather, a boat moored to a beachside pine.—Rokuzō pulled back the hat he’d flung aside and, crouching to peer forward, found the vessel’s prow now directly before his eyes.

The boat—lacking both oar and scull—had been tied to the trunk of a seaside pine and pulled up at the water’s edge where Futami Bay’s sea-facing rear gates met the beach entrance to the main thoroughfare, positioned between two structures: one being the imposing three-storied Awajiya inn, the other the elegant two-storied villa of Ikegawa, Matsusaka’s wealthy magnate.

Even those bound for Fujoiwa—were passersby on the highway to glimpse this scene, it too would claim its place among celebrated vistas.
Even if no mullet leapt at the gunwale, the prow wore scales of azure tide.
The boat seemed to float upon the waves, upon the sea.
...yet the inlet’s waves—resembling a pool where indigo had been poured—even when winds arose, refused to wash against this hull near shore.
Even if one playfully untied its mooring rope and set it rocking like a wooden horse, though it might sway this way and that, skid across the shoal’s sand—there was no fear of being dragged into the water.

The carefree boat lay separated from that villa—which kept no barriers against the world beyond a single layer of bamboo fence tied in four-paned knots and evening glory vines—merely by those very vines' trellises.
The shamisen melody and song drifting from the zashiki room beyond the wet veranda—lightly cradled by two or three pine needles—lingered without flowing onward, floating upon silk-like sand.

Two

"You and your... whatever this is!"
"...At Sumiyoshi's shore-side teahouse—ah, well now!"

And Rokuzō—this fellow whose disheveled appearance, shabby attire, and even name seemed to mirror his haphazard existence, a brat one might call a karmic troublemaker—perched himself on the boat's gunwale, then clicked his tongue—

"What a damn hassle."
"The lodging fee's set in bad coins, there."

He plopped his hat down, took the bundle in his other hand, and tossed it into the hat,

"No—if you want lodging, we've got lodging! Baths boiling aplenty, shoji screens freshly pasted, tatami mats newly replaced.—Don't feed me that crap!"

He clasped his empty hands together and looked around, then shook his head dejectedly,

“Wait… The vault of heaven gleams blackly."
“The lights’re half-hearted as hell—Futamigaura’s a thousand-mat spread, beach sand’s gold ’n’ silver... right? Right? That’s how it is, ain’t it.”
“Sure enough, they’re gushing out aplenty—enough to reach Irakogasaki.”
“Ah, but damn it's hot!”

He rolled his sleeves up to his shoulders,

“Everyone’s sure quick to go crawling under tiles and into walls.”

Under tiles and within walls—in villas and inns alike, on both first and second floors—all sought refuge from this sweltering heat, avoiding the evening calm’s tide by shifting their seats southward. At the lookout pine, Ise Saburō seemed to yearn for winds from Kamiji Mountain, Asamadake, Isuzu River, and Miya River, as if poised to steal the moon itself should it appear.
The lively atmosphere and voices clustered busily toward the main thoroughfare, while at the rear, even the faint glow of bathhouse electric lamps stood distant from the sea.

Rokuzō smirked and chuckled to himself,

“Even giving up bedtime stories—Miss, you for real? Joke’s on you—joke’s on you—no joke at all.”
“Step right in, honored guest—lodging’s all ready for ya.”
“Hey now! Early arrival deserves our thanks.”
“Foot-washin’ water—quick about it!”
“Yeah yeah—come on in.”
“White hand towel, red sash... Get them soft fingers bringin’ water and I’ll turn goldfish in the tub!”
“Goldfish oh goldfish!”

With such a jaunty hawker’s call.

“Well now—dark blue kasuri with dark blue gaiters. What a strange-colored goldfish.”
“Damn it all—it’s a catfish!”
“The part that gets lopped off’s a crucian carp—that’s me!”
“Crucian carp, crucian carp—crucian carp samurai!”

Heaving his chest and arching back sharply, but then suddenly hunched his shoulders and ducked his head,

“What nonsense am I spouting?”

Then, raising his left leg over his left thigh and crossing it to the right.
The lanterns stood distant. Groping blindly, he mindlessly untied his straw sandals, aligned them neatly, and thrust them into the boat’s bottom with a thud. Commendably, he then unfolded the hand towel he’d carried folded, patted the dust from his feet, used his buttocks to steer the oar, and tumbled bodily into the boat’s midsection.

“Right this way, yes yes...”

he barked to himself,

“It’s the detached guest room in the back… the boat’s quarters—pray do come in.”
“Ah, I wanna say ‘What a fine view!’—but it’s too damn dark to see squat.”

While spouting nonsense, he sat cross-legged in the boat—a posture resembling a rabbit barely restraining the oar while a tanuki had boarded.

"What, a bath? The bath's closed."
"I may not look it, but I ain't exactly the generous type."
"Ha! Water generosity in a bath—that's rich—what's gushing aplenty's the sea.—Your honorable meal'll be right up."
"One flask on your tray."
"Understood?"
"There might be some slip-ups in the menu, but pick out another dish for accompaniment—so commands His Lordship."

So commands His Lordship,

“Ah, this is good sake! Chūbei’s Ofukuro, was it? From the old days... Exquisitely warmed, exquisitely warmed.”

and tapped his forehead a couple of times.
……His nonchalance verged on brazenness—fully intending to sleep right there in the open before long.
He spouted comparisons—treating the moored boat as an inn and scenic spots as guest rooms.
But.
Just an hour or so earlier, when he had wandered along this town street past the inns on both sides, the sun had already set, and from his legs to his back, the shadow of vagrancy rippled—a pitiful sight indeed.

III

In the dusk, the inn touts awaiting lodgers sat on benches beneath the eaves—their evening coiffures of shimada knots, round chignons, ginkgo-leaf twists, and smoothed tresses slanting as they perched sideways. Pale indigo, white, and crimson sashes fluttered through their hair ornaments’ hues, painted fans stirring as their voices cooed with all the allure of the brothel quarter’s ambiance.

