Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I have almost never gone to see motion pictures. If I trace back my hazy memories, it would probably be around Meiji 30. At the rental hall Kinkikan that once stood in Kanda Nishikichō, I had seen footage depicting the cityscape of San Francisco. The term "motion pictures" likely originated around that time as well. Today, over forty years later, the term "motion pictures" seems to have fallen into disuse and been replaced by others, but since the one I first heard rolls off the tongue more easily, I still employ that obsolete term here.

After the earthquake disaster, there was a time when one of the young writers who came to visit my home forcibly took me to a motion picture hut in Akasaka Tameike, insisting I was falling behind the times. They said it was highly praised at the time, but when I saw that it was an adaptation of a Maupassant short story, I concluded there was no need to watch such a film when one could simply read the original. One should just read the original. There was a time when I said that was more interesting.

However, since motion pictures—regardless of age—were something people nowadays gladly watched and made topics of daily conversation, I at least wanted to maintain an understanding of what they might be discussing. Thus, whenever passing before a motion picture hut, I made a conscious effort to direct my gaze toward the paintings and titles on the billboards. From a glance at these billboards, I could imagine the gist of the dramatization even without viewing the film itself and grasp which scenes were proving popular.

The place where one could glimpse the most motion picture billboards at once was Asakusa Park. If one came here, they could take in all varieties at a glance and naturally compare their merits and demerits. Whenever I headed out toward the Shitaya-Asakusa area, I never failed to recall this and entered the park, trailing my cane along the edge of the pond.

It was a certain day when the evening breeze had gradually lost its chill. Having examined the signs at each and every entrance, I emerged from the edge of the park into Senzokuchō. To the right was Kototoi Bridge, to the left Iriya-chō—deliberating which way to go as I walked along, a man in his mid-forties wearing an old Western-style suit suddenly emerged from the side,

“Sir, allow me to introduce you. How about it?” he said.

“No, thank you,” I said, quickening my pace slightly. “It’s a perfect opportunity, Sir! “It’s sensational!” “Sir,” he said, coming after me. “I don’t need it. “I’m going to Yoshiwara.” I didn’t know whether to call him a tout or what they termed a Genji-type gigolo, but in any case, to drive off this suspicious solicitor, I blurted out that I was going to Yoshiwara. Yet this very lie ended up deciding the direction of my otherwise aimless stroll. As I walked, I recalled knowing of a used bookstore in the backstreets under the embankment.

The used bookstore was located in a dim backstreet that extended from where the Sanya-bori Canal’s flow connected to an underground culvert toward the base of Daimon-mae Nihonzutsumi Bridge. The backstreet was a one-sided row of houses following the waters of Sanya-bori Canal, where the opposite bank was confined to the rears of dwellings lining stone embankments, while this side hosted wholesalers of clay pipes, roof tiles, river mud, and lumber—their slightly wider storefronts interspersed among residences. Yet as the canal narrowed, these increasingly gave way to shabby little houses, leaving only the lamps of bridges spanning the waterway—Shōhōji Bridge, Sanya Bridge, Chihō Bridge, Kamiarai Bridge—to faintly illuminate the path at night. When both the canal and its bridges came to an end, the foot traffic too ceased altogether. In this area, the houses that kept their lights on relatively late into the night were probably limited to that used bookstore and the tobacco and sundries shop.

I did not know the name of the used bookstore, but I was familiar with most of the items piled in the shop. If there had been something like the inaugural issue of *Bungei Kurabu* or old story supplements from *Yamato Shinbun*, one would have had to consider it an unexpected treasure. Yet when I went out of my way to visit this store, it was not for the old books themselves, but for the character of the proprietor who sold them and the nostalgic atmosphere of the backstreets beyond the pleasure quarters.

The store owner was a small-statured old man with a neatly shaven head. He was, needless to say, over sixty. From his facial features, demeanor, and manner of speech down to the way he wore his kimono—preserving intact the pure customs of downtown Tokyo—all this appeared to my eyes more precious and nostalgic than any rare old book. Until around the time of the earthquake disaster, one could still encounter one or two elderly men of this Edo downtown type backstage at theaters or vaudeville halls—like Tomejii from Otowaya’s male staff or Ichizō who had worked at Takashimaya—but now they had all passed on to the next world.

The used bookstore owner would invariably be sitting properly by the partitioning shoji screen whenever I opened the glass-paned door at the shopfront, his rounded back slightly angled outward as he read something through glasses perched precariously on his nose tip. The time of my visits was usually set around seven or eight in the evening, and on each occasion, both his seated position and posture remained nearly unchanged. At the sound of the opening door, still bent forward, he swiftly turned just his head toward me and said "Oh, do come in," removing his glasses. Half-rising to lightly tap dust from the zabuton cushion, he spread it out with a posture resembling crawling before finally offering his customary courteous greeting. Both his words and demeanor followed their established pattern without variation.

“As always, I’m afraid there’s nothing of note here. There’s nothing worth showing you. Ah yes, now that I think of it, I do have Hōtan Zasshi. Though I’m afraid it’s not a complete set.” “That must be Tamenaga Shunsui’s magazine, I suppose.” “Ah. Since the inaugural issue is included, well, I can show it to you. Oh dear, where did I put it now?” he said, extracting five or six bound volumes from the old books piled against the wall. As he flapped both hands to dust them off before offering them out, I accepted them, “It’s registered as Meiji 12, you see. Reading magazines from this period makes me feel as though life is prolonged, you see. I’d also like to get my hands on a complete set of *Rōbun Shinpō* if such a thing exists.”

"They do turn up from time to time, but they're usually in scattered condition." "Sir, might you already have *Kagetsu Shinshi* in your possession?" "I do."

At the sound of the glass door opening, I turned to look along with the store owner, and there stood another man, also past sixty. A sunken-cheeked, bald-headed, shabby-looking man was unloading a soiled striped cloth bundle onto the old books displayed at the shopfront. "I've come to thoroughly despise automobiles. "Today I was nearly killed." "Things that are convenient, cheap, and completely reliable—such things are rare indeed." "Even so, sir." "You weren't injured, were you?"

“Thanks to the amulet breaking, I was unharmed. “A bus and an entaxi that were going ahead collided—just remembering it sends shivers down my spine.” “Actually, I went to the Hatogaya market today and bought something strange.” “Old things are nice, huh.” “I don’t have an immediate use for it, but when I see it, I can’t help wanting to indulge in such things.” The bald-headed man untied his cloth bundle and produced what appeared to be a women’s small-patterned unlined kimono and a sleeveless undergarment. The small-patterned fabric was kobama chirimen with a mouse-gray ground, and while the Yuzen-dyed sleeveless undergarment did have a somewhat unusual design, both appeared to date from around the time of the Meiji Restoration rather than being particularly ancient artifacts.

However, thinking it might unexpectedly work well for mounting original ukiyo-e paintings, lining fashionable book satchels’ interiors, or even chapbook boxes, I—on an impulse—purchased one sleeveless undergarment while settling payment for old magazines. Then cradling the paper-wrapped bundle that the bald-headed store owner had prepared alongside bound volumes of *Hōtan Zasshi*, I stepped outside. Intending to board a shared bus running along Nihonzutsumi, I stood for a while at the Daimon-mae stop, but finding the hails from roving entaxis bothersome, I turned back into the alley I had come from. Picking my way through dim side streets untraversed by trains or entaxis, I soon emerged near where Kototoi Bridge’s lights glimmered through the trees. Having heard Kawabata Park was unsafe, I did not go to the riverbank but instead sat on the embankment—its perimeter wrapped with chains—along the well-lit path.

In truth, having bought bread and canned goods along the way here and wrapped them in a cloth bundle, I attempted to repack the old magazines and old garment together. However, not only was the wrapping cloth slightly too small, but combining hard and soft items proved altogether unwieldy. In the end, I decided it would be easier to carry if I stored only the canned goods in my coat’s inner pocket and bundled the remaining items together. As I spread the wrapping cloth flat on the lawn and repeatedly adjusted the arrangement, suddenly from behind the trees came a voice—“Hey! What’re you doing?”—and with the clink of a sabre, a police officer appeared, thrusting out his simian arm to seize my shoulder.

I did not respond. Calmly adjusting the knot of my wrapping cloth, I stood up—but before I could even complete this motion, the officer jabbed my elbow from behind and barked, “Move along.” Emerging from the park path directly to Kototoi Bridge’s edge, the officer led me across the broad road to a police box on the opposite side. After handing me over to the duty officer stationed there, he hurried off somewhere else without another word. The police box officer remained planted at the entrance as he began his interrogation: “Where’d you come from at this hour?”

“I came from over there.” “What do you mean by ‘over there’?” “From the direction of the canal.” “Where is this ‘canal’?”

“It’s the Yamatohori River at the foot of Mantoyama Mountain.” “What’s your name?” When I answered “Ōe Masashi,” the police officer took out his notebook, so I added, “The ‘Masashi’ is written with the ‘box’ radical enclosing the character for ‘king.’” “It’s from a passage in the Analects that reads ‘to rectify all under heaven once.’”

The police officer glared at my face as if barely restraining a "Shut up!", reached out to abruptly unfasten my overcoat buttons, turned it inside out, and inspected,

“There’s no mark.” He then tried to check the jacket’s lining. “What exactly do you mean by ‘mark’?” I set down my cloth bundle and spread open both my jacket and undergarment at the chest to show him. “Address?” “Azabu Ward, O-Tansu-machi 1-chome, 6-banchi.” “Occupation?”

“I’m not doing anything.” “Unemployed?” “How old are you?” “I was born in Meiji 12’s Tsuchinoe-U (Year of the Rabbit).” “How old?” “Meiji 12’s *Tsuchinoe-U* (Year of the Rabbit).” I considered staying silent then and there, but fearing the consequences, I said, “Fifty-eight.”

“You look awfully young for that.”

“Heh heh heh heh.” “What was your name again?” “I just told you.” “Ōe Masashi.”

“How many in your family?” “Three,” I answered. In truth, I was single, but given my experiences up to that day—where telling the truth only heightened suspicion—I answered three. “When you say three, that’s your wife and who else?” The police officer chose to interpret this favorably. “Pfft!” “How old is your wife?”

I was momentarily at a loss but, recalling a woman I had been involved with until four or five years prior, answered, “Thirty-one. Born July 14, Meiji 39 [1906], Hinoeuma (Year of the Fire Horse)...” If I were asked for the name, I had resolved to give the name of a woman from one of my own novels—but the police officer said nothing, instead pressing down on the hidden pockets of my overcoat and suit jacket from above, “What’s this?”

“A pipe and glasses.” “Hmm.” “What’s this?” “Canned goods.”

“This is a wallet, isn’t it? Let me see it. Take it out.” “There’s money inside.” “How much is inside?” “Well… perhaps twenty or thirty yen?” The police officer extracted the wallet but, without inspecting its contents, placed it on the stand beneath the telephone and said, “What’s that bundle? Step inside here and unwrap it to show me.” When I untied the cloth bundle, the paper-wrapped bread and old magazines were unremarkable enough, but no sooner had one glossy sleeve of the sleeveless undergarment slipped limply down than the police officer’s demeanor and tone abruptly shifted,

“Hey, you’ve got some strange things here.” “No, hahahaha,” I burst out laughing. “This is women’s clothing.” The police officer picked up the long undergarment with his fingertips, held it up to the lamplight, glared back at me, and demanded, “Where did you get this?”

“I brought it from a secondhand store.” “Why did you bring it?” “I paid money for it.”

“Where is that?” “In front of Yoshiwara’s Great Gate.” “How much did you pay for it?” “Three yen and seventy sen.” The police officer threw the long undergarment onto the stand and stared silently at my face. Assuming he would likely haul me to the station and toss me into a holding cell, I lost the courage to mock him as I had initially done. As I stared back at his demeanor, he nevertheless began inspecting my wallet without uttering a word. Inside lay a creased provisional fire insurance certificate that had been forgotten there, along with a household register extract, a seal registration certificate, and a registered seal needed for some occasion. The officer quietly spread out each document one by one, then took the registered seal and held its engraved characters up to the lamplight. As this inspection dragged on, I shifted my gaze toward the road while standing at the entrance.

The road forked diagonally in front of the police box, one branch running toward Minami-Senju and the other toward Shirahige Bridge, intersected with the main thoroughfare behind Asakusa Park that crossed over Kototoi Bridge. Though traffic remained quite heavy even at night, for some reason not a single passerby stopped to regard my interrogation with suspicion. At the shirt shop on the opposite corner, the woman who seemed to be the wife and the apprentice were looking this way while betraying no particular suspicion, and had begun closing up shop.

“Hey. Enough. Put it away.” “It’s not like I particularly need it anyway…” While muttering this, I put away the wallet and retied the cloth bundle as it had been.

“Do you have any further business?” “No.” “You’ve had quite the busy night.” I lit a Westminster cigarette with its gold mouthpiece—as if declaring I’d at least savor its aroma—blew smoke into the police box, and walked off toward Kototoi Bridge, letting my feet wander where they would.

In retrospect, had I not possessed the household register extract and seal registration certificate, I would surely have been thrown into a holding cell that night. Secondhand clothes are truly unpleasant things. The secondhand long undergarment had failed to bring its curse upon me.

II

I had conceived the plot for a novel titled *Disappearance*. If I could complete it, I have some confidence that this novel would not be so inept—even by my own estimation.

In the novel there was an important character called Taneda Junpei. He was in his early fifties and taught English at a private middle school.

Three or four years after being bereaved of his beloved first wife, Taneda took Mitsuko as his second wife. Mitsuko had been employed in the household of a certain prominent politician as a maid attendant to his wife, but was deceived by the master and became pregnant. The main household had their steward, a certain Endō, handle the subsequent arrangements. The condition was that if Mitsuko safely gave birth, they would send fifty yen each month for twenty years as child-rearing expenses. In return, the main household would have no involvement whatsoever in the child’s family register. Additionally, it was stipulated that should Mitsuko marry elsewhere, they would provide her with an appropriate dowry.