The swept-white path along the bay—flanked by houses with eaves aligned on both sides—wound through residential quarters toward that shimenawa-draped rock... a shell-inlaid single trail of pine-studded maki-e.

Ice shops, closed teahouses, Akafuku vendors, one-portion meal stalls—especially the shell craft and marquetry girls clamoring like bulbuls to beckon passersby—all found their twilight hour of commerce in the day’s lingering light as it thickened toward night. When their cacophony momentarily stilled, the women’s hair deepened to blackness, their face powder whitening to purity.

In a gentle voice,

“Might you be staying?”

“Step right in for lodgin’!”

From both directions came charming calls of “Step right in for lodgin’!”—their smiling voices as red as portulaca blossoms.

“I’ll stay.”

There, as he abruptly made his way with sweat-dampened indigo kasuri travel gear,

“Yes, our inn has three classes: upper, middle, and lower. However, even the lowest class…”

How could he possibly secure a night’s lodging at such an inn? It must be their standard spiel upon seeing his appearance.

“What’s this?
Ain’t ya sayin’ to put me up for free?”

“Please check the going rate.”

“I ain’t takin’ orders.” He shrugged his shoulders and lumbered past.

“Step right in for lodgin’!”

“Me?” he drawled, sidling right up.
“No, that’s not it.”
“Take a look at this! Heh.”
With half-rolled eyes turned skyward, he sulkily stomped past without stopping.

Even in this area, there were traveler’s inns and cheap lodgings.
In short, at inns where comely women dwell—beckoning travelers in the pale dusk—they do not take in guests of your disheveled appearance.

Even if his baggage contained nothing but stone tiles and old newspapers—nay, even if his pockets were utterly empty—once he slipped beneath the eaves of an establishment he’d set his sights on and set foot in its guest room, he’d overturn sake flasks, demand bowl refills, order extravagances like flounder and sea bream, summon masseurs for treatment, sleep soundly through the night, and when settling accounts come morning, wouldn’t so much as flinch despite lacking even a single five-sen white copper coin.

A needle—one single needle—is no magic wand.

This Roku the Worthless, Rokuzō, was originally a skilled tailor who had kept a wife and household, even employing apprentice boys.
Crumbled by drink, piled high with gambling debts, adorned with nothing but rigged dice—his namesake journey of Sugoroku had him fleeing the florid capital under night’s cover. From Kanagawa post-town’s outskirts, he’d become a penniless vagrant, wandering journey upon journey these three years past.

Faced with such bills, he’d present a washed face all nonchalant,

“Hey, ain’t ya needin’ any stitchwork done?”
“A haori or hakama even.”
“If there’s nothin’ else, I’ll sew ya a burial shroud.”
“We’ll call it square.”

There existed a barber who shaved the faces of prostitutes lingering at brothels come morning and escaped the jaws of danger. Compared to that, skilled tailoring proved far more valuable at inns and hot spring lodgings—so much so that the name Roku might as well have been Seven, his accommodations arranged with absurd ease.

Of course, had he actually saved up his earnings to pad his pocket money, he never would've left his wife behind for this life of wandering.

In his threadbare tucked-up hem, a single hat crowning his tattered sparrow-like figure—a shameful black costume befitting an albatross—he sought shelter in Futami Bay,

“I’ll take a room—single guest here. The inn’s rate’s set in debased coins, that’s how it is.” He thrust two fingers before the tout’s eyes.

Who would take him on as a customer? The hand silently wielding the fan beckoned bay breezes beneath the eaves, from behind came... salt spray... salt spray.

IV

Rokuzō passed six or seven gated houses in a row.

With his disheveled appearance and defiant expression, even if he thrust out two fingers to haggle two ryō down to two hundred mon without getting angry or starting a fight, no one would take him up on it.

When it came down to it—the law being what it was—he knew how to handle things with care. But faced with reality: his stomach grew empty, sweat poured, his throat parched, and he had no means to enter an ice shop.

A sulky complexion, a defiant frame, and with the hat-handling ease of a nimble traveler, he strode through the women touts—the very image of a rogue’s audacity.
He looked as though he’d stitched a Liangshan Marsh tally into his collar, but the hunger and fatigue of approaching evening inns… ‘Rokuzō, don’t get angry’… in truth, to outside eyes he appeared pitiful—wavering unsteadily, utterly at a loss.

The one who followed along behind for a short distance down the road—seemingly amused, seemingly delighted, peering intently with a lopsided smile—was a clean-cut man of thirty-four or thirty-five wearing a stiffened white yukata, his tie-dyed heko obi carelessly wrapped around him, his hair glossy enough to make the bluish clarity of his temples visible, with a straight nose and sun-kissed complexion.
Nowhere was there any trace of white powder; he seemed like a student who had emerged from a boarding house’s second floor—yet this was Tatsumi Tatsukichi, a name-taking kabuki actor known throughout the Kyoto-Osaka region and Tokyo alike.

As Rokuzō twisted his sand-caked gaiters through the villa gate, Tatsumi—wearing garden clogs—picked portulaca flowers of deep and pale crimson blooming mutedly among neatly laid pebbles, then ambled out through the front gate onto the highway mere steps behind him.

Tatsumi had gone out to purchase sobering medicine.

This was no ordinary patronage—Ikegawa, the Matsusaka magnate, maintained a peculiarly intimate kinship with him where closer blood ties paradoxically bred greater distance.
Whenever touring east or west, he made customary detours to Ise for leisure whenever schedules permitted; particularly in summer, he never failed to spend two or three days here.

This time too, with the villa’s master present, they had been carrying on day and night since yesterday—surrounded by a large crowd including O-Mitsu the geisha from Shinmichi, the skilled dancer Karuta, and two or three local friends.

Tatsumi entered the government-run tobacco shop that doubled as a pharmacy across the way,

“Pardon me.”

“Yes, please come in.”

At that very moment, beneath the eaves of Awajiya Inn across the way, Roku the Worthless Rokuzō leaned against the round chignon of a waiting woman tout and pulled off his *Hey, I'm stayin' here!* routine.
――Even if one were to imagine――a mansion with rows of light green and crimson formal sandals lined at the entranceway, a Western-style piano installed in the grand hall at the corridor's far end――that fellow's actual appearance.

While stealing glances at Rokuzō,

“Do you have any Hōtan?”

“We don’t have that at present.”

“None.”

“That’s correct, we do not.
We do have Jintan.” As dusk deepened, she placed a hand on the medicine cabinet—its metal rings clinking—and peered sharply through large glasses while shaking her head with its receding hairline.

“I want some Hōtan, you see.”

“I’m afraid ours is rather potent.”

“Pardon the intrusion.”

“What d’ya say, Miss? Just this much.”

Roku thrust out two fingers again.

With his hat askew toward one side—loincloth visible where his hem was tucked up high—and nothing but cloth gaiters on tattered straw sandals, he waved an arm, raised it, scrubbed under his nose, rolled bloodshot eyes wide, mock-strutted beneath eaves, and staggered down the highway—the whole display so stage-seasoned that Tatsumi, chuckling alone, trailed behind him.

V

Before long, having gone about a hundred meters beyond the town, they came to a small pine grove where a sea of hydrangeas could be seen.

“You there—you.”

What came over him, Tatsumi called out to Roku the Worthless.

“Aye, this humble one, yes’m,” he said, then bent at the waist with a jerk, placed his hat straight before his knees with a snap, and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the hat’s crown—a gesture polite enough in form yet undeniably mocking in execution.

Tatsukichi smiled lopsidedly and,

“Forgive my abruptness, but rather than wandering about saying ‘here and there,’ why not stay at my place?”

“Hey, you,” he said, lifting his thinning crew-cut head that had been bowed—whether deflecting or merely sweating—wiping his eyes with the back of his hand before fixing Tatsumi with a sharp glare.

“How about staying... though mind you, I’m actually a guest-retainer myself at another villa here. The portly master never bothers locking up anyway, so I could manage putting you up for one night—just you alone.”

“Well, ain’t this a fine jest,” he said, glancing around the road before and behind while forcing a wry smile and briefly scratching his crew-cut head—ah, now he must have thought—my antics are laid bare.

“A jest? Nothing of the sort.”

At the front of the fruit shop—since Tatsumi couldn’t find any others—he turned to the waiting clerk and asked if there wasn’t another pharmacy, then stepped out with understanding and spoke again.

“I’m serious, you know.”

Laughing... he called out once more to Rokuzō, who was already turning to leave,

“...You see, the villa where I’m staying lies between those two large inns you passed earlier—Asahi-kan and Awajiya.”

“Mighty kind of your consideration, sir.”

With that, he produced his hat once more and bent his face downward.

“Well, someday…”

“Well then, goodbye.”

“Good day to you, sir.”

He went west through Futami Bay, then east.

To this unexpected haven, Rokuzō steadied his shaken body and proceeded with straightened posture.

“Mister! Mister!”

“Master.”

With young women calling out in unison, faintly tinted red lanterns emerged suddenly from the pine grove tea shop—pale faces like evening glories beneath tie-dyed yukata—surrounding Rokuzō the Worthless from both sides.

“Master.”

“Mister!”

“Hah, you callin’ me that?”
“You sure are stuck on ‘Mister,’ ain’t ya?”
“They’re usin’ some fancy talk I ain’t never heard before.”
“How much d’you charge for a night’s stay?”
“So, how much d’you charge for the inn?”

“No, this isn’t an inn.”
“Oh, do have a seat.”

“Hey, hold on.”

“You ain’t got nothin’—no coin for tea.”

“What’s all this about?”

“Well now, you’re using such strange talk.”

“In return for that—you were the ones who just called me ‘Master’ over there, weren’t ya?”

“Wait—what did that gentleman say?”
“So he really speaks just like an ordinary person?”
“Well now...”

She adjusted her collar with practiced elegance.

Rokuzō furrowed the brows of a face that refused to relax,

“What’s this ‘human way of speaking’? … Hey, so that’s the Inari shrine around here?”

“Oh my!”

“What’s this?”

“Oh, isn’t that the name-taking actor? Mr. Tatsumi, the kabuki performer.”

“Damn it! These bastards—no wonder they’re makin’ such a racket.”

“Hmm… First time I’ve seen his real face.”

He stretched up to see the slender retreating figure of Tatsukichi walking into the distance.

“How delightful,” she said with a spiteful look in her eyes.

“Shut it.”
“I may look like this, but I’m a true Edokko.”
“Tatsumi’s falsetto’s downright terrible...”

“Oh, how delightful!”
“Waaah!” she wailed tearfully.

“I ain’t treatin’ ya—so start talkin’.”
“Go fetch me all the abalone and sea bream from Futami Bay!”
“Hot sake! Hot sake!” he bellowed, flourishing a grand gesture.

In this state, he’d soon be humming a tune.

Rokuzō

“Oh, you there.”

said in a coquettish voice.

In the partial shade along the ditch bank, Tatsukichi walked haltingly with downcast eyes focused on twisting open a glimmering medicine tin whose sealed packet he'd torn—his appearance even showing a faint smile on one cheek.
When no one was around, this manner—like a child proudly displaying a new toy—held an air of guileless innocence.

To reach the pharmacy he’d heard about at the fruit shop, he had to turn back and pass once more before the villa.
Then he turned a corner in the road, cut through a grassy vacant lot, followed along a sparse fence—toward the direction of the train station—in what they called a newly developed area that seemed like the outskirts—where green rice fields came into view and thatched houses stood.
Among them stood a farmhouse engaged in side trade—chili peppers drying under the eaves, orange peels hung from the rafters…
In an old storage-like space where a white-haired old woman glared with eyes that seemed to say "Don’t look! Don’t look!", they placed a large folding screen covered in indecipherable characters and images.