Mitsuko was taken into the household of steward Endō, gave birth to a son, and within sixty days or so—again through Endō’s mediation—became the second wife of one Taneda Junpei, an English teacher at a middle school. At the time, Mitsuko was nineteen and Taneda was thirty years old. After losing his first beloved wife, Taneda Junpei had seen no hope for the future in his meager income and, as he approached middle age, had become a listless shadow of a man; yet persuaded by his old friend Endō, his resolve wavered at the prospect of Mitsuko and her child’s financial support, leading him to remarry. At that time, since the child had just been born and the family register procedures had not yet been completed, Endō transferred the registrations of Mitsuko and her child into the Taneda household. Therefore, when later examining the family register, it appears that after the Taneda couple had long maintained a common-law relationship, they finally undertook formal marriage registration procedures because their eldest son had been born.

Two years passed and a girl was born, followed by a boy. On the surface he was their eldest son, but in truth, when Tamenari—Mitsuko’s child from her previous relationship—came of age, the educational expenses that had been secretly sent for years by his biological father to Mitsuko ceased. It was not merely that the agreed period had ended. The biological father had died of illness some years prior, and his wife had subsequently passed away as well; this was the reason. As their eldest daughter Yoshiko and youngest son Tameaki grew older, the cost of living increased year by year, forcing Taneda to take on teaching positions at two or three night schools.

Tamenari, the eldest son, was enrolled in a private university; he became a sportsman and went abroad. As soon as her younger sister Yoshiko graduated from girls’ school, she became a star actress in motion pictures. Mitsuko, his second wife, who at the time of their marriage had possessed an endearing round face, had at some point become an obese old woman, grown fanatically devoted to Nichiren Buddhism, and had been appointed as a committee member of a believers’ organization. Taneda’s household had become a state of affairs where at times it might as well have been a meeting hall for religious groups, at other times a gathering spot for actresses, and yet other times a practice field for sports. The commotion was such that not even mice dared venture into the kitchen.

Taneda was by nature a timid man who disliked socializing, so as he grew older, he became unable to endure the clamor of his household. Everything his wife and children favored was what Taneda disdained. Taneda made an effort not to dwell on matters concerning his family. Viewing his own wife and children with cold detachment was the only revenge the timid father could muster.

In the spring of his fifty-first year, Taneda was dismissed from his teaching position. On the day he received his retirement allowance, Taneda did not return home and disappeared without a trace. Some time prior to this, Taneda had encountered a woman named Sumiko—who had once worked as a live-in maid in his household—by chance on a train. Upon learning she was employed at a café in Asakusa Komagata-chō, he visited her there once or twice to buy beer and drink.

It was that night he pocketed the retirement allowance. Taneda went for the first time to the apartment where café worker Sumiko rented a room, explained his circumstances, and had her let him stay the night…….

＊　　　　　　　　＊　　　　　　　　＊

As for how to proceed with bringing the story to a conclusion from this point onward, I had not yet reached a definite plan. The family filed a missing person report. Taneda was arrested by detectives and admonished. Indulgences taken up in middle age have long been likened to a sudden evening downpour; thus, Taneda’s fate could easily be rendered tragic in any manner conceivable. I continued to contemplate in various ways the path of Taneda’s moral decline and the emotions accompanying each stage. The state of mind when caught by detectives and taken away for detention; the bewilderment and shame when handed over to his wife and children. What would it be like if one were in his position? I was returning from buying women’s secondhand clothes in the backstreets of Sanya when a police officer apprehended me and subjected me to a rigorous identity check at a roadside police box. This experience was the most convenient material for depicting Taneda’s psychology.

When creating a novel, what most excites me is selecting settings where characters' lives and events unfold, and depicting them. I had often erred by emphasizing background descriptions over character personalities.

I wished to depict Tokyo—those parts once celebrated as scenic spots that had lost all traces of their former appearance after new towns were built following the earthquake disaster—and therefore decided to place Mr. Taneda’s hiding place in Honjo, Fukagawa, or perhaps the outskirts of Asakusa. Otherwise, I resolved to situate it in the shabby alleys of old county districts adjacent to those areas. Though I had considered myself generally acquainted with conditions in areas like Sunamachi, Kameido, Komatsukawa, and Terajima-chō from my periodic strolls, when I actually tried putting pen to paper, I suddenly felt my observations were inadequate. Once—around Meiji 35–36 (1902–1903)—I wrote a novel centering on courtesans of the Suzaki pleasure quarter in Fukagawa. A friend who read it at the time remarked, “To depict life in Suzaki without including the typhoons and storm surges of August or September is gross negligence.” He added, “The clock tower at Kōshirō that you frequented was blown down more than once or twice, wasn’t it? To render background descriptions precisely, you must attend to seasons and weather as well—like in Mr. Hearn’s masterpieces *Chita* or *Youma*.”

It was a certain evening at the end of June.

The rainy season had not yet lifted, but the morning's clear sky—it being near summer solstice—meant that even after finishing dinner, twilight still showed no inclination to fall. I set down my chopsticks and stepped through the gate at once, resolved to wander wherever my feet might lead—be it distant Senju or Kameido—and first rode the streetcar to Kaminarimon, where by fortunate chance I found the shared motorcoach bound for Terajima Tamanoi waiting.

Crossing Azuma Bridge, turning left onto a wide road and crossing Genmori Bridge, passing straight by Akiba Shrine, and proceeding a short distance further, the car came to a halt at a railroad crossing. At both sides of the railroad crossing, countless one-yen taxis and bicycles waited before the barriers for a freight train to lumber slowly past; yet pedestrians were surprisingly few, while numerous groups of children from poor households played in clusters. When I got off and looked around, the wide road running from Shirahige Bridge toward Kameido intersected in a cross. Due to the vacant lots overgrown with grass here and there and the low rows of houses, all the roads appeared so alike as to be indistinguishable from one another; I felt an indefinable loneliness, wondering where they might lead.

I considered that if I were to set the place where Mr. Taneda had abandoned his family and gone into hiding in these backstreets—with Tamanoi's entertainment district being nearby—it would prove convenient for crafting the story's conclusion; thus, I walked about a block and turned into a narrow side street. The narrow path—where even bicycles carrying parcels under their arms could scarcely pass each other—twisted every five or six paces, lined on both sides with relatively neat rented houses bearing modest gates. Men and women in Western clothes, likely returning from work, walked singly or in pairs along its length. Even the stray dogs at play wore collars with license tags attached, appearing none too filthy. Suddenly, I emerged beside Tobu Railway's Tamanoi Station.

On both sides of the railroad tracks stood vast, villa-like structures with trees forming dense thickets. From Azumabashi to here, there was not a single place where old-growth trees created such a deep forest. None appeared to have been tended to in ages—the bamboo grove sagging under creeping vines overrunning them, evening glories blooming along ditchside hedges—their poetic elegance so striking that I halted my steps. When we hear that Shirahige’s vicinity was once Terajima Village, we immediately recall the fifth Kikugorō’s villa; yet today, chancing upon such a garden persisting here, I cannot help but be reminded of the literary refinement of eras long past.

A wide grassland with signs marking land for sale or rent along the railway tracks reached the embankment where an iron bridge spanned. At the site of tracks where until around last year the Keisei Electric Railway had run back and forth, upon crumbling stone steps lay the remains of Tamanoi Station, now dismantled and overgrown with weeds—from this vantage, it resembled castle ruins.

I parted the summer grass and climbed the embankment to look. Below me stretched an unobstructed view—the path I had walked, vacant lots, and the newly developed town lay low, while across the embankment, amidst corrugated iron-roofed shacks built in endless disorder, a bathhouse chimney rose tall with a seven- or eight-day-old evening moon suspended above its peak. Though faint evening hues still lingered in one part of the sky, the moon now glowed with nocturnal clarity, and from between the corrugated roofs came neon signs' first glimmers accompanied by radios' murmuring.

I remained seated on the stone until darkness gathered at my feet, but when lights began coming on in the squalid second-floor rooms below the embankment and their interiors became fully visible, I traced the footprints left among the grass and descended the slope. To my surprise, I found myself already halfway along a bustling side street that cut diagonally through Tamanoi’s entertainment quarter. Alley entrances between haphazardly clustered shops bore illuminated signs reading “Shortcut Through Here,” “Safe Passage,” “Keisei Bus Shortcut,” “Otome Street,” or “Nigi-Hon-dōri.”

After walking around that area for some time, I was at the tobacco store by the alley entrance with the postbox, buying cigarettes and waiting for my change from a five-yen note when— Suddenly, I saw a man in a white work coat shout “It’s coming down!” as he dashed under the noren of what seemed to be an oden shop across the street. Next came women in aprons and passersby scattering in a flurry. The atmosphere turned electric—then a gale roared through, toppling reed screens with a crash as paper scraps and dust raced down the road like vengeful spirits. A lightning bolt split the sky; thunder rumbled low and slow before fat raindrops began pelting the ground one by one. The evening weather, so clear moments earlier, had transformed before anyone could grasp how.

Due to a long-standing habit, I rarely left the gate without an umbrella. Though clear that day, being in the rainy season meant I naturally carried both umbrella and cloth bundle. Not particularly startled, I had just begun walking while observing the sky and townscape from beneath my calmly opened umbrella when suddenly from behind came a voice—“Sir, let me under there too”—and a woman thrust her snow-white neck beneath the shelter. Her large tsubushi-shimada chignon, freshly styled with the pungent scent of hair oil, bore silver threads cut long. I recalled passing a women’s hairdresser’s shop earlier with its glass door left open.

As the raging wind and rain disheveled the silver threads adorning her tightly bound chignon—a pitiful sight—I extended my umbrella and said, “I’m in Western clothes, so it’s no trouble.” Truth be told, under the bright lights of the adjacent shops, even I felt somewhat self-conscious about sharing an umbrella.

“Well, fine then. It’s just up ahead,” she said, grasping the umbrella handle and boldly tucking up the hem of her yukata with one hand.

III

Another lightning bolt flashed sharply, and as thunder rumbled deeply, the woman theatrically exclaimed "Oh!", took my hand as I tried to lag a step behind, and said, "Hurry up." "You," she continued in an overly familiar tone. "Just go ahead. "I'll follow you." When we entered the alley, she glanced back toward me at every turn to ensure I wouldn't lose my way, eventually crossed a small bridge spanning a ditch, and came to a stop before a house with reed screens hung across its eaves for shade.

“Oh! You...” “You’re absolutely soaked,” she said, furling her umbrella and brushing the raindrops from my jacket with her palm before tending to her own.

“So this is your place?”

“I’ll dry you off, so come inside.” “I’m in Western clothes, so it’s fine.” “I said I’d dry you off.” “I want to return the favor too.” “What sort of favor?” “Then just get inside already.” The thunder had receded somewhat, but the rain now poured down even more fiercely, as if pelting gravel. Even beneath the eaves’ sunshade, the violent spray leaping upward left me no time to object before I retreated indoors.

A rough Osaka lattice partition hung a ribbon-bordered curtain with bells. As she sat on the upper frame beneath it to remove his shoes, the woman wiped his feet with a rag and, without lowering her tucked hem, twisted on the light in the lower room.

“There’s no one here, so please come up.”

“Are you here alone?” “Yes. There was someone else here until last night. They moved out.” “So you’re the master here now?” “No. The master is in a separate house. You know the Tamanoi-kan vaudeville theater? There’s a residence behind it. He comes every night at twelve to check the ledger.” “So he’s got it easy, huh.” I sat down beside the long brazier as urged and watched the woman prepare tea while sitting with one knee raised.

She must have been twenty-four or twenty-five. She had quite handsome features. Her well-defined round face was pale with powder, but the hairline of her tightly bound shimada chignon had not yet receded. Her dark-pupiled eyes showed no cloudiness, and judging by the color of her lips and gums, it seemed her health had not yet been significantly compromised. "Is this area well water or tap water?" I casually inquired before drinking the tea. If she answered that it was well water, I was prepared to pretend to drink the tea and set it aside.

I feared contagious diseases like typhus more than venereal ones. For someone like myself—a man who had become a mental invalid long before physical decline—a slow-burning affliction like venereal disease hardly concerned me in this late stage of life. “Wash your face or something. If it’s tap water, it’s right there,” the woman said with utter nonchalance. “Hmm. Later’s fine.” “At least take off your jacket. You’re completely drenched.”

“It’s coming down hard.” “I dislike the flashes more than the thunder deity.” “With this downpour, I can’t even get to the bathhouse.” “You.” “That can wait.” “I’ll just wash my face and do my makeup.”

The woman twisted her mouth and, while wiping oil from her hairline with kaishi paper, stood before the washbasin attached to the wall outside the partition. Through the ribbon-bordered curtain, she could be seen removing her undergarment and bending down to wash her face. Her skin was much fairer than her face, and from the shape of her breasts, it seemed she had not yet borne a child.

“Somehow I feel like I’ve become the master here,” I remarked as I sat there. “With all this—a chest of drawers, a tea shelf…” “Go on and open it,” she urged. “You’ll find sweet potatoes or something inside.” “Remarkably tidy,” I observed. “Impressive—even inside the hibachi.” “I make sure to clean properly every morning,” she said with pride. “Though I live in such a place, I’m quite skilled at managing a household.” “Planning to stay long?” “Just over a year… barely.” “This isn’t your first time in these parts,” I pressed. “Were you a geisha before?”

Whether she hadn’t heard my words over the sound of poured water or was feigning deafness, the woman gave no reply and—still undressed—sat before the mirror stand, raised her sidelocks with a hair comb, and began applying white powder starting from her shoulders. “Where’d you work before? This much you can’t keep hidden.” “Yes… but not in Tokyo.” “The outskirts of Tokyo now?”

“No. Much farther away…” “Then, Manchuria…?” “I was in Utsunomiya… All my kimonos are from those days too. This’ll have to do.” As she spoke while rising to change into an unlined garment with hem patterns hung on the eboshi rack and tie a red Benkei-striped under-sash broadly at her front, the sight—harmonizing with the silver threads of her slightly oversized shimada chignon—struck me as uncannily reminiscent of a Meiji-era courtesan. Adjusting her collar, she sat beside me and retrieved a tray from the low table.

“For good luck, please just add a celebratory tip,” she said, presenting a lit one. I was not entirely unfamiliar with the ways of enjoying oneself in this area,

“Fifty sen, right? And the service fee?” “Yes. That’s just the usual regulation,” she said with a laugh, neither withdrawing her outstretched palm nor retracting it as she kept holding it out.

“Then let’s set it to one hour.” “Thank you.” “Truly.” “In return,” I said, taking her outstretched hand and pulling her close, then whispered in her ear, “I don’t know,” she retorted, eyes wide as she glared back, then struck my shoulder with a “You idiot.”

Those who have read Tamenaga Shunsui’s novels would know that the author intersperses self-justifying passages throughout his narratives. When depicting a maiden in first love forgetting her modesty to cling to her beloved, readers must not deem this girl wanton based solely on her mannerisms and speech in such moments. Even a woman reared in seclusion may, when confessing her heart’s desire, assume an allure surpassing that of any geisha. Moreover, when portraying a seasoned courtesan chancing upon her childhood sweetheart—a scene where even a worldly merchant might fidget like an innocent girl—the author appends a note imploring readers to understand this behavior as common knowledge among connoisseurs of such affairs, his observations being far from deficient; they must therefore read with this awareness.

I, following Shunsui’s example, add these superfluous words here. Readers may find it strange that this woman, whom I encountered for the first time by the roadside, treated me with such an overly familiar attitude. However, this is merely a straightforward account of an actual encounter, described without embellishment. There is no contrivance here whatsoever. Some may laugh, seeing how the incident arose from sudden rain and thunder—yet another of the author’s conventional tropes—but it is precisely because I anticipate this that I have no desire to contrive alternative events. That the events of this night, set in motion by an evening shower, were so thoroughly traditional—as if tailor-made—I found rather amusing; indeed, it was precisely my desire to write of this that led me to put pen to paper and begin this piece.

It is said there are roughly seven or eight hundred women in this entertainment district, but among them, those who wear their hair in the Shimada or marumage styles number about one in ten. Mostly, they are in quasi-waitress Japanese attire and Western outfits favored by dancers. That the woman from the house where I took shelter from the rain belonged to an extremely small minority preserving old customs also seemed to align all too well with trite literary devices—a convergence I felt compelled to acknowledge, for I could not bear to distort the factual account.

The rain did not let up.

When we first entered the house, the rain fell so hard one had to raise their voice to be heard; but now even the wind lashing at the doorway and thunder’s rumble had ceased, leaving only rain striking the zinc-sheeted roof and water dripping from eaves. In the alleyway, voices and footsteps had long vanished—when suddenly, “Oh no! Disaster!” “Ki-chan!” “There’s a loach swimming here!” came a shrill cry, followed by the clatter of geta.

The woman abruptly stood up, peered through the ribbons toward the earthen floor area, and said, “The house is fine. If the ditch overflows, water comes flowing all the way here.” “Seems like it’s let up a bit.” “If it rains in the early evening, even if it clears up afterward, it’s no good. So please make yourself comfortable. I’ll just eat my meal now.” The woman took out from the tea shelf a small plate heaped with takuan pickles, a chazuke bowl, and an aluminum pot. She lifted the lid slightly to sniff the aroma before placing it atop the long hibachi—which turned out to contain simmered sweet potatoes.

"I'd forgotten. I have something good," I said, recalling how I'd bought Asakusa nori while waiting for my connecting train at Kyōbashi Station, and produced it. "A souvenir for your wife." "I'm alone. Food I've gotta buy myself." "You're living with her in an apartment. Ohohoho."

“In that case, I can’t be wandering around at this hour. Rain or thunder, I don’t care—I’m heading back.” “Hmm, well…” the woman said with a look of perfect agreement, removed the lid from the pot that had just begun to warm, and asked, “Care to join me?” “I’ve already eaten.” “Well then, face the other way.” “Do you cook your own meals?” “From the housing area, they bring it over at noon and twelve at night.”

“Shall I brew fresh tea? The water’s gone tepid.” “My! Such modesty.” She fluttered her lashes. “Listen—you there. Isn’t chatting over meals delightful?” “I detest solitary dining.” “Truly now? So you’re genuinely alone.” Her voice dripped mock pity. “Poor dear.” “You’ve likely surmised.” “Never mind—I’ll hunt it down.” The woman devoured two bowls of ochazuke. With incongruous vivacity, she clattered chopsticks against ceramic, swished them through cold tea, and scurried to stow dishes—all while battling pickle-induced reflux through vigorous jaw motions.

From outside came the sound of footsteps accompanied by a voice calling out, “Hey there, hey there!”

“The rain seems to have let up. Do come out again soon.” “You must visit without fail. I’m here even during the daytime.” The woman, seeing me put on my jacket, moved behind me to fold back my collar and pressed her cheek against my shoulder from behind. “You must.” “What a house this is. Where exactly are we?” “I’ll give you my card now.”

While I was putting on my shoes, the woman took out from among the items placed beneath the small window a business card cut into the shape of a shamisen plectrum. It read: Terajima-chō 7-chōme 61-banchi (2-bu), Andō Masakata Yukiko. “Goodbye.” “Go straight home.”

IV

Excerpt from the novel *Shissō*

Leaning against what seemed to be the middle section of Azuma Bridge’s railing, Taneda Junpei gazed at Matsuya’s clock while keeping watch for approaching figures. He was waiting for Sumiko, the café worker, who would take a roundabout route here after closing up shop. On the bridge, neither entaku taxis nor streetcars nor buses passed anymore, but since two or three days prior—amid the sudden heatwave—there were people cooling themselves in just shirtsleeves, and the comings and goings of women who appeared to be office girls still showed no sign of stopping as they hurried home with parcels under their arms. Taneda planned to go that night to the apartment where Sumiko stayed and then take his time deciding his future course; once he arrived, he neither gave further thought to what would become of the woman nor had the leisure to consider it. That he had sacrificed his entire life for his family over these past twenty years filled him with such bitter resentment he could scarcely contain his fury.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Sumiko came hurrying over at a trot sooner than expected. “I always cross Komagata Bridge on my way.” “But since I’m with Kaneko-san.” “That girl’s such a chatterbox, you see.”

“Looks like the trains have stopped running.” “Even if we walk, it’s only about three stops.” “Let’s take a taxi from around here.”

“If there’s a vacant room, that would be good.” “If there isn’t one, you can stay at my place for tonight.” “Is it alright? Are you sure?” “What’s there to worry about?”

“Wasn’t there something in the papers the other day… about someone getting caught in an apartment?” “It’s all about the location.” “Absolutely.” “My place is wide open.” “Both next door and across the way—they’re all café girls or kept women.” “Next door especially seems to have all sorts coming and going.” Before they’d even finished crossing the bridge, they’d flagged down a roving entaku taxi that agreed to take them to Akiba Shrine for thirty sen. “Everything’s changed beyond recognition.” “How far does the train run now?”

“Mukōjima’s terminus. “In front of Akiba-sama.” “If you take the bus, it’ll go straight to Tamanoi.”

“Tamanoi—was it in this direction?” “You know it.” “I went to see it just once.” “Five or six years ago.” “It’s lively.” “Every night they set up stalls and put on shows in the vacant lot.” “I see.”

As Taneda was gazing at both sides of the passing road from within [the vehicle], they had already reached Akiba Shrine. Sumiko moved [her hand toward]*

“Here is fine.” “Yes,” she said, handing over the fare. “Let’s turn there—there’s a police box that way.” Turning along the shrine’s stone wall revealed one side opening onto a dead-end alley where lights from the pleasure quarter stretched out. In a suddenly dark corner of the vacant lot shone a lamp labeled “Azuma Apartments,” illuminating the front of a square cement building. Sumiko slid open the door and stepped inside, storing her sandals in the shoe cabinet marked with her room number; seeing this, Taneda likewise gathered his footwear and—

“I’ll take them upstairs—they’ll be too noticeable.” Sumiko had the man put on her slippers and, carrying his geta in hand, led the way up the front staircase. The exterior walls and windows appeared Western-style, but inside lay a Japanese structure with slender pillars; at the corner of the corridor atop creaking stairs stood a kitchenette where a woman wearing only a chemise, her bobbed hair disheveled, was boiling water in a kettle.

“Evening,” Sumiko said with a light greeting and unlocked the second door from the far right end using her key. In a stained six-tatami room, one side held a closet, another wall had a chest of drawers, and on another wall hung yukata and pre-shrunk cotton nightclothes. Sumiko opened the window, spread a cushion beneath where a waistcloth and tabi socks hung, and said, “It’s cool here.” “Being alone like this feels completely carefree.” “Marriage renders everything utterly absurd.”

“At home, they’re always telling me to come back.” “But it’s no use anymore.”

“I should have awakened sooner.” “It’s too late now.” Taneda gazed out through the window where a waistcloth hung drying, then added as if suddenly remembering, “Could you ask if there’s a vacant room?” Sumiko, evidently planning to make tea, took the kettle and went out into the hallway where she talked with some women, but soon returned. “They say the room at the far end across the way is available.” “But they say the office auntie isn’t here tonight.”

“Then I can’t rent it after all. Not tonight.” “Why not stay here for a night or two? If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, but what about you?” Taneda’s eyes widened. “I’ll sleep here. Or I can go to Kimi-chan’s place next door—if her boyfriend isn’t around.” “Doesn’t anyone come to your place?” “No one does. For now. That’s why it’s fine.” She paused. “But it would be wrong for me to tempt you, Sensei.”

Taneda made a peculiar sort of face—as if he wanted to laugh yet found it all rather pitiful—and said nothing. “You have such a fine wife and daughter…” “No—those things—” “Even if it’s a late sowing, I’ll begin a new life from here on out.” “Are you going to live apart?” “Hmm. “Separation.” “Rather, a clean break.” “But that’s not how it works, surely?” “Not easily done.” “So I’ve been thinking. “I don’t care if it’s crude or whatnot. “I’ll vanish from sight for a spell. “That should force open some crack for the rupture. “Sumiko. “If we can’t settle this vacant room business tonight, there’d be no mending the nuisance I’d cause—so I’ll just lodge elsewhere tonight. “Let’s go take in Tamanoi instead.”

“Sensei.” “I also have something I want to talk about.” “There’s something I’ve been at a loss about what to do.” “Won’t you stay up tonight and talk with me?”

“These days night breaks so quickly.” “When I drove to Yokohama the other day, it was already daylight on the way back.” “If I were to hear your life story from the very beginning—even just up to when you came to my house as a maid—it would be quite an undertaking.” “And then from when you became a café girl onward, there’s still more ahead.” “One night might not suffice.” “Truly… Hahaha.”

From somewhere on the second floor that had fallen temporarily quiet, voices of a man and woman began to be heard. In the kitchen, the sound of water resumed. Sumiko—apparently determined to talk through the night—untied only her obi, folded it neatly, placed her tabi socks atop it and stored them in the closet, then wiped down the tea table and began preparing tea while— "What do you think made me end up like this, Sensei?"

“Well, I still think it’s longing for the city, but isn’t that the case?”

“That’s certainly true, but more than that—I really hated my father’s business.” “What was it?”

“They call them bosses or yakuza enforcers, I suppose. Anyway…the yakuza…,” Sumiko said, lowering her voice.

Five

When the rainy season ended and summer’s heat arrived—perhaps because neighboring houses all threw open their doors and windows at once—sounds that had gone unheard in other seasons suddenly became conspicuous. Of all the noises, the one that tormented me most was the radio from the neighboring house beyond a single wooden fence. I would wait for the evening to cool slightly and attempt to sit at my desk under the lamp, but right around that time a sharp, crackling noise would well up, not ceasing until after nine o’clock. Among these noises, what tormented me most severely were political speeches in Kyushu dialect, naniwabushi ballads, recitations resembling student theater performances, and those interspersed with Western music. Not content with just radios, there were also houses that blared popular songs on phonographs regardless of the hour, day or night. To escape the noise of radios, I made it my practice each summer to leave home at six o’clock upon finishing dinner in haste—or sometimes even taking my evening meal out—thereupon departing. Leaving the house did not mean the radios became inaudible. However, the even more intense clamor emanating from roadside houses and shops blended with the din of trains and automobiles, merging into the general urban cacophony. Compared to sitting alone in my study, I found it far less bothersome—indeed, rather more tolerable—when walking.

The draft of "Disappearance" was disrupted by radios as soon as the rainy season ended, and it had now been over ten days since its interruption. It seemed that even my interest in it would vanish entirely in this state.

This summer too, just like last year and the year before, I left home each day while the sun was still up—but in truth, there was nowhere I needed to go, nowhere I should walk. In the days when Old Man Shūyō Kamishiro was alive, even the nightly Ginza strolls I never missed grew more intriguing with each passing night; but now that he too had departed this world, I found myself utterly wearied even by the night scenes of the streets. To this was added an occurrence that made one think twice about venturing down Ginza Avenue thereafter. It concerned a rickshaw puller who had frequented Shinbashi’s geisha houses before the earthquake—now transformed into a ruffian with features so sinister he might well have committed murder, loitering around Owari-chō and accosting former patrons he recognized with brazen demands for money.

My initial act of giving a fifty-sen silver coin at the corner of Kurozawa Store ended up setting an unfortunate precedent; for when I didn’t give him anything, he would raise such a ruckus that, to avoid drawing a crowd, I’d end up handing over another fifty sen. Thinking I couldn’t be the only one being pestered by this man for handouts for drinks, I once tricked him into following me to the Shitsuji police box one evening, only to find that he was already acquainted with the officer on duty, who showed no inclination to trouble himself over the matter. At the Izumochō—no, at the 7-chome police box—I once saw him talking and laughing with an officer. In the police officer’s eyes, this man’s background might be better known than someone like mine.

I decided to change my walking route to the east of the Sumida River and seek respite by visiting a woman named Yukiko who lived in a house by the canal. After traveling back and forth along the same route for four or five days, even the long road from Azabu gradually ceased to feel as burdensome as it had at first. Once the transfers between Kyōbashi and Kaminarimon stations became habitual, I found they no longer felt particularly bothersome—my body began to move of its own accord before my mind even registered the action. I also came to understand the times when passengers crowded and the train lines differed from day to day, so by avoiding these periods, even the long route allowed me to proceed leisurely while reading a book.

Reading on trains had been entirely abandoned since around 1920 when I began needing reading glasses, but upon starting my commutes to Kaminarimon, I resolved to take up the practice once more. However, as I had no habit of handling newspapers, magazines, or new books, for my first outing I simply took along Yoda Gakkai’s Twenty-Four Scenes of Sumida River that came to hand.