Hōtan was there, but with a strange sense of being far from his hometown—of being on a journey—Tatsumi suddenly felt a faint fatigue.
The road had likely grown about a kilometer distant from the villa’s gate.

The Hōtan he’d obtained this way—meant to be passed from right to left—felt both delightful and strange.

“If you’d care to take your medicine now, I could bring some hot water or the like.”

There stood only a solitary house on one side. Within the white lattice of the single-story structure peered a glamorous figure in a faintly tinted skirt, poised like a painting come to life.

Her black hair glistened as if about to drip water, adorned with comb-fastened tassels; her oval face with its straight nose bridge bore dreamy eyebrows softened by gentleness. Dressed in a medium-patterned yukata secured by a black satin obi, she rested one hand against the lattice—her forearm visible through the fabric, pale enough to put snow to shame—the hem of her garment tucked into pale indigo cloth as she emerged from the Tamanojō tea room.
What had seemed a scarlet wrapping cloth revealed itself to be a tie-dyed plectrum bag.

Holding an ivory plectrum in one hand, she called out to Tatsumi.

Still holding the medicine tin, with her palm pressed to the chest of her yukata as she observed that figure—just as she was about to offer a night’s lodging to the passing traveler—Tatsumi showed not a trace of suspicion.

“You honor me too much.”

“Please, go right ahead.”

Having said that, she smiled gently.
Raising her plectrum to hide her dimples, she turned away from the lattice—the white of her slender neck, the alluring slope of her shoulders.
The plover pattern on her yukata floated midair, then vanished with a puff—a click resounded... the sound of a plectrum being set down somewhere.

Immediately she emerged at the upper threshold, half-concealed by a pillar, her fingertips faintly beckoning with portulaca-pale delicacy.

Tatsumi unhesitatingly opened the lattice.

“Well then, I’ll excuse myself.”

As he read “Tsuruzawa Miyatoshi” with ivy crest on the sacred lantern—still unlit and hanging in the earthen entryway—and thought Ah, the teacher..., the name’s owner had already... Beyond the reed door of the next room, her retreating figure veiled in faint steam from an iron kettle resembled waves in the cove misted under moonlight.

“You honor me too much.”

The woman, responding to his voice, swayed her delicate sleeves in an unspoken rhythm as she silently poured hot water.

“I’ll borrow this.”

And Tatsumi moved to the upper threshold there. Two or three times, he smoothly brushed against the tatami mat. Perhaps out of deference, she supported her supple knees across the opened reed-door threshold, using the pillar at the corner of the frame as a shield while leaning slightly forward—then her satin obi rustled with a resonant swish, a sound that spoke directly to the heart.

“I’ve prepared warm water for you, as our local water isn’t fit.”

“……Most kind.”

The teacup he accepted bore an ivy-stenciled family crest, but as dusk’s faint azure seeped through the air, the scarlet from her plectrum bag lingered on Miyatoshi’s fingers—pale as freshwater smelt.

“Ah, me!” she exclaimed as it scattered down—the hem’s edge fluttering where it fell—a blush sweeping swift across her eyelids—how radiant she looked at three-and-twenty.

VII

“Whatever am I to do?
“This is most improper.”

The woman took a light breath and, as if plucking a shamisen string, traced her fingers along the pillar,

“I went so far as to invite someone I’m not even acquainted with—it’s terribly awkward—and what with getting flustered all on my own, I didn’t even notice the tea tray.”
"...To think I’d use my own teacup for this..."
“How improper… Oh my… Whatever am I to do?”

Pressing her collar and bowing her head, she took the plectrum bag and tossed it behind her, but the Ryūnanki fragrance suddenly wafted through—a strange flower of dusk too precious to scatter, carrying an air of poignant beauty.
Tatsumi, teacup in one hand,

“Not at all, this is perfectly fine.”
“Thank you.”
“And you, Maestro—”
“Let me partake of your artistry.”

“I’m not certain.”

With another brushstroke of color tinting her eyelids,

“I’m being such a nuisance.”
“They’d swarm like proper mosquito columns—one simply can’t have wrigglers in such a teacup.”
“Do be so kind as to cast it aside.”
“I shall draw fresh water for you this instant,” she said, bracing one hand as she rose.

Tatsumi pressed down as if to—

“Ah, wait—”
“If you say such things, I won’t be able to take my medicine.”
“With this hulking frame of mine—first off, I’m hardly the type to be sucking on Hōtan lozenges.”
“What nonsense—grappling with shachi and whales, trying to bite down on Ikkakumaru with a stick.”

The woman’s clear eyes held a delighted smile at her lips as she cast a sidelong glance.

“Well now, as for your line of work…”

“A boatman, you see.”

“Just a moment! You keep rowing nothing but Mr. Ikegawa’s plaything—that fishing boat…”

Maestro knew.

"That's vulgar—and a case of mistaken identity," he said, lowering his eyes as he gulped.

"I must apologize, but might I trouble you for another cup?"
"My throat had grown so parched—that's precisely the predicament I found myself in."

The alluring Maestro moved briskly,

"I'll prepare fresh tea for you."

“Since I took my medicine, hot water would be preferable—Might your practice sessions be held after dusk?”
“Ah, no—that arrangement suits perfectly.”

Tatsumi wore a tarnished yet stylish smile,

“Ha ha ha, that does seem rather presumptuous of me.”

“You’ve said more than enough.—No, it’s merely a minor imitation done in passing.”

“Were I to invite you... might you come to the reception room as well?”

“How utterly disagreeable you are.”

Her fingers bent in a one-handed clasp,
“If you treat this as mere social obligation, then I’ve truly no excuse.
Even without that—to have called out to a passing stranger like yourself—it’s so dreadfully impudent I could blush crimson.”