The long embankment winds. Mimeguri Shrine forms a slight curve. Arrived at Chōmei-ji Temple. At one bend lies the place with the most cherry trees. During the Kan’ei era, Lord Tokugawa Iemitsu conducted falconry here. He was stricken with abdominal pain. He drank from the temple well and recovered. He stated: "This is the Long Life Water." Hence he named that well, and extended it to the temple’s name. Later came Bashō the lay monk’s celebrated snow-viewing verse. It became a household name. Ah, the Lord was a peerless hero of his age. His name shook the world. Fitting indeed. The lay monk was but a commoner. The same account follows hereafter. Truly, it lies in what a person achieves. This was because I thought the writings of earlier Confucians might add some interest to the scenery before my eyes.

By around the third day, I had needed to buy groceries during my walks. While doing so, I had also purchased a souvenir for the woman. This matter—with visits numbering merely four or five times—had produced a twofold effect. Seeing that I always bought canned goods and wore shirts and jackets missing buttons, the woman had now firmly concluded I must be a bachelor living in an apartment. If one were single, she likely reasoned, there would be nothing suspicious about nightly outings for amusement. She would have no cause to think I couldn't remain home due to radios, and since I didn't attend plays or motion pictures, there was no time being squandered elsewhere. With nowhere for me to go, she would have no reason to expect visitors either. This situation had resolved itself without explanation, but given the district's nature, I cautiously inquired whether suspicions might arise about my funds' provenance. Whereupon the woman—with an air suggesting that as long as I paid what was due each night—gave no thought whatsoever to other matters,

“Even in a place like this, there are those who spend quite lavishly, you know. There was a patron who stayed for a full month straight.”

“Huh,” I exclaimed in surprise, “Don’t you have to report it to the police? In places like Yoshiwara, don’t they file reports right away?” “Here too—some houses might report it, depending.” “What sort of patron stays that long? A thief?” “He was a kimono shop owner. Eventually his shop’s proprietor came to fetch him.” “Skipped out on his tab, eh?” “That’s right.”

“I’m fine. What about you?” I said, but the woman showed no interest in responding, her expression suggesting it made no difference either way.

However, I had gradually come to realize that the woman had long since formed her own assumptions about my occupation.

On the second-floor sliding doors were pasted ukiyo-e beauty prints reproduced at roughly the size of quartered hanshi sheets in collage fashion. Among these were Utamaro’s Abalone Gatherers and Toyokuni’s Bathing Beauties—works I had previously encountered in the illustrations of Konohana magazine. There were also selections from Hokusai’s three-volume *Fukutoku Wagōjin* with male figures excised to leave only women, prompting me to offer a thorough explanation of this publication. Later, while Yukiko ascended upstairs with a customer and I sat writing in my notebook in the single downstairs room, she glimpsed my activity and apparently concluded I must be involved in clandestine publishing—leading her to request I bring such a book on my next visit.

At home there remained some items I had collected twenty or thirty years earlier, so when requested I brought three or four volumes all at once. At this point not only had my profession been determined without a word spoken, but the source of my ill-gotten money too appeared to have naturally clarified itself. Thereupon the woman's attitude grew still more familiar, until she ceased treating me as a customer altogether.

When women who dwell in obscurity encounter men living furtive lives, they feel neither fear nor aversion, but invariably stir within themselves feelings of intimacy and compassion—a truth borne out by countless examples that scarcely requires elaborate exposition. The geisha of Kamogawa saved loyalist samurai pursued by bakufu officials, while the serving women of Kan'eki Station never shrank from providing travel funds to outlaw gamblers who breached checkpoints. Tosca gave sustenance to a fugitive scholar in flight, and Michitose offered the sincere love of her heart to a rogue without remorse.

In this regard, my sole concern was to avoid encountering literary figures and newspaper reporters near this town or aboard Tobu trains. As for everyone else, it made no difference where I met them or whether they followed me. I had been written off by strict people since my youth. Even relatives’ children no longer approached my house, so now there was ultimately nothing left to restrain me. The only ones to fear were men of the pen. Over a decade earlier, when cafés had begun proliferating along Ginza’s main streets, my having bought drinks there led every newspaper to launch written attacks against me. In April 1929, the magazine *Bungei Shunju* attacked me as a human being who “must not be allowed to exist in society.” Judging from their use of terms like “abduction of a virgin” in that article, they might well have intended to frame me as a criminal offender. Were they to detect me stealthily crossing the Sumida River by night to amuse myself in the east, it would be impossible to predict what further schemes they might devise. This was truly something to be feared.

Not only the nightly comings and goings by train, but even after entering this district, the main street bustling with night stalls went without saying. Even the narrow alleyway paths required me to walk while minding my surroundings in all directions when crowded with people. This state of mind was surely an essential experience for depicting the circumstances in which Taneda Junpei, the protagonist of *Disappearance*, lived in obscurity.

VI

The fact that the house I secretly frequented by the ditch was located at Terajima-chō 7-chōme 60-something banchi had already been ascertained. The vicinity of this address lay tucked into the northwestern corner of this entertainment district, not a prominent location. Were one to liken this to Kitazato, Kyōmachi 1-chōme might be described as lying on the edge near Nishikishi. Since this was a story I had just heard, perhaps I should feign expertise and recount the history of this entertainment district. Around 1918–1919, when the precincts behind Asakusa Kannon Hall were reduced in size and a wide road was constructed, all the long-established archery halls, sake shops, and similar establishments that had densely lined the area were ordered removed. They relocated haphazardly to both sides of what is now Taisho-dori—where Keisei buses still run today. Subsequently, those driven out from areas like the side of Denbōin Temple and behind Egawa Tamanojiri kept arriving in an unbroken stream, until Taisho-dori became almost entirely lined with sake shops, and pedestrians began having their sleeves tugged and hats snatched even in broad daylight. This led to stricter police crackdowns, forcing them to retreat from the main thoroughfare with vehicle traffic into the back alleys. In Asakusa’s old district, those who had been located in the alleyways from behind Ryōunkaku to Senzoku-chō north of the park had exhausted every means to devise strategies to remain, but this too was interrupted by the 1923 earthquake disaster, and for a time they all fled to this area. After the city’s reconstruction, some formed a geisha house association called Nishimiban and switched trades, but the prosperity of this area only grew more vigorous, eventually reaching the semi-permanent state seen today. Initially, because the only route connecting it to the city proper was via Shirahige Bridge, until around last year when the Keisei tram ceased operations, the area near its station remained the liveliest.

However, around the time the Urban Revival Festival was held in spring of Shōwa 5 (1930), a straight road was opened from Azumabashi to Terajima-chō, the city tram extended its service to Akiba Shrine, and the municipal buses further lengthened their route to establish a garage at the edge of Terajima-chō 7-chōme. Simultaneously, with the Tobu Railway Company establishing Tamanoi Station southwest of the entertainment district and trains now carrying passengers from Kaminarimon for six sen until midnight, the town's spatial configuration—both its front and back areas—underwent a complete transformation. The alleyways that had once been hardest to navigate became easiest to enter, while what was formerly considered prime locations turned peripheral. Yet despite this, establishments like banks, post offices, bathhouses, vaudeville theaters, motion picture halls, and Tamanoi Inari Shrine all remained along Taisho-dori as before. Meanwhile, the new road—called either Commoner's Avenue or Reformed Road—showed nothing but clusters of en-taku taxis and bustling night stalls, with neither police box nor public toilet in sight.

Even in such a remote new town as this, the vicissitudes accompanying the times were unavoidable. How much more so in the span of a human life? The house by the ditch where I had suddenly grown comfortable—Yukiko’s dwelling—being situated in a corner of this land that evoked the prosperous days of Taisho-era development, seemed to hold some profound karmic connection for someone like me, left behind by the tides of time. The house was situated down an alley branching off Taisho-dori—past a Fushimi Inari Shrine with soiled votive banners—and followed along a ditch into such depths that the clamor of radios and phonographs from the main thoroughfare faded beneath the footsteps of passersby. On summer nights, there could be no haven better suited than this for me to escape the clamor of radios.

In this entertainment district, according to the association’s regulations, from four o’clock in the afternoon when the women took their seats by the windows, the playing of phonographs and radios was prohibited, and they were not even permitted to pluck the shamisen. On evenings when rain fell in a steady patter, as night deepened and the sporadic voices around the house grew prone to fading, the swarming drone of mosquitoes indoors and out would rise to prominence, evoking the desolation so characteristic of back-alley neighborhoods on the city’s fringes. Yet this was not the squalid lanes of modern Shōwa, but rather that melancholy charm reminiscent of bygone eras—the lonely allure one might sense in Tsuruya Nanbaku’s kyōgen plays, tinged with history’s margins.

The sight of Yukiko, who always wore her hair in either a Shimada or marumage style, combined with the filth of the ditch and the hum of mosquitoes, sharply stimulated my senses, vividly conjuring phantoms of a past that had vanished thirty or forty years prior. I wished to express my gratitude as openly as possible to the introducer of this ephemeral and eerie phantom. Ms.Yukiko was an even more skillful wordless artist in evoking the past than actors performing Nanbaku’s kyōgen plays or Tsuruga So-and-so reciting *Rancho*.

When I gazed at Ms. Yukiko cradling the rice tub to scoop out portions, her figure devouring ochazuke with a rustling sound under the dim electric light amid the ceaseless hum of ditch mosquitoes, I vividly recalled the forms of women I had grown intimate with in my youth and the shapes of their dwellings. Not merely my own women. Even the women of my friends came to mind. In those days, people did not yet call men "boyfriends" or women "girlfriends," nor had terms like "love nest" been coined for those modest dwellings where couples lived. A familiar woman wasn’t addressed as “kimi” or “anta”—it sufficed to simply say “omae.” There were husbands who called their wives “Okkā,” and wives who addressed their husbands with “-chan.”

Even today, were one to cross east over the Sumida River, the droning hum of mosquitoes in ditches would remain unchanged from thirty years past—still singing of desolate outlying towns—yet Tokyo’s language had transformed utterly within this last decade. After tidying that area—hangs the mosquito net! Sweltering even without it—this cotton net. The whole house—autumn’s western sun and ditch’s edge. In this austere dwelling—a broken fan mid-summer heat. Mending holes in the net—September arrives. From wastebasket depths—mosquitoes rise buzzing.

Counting remaining mosquitoes—the wall and rain stains. This mosquito net too—could it become like sake?—the autumn evening.

This was an old verse I had composed, which came suddenly to mind one night when I saw a mosquito net hanging in the family room of Yukiko’s house. Half were poems I’d written during visits to my late friend Mr. Yōsai when he lived covertly with a forbidden lover in tenements behind Fukagawa’s Chōkeiji Temple—this would have been around Meiji 43 or 44 [1910–1911]. That night Yukiko developed a sudden toothache and crawled out from beneath the mosquito net, explaining she’d only just retreated to bed by the window moments earlier. Finding no space to sit properly, she settled beside me on the entryway’s raised frame.

“You’re later than usual, aren’t you? You shouldn’t keep me waiting this long.” Her manner of speech, along with her attitude, had developed a tendency to cross the bounds of familiarity and veer toward licentiousness ever since my occupation came to be presumed as something society shunned. “That was my fault. Is it a cavity?”

“It started hurting suddenly. My head was spinning. It’s swollen, isn’t it?” she said, showing her profile. “You. Stay here and keep watch. I’m going to the dentist now.” “Is it nearby?” “Right before the inspection station.” “Then it must be near the public market.”

“You.” “Seems you’ve been walking all over—know it well, don’t you.” “Womanizer.”

“Ouch.” “Don’t be so cruel.” “This body hasn’t achieved greatness yet.” “Then I’ll leave it to you.” “If they make me wait too long, I’ll come right back.”

“So you’re saying I’ve been waiting and waiting, only to be left outside the mosquito net… Is that it?” “It can’t be helped.” I had been making an effort to adapt my tone to match the increasingly casual manner of the woman’s speech. This was not a means to conceal one’s status. Regardless of place or person, I made it a practice when interacting with modern people to use the same language as my interlocutor—much like one would speak a foreign tongue while abroad. “If someone said ‘ora ga kuni,’ then I too used ‘ora’ instead of ‘watakushi.’” Though this digression strayed slightly from the main narrative, when socializing with modern people, learning their colloquial speech proved easy enough, but I found considerable difficulty in exchanging written correspondence. Particularly when composing replies to women’s letters—changing “watashi” to “atashi,” “keredomo” to “kedo,” and appending the character for “nature” to everything with forced gravitas like “inevitability” or “gravity”—the act differed starkly from mimicking such speech half-jokingly; committing it to paper stirred an unbearable revulsion. What I yearned for was, in all things, an irretrievable past—indeed, that very day while airing out my belongings, I came across an old letter from a woman who had been a courtesan at Yanagibashi and was later kept in Mukōjima Koumura. In that era when letters necessarily had to be written in sōrōbun, women of the time—upon drawing an inkstone close and taking up a brush—even if they did not know their characters—seemed to have naturally recalled the cadence of “sōroku sōro.”

I shall set this down here, heedless of others’ derision. I humbly pen this missive. After which time I have neglected to correspond, and having no excuse whatsoever to offer, I most earnestly beg your pardon. In personal matters, as my current residence has grown truly cramped, I humbly inform you that I have relocated to this place called Nakamigi. Though it is truly beyond my station to presume so, as there exists a matter I most humbly wish to convey once granted but a brief audience, I entreat your esteemed self to deign to arrange your convenience and shall await, with utmost reverence, your gracious visitation at a time most suitable to you. May your coming occur with all possible haste; as for prior arrangements, I shall attend to them with due care. From ◯◯

Under Takeya no Watashi lies a bathhouse called Miyako-yu. Please inquire at the greengrocer's. Since the weather is favorable, I wish to visit Horikiri at your convenience by inviting Mr. Yōsai as well; how about doing so even before receiving your notice? I humbly make this inquiry. However, there is no need for a reply to this. The substitution of "shiki-utsuri" for "hiki-utsuri" and "shiru mae" for "hiru mae" in the text were phonetic shifts characteristic of the Tokyo Shitamachi dialect. Takeya Ferry was abolished along with Makurabashi Ferry, leaving no trace of their existence. Where now should I seek to mourn the remnants of my youth?

Seven

After Yukiko left, I sat at the hem of the partially lowered old mosquito net and, while chasing mosquitoes alone, occasionally attended to the charcoal fire buried in the long hibachi and the water being heated.

No matter how fiercely hot the evening might be, in this district it was customary to bring tea up from below at the signal that a customer had arrived, so no household ever let their fire or water go out.

“Hey… Hey,” someone called in a low voice and knocked on the window.

Assuming it was likely a regular customer, I hesitated whether to go out or not while observing the situation, when the man outside slipped his hand through the window frame, undid the hook latch, opened the door, and stepped inside. He appeared to be around fifty years old—clad in a pale yukata tied with a heko sash, his countenance rustic and round with a cultivated mustache. In his hands was an object wrapped in a furoshiki cloth. From his bearing and features alone, I immediately deduced he must be Yukiko’s patron; without waiting for him to speak first,

“Ms. Yukiko said she was going to the doctor for some reason—I just met her out front.”

The man who appeared to be her patron seemed to already know about the situation. "She’ll probably be back soon. Wait here," he said, showing no sign of suspicion toward my presence as he unwrapped the furoshiki bundle, took out a small aluminum pot, and placed it inside the tea cupboard. Seeing that he had brought side dishes for a late-night meal, there was no doubt he was her patron. "Miss Yukiko is always so busy—how admirable." I, thinking I had to say some sort of polite remark instead of a greeting, said that.

“What do you mean? Well…” mumbled the patron, uttering this meaningless phrase as if at a loss for a proper reply while inspecting the hibachi’s fire and water temperature. He refused to meet my gaze directly. Rather than engage in conversation, he turned his face away—so I too kept silent. The encounter between such a house’s proprietor and his visitor proved excruciatingly awkward for both parties. The same held true for interactions between proprietors and patrons in brothels, assignation teahouses, and geisha houses—whenever these two parties conversed, it invariably occurred during some cringe-inducing commotion centered around a woman, for under ordinary circumstances there existed no need whatsoever for them to exchange words.

The mosquito-repellent incense that Yukiko always burned at the shop entrance had apparently not been lit even once tonight, and the swarming mosquitoes that buzzed furiously throughout the house not only stung our faces but even attempted to fly into our mouths; even the proprietor, who should have been accustomed to such local nuisances, could no longer endure sitting there and twisted the handle of the electric fan positioned by the threshold of the inner partition—though it appeared broken and refused to turn. When they finally found fragments of mosquito-repellent incense in the hibachi’s drawer and inadvertently exchanged relieved glances, I seized this opportunity to—

“The mosquitoes are terrible everywhere this year. The heat’s unusually harsh too,” I said. “Is that so. This area was originally reclaimed land, and they never properly elevated the ground,” the proprietor reluctantly began. “Even so, the roads have improved, haven’t they? First off, they’ve become much more convenient.” “In exchange, they’ve gotten strict about every little thing.” “Right. Two or three years back, when passing through, they’d take things like hats, you know.” “As for that, we folks here were troubled too.” “Even if you had business there, you couldn’t get through, you know.” “Even if they told the women that, they couldn’t keep watch over every single one, so they had no choice but to start imposing fines.” “If they’re caught soliciting customers outside the shop, it’s a forty-two-yen fine.” “Then they made sending touts out near the park a violation too.”

“Is that also subject to a fine?” “Yes.” “How much is that?”

When I thought to indirectly inquire about local affairs, someone called out “Mr. Andō” in a man’s voice and slipped a piece of paper through the window. At the same time, Yukiko returned, picked up the paper and placed it on the countertop; when I stole a glance, it turned out to be a mimeographed circular seeking a robbery suspect. Yukiko paid no heed to such things. “Dad, they say I have to get it pulled out tomorrow. This tooth,” she said, turning her open mouth toward the patron.

“Well then, I suppose you didn’t need anything to eat tonight,” said the patron as he began to rise, but I made a show of taking out the money and handing it to Yukiko, then went ahead alone up to the second floor.

The second floor had a tea table placed in a three-tatami-mat room with a window, followed by only two more rooms—a six-tatami-mat room and one of about four and a half tatami mats. The house, originally a single structure, appeared to have been partitioned into two—front and back units. Downstairs held only a living room, lacking both a kitchen and rear entrance, while upstairs, starting from the ladder’s landing, even the four-and-a-half-tatami-mat room’s walls were mere sheets of paper-covered plywood, so thin that sounds and voices from the neighboring unit carried through as clearly as if held in one’s hand. I would often press my ear to the wall and laugh.

“There you go again with that spot.” “It’s so hot, you know.”

Yukiko, having come upstairs, immediately went to the three-tatami room with the window, pushed aside the faded patterned curtain, and said, “Come over here. There’s a nice breeze.” “Oh, it’s glowing again.” “It’s gotten somewhat cooler than earlier—indeed, a nice breeze.” The area directly below the window was blocked by a reed-screen awning, yet beyond the drainage ditch one could surprisingly see far into the distance—the second floors of houses lined up opposite, a woman’s face sitting at a window frame, figures coming and going, the entire alley scene visible farther than expected. The sky above the roofs hung heavily leaden, stars invisible, the neon signs along the main street staining even the lower half of the sky a pale red that made the sultry night feel all the more stifling. Yukiko took a cushion, placed it on the windowsill, and sat there gazing at the sky for a while before suddenly grasping my hand. “Hey,” she said, “once I pay off my debts… won’t you make me your wife?”

“I’m exactly what you see before you.” “There’s nothing to be done about it.” “Are you saying I lack the qualifications to be your lotus?” “If I can’t put food on your table, then I lack the qualifications myself.”

Yukiko said nothing and began humming along to the violin tune that had started up at the alley’s edge. When I found myself trying to meet her gaze—not quite looking yet not averting my eyes—she abruptly stood to avoid it, stretching one hand to grip a pillar as she leaned halfway out the window, her torso thrust outward. “It’s already been ten years…” I sat down before the tea table and lit a rolled cigarette.

“You.” “How old are you, really?” When I looked up at Yukiko’s face turned toward me, her usual one-sided dimple forming, I found myself feeling inexplicably reassured, “I’ll be sixty soon.” “Dad.” “You’re sixty.” “Still holding up well.”

Yukiko stared intently at my face. “You. You’re still not even forty, aren’t you? Thirty-seven or eight, I wonder.” “Since I’m the child of a mistress,” I said, “my real age isn’t clear.”

“Even if you’re forty, you’re still young.” “I can’t say the same for your hair.”

“You were born in Meiji 31, huh? So you’re forty.” “How old do I look?”

“You look twenty-one or twenty-two, but I’d say around forty.”

“You.” “You’re no good because you’re such a smooth talker.” “I’m twenty-six.” “Yukko, you said you used to be a geisha in Utsunomiya, right?” “Yes.” “Why did you come here?” “You knew this area well, didn’t you.”

“I stayed in Tokyo for a while.” “Did something require money?” “Not exactly...” “My patron died from illness, and then there was a bit...”

“You must’ve been shocked when you first started here.” “This work’s nothing like being a geisha.” “Not particularly.” “I knew exactly what I was getting into from the beginning.” “Geisha end up working at a loss—there’s never escaping the debts.” “And anyway…if you’re going to debase yourself, better do it where the pay’s decent in the long run.” “To have reasoned that far through—that’s truly impressive.” “Did you arrive at that conclusion yourself?”

“When I was a geisha, there was a tea house mistress I knew who worked in this area, so I heard about it from her.” “Even so, that’s impressive of you. Once the new year begins, you’ll earn some money on your own and save as much as you can, right?” “They say my age suits the water trade. But I don’t know where I’ll end up. You know…”

Having been gazed at so fixedly, I found myself feeling strangely uneasy once more. Though I told myself it couldn’t be, this persistent discomfort—like something caught between my back teeth—made me want to turn my own face toward the empty sky instead.

At the edge of the sky where the neon signs of the main street were reflected, lightning had been flickering intermittently since earlier, but now a sudden, sharp light pierced one’s eyes. However, no sound resembling thunder could be heard, and the wind had abruptly ceased, making the evening heat seem to surge back with an oppressive weight. “Looks like an evening shower’s coming.”

“You.” “The hairdresser’s return… It’s already been three months... you know.” To my ears, this drawn-out utterance of “three months… you know”—with its lingering “you know”—sounded as though it were summoning some distant past, suffused with boundless emotion. Had she stated plainly “It’ll be three months” or “Yes, it will,” it might have passed for ordinary conversation. But her voice—stretching out that “you know”—seemed less a note of lamentation than a subtle prompt for my response. I swallowed even the half-formed “I see…” and answered only with my eyes.

Despite being someone who entertained countless men entering the alleyway every night, why Yukiko had not forgotten the day we first met was something I found inconceivable. That she recalled our first meeting had to be seen as her cherishing that time in her heart. However, I had never once dreamed that the women of this area—though on their part they estimated my age to be around forty—could harbor feelings akin to love or infatuation, or any similarly tender and warm emotions, toward an old man like myself.

That I frequented her place nearly every night was, as I have noted before, due to various reasons. On-site research for my manuscript "Disappearance." Escape from the radio's clamor. Revulsion toward Tokyo's central districts like Ginza and Marunouchi. There were other motives too, though none fit for a woman's ears. In truth, I used Yukiko's house merely as a resting spot during nocturnal walks—a purpose requiring expedient falsehoods. I never meant deliberate deceit, yet by making no effort to correct her initial misapprehension—indeed, indulging in behaviors and conversations that deepened her misunderstanding for my own amusement—I succeeded in obscuring my true identity. This culpability alone I may not evade.

It might be said that I knew almost nothing of other society beyond the red-light districts—not only in Tokyo but even in the West. I had no desire to recount its origins here, nor was there any need to do so.

If there were someone of tipsy curiosity who wished to know what manner of person I am, they might read such flawed writings as the dialogue “A Noon After” that I composed in middle age—if they were to read such clumsily written works as the essay “A Mistress’s Abode” and the novel “An Unattained Dream,” they would understand more than half of it. That being said, as these too are awkwardly composed and tediously long-winded, reading them in full would prove wearisome; thus I shall here extract a passage from “An Unattained Dream.”

"The reason he had maintained the vigor to frequent the pleasure quarters day after day for ten years was precisely because he knew full well they constituted a den of iniquity and darkness." "Thus, had society praised libertines as it would loyal retainers and filial sons, he would not have sought such acclaim—even were it to cost him his mansion." "Righteous indignation toward the hypocritical vanity of lawful wives and the fraudulent activities of this ostensibly upright society—this alone had driven him to seek refuge in that other realm, known from the outset as a den of iniquity and darkness." "In other words, he took greater delight in discovering remnants of beautiful embroidery upon a cast-off rag than in finding filthy stains upon walls proclaimed spotless." "Just as bird and rat droppings litter even palaces of justice, so too may one gather in abundance from vice's valley—flowers of human compassion and fragrant fruits born of tears."

The reader can likely infer that I neither deeply feared the women living amid the stench of gutters and the buzzing of mosquitoes nor found them ugly; rather, I had felt a sense of familiarity with them even before our first encounter. I thought that to grow close to them—or at least to avoid being kept at a respectful distance—it would be better to conceal my true standing. The notion that they saw me as someone whose status had no business bringing him to such a place was acutely painful to me. I wished at all costs to avoid being misconstrued as taking voyeuristic delight in their misfortunes, like some spectator peering down at a pitiful stage play. To achieve this, there was no choice but to hide who I was.

There was already a concrete instance of my having been told that I was not the sort of person who should come to such a place. One night, at the edge of Kaisei-dori near the municipal bus garage, I was stopped by a police officer and subjected to questioning. Not only did I find it distasteful to proclaim myself as a literary figure or professional writer, but I also detested even more the thought of others perceiving me as such; thus, in response to the police officer’s inquiry, I answered as was my custom—that I was an unemployed idler. When the officer proceeded to strip off my jacket and inspect my belongings, my seal, seal registration certificate, and family register extract were in my satchel—precautions I carried for encountering suspicious interrogations during my nightly wanderings. Furthermore, because there were payments to be made the following morning to the carpenter, gardener, and used bookstore, my wallet contained three to four hundred yen in cash. The police officer, seeming surprised, abruptly began calling me a wealthy man. “A place like this isn’t where someone like you should come. Go home at once—before any trouble arises. If you must come here again, do so properly.” Saying this, and seeing me still dawdling, he raised his hand to hail an en-taku, then went out of his way to open its door for me.

I had no choice but to board the automobile and circle from Kaisei-dori to what they called the Kanjō Line. In other words, I had circled the outer perimeter of the labyrinth and alighted near the alleyway entrance to Fushimi Inari Shrine. Since then, I bought a map to study the roads and took care to avoid passing before police boxes late at night. In response to Yukiko having now brought up our first meeting in that poetic tone, I found myself at a loss for words and—wanting to hide even just my face within the cigarette smoke—once again took out a rolled cigarette. Yukiko stared fixedly toward me with her dark, expressive eyes while,

“You. “You truly resemble him. “That night, when I saw your back, I was so startled…” “I see. “Feigning resemblance to others—it’s a common thing.” I desperately tried to conceal the feeling that it had been somewhat gratifying. And then, “To whom... “Do I resemble your dead patron?”

“No.” “When I first became a geisha...” “I thought I’d die if we couldn’t be together.” “When people get carried away, anyone might feel that way momentarily...” “You too.” “Someone like you—you’d never feel that way, would you?”

“Calm, you say? But people aren’t always what they seem. I wouldn’t be so quick to underestimate them.”

Yukiko merely formed a smile with one dimple drawn in and said nothing. At the right corner of her mouth—where her lower lip protruded slightly—the single dimple that naturally formed a deep hollow always lent Yukiko’s features a girlish innocence, but on that night alone, it appeared ineffably forlorn, like a smile forced into place. I sought to divert the situation,

“Is your tooth hurting again?” “No.” “I got a shot earlier, so there’s nothing wrong now.” At that very moment, when our conversation lapsed once more, fortunately, a familiar-seeming customer came knocking at the shop door. Yukiko abruptly stood up, leaned half her body out the window, and peered down through the blind slats. “Oh, Take-san! “Do come up.” After he hurried down, I too followed and descended. Hiding myself in the toilet for a while, I waited for him to go upstairs before slipping out silently.