As if ashamed of herself—apologetically—
“To tell the truth, I’d sent the servant girl on an errand and thought I might practice alone—but then through the window, you see, I spotted a single firefly flying by, like a large dewdrop from water dropwort falling…”

“Firefly.”

Tatsumi answered reflexively to the voice.

“Though the season’s passed, how unusual to see one now. Or perhaps it was a solitary star shining—that’s what I wondered as I stood up, carelessly holding this plectrum... If it had been a firefly, did I mean to strike it down with this? With such reasoning, fireflies and such—dragonflies or bats would suffice.”

The dragonflies being asleep—you wouldn’t know—the bat flitting before the eaves flicked out its red tongue with a click,

“This is my salutation.”

With that, she departed abruptly.

8

“That’s why—when I suddenly peered through that lattice—I thought your honorable hand had caught that firefly with your Hōtan tin.”

The container gleamed in Tatsumi’s hand.

He placed it on his palm and gazed intently.

“My, your condition seems rather poor. Since you’ve come all this way, perhaps you should rest.”
“And how are you feeling?” she asked with concern, drawing nearer.

Tatsumi raised his face with sternly composed eyebrows,

“No, my condition was never anything significant from the start.”
“One might almost say I bought the Hōtan as mere amusement.”

At that moment, he thrust it into his sleeve.

“This firefly now—it seems there’s some connection this time. Ah yes—drawn by the firefly, Maestro, you came to the lattice edge.”

“For such words to come from your lips—how cruel. This is no occasion to speak of yearning.”

“Well, well… but you see, the reason I went out to buy Hōtan in the first place was also—so to speak—because of a firefly.”
“Suddenly, it just came back to me…”

“Hmm…” she said in a subdued voice, Miyatoshi adjusting her collar.

“When I came to this area this time—yes.”
“Okitsu... On the Tōkaidō’s Okitsu, there’s a friend who spends summers there—I paid a visit for a day.”
“Since the night train was cool—it being past eleven—I boarded the upbound from that station, with the boatman to the right.”

“...Ah, how splendid...”
“Hohoho.” She continued fanning gently with her pale green uchiwa until the last traces of laughter dissipated.
The pearl of her ring held a cool freshness.

“I’ll take that.”

She spread out the pale indigo storage-room hemp zabuton cushion that had been laid there,

“Carrying a small leather bag, I stepped from the platform onto the train’s footboard and was about to open the passenger compartment door when—plink.”

Tatsumi pressed one cheek near his mouth as he spoke.

“An insect came and landed here; I thought it was a faint lightning flash vanishing at its edge.”
“Because it flashed before my eyes, I was startled, and when I roughly brushed it away, the train began to move.”

The area felt strangely cold afterward—as if wet—but even when he rubbed it, there was nothing.

When forgotten about, it would occasionally grow cold.
“I wondered if it might be a rash or perhaps a firefly—though then again, maybe it was some other poisonous insect I’d encountered at our meeting. So I went to the washstand and washed it once.”
“Even when I looked at my face there, there was nothing unusual—it would eventually fade away.”
“Even when dozing on the train, I kept seeing vivid dreams of water—springs, rivers, great lakes—only to wake above the Tenryū River, or in some field where insects chirped like flowing water.”
“I hadn’t given it another thought—until just moments ago, it had ended there.”

“Just now…
“At Mr. Ikegawa’s, on the second floor—”

When their eyes met, they exchanged glances that seemed to nod in unison without conscious intent. With hands pressed firmly on his knees, Tatsumi once more contained a smile within himself.

“...Let’s call it a fishing boat—that vessel moored to the dining platform by the front second floor, where a crowd drank and reveled. Though the view was indescribable, the heat was unbearable.”
“This heat—this heat becomes a weightstone, pressing down on humans from above with a heavy force.”
The pine grove visible from the window with its reed-screened tea houses and red paper lanterns—their shadows flickering over sand overflowing with scarlet portulacas—paradoxically brought coolness to the eyes.
“The sea becomes a scorched plain—there’s no help for it—so since life can’t persist like that, ‘Keep the green trees and grasses on land as water,’ through heavenly providence’s mercy, granting flexibility—such is this season’s temperament.”

“Oh my, how utterly—hohoho—you’ve given up completely, haven’t you? In this dreadful heat.”

Yet the sight of cool black hair brought refreshment.

9

“Wanting to feel even slightly cooler, I stared intently at those green leaves there—and when I looked at the sea through those eyes, gradually it began taking on a watery hue.”

“Otherwise it’s crimson red.”
“At midday sun’s peak—like fire lashing the waves.—Now that we’ve come to this, how strange—just as I mentioned earlier.”
“The bream eyes simmered in brine, steamed abalone looking cool—even hot sake turns icy on the tongue—is this what you meant by resignation—”

In the evening—just moments ago—the calm had reached its peak, rendering speech impossible.
Thinking that the voices of people gathered around the dining platform sizzled piercingly, he gazed at the pine trees in the grove without attracting notice, and then turned his eyes back to the sea like this—

Tatsumi averted his gaze and pointed, but upon seeing Miyatoshi’s face, laughed low with a rusted voice.

“Hahaha—no need for such affectations—”
At this, the sea’s color—for the first time since morning—turned clear blue all at once, appearing to ripple like bamboo blinds flowing across the railing of the back room’s encircling veranda. Snow-like wave hems lapped softly against the engawa, summoning light despite the moonless sky—a scene where swells seemed to rise from distant offshore, approaching once, then again.

As it grew eerily cool, that area of his cheek turned cold—the spot where the firefly had landed.
“Through its translucent underside into his mouth—as though holding a pearl—it shimmered through to his chest.”

The woman who had been leaning against the threshold and listening with her fan dropped drew the hands resting on her knees to her chest and narrowed her shoulders as she adjusted her sleeves.