VIII

The anticipated evening shower showed no sign of arriving. Fearing the stifling heat from lingering embers in the parlor and swarms of mosquitoes, I stepped outside for a while. Yet it still seemed too early to return home, so I made my way along the ditch through the alley and emerged onto the main side street where another wooden bridge spanned the waterway. Festival vendors had lined their shops on both sides, narrowing the already car-unfriendly road width further still, forcing passersby to jostle through the crowd. To the right of the wooden bridge stood a crossroads with a horse meat shop at its immediate corner. Across the intersection rose a stone monument engraved "Sōtō Sect Tōshōji Temple," flanked by Tamanoi Inari Shrine's torii gate and a public telephone booth. Remembering Yukiko's words—how this Inari shrine held festivals on the 2nd and 20th each month, how its outer streets bustled on those nights while inner alleys languished empty, earning it the window women's nickname "Poverty Inari"—I joined the throng and went to visit this unvisited shrine.

I had forgotten to write about this until now, but after developing both a mental and physical habit of nightly visits to this entertainment district, I had made it a practice—following the customs of those who stroll through these night stalls—to change my attire before heading out. This was not a particularly troublesome task. Unbuttoning the collar button of a striped white shirt with a fold-over collar and forgoing any collar accessory; carrying one’s Western-style jacket by hand rather than wearing it; eschewing hats; leaving one’s hair disheveled as though never touched by a comb; changing into trousers as old and threadbare at the knees and seat as could be found. Not wearing shoes; seeking out old geta whose heels were worn down to the base to wear; smoking only Bat cigarettes; et cetera, et cetera. Hence, it was no trouble. In other words, I simply needed to remove the clothes I wore when in my study or receiving guests, change into those used for garden cleaning or soot sweeping, and slip into the old geta borrowed from the maid.

If I put on old trousers and old geta and found an old hand towel tied slovenly around my head like a headband, then even were I to venture as far south as Sunamachi or north from Senju to Kasai-Kanamachi, passersby would never turn to look at my face twice. Since my appearance suggested nothing more than a local resident out shopping, I could slip freely into any alleyway or side street without suspicion. This disheveled guise harmonized perfectly with that haiku sentiment—“Idling through summer’s heat / How cool the second floor”—proving most fitting for Tokyo’s climate during seasons of extreme warmth. Indeed it suited perfectly those sweltering Tokyo summers. Adopting this look of a dazed rickshaw puller meant I could spit wherever fancy took me—on roads or inside trains—and fling away cigarette butts, half-burnt matches, scraps of paper or banana peels without compunction. Should I spot a park bench or lawn patch worth claiming, sprawling out in a “dai” shape there—snoring or belting naniwa-bushi ballads—became my natural right; thus attuning myself not merely to weather patterns but Tokyo’s very architecture until at last feeling truly part of this reborn metropolis.

As for the curious custom of women strolling outdoors in a single undergarment they referred to as *appappa*, I shall leave discussion of that to the essay found in my friend Mr. Satō Yōsai’s collected works and refrain from remarking on it here. Because I was wearing old geta on my bare feet that I wasn’t accustomed to—stumbling over objects and having my feet stepped on by others—I took care not to injure myself as I walked through the crowd to visit the Inari shrine at the end of the alley across the way. Here too, night stalls continued, and the slightly wider vacant lot beside the shrine had been transformed by nursery workers into an untimely flowerbed with potted roses, lilies, summer chrysanthemums, and other plants laid out across its expanse. Seeing the names of donors for Tōshōji Temple’s main hall construction lined up like a wooden fence in a corner of the vacant lot, I might surmise that unless this temple had burned down, it was likely relocated from elsewhere, much like Tamanoi Inari Shrine.

I purchased a pot of tokonatsu flowers, exited through another alley, and emerged onto Taishō Avenue from which I had come. A short distance ahead, there was a police box on the right. Tonight, dressed like the people around here and even holding a plant pot, I thought I’d be safe, but deciding it was better to avoid trouble, I turned back and veered onto a street with a sake shop and fruit confectionery at the corner. The alleys behind the shops lining one side of this road formed a so-called labyrinth named Part One. The ditch that cut through Part Two where Yukiko’s house stood suddenly appeared at the edge of Part One’s roadside, flowed past Nakajima-yu bathhouse with its noren curtain, and vanished into the pitch-dark tenements beyond the licensed district. I could not help but feel an unseemly sentimentality for one of my years, imagining that even this ditch—which now appeared filthier than the blackened ditches that once encircled the northern pleasure quarters—must have been a clear stream where dragonflies alighted on aquatic flowers when Terajima was still countryside. Festival day street stalls were not set up on this street. When I came to the front of Kyūshūtei—a Chinese restaurant with its neon sign glowing high above—the lights of cars running along Kaisei-dōri became visible, and the sound of a phonograph could be heard.

The plant pot being rather heavy, I did not head toward Kaisei-dōri but turned right at Kyūshūtei’s crossroads into this street—the busiest and narrowest thoroughfare where Part One and Two of the Labyrinth lay hidden on the right side and a section of Part Three on the left, lined with kimono shops, women’s Western clothing stores, and Western-style restaurants. A postbox also stood there. It was surely near this postbox that Yukiko, caught in an evening shower while returning from the hairdresser’s, had rushed beneath my umbrella.

The unease I had felt when Yukiko had half-jokingly hinted at a fragment of her emotions still lingered in my heart... I knew almost nothing of Yukiko's past. She claimed to have been a geisha somewhere, but since she appeared unfamiliar with nagauta or kiyomoto music, I found even that hard to believe. My initial impression—though entirely baseless—that she seemed like a woman from a not entirely disreputable house in Yoshiwara or Suzaki might not actually have been correct after all.

Her speech bore no trace of regional dialect, yet the refinement of her features and the flawless clarity of her skin proved she was no woman of Tokyo or its environs—so I regarded her as a daughter born among those who had migrated to the capital from distant provinces. Her disposition was cheerful, and she did not deeply lament her present circumstances. On the contrary, she seemed to possess both the vitality and intellect to consider leveraging the experience gained from these circumstances to somehow figure out a way to settle herself. That her feelings toward men had not yet become entirely jaded was evident from how she listened without suspicion even to the offhanded remarks I made. Even just the fact that she could make me think this way—compared to waitresses who had worked for years in the grand cafés of Ginza or Ueno—someone like Yukiko could be called honest and unaffected. One might also say there remains an earnestness about her.

Having unwittingly compared the waitresses of Ginza with the window women, I felt the latter remained more worthy of affection and still capable of discussing human emotions; regarding street scenes too, when I compared both, the latter caused far less discomfort by neither flaunting superficial beauty nor being mere facade. Street stalls lined the roadside here as well, yet here one neither encountered drunkards wandering in small bands nor found the bloody brawls that were commonplace there. A middle-aged man with an unpleasant countenance—his Western attire decent enough to obscure his profession—who walked without restraint, shoulders cutting through the wind as he swung his cane, sang aloud, and berated passing women: such a spectacle would scarcely be witnessed in any town but Ginza. However, once I put on old geta and old trousers and came to this outskirts area, no matter how chaotic the night, there was less danger than walking Ginza’s back alleys, and the nuisance of constantly having to yield the way here and there was also minimal.

The bustling lane with its postbox reached its brightest point near the kimono shop, but beyond that gradually grew desolate, with rice shops, greengrocers, and fishcake shops standing out until finally reaching the area where lumber was stacked against the lumberyard. There, my steps—familiar from countless visits—turned without conscious thought toward the alley entrance between the bicycle parking shed and hardware store. In this alley, the soiled banner of Fushimi Inari stood visible immediately, yet casual passersby seemed not to notice it; compared to other alley entrances, foot traffic here remained exceedingly sparse. Taking advantage of this, I always slipped in through this alley entrance, and while contemplating the incongruous scenery—the fig trees growing thick behind the houses facing the main street and grapevines twining around the fence along the ditch—I made a habit of peering into Yukiko’s window.

It appeared there were still customers on the second floor; lamplight showed through the curtains while the lower window remained open. As the radio out front had just fallen silent, I quietly slipped the festival plant pot through the window and that night set off toward Shirahige Bridge. A Keisei bus bound for Asakusa approached from behind, but not knowing exactly where the stop was, I kept walking while looking for it—before long seeing the bridge’s lights glimmering ahead.

＊　　　　　　　　＊　　　　　　　　＊

I had yet to complete even a single chapter of the novel *Disappearance*, which I began drafting at the start of that summer. Considering Yukiko had remarked that night—“It’ll be March soon, won’t it?”—the day I commenced writing predated even that moment. The final section of my manuscript ended with Taneda Junpei—on a sweltering night in his rented room—taking Sumiko, a café worker lodging there, to Shirahige Bridge, where they cooled themselves while discussing their uncertain futures. Thus I did not turn along the embankment but crossed straight over the bridge and leaned against its railing to look out.

When first establishing the plot of *Disappearance*, I had decided to have the twenty-four-year-old café worker Sumiko and fifty-one-year-old Taneda casually enter into a romantic relationship; however, as I progressed with the writing, I began to feel something unnatural about it, and so—coupled with the intense summer heat—I set it aside for a time. Yet now, as I leaned against the bridge railing listening to ondo dance music drifting from the downstream park while recalling Yukiko’s tone when she had leaned against her second-floor window and said “It’ll be March soon, won’t it?”—the relationship between Sumiko and Taneda struck me as not unnatural in the least. There was no need to dismantle it as mere dramatization crafted for authorial convenience. I grew convinced that altering the initial plan midway might instead yield undesirable consequences.

Upon returning home from Kaminarimon in a one-yen taxi, I washed my face and fixed my hair as usual, then immediately lit incense in the burner beside the inkstone. And I reread the final section of the interrupted manuscript. “What’s that visible over there?” “A factory?”

“It’s a gas company or something like that.” “They say that area used to be quite scenic long ago.” “I read it in a novel.” “Let’s go take a look.” “It isn’t that late yet.” “If you cross over, there’s a police box right there.” “I see.” “Then let’s go back.” “It’s as if we’re hiding from the world like criminals.” “You.” “Lower your voice… Be careful.” “…………” “Someone might hear us….”

“That’s right.” “But living hidden from society—it’s my first time experiencing this—gives me this indescribable, somehow unforgettable feeling.” “There’s that song about escaping worldly cares, isn’t there? …‘Dwelling deep in mountains.’” “Sumi.” “Since last night, I’ve felt like I’ve somehow grown younger.” “Even just last night felt truly alive.” “It’s all about how you hold your mind.” “You mustn’t let yourself grow pessimistic.”

“You’re absolutely right.” “But I’m not young anymore, no matter how you look at it.” “I’ll likely be cast aside soon.” “There you go again.” “There’s no need to think about such things—I keep telling you that.” “I’m almost thirty myself.” “Besides, I’ve done what I wanted to do, and from now on I want to get a bit more serious and try to earn properly.” “So, you really intend to open an oden shop?” “Tomorrow morning, since Teru-chan is coming, I intend to hand over just the deposit.” “So please don’t use your money for now, okay?” “As we discussed last night, that’s the way to go.”

“But in that case…”

“No. That’s the way to go. If you have savings on your side, it’ll give us security later, so I’m planning to put up all the money I have on my end, make a lump-sum payment, and buy out all the rights and everything else. After all, if we’re going to do it, that’s the more advantageous path.” “Is this Teru-chan a reliable person? Anyway, it’s a matter of money, you know.”

“Don’t worry about that. She’s got money, you know. After all, she has the patron of Tamanoi Palace as her backer.”

“What on earth is that?”

“He owns several shops and houses in Tamanoi.” “He’s already about seventy.” “Quite the energetic type.” “That’s him.” “He used to come to the café sometimes as a customer.” “Hmm.” “They tell me I should go all out and run one of his shops instead of settling for an oden stand.” “Teru-chan’s been telling the patron about both shops and girls like that—says she’ll introduce me to a good one.” “But back then I was completely alone—no one to talk things over with—and I couldn’t very well manage it myself. That’s why I figured something like an oden stand—something I could handle alone—would be better.”

“Oh, so that’s why you settled on that location.” “Teru-chan’s having her mother lend out money.” “Quite the businesswoman.” “She’s sharp about things, but she doesn’t go tricking people or anything.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

9

Though September was nearing its midpoint, the lingering heat not only showed no signs of abating but seemed to have grown even more intense than in August. The wind that rattled the blinds would at times produce an undeniably autumnal clatter, yet day after day, come evening, it would abruptly die down, leaving nights that grew increasingly sweltering as they deepened—as though one were in a town in Kansai—and such days persisted for many on end.

Between making a manuscript draft and airing my books—tasks that kept me unexpectedly busy—I did not go out for about three days.

The act of airing my books under the lingering summer midday sun and burning fallen leaves in the garden on windless early winter afternoons were the greatest pleasures of my solitary existence. Airing books provided an opportunity to gaze upon those volumes long since bundled away on high shelves, to recall the time when I first pored over them, and to realize how times and tastes had shifted. The pleasure of burning fallen leaves lay in how it allowed me to forget, if only briefly, that I dwelled amidst the city’s bustle. Having finally finished airing my old books, that day no sooner had I finished my evening meal than I slipped into my usual torn pants and old clogs and stepped outside—the lamp on the gatepost was already lit. Though the sweltering evening calm persisted, the days had before I knew it grown astonishingly short.

Though it had been merely three days, upon stepping outside I found myself feeling as though I had neglected for ages to visit a place I ought to have gone—and so, hoping to shorten even a fraction of the journey time, I boarded the subway from Kyōbashi’s tram transfer station. Though I had grown accustomed to such dalliances since youth, to say I had not felt such restless unease when visiting a woman in thirty years was no exaggeration. From Kaminarimon, I had the one-yen taxi speed off once more, and soon reached the familiar alley entrance. The familiar Fushimi Inari Shrine. When I glanced over, all four or five of the once-filthy votive banners had been renewed; the red ones were gone, leaving only white. By the usual ditch were the usual fig tree and grapevine, yet their foliage had thinned somewhat, letting it be known that no matter how sweltering it remained, no matter how forsaken by the world this alley might be, autumn was deepening imperceptibly with each passing night.

Yukiko’s face, visible in the usual window, no longer bore her customary flattened Shimada hairstyle tonight but had instead transformed into what resembled a ginkgo-leaf twist—or perhaps a peony-like topknot they call “botan.” Suspecting from afar that I might have mistaken her for someone else, I approached. Yukiko flung open the door with palpable impatience. “You,” she called sharply, then abruptly softened her tone. “I was worried. But… well, it’s good you’re here.” At first unable to grasp her meaning, I sat down at the entrance without removing my clogs.