“It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation—but then, unmistakably, my body suddenly chilled as though clutching a shard of ice somewhere, and as it seemed to melt away smoothly, cold sweat trickled down my spine.”
“A fragrance—water-like, that firefly’s.”

Even droplets from moonlit willows, when they become night dew, permeate the body.

“As if struck by something, I suddenly rose from my seat and went outside.
"It was still light."
"It hadn’t yet grown dark like when only the waves hung blue against the railing on the second floor inside."

As he watched the pedestrian traffic that looked like something from a scenic guidebook illustration, he completely forgot everything. However, the Hōtan had been purchased as a precaution—by a boatman acting uncharacteristically—

"With that story about the firefly just now, I've gone and imposed on you without restraint," he said. "Thinking it might serve as an apology—though I may have forced the connection—I told that story about where the firefly landed."

After taking a half-hearted sip from the teacup, he looked down at its crest and set it aside. He lifted one knee as he prepared to leave.

He simply held his breath,

“You.”

“Huh?”

Drawn too deeply into the woman's intense aura, he sank into a startled posture and spoke.

The woman, her shoulders constricting as though wrung, kept her hands tightened against her chest while resting one arm on her elbow.

“It wasn’t a firefly.”
“It wasn’t a firefly.”

“What do you mean?”

"That... well... That wasn't... And then... those blue, blue, blue waves came from offshore to the villa's second floor—"

His figure turned ashen pale, his complexion taking on a spectral cast,

“As I listen to your story, I begin to see it before my eyes.”
“And now, following your footsteps, the surf’s edge seems to have journeyed all the way to that gate.”

And the black satin obi, its color vivid, rose inviting the night.

A white dog dashed through the gate.

Tatsukichi, while sitting down, involuntarily raised himself onto his toes.

10

"You—in those deep blue waves clinging to the railing—have you not glimpsed a pale crimson shadow, like a bundle of carnations flowing through them?"

...she said—the beauty of her eye color luminous enough to summon dew.
Lured by that radiance, he saw the plectrum pouch discarded by the woman hanging on the vanity's edge.

He grew dazed beyond his own volition,

"That thing visible over there...?"

"No—it isn't anything like that," she asserted with restrained intensity.

“Then…?”

“No, it’s the color of gauze.—That geisha from that time—she was wearing a scarlet underrobe. In a moonlit ultramarine robe embroidered with silver autumn grasses and dotted with glistening golden dewdrops, she loosened the obi’s drum-shaped knot until it hung slack, spread the hem of her gauze kimono, and—with no wind to disturb its elegance—descended the villa’s veranda in beautiful tabi socks worn barefoot. She cut straight through the pebbled back garden, where large flowers with sparse leaves bloomed as though dusted with pale makeup,” she said…

The great blossoms of snow-white purity were the wings that bore up its hem.

“At that bamboo gate with evening faces—without even letting her long sleeves brush against it—she slipped out gracefully, didn’t she? ...When passing beneath the pine tree, it was as though she walked a distant road. As she moved along the boat’s edge—oh!—a crimson sash hung at the bow; she staggered unsteadily… She was terribly drunk, you see.”

When she straightened up, her profile became neat, and even her tangled Shimada chignon settled into place along with her figure.

“At that time, I was watching from the post where I had hung a swing in the back of the neighboring Awaji Hall—two years ago, you know—Mr. Tatsumi.”

And then, in a voice trembling with emotion, she called his name once more—

"It concerns her—Miss Koyuki—who wasted away longing for you until she died."

Indeed, that Koyuki had been a renowned geisha of Ise.

Tatsukichi jolted and recoiled.
While lifting one knee behind the door frame—giving an air as though a single wave had mounted and swayed it—he shifted his posture.

The hem she trailed was pale aqua; the fan bore not the name Fukakusa; Miyatoshi’s figure rode the waves as she spoke.

“How strange it was—the sea came to meet her, and when the shore drew near Miss Koyuki, her white tabi socks were already hidden.”
“The indigo-dyed hem of her trailing kimono stretched out before her; as far as the eye could see, the shore lay white, while both sea and sky took on a pale yellowish-green hue.”

There, alone, that geisha stood.
“When the hairpin glittered, the slender back and the crimson hem—the tide swiftly erased them, turning them blue.”
“The waves pressed against her, causing the gauze to damply part from her trailing hem in disarray, but being a woman of such refinement, she might as well have been standing at Suma Bay or Akashi Beach in her scarlet hakama.”

—Someone burst through the water swimming—and at that moment, a crowd on Ikegawa’s veranda erupted in cheers.—

“Oh! As she left the shore—the waves’ force seized her hem—and in that very gauze, she was submerged up to her shoulders once.”
“When she stood abruptly in those shallows resembling a blue tatami mat—though feeling herself at their very center—the brocade obi’s knot came undone with a swift fall; upon dreamlike autumn grasses, wet silver and azure dewdrops scattered like droplets.”

Ah—when her face turned deathly pale, Miss Koyuki stared fixedly out to sea—and there—your head and your snow-white shoulders came into view.

“How the roofed boat rowed nearby rocked!

You were indeed swimming.

Three or four men—including one completely naked—and five or six geishas I knew came running out to the beach in scattered disarray.
Among them, some had boarded the moored boat—raising both hands and calling out—but by that time beneath the waves, I believe Miss Koyuki’s hair was already coming undone.
‘Over the sea’s expanse—perhaps the shadow of a pearl hairpin—a single star glimmered brightly.’”

Eleven

“That naked figure was none other than the villa’s aged caretaker, you understand.”

“Indeed—the bath attendant goes by Jihei,” he replied, his face turning mask-like as his pupils fixed rigidly.

The unlit sacred lamp upon the darkening earthen floor resembled plain white paper without pattern.

“The old man jumped into the sea and flailed as if scooping leaden water, desperately parting the waves to give chase.”