“It was in the newspaper. Since it seemed a bit different, I thought it probably wasn’t you, but I was still quite worried.” “I see...” Finally grasping her meaning, I too lowered my voice. “I don’t make such clumsy blunders. I’m always careful about that sort of thing.” “What on earth happened? When I look at your face, there’s nothing particularly wrong... but when you don’t come, I feel strangely lonely.” “But Yukko must still be busy as usual.”

“The heat’s nothing worth mentioning.” “No matter how busy I get.” “This year’s heat truly won’t let up,” I said. At that moment, Yukiko pressed her palm against my forehead to catch a mosquito that had landed there, murmuring, “Hush now.”

The mosquitoes inside the house seemed to have multiplied beyond their previous numbers, their stinging needles appearing sharper and thicker than before. Yukiko wiped the blood from my forehead and her own hand with a folded piece of paper from her sleeve. “Tsk. Look at this,” she said, showing me the stained sheet before crumpling it into a ball. “If these mosquitoes vanished, it’d mean year’s end.” “Right. They might’ve lingered till last year’s Tori Festival too.” “So it’s tanbo after all,” I remarked, then catching myself on the anachronism, added: “Do they still go around Yoshiwara’s back alleys in these parts?”

“Yes,” said Yukiko as she heard the tinkling bell, standing up to approach the window. “Kan-chan.” “Here it is.” “What’re you dawdling for?” “Two shiratama with ice… and then, while you’re at it, buy some mosquito-repellent incense and bring it here.” “Good lad.” She remained seated at the window, alternately being teased by curious passersby and teasing them back from her side. In between those moments, separated by the Osaka lattice partition, she would also initiate conversation with me. The ice vendor said, “Sorry to keep you waiting,” and brought what he had prepared.

“You.” “You’ll eat shiratama, won’t you?” “Today I’m treating you!” “You remember such things well, ah…” “Such things…” “I do remember.” “There’s substance to this, isn’t there?” “So stop your philandering all over town already.” “Do you imagine I go elsewhere when not coming here?” “There’s no remedy for it.”

“Men are mostly like that.” “These shiratama are sticking in my throat—let’s just get along while we eat.” “I don’t know,” said Yukiko, deliberately clattering her spoon as she broke into the piled ice. A gawker peering through the window called out, “Hey sis! Thanks for the treat!”

“Here, have one. Open wide.” “Potassium cyanide? I value my life too much.” “Listen to you acting high and mighty when you’re stone broke.” “The hell you say! You ditch mosquito whore!” he flung over his shoulder as he passed by—not that she was about to let him have the last word— “Hah! Trash heap bastard.” “Hahaha,” laughed another gawker coming from behind as he passed by. Yukiko put a spoonful of ice into her mouth while gazing outside, unconsciously calling out in a lilting tone, “Hey, hey, sir—” Whenever someone stopped to peer through the window, she adopted a sweetly pleading voice: “Why not come up? The door’s still open.” “Over here!” she’d call playfully, while with others she turned demure: “Yes, that’s fine.” “If you don’t like it once you’re up here, feel free to leave,” she’d chat awhile, and even when they left without ascending, Yukiko showed no sign of disappointment. As if remembering something, she scooped remaining shiratama from melted ice and munched them down or smoked cigarettes.

When I previously described Yukiko’s nature, I had called her a cheerful woman and stated that she did not particularly grieve her circumstances. This was nothing more than what I had inferred after sitting in a corner of the sitting room, swatting mosquitoes as quietly as possible with a tattered fan while peering through the bamboo blind to observe Yukiko’s demeanor as she sat at the shopfront. This conjecture may have been nothing more than superficial. It may have captured only a single facet of her true nature.

However, there is one thing I can assert without error regarding my observations. That being—whatever Yukiko’s true nature might be—a tenuous thread of connection existed between those passing outside the window and Yukiko within it, one that fostered mutual harmony. If my perception of Yukiko as a cheerful woman who did not deeply lament her circumstances proved mistaken, I would contend that such error stemmed precisely from this harmony. Outside the window lay the masses. That is to say, society itself. Within the window sat an individual. And between these two entities stood nothing in marked opposition. What accounted for this? Yukiko remained young. It was because she had not yet shed society’s common sentiments. While seated at her window, Yukiko demeaned herself yet harbored within her breast a separate, concealed self. For those traversing beyond her pane—upon entering this alleyway—they cast off their masks and relinquished their pretensions.

Since my youth I have frequented the world of rouge and powder, yet even now I have not come to recognize its wrongs. There were times when, constrained by circumstances, I allowed them into my home as they wished and entrusted them with household duties, but all such attempts ended in failure. For once these women changed their circumstances and came to regard themselves as not lowly beings, they would either transform into indolent wives beyond instruction or, failing that, become ungovernable shrews.

Yukiko had, imperceptibly, begun to harbor the intention to drastically alter her circumstances through my power. She was becoming either an indolent wife or a shrew. What could prevent Yukiko’s later years from descending into indolence or shrewishness—what could make her truly happy as a woman of the household—would not be someone like me, rich only in failures, but rather a person who still had many years ahead of them. But now, even were I to explain this, Yukiko could never have understood. Yukiko had seen only one facet of my dual personality. I could easily have exposed another aspect of myself that lay beyond her perception and made her aware of its wrongness. While fully cognizant of this, the reason I still hesitated was that there remained something I could not bring myself to inflict. This was not to shield myself. For I feared that when Yukiko herself came to realize this misunderstanding, she might be plunged into profound disappointment and sorrow.

Yukiko was the Muse who had chanced to summon nostalgic phantoms of a vanished age to my weary heart. That manuscript draft long left upon my desk—had Yukiko’s heart not inclined toward me, or at least had I not fancied it so—would surely have been torn to shreds and discarded by now. She became the improbable muse for an old writer cast aside by the present era—the very one who drove him to complete what might well prove his final work. Each time I beheld her face, I yearned to offer heartfelt thanks. Yet by that reckoning, I would stand guilty of deceiving this woman unversed in worldly ways—of trifling not merely with her flesh but with her truest sentiments. In my heart I longed to beg forgiveness for this unforgivable sin, even as I mourned the circumstances rendering such atonement impossible.

That night, Yukiko’s words at the window made my painful heart grow all the more painful. To avoid this now, nothing would be better than never seeing her face again. If I acted while there was still time, I could still spare Yukiko’s heart from such deep sorrow and disappointment. She had still not been asked her true name or background, and thus had found no chance to reveal them. The feeling—that tonight was the critical moment to subtly say farewell, and that crossing this threshold would force us to face irreparable sorrow—grew inexplicably fiercer as the night wore on.

This feeling of being pursued by unseen forces became like a wind that suddenly gusted from the main street into the alleyway, rebounding off walls here and there before slipping through a small window into the house to sway the cord of a bamboo blind hung with bells. With that sound, it seemed to deepen all the more. This sound differed from when wind chime sellers passed by outside lattice windows—it was something that could never be heard beyond this secluded realm. Even as summer’s end turned to autumn, the unrelenting heat of each successive night had until now gone entirely unnoticed; it was precisely this that made one keenly aware of how the lingering sound had begun to steep the autumn nights in a truly drawn-out and endless profundity. Perhaps it was my imagination, but the footsteps of passersby grew crisply clear, and I could even hear a woman sneezing at one of those windows.

Yukiko stood up from the window, came to the sitting room, and while lighting a cigarette, as if remembering something,

“You. Won’t you come early tomorrow?” she said. “By ‘early,’ do you mean evening?” “No, earlier still. Tomorrow’s Tuesday—my clinic day. I’ll close at eleven, so let’s go to Asakusa together. We just need to be back by four.”

I thought it would be all right to go. Though part of me wanted to share a subtle farewell drink, I also feared being spotted by newspaper reporters or literary figures and subjected to their written condemnations again. "The park might be tricky," I said. "Is there something you need to buy?" "I want a watch too, and with lined kimonos coming up soon..." "Here we are still saying 'It's hot, it's hot,' yet the equinox is nearly upon us," I remarked. "How much does a lined kimono run? Will you wear it at the shop?"

“Yes. It’ll cost thirty yen at least.” “It’ll definitely cost thirty yen.” “If that’s all, I have it right here.” “Go and have it made on your own,” I said, taking out my paper wallet. “You.” “Really.” “Is it creeping you out? “Don’t you worry.”

I stared intently at Yukiko’s face—her eyes wide with unexpected joy—committing it to memory as I took out the banknotes from my paper wallet and placed them on the tea tray.

As the sound of knocking came with the master’s voice, Yukiko started to say something but fell silent and hid the banknotes in her obi sash. I abruptly stood up and stepped outside, brushing past the master.

When I came before Fushimi Inari, the wind—unlike in the depths of the alley—suddenly rushed straight in from the main street and disheveled my hair. As I was accustomed to always wearing a hat except when coming here, the moment I thought the wind struck me, I raised one hand and only then realized I had no hat on, involuntarily forming a wry smile.

The votive banners’ poles were nearly snapping, and together with the oden shop’s bamboo blind—set up at the alley’s entrance—they fluttered and shimmered as if about to tear away. In the shadowed darkness of the abandoned house, the fig and grape leaves at the ditch’s corner rustled dryly, their sound as if already withered. When I emerged onto the main street, the sky—suddenly vast and spread out above—held not only the shadow of the Milky Way but every star’s light looming with a dense, piercing clarity, evoking an indescribable loneliness at the very moment when the sound of a train rushing past behind the houses and the blare of its whistle, frayed by the gale, served only to deepen this solitude. When taking my return route toward Shirahige Bridge, I would always—whether near the Sumida Post Office or around the makeshift theater called Mukōjima Gekijō—impulsively veer into a side street, wind through the twisting paths of shabby backstreets, and ultimately emerge at the rear of Shirahige Myōjin Shrine. From late August through early September, there were nights when—after sudden evening showers had cleared—a bright moon would emerge in the cloudless sky, illuminating the roads and conjuring visions of bygone scenery, so that I often found myself unwittingly walking as far as Kototoi Hill; but tonight, there was no moon. As the river wind blowing through grew suddenly chilly, no sooner had I reached the Jizōzaka bus stop than I huddled between the plank bench of the waiting area and the Jizō statue to shield myself from the wind.

10 After four or five days had passed—despite having resolved never to go again after that night and even left behind the payment for her autumn lined kimono—I found myself gripped by an inexplicable urge to see her once more. What had become of Yukiko? Though I knew perfectly well she would still be sitting at the window, I burned with the desire to steal just a glimpse of her face. I would watch carefully—making sure Yukiko didn’t notice me—peering only at her face and condition. Telling myself that if I circled the area and returned, the neighbor’s radio would have fallen silent by then—projecting my guilt onto that infernal device—I crossed the Sumida River once more and walked eastward.

Before entering the alley, to hide my face, I bought a hunting cap, waited for five or six onlookers to gather, concealed myself in their shadow, and peered across the ditch toward Yukiko’s house—there she sat by the window as always, having undone her newfangled chignon and retied it into her original crushed style. As I looked, the right-side window under the same eaves—which had been tightly shut until now—stood open tonight, and within the lamplight, a face crowned by a round chignon moved. A new attendant—or what they call a *degata-san* in this area—had arrived. From a distance, it was hard to see clearly, but she appeared older than Yukiko and not particularly attractive. I merged into the pedestrian flow and turned into another alley.

That night—perhaps because, as usual, the wind had suddenly died down after sunset, leaving the air stiflingly hot—the crowds in the alleyways were as dense as on a summer night, forcing one to angle sideways at every turning corner; unable to endure the streaming sweat and suffocating air, I sought an exit and emerged onto a broad avenue where automobiles sped past. Then I walked along the sidewalk where no night stalls stood, intending to return straight home, and paused at Seventh Block Station to wipe the sweat from my brow. Since it was only a block or two from the garage, an empty municipal bus came to a stop as if awaiting me. I was about to step off the curb when suddenly seized by an inexplicable reluctance, I began wandering again and soon found myself at Sixth Block Station—marked by a postbox at the liquor store’s curved corner. Here five or six people waited for the bus. At this stop too I let three or four buses go by and stood vacantly gazing at the main street lined with white poplars and the broad vacant lot along the side street’s edge.

This vacant lot had hosted—from summer through autumn until just recently—first a trick-riding show, then a monkey theater, followed by a ghost exhibition, each night raucously blaring phonographs; but before one knew it, it had reverted to its former state, with only the dim lamplight around reflecting on puddle surfaces. At any rate, I thought I would visit Yukiko one last time and take my leave, using travel plans as an excuse. This seemed better than disappearing like a weasel slipping through hedges—since I wasn’t coming back anyway, Yukiko might feel less troubled in the long run. If possible, I wanted to confess the true circumstances. I wished to take a stroll but had nowhere left to go. All those I might have visited had already died. The quarter of elegant music and poetry had become a place where musicians and dancers vied for fame, no longer where old men sipped tea and reminisced about bygone days.

I had unwittingly discovered how to steal a moment of respite in this transient world within a corner of the Labyrinth. With that intention—though I might prove intrusive—I wanted to explain, belatedly yet plainly, that when I visited occasionally she should receive me graciously... I entered the alley once more and approached Yukiko's window. "Come up now," Yukiko said, her manner and tone conveying that an expected visitor had arrived—but instead of ushering me into the downstairs tearoom as usual, she led the way up the ladder. Sensing the circumstances,

“Is the master here?” “Yes.” “The mistress is here too….” “The new ones have arrived.” “The old cook has come too.” “I see.” “It’s suddenly gotten quite lively.” “After being alone for a while, having so many people around is really quite noisy.” As if suddenly remembering, she added, “Thank you for the other day.” “Did you find a good one?” “Yes. It should be ready by tomorrow or so.” “I bought an undergarment sash too.” “Well, this is how things are now.” “I’ll go down later and bring it up.”

Yukiko went downstairs and brought up tea. She had been sitting by the window making idle talk for a while, but the master and his wife showed no sign of returning. The call bell attached to the ladder’s exit rang. It was a notice that a regular customer had arrived.

The household’s atmosphere had become utterly unlike when Yukiko had been alone there before, making it impossible to stay long; Yukiko herself also seemed hesitant on account of the master’s presence, so I left through the side door in under half an hour without voicing what I had meant to say.