“Precisely as a wave rose from offshore—you were swimming back—”

“Later, when you recounted… what I heard was this—lying supine beneath the waves, Miss Koyuki… how she must have suffered—the red gauze showing through her breasts, the water there tinged faintly peach where they were entangled—her chest constricted, both hands lightly grasping her collar as it nearly came undone—and when you drew near that commotion, she rose swiftly, her chignon drenched—pressing her forelock damply against your chest—those beautiful white tabi socks… precisely as she received the tide at her throat and stood up… aligned perfectly with your toes—isn’t that what you described?”

Tatsumi sprang upright from the door frame!

“...Startled into action—you laid bare Miss Koyuki’s chest and drifted forward with her, didn’t you.”

“And then I panicked and swallowed water—even now I feel as though I’m gulping it down all at once,” he said, his face turning deathly pale.

“The old man cut through there and embraced Miss Koyuki.”
“But by then, that geisha’s breathing had already stopped—that day, they say Miss Koyuki drank heavily—gulping from tea bowls, even draining the sake decanter.”
“Having drunk deeply before suddenly entering the sea—that must have caused her blood to stagnate.”

“And then, after becoming a corpse—didn’t she cling to your chest there in the sea—”

As she drew her knees closer, her hem flowing, the woman took Tatsumi’s hand.

When their fingers touched, he felt as though her form had alighted in his palm like a strangely beautiful bird with a white neck and blue wings; Tatsumi’s arm hung limp as withered vine, and though they sat near the thoroughfare’s edge, he found himself unable to shake her off.

When he looked around—through the bamboo lattice of the waist-high window beside the long hibachi in the adjoining room—he saw phantom grasses that made the place appear like a vacant lot.

“Mr. Tatsumi.”

......

“That bath attendant carried Miss Koyuki back just as she was—since she was soaked through, he must have thought to take her straight to the banquet room.”
“Once, he carried her down into the villa’s boat moored to that pine tree.”
"The beach, dewy and beautiful… Miss Koyuki’s figure—her hem trailing long—sat listlessly on the gunwale, drenched from her hair down."
“That face—neither white nor blue, clear as a jewel.”
“From lips where crimson had not yet scattered—when everyone thought a kiss and breath would soon emerge—without even a breath’s space, she collapsed in a heap at the waistline, her Shimada hairstyle coming undone.”

“It was a yukata—but there with the obi together.”

The woman, seemingly overcome with emotion, now pressed one cheek fervently against Tatsumi’s obi…… After a breath—

“Your garments had been taken off and left there.”
“A woman’s resolve… That’s precisely it.”
“……The fireflies went to greet her.”
“The blue waves of Futami Bay that clung to the railing had come from offshore to meet her.”

“Do not think it inconvenient.”
“Miss Koyuki died of longing without uttering a single word.”

“Gestures and subtle hints were her utmost efforts—her heart must have reached you! Yet you, who know romance and love a hundred times over compared to ordinary people, failed to grasp even a shred of it!—No, I understand Miss Koyuki’s heart perfectly.—”

“You might firmly say, ‘I don’t know—it’s a nuisance!’ But even a geisha is a woman—especially someone as gentle and reserved as Miss Koyuki—could she have spoken her heart so bluntly?”

“You were fully aware—and yet, because she had always received your patronage, you assumed she must be something like Mr. Ikegawa’s privately kept geisha—and out of that obligation… you did not fulfill her burning longing……”

"Decent folk would never do such a thing—but those in this profession entrust their most reckless acts to men swayed by gold’s power, or so it’s believed."

“In those drunken encounters—leaving the round fan and pillow lying abandoned—I entrusted one hanging hook to you, and together we hung the mosquito net too.” …she said.

That blue thing—like a mosquito net, like the sea—cascaded over his shoulders. As soon as he thought this, he found himself leaning against the door frame once more when a woman’s face abruptly surfaced and peered down intently from the sky.

Twelve

“So this is an actor.”

“Oh!”

Waves sloshed teasingly as a hushed voice whispered close to his ear.

The woman from the pine grove tea shop—intoxicated by freely flowing sake—humming a tune, stumbled into the villa’s moored boat at the rear and collapsed into a deep sleep.
But pine dew would never grace someone like him—Rokuzō awoke itching all over, as if nettled by the night air.
Lying on his back in the boat’s midsection, his body grew cold.
When it came to sleeping rough, he had his methods.
He’d taken his traveling hat and placed it over his lower abdomen, sprawled like a toppled scarecrow.
Earlier, Tatsumi Tatsukichi—the villa guest—had offered shelter for the night; Rokuzō, remembering this kindness and aware they knew he slept here, thought: (Surely they’ll thatch the boat with reed mats.)

Against the gunwale came a clatter—something being fitted into place…

The object resembled a lacquered railing glistening with polish… Wait—the murmuring voice belonged to a woman.—

A beloved thing since birth.
Pretending to sleep yet peering through slitted eyes, he saw a large clam propped against the gunwale—its shell curved in perfect symmetry.

Deep within its narrowly parted lips dwelled a silvery haze—a pearlescent glow—whose shadow faintly etched shapes across the dark night.

“That’s a geisha transformed—must’ve been dancing around in such a form.”

At that moment, there wasn’t just one of those things. They were also standing at the left gunwale. This one too—in the same manner—fitted something like a railing onto the gunwale from one side; it clattered with a resonant sound.

There were still more outside... three or four of them, all taking the form of clamshell figures.

“What a splendid festival array—clamshell lanterns! Here we’ve got pufferfish and whelks too, garden fare like melons… even eggplants.”

However, the forms of those holding the lanterns remained indistinct. But they were clams in form… To say they were clams meant their clothes—the sleeves, the obi—every part one might consider as such were clams; what appeared as a face was a clam, what seemed like eyes and nose were clams, what one took for a mouth was a clam, and even the light was a clam.

It seemed to be either collar or sleeve—within the dark twill’s weave lingered a pale lavender shadow.

At intervals came clattering sounds—a vigor as if borne by two or three people permeated the woman’s sleeves. Pillars stood readied upon the boat, enfolding the sky—then with a thud came something set down resembling a roofed vessel’s canopy, its surface agleam with lacquer’s glossy sheen, scattered with star-like arabesque maki-e.
The port and starboard sides too bore abalone-shell inlay.

Rokuzō suddenly thought it resembled a vehicle he remembered seeing on a tiered doll platform.

At that moment, the clam opened its shell.
No—the lantern directed its pearl-like light toward Rokuzō’s face—and a woman’s voice spoke.

“Is this the actor?”

“Oh!”

“What an ugly actor.”

“Do as you please, you bastards—” Rokuzō seethed inwardly.

“I was sure he hadn’t come yet, but…”

“And he’s asleep—how heartless.”

“To think the partner in our love suicide would come first and fall asleep like this.”

“Hey,”

No sooner had she responded in exasperation than waves crashed—the tide receded, leaving everything desolate.

The railings, the roof—all vanished in an instant; the maki-e and stars became true darkness.

Immediately, footsteps pattered—someone seemed to approach the gunwale.

A crystalline voice, drenched in dew and taking on a gentle moisture,

"...Mr. Tatsumi."

Abruptly, the scent of robes and the fragrance of cold black hair wafted through.

"Oh—no... This isn't right."

Thirteen

The clamshell lanterns returned faintly once more...

“Move aside. Please move aside.”

“Hey, you.”

they said.
"I'm not some brother who gets called 'you' by clams and has people following him around!"
“This place has business tonight.”

“This is a crucial spot.”

“Hey.”

“Can’t be helped—look at you, dead drunk.”

“Disgusting!”

“How hateful. Let’s jab him with pine needles.”

A nimble tomboyish figure swiftly scaled the trunk and clambered onto a branch.
Ah—among the pines, a clam turned its glowing pearl toward him, and moment by moment, pine needles showered down like rain.

“Ow.”

“What’s wrong?” called a voice from below.

From atop the pine tree came an amused voice,

“The pine needles are tickling me, ohoho, ohoho.”

“Wahaha.” The beach pines shook their branches and roared with laughter.

“Kyah!” Laughing self-consciously at his own monkey-like cry, Rokuzō abruptly sat up,

“You women—need any tailoring done?” he asked blankly, looking around.

White waves flipping pale blue undersides.

A scarlet skirt blazed like flames as Koyuki's figure stood erect in the waves. That face's pallor, those eyes' luster—how beautiful dies one who perishes for love, a star still crowned with her Shimada coiffure. Six or seven clamshell lanterns swarmed along the shore, their pearlescent glow illuminating left and right. A visage of terrifying nobility glared resentfully at Rokuzō's face for an instant before casting its gaze downward—pale neck bent, gauze sleeves clutched tumultuously to chest—whereupon waves crashed and piled high, enveloping the skirt, erasing the obi, concealing the bosom, until above the floating Shimada hairstyle a white tide rose sheer. And why should those towering shoreline waves retreat unchanged to open sea?

A gust-driven wave crest, like a lion’s mane of snow, enveloped the villa’s second floor in a deep azure glow—no sooner had he seen this than the small boat surged upward, swaying onto the pine treetops where Mount Fuji appeared beyond Owari, leaving Rokuzō utterly dumbfounded.

Even if this fool tore through horizontal paper, he could not row the boat vertically—and what’s more, there were neither oars nor paddles.

“Waaaah! Help! A rescue boat!”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

Having come stealthily through the dark night with Miyatoshi, Tatsumi stood at the boat’s edge—only to be startled when Rokuzō suddenly leapt up, spread his arms wide, and tumbled out of the vessel.

The temple—though Tatsumi had already paid his respects there—was not the place.
The villa’s moored boat was a tomb bearing the soul of Koyuki, who had drowned in the sea.

“Think of Miss Koyuki as me.”...

Ah—take my hand on the boat—let this lover who staked her life hear from your own lips those words “most beloved”—if only you’d say “pitiable,” let me hear that much at least.

Though the shrine lanterns still glowed white, the darkness of night—the villa’s gate, the street now fallen silent—created such a dreamlike atmosphere that Tatsukichi found himself led onward by Miyatoshi’s frail hand, his sleeve tugged gently.

“Hey there—anyone need tailoring done?”

Compared to Rokuzō, who stood gaping blankly, Tatsumi became instead the one left utterly bewildered.

Miyatoshi’s figure vanished like the rippling scent of the tide.

According to Ikegawa, the villa’s owner, Miyatoshi was a geisha who had been as close as sisters with Koyuki.

Confidentially, having been led by a certain pilgrimage guide from Yamada, she was indeed serving as a master—but that was in Yamada’s pleasure quarter at Shinmichi, commonly called Hotarukoji, a charming and spirited place.

Outrageous! There’s no way she could have suddenly moved to Futamigaura last night!

And so came the next morning.

When he inquired by phone with a certain teahouse in Shinmichi about Miyatoshi’s whereabouts, they reported she had been bedridden with a lingering illness but passed away yesterday when her condition took a sudden turn.

—She was clutching a photograph, wearing light makeup at death’s edge… Give my regards to Tatsumi-san…—

At that moment, the villa parlor’s color held more indigo than Futami Bay’s sea-blue.

The white waves lapping against the blinds were colder than falling snow.

That morning, Rokuzō too was one of the villa’s guests. But, rushing ahead of others, he searched the grassy path with the group for traces of the phantom—and there indeed, where portulacas bloomed delicately, their roots damp with dew, lay a sandalwood-inlaid folding comb, piteously worn by the tides—the painted firefly on its design glowed faintly. The fishing boat moored to the pine tree—through the owner’s sentiment—had grasses planted in the villa’s garden, lanterns lit among the dewy eulalia, miscanthus, patrinia, and bellflowers, making it one of Futami’s noted sights.

(Published in Shin Shōsetsu magazine, April 1916 [Taisho 5])