After four or five days had passed, the season entered the autumn equinox. The sky transformed abruptly; when dark clouds, driven by a south wind, raced low across the heavens, large raindrops would pour down like stones striking the earth, only to cease abruptly. There were times when it persisted through the night without respite. The cockscombs in my garden had toppled from their roots. The bush clover flowers had been shaken off along with their leaves, and the red stems of the autumn begonia, already bearing fruit, were stripped of their large leaves, their color pitifully faded. The garden, ravaged by wet leaves and dead branches, was left to be lamented by the surviving cicadas and crickets during each break in the rain. Year after year, whenever I see the garden after it has been assaulted by autumn winds and rains, I am repeatedly reminded of an old poem titled "An Autumn Window on a Windy, Rainy Evening" from Dream of the Red Chamber.

Autumn flowers bleak and sallow; autumn grasses yellow. An autumn lamp glimmers; an autumn night grows long. Already savored the autumn window; autumn remains unending.

那堪風雨助凄涼。 助秋風雨来何速。 驚破秋窓秋夢緑。 ……………………… And yet, year after year, knowing full well it’s impossible, I torment myself with the desire to somehow attempt a skillful translation.

The equinox passed amid wind and rain, and when the weather cleared completely, the September moon waned until at last came the year’s harvest moon night.

The night before too, the moon had been beautiful once it grew late, but on the very night of the harvest moon, from early on I beheld an even clearer, cloudless bright moon.

It was that night that I learned Yukiko had fallen ill and been hospitalized. Since I had only heard it from the caretaker at the window, I had no way of knowing what her illness was.

When October came, the cold arrived earlier than usual. Already on the night of the harvest moon, there had been a sign hanging in the shopping street before Tamanoi Inari that read, “Everyone, it’s time to replace your shoji paper. Complimentary high-quality paste with service.” It was no longer the season for walking barefoot in old geta dragged along at night without even wearing a hat. The neighbor’s radio, now blocked by closed shutters, no longer tormented me so severely, so even at home I could finally grow accustomed to lamplight.

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*A Strange Tale from East of the River* should lay down its pen here. However, if one wished to append an old-fashioned novelistic conclusion here, it would suffice to add a passage where I, half a year or a year later, chance upon Yukiko—now no longer in the trade—in some unexpected place. Moreover, if one wished to render this chance encounter even more sentimental, one could devise a scene where, from the windows of passing automobiles or perhaps a train, they gaze at each other’s faces, unable to exchange words though they long to do so. A scene where maple leaves and reed flowers rustle in autumn as they pass each other on a ferry near the murmuring Tonegawa River would be especially exquisite.

Yukiko and I ended up never learning each other’s real names or addresses. Only in the backstreets of Bokutō, at a house by the ditch where mosquitoes whined, had we grown intimate. Once we parted, ours would be a relationship where we would have neither opportunity nor means to meet again in this lifetime. Though we called it a light romantic dalliance, the emotions of our parting—knowing from the start there was no hope of reunion—would risk exaggeration if forced into words, yet to dismiss them lightly would leave our feelings inadequately expressed. The final section of Pierre Loti’s celebrated *Madame Chrysanthème* had masterfully depicted this very species of sentiment, possessing the power to draw silent tears from its readers. Even if I were to attempt adding novelistic embellishments to *A Strange Tale from East of the River*, it might only invite derision for unsuccessfully aping Loti’s pen.

I had long anticipated, without any particular reason, that Yukiko would not remain at the house by the ditch selling her charms so cheaply. In my youth, I was once told such a story by an old man well-versed in the ways of the pleasure quarters. There had never been a woman he had been so fond of. He felt that if he didn’t settle matters quickly, she might be taken up by another patron; then she would surely either die of illness or suddenly be claimed by some loathsome man and taken off to a distant land. It was a tale about how baseless anxieties can strangely prove prophetic.

Yukiko possessed a beauty and intellect unbecoming of the women of that district—a crane among chickens. Yet times being different now than in days of old, even should she fall ill, she would not likely die from it. Nor would she likely find herself bound by obligation to devote her life to some unforeseen person... Gazing at lamplight reflected in the oppressive sky before the storm’s arrival, Yukiko and I leaned against a pitch-dark second-floor window in that cramped, squalid house with its jumble of rooftops. Clasping each other’s sweat-dampened hands as we exchanged words of vague, enigmatic meaning—suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated her profile in stark relief. That visage remains vividly etched behind my eyes even now, never fading. Though I had indulged in romantic dalliances since my twenties, to think I’d reach old age compelled to speak of such foolish dreams! To mock one’s own fate—is that not beyond all measure? Several blank lines still remained on the manuscript’s verso page. Let me write something now—whether poem or prose I cannot say—to soothe this night’s melancholy.

My lifeblood, stung on the brow by lingering mosquitoes. On a scrap from my breast pocket—

You wiped and discarded in the garden’s corner.

A single cockscomb stem stands. Each night’s frost grows colder,

Without awaiting even the evening wind, Knowing not its destined collapse and death, Brocade-like leaves withering even as

Deepening in hue, its form grows increasingly heartrending. There lies an ailing butterfly, Staggering on wounded wings, The cockscomb, mistaken for a reblooming flower, The shade of its leaves destined to collapse and die. Dreams that linger— Late autumn’s too fleeting to bind, The garden’s corner where dusk draws near. Having parted with you, my solitary self, A single cockscomb stem destined to collapse and die,

What feelings arise in this heart standing side by side?

Manuscript completed October 30th, Year Bingzi (1936).

Postscript

Having created an account of my observations in the pleasure quarters located in Mukōjima Terajimachō, I named this work *A Strange Tale from East of the River*.

The character “Boku” was created by Hayashi Jussai to denote the Sumida River; his poetry collection included a piece titled *Fishing Songs on Boku’s Banks*. This dated back to the Bunka era.

At the time of the shogunate’s collapse, when Narushima Ryūhoku vacated his bestowed residence in Shitaya Izumibashi-dōri and made his villa in Mukōjima Suzaki Village his home, the character “Boku” began to appear frequently in his literary works. Thereafter, the character “Boku” came to be widely used again among literati and scholars, but following Ryūhoku’s death, it gradually became an unfamiliar character. Ogyū Sorai, I believe, rendered the Sumida River as Seikō. In the Tenmei era, there were poets who rendered the Sumida Embankment as Kudzu Slope. In the early years of Meiji, when poetry and prose had reached their peak of popularity, Ono Kozan deemed the characters for Mukōjima to be lacking in refinement and devised the three-character name “Mukōshū” based on their phonetic sound, but this too was soon forgotten. At present, in the red-light district of Mukōjima, there exists a lodging house called Mukōshū. Whether this was born of Ono Kozan’s intent to carry on an elegant tradition remains unclear to this day.

The pleasure quarter spanning from the fifth to the sixth and seventh *chōme* of Terajimachō was located four or five *chō* east of Shirahige Bridge. That is, since it was situated northeast of the Sumida Embankment, it felt somewhat too far removed to be termed “Bokujō.” Therefore, I resolved to call this Bokutō.

When I first completed the manuscript of *A Strange Tale from East of the River*, I had immediately titled it *Tamanoi Sōshi* after the place name. However, upon later reflection, I deliberately employed the now-obscure Boku character to affect an air of refinement out of step with the modern age. As for matters such as the themes of novels, ever since I lost Inoue Aaako over a decade ago and heard of the passing of Kamishiro Shūyōō last spring, I had been left with no one to seek opinions from, nor anyone with whom to share banter about such things. Had Venerable Shūyōō still been alive when I wrote *A Strange Tale from East of the River*, I would have rushed to his Sendagichō residence the moment I finished the manuscript and troubled him to read it. The reason being that Venerable Shūyōō had been thoroughly acquainted with the affairs of that labyrinth long before I ever was and took pleasure in recounting them to others. Whenever conversation at a gathering happened to touch upon that district, Venerable Shūyōō would first borrow a fountain pen from someone nearby, empty the contents of a bat’s box, draw on its reverse side a map of the roads leading from the city center to the labyrinth, mark the entry and exit points of its alleys, and then explain—as if pointing to the palm of his hand—where each branching path led and where they converged.

Around that time, I would meet Venerable Shūyōō nearly every evening at the four corners of Ginza Owarichō. Venerable Shūyōō did not use cafés or coffee shops to meet people. Only once the awaited person had arrived and it came time to converse would he finally take a seat in a restaurant chair. Until then, he would stand at a corner of the thoroughfare, keep track of time, and wait for the person he was to meet. But even when contrary to his expectations he ended up idling away the hours, Venerable Shūyōō would never grow angry or despondent. The venerable man’s standing on the street was not solely to await the arrival of those he had arranged to meet. Rather, he took advantage of this to enjoy observing the scenes on the street. In the notebook that Venerable Shūyōō had often shown me during his lifetime, under entries for such-and-such year, month, and day, were notations like: “At such-and-such location, observed between such-and-such hours: approximately how many women passed by, of whom how many were dressed in Western attire;...” How many waitress-like women were walking in pairs with patron-like men. Entries such as “the number of beggars and street performers” had been recorded; these were things he had jotted down with a pencil while idly standing at street corners or beneath trees in front of cafés, waiting for people.

One particularly sweltering night during this year’s lingering summer heat, as I was walking through a side street before Tamanoi Inari Shrine, a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old street performer—slightly good-looking and carrying a shamisen—emerged from behind the curtain of an oden shop or some such establishment and called out familiarly, “Uncle.” “Uncle, do you come around here for fun too?” At first I had completely forgotten, but from the street performer girl’s smiling mouth with its exposed incisors, I suddenly recalled an incident four or five years prior when I had spoken with this girl alongside Venerable Shūyōō in Ginza’s backstreets. When Venerable Shūyōō returned home to Komagome from Ginza, he would always wait for the last train at either the Owarichō crossing or in front of Matsuya in Ginza Sanchōme, during which time he conversed with the flower sellers, fortune-tellers, and street performers standing at the same stop. Even after boarding the train, he would continue talking as long as the other party did not withdraw, so it turned out I had been acquainted with this street performer girl for quite some time.

At the time when I occasionally saw the street performer girl in Ginza’s backstreets, she still wore a kimono with raised shoulders and carried no shamisen, instead gripping four bamboo clappers in both hands. Her hair was done in a peach-split style, and she wore a long-sleeved robe with a black collar and red under-collar. With her crimson obi fastened and black-lacquered clogs sporting red thongs, she resembled either an apprentice female gidayū reciter or a junior courtesan from some downmarket pleasure quarter. From her slender face with its precocious cast to her delicate neck and shoulders, her entire build typified those commonly seen among such women. That both her upbringing and temperament followed this standard pattern was perhaps something requiring no further inquiry.

“You’ve gone and become quite the young lady now.” “Just like a proper geisha.”

“Ohohoho, how ridiculous,” she said while adjusting the flat hairpin at the base of her Shimada chignon. “Is it ridiculous? “You were trained in Ginza too, weren’t you?” “But I’m not going back there anymore.” “You prefer it here?” “There’s nothing good about here or anywhere else. But when business dries up in Ginza, I can’t even walk home—there’s just no helping it.” “You used to go back to Yanagishima back then, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I’ve moved to Ukeji now.” “Are you hungry?” “No, it’s still early yet.” Since there had been occasions in Ginza when I’d given her train fare, that night I handed her a fifty-sen gratuity and took my leave. About a month later, we met again by the roadside, but as the night dew grew increasingly chilly against the skin, my walks to this town gradually became less frequent. Yet they say this district thrives most once the night breeze begins to seep into one’s bones, so that girl must now be pacing these streets unfailingly each night until late.

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When I compared the time when Venerable Shūyōō and I first glimpsed that girl in Ginza’s late-night hours with our chance meeting by the roadside in Terajimachō this year, I realized five years had already swiftly passed. The transformations of the era during this interval—such as this girl, who once resembled a half-apprentice geisha, having her kimono’s shoulder tucks removed and her peach-split hairstyle reshaped into a padded Shimada chignon—ought not to be viewed through the same lens as these changes in her appearance. That the girl who once rattled four bamboo clappers to chant devotional ballads had become a young woman strumming a shamisen to sing popular tunes was akin to the natural progression of mosquito larvae maturing into adults, *oboko* fry growing into *ina*, and *ina* developing into *bora*—this was evolution in its proper course. But when someone who once debated Marx came to revere Zhu Xi’s teachings, this was no evolution but a transmutation into something wholly other. The former became void; the latter emerged abruptly. It resembled a different creature—no crab at all—taking residence within a hermit crab’s abandoned shell.

We Tokyo commoners came to learn of the storm clouds that had arisen over the Manchurian plains during the previous year, between Shōwa 5 and 6. I recall that in the autumn of that year, having heard how sparrow battles had continued for about three days in the ginkgo tree at Shōkonsha Shrine, I went to see them on the final morning together with the women of Kōjimachi. In the summer of the year before that, a rumor arose that after the late-night crowds had dispersed, a large toad would appear in the moat at Akasaka Mitsuke and wail in a mournful voice, and a certain newspaper even published an advertisement offering a reward of three hundred yen to anyone who captured the toad. Because of this, on rainy nights and such, the crowds actually increased, but no rumors of anyone obtaining the reward were ever heard, and before anyone knew it, this story had vanished like smoke.

One afternoon as that year when I had seen the sparrow battles was already drawing swiftly to a close, I walked along the coast of Kasai Village and lost my way. After nightfall, guided by distant lights, I finally located Funabori Bridge. Transferring trams two or three times, I arrived at the Nihonbashi crossing from the terminus of Susaki’s city tram line. Alighting from the tram that had passed through Fukagawa’s dim streets to the side of Shirokiya Department Store, the brilliance of electric lights, the year-end bustle, and military songs blaring from radios merged into a single overwhelming presence, striking my eyes—which had wandered until nightfall along desolate reed-covered banks devoid of human traces throughout this half-day—with a sudden, uncanny impression. Once again waiting for a connecting vehicle, I stood before Shirokiya’s storefront, where the shop window displayed a backdrop of a yellow wasteland with flames rising here and there, lined with several soldier dolls wrapped in woolen clothing—this sight too startled me. I immediately shifted my gaze to the jostling crowd on the street, but it appeared no different from what one sees every year-end, with no one particularly stopping to look at the soldier dolls.

It was around April of the following year that willow saplings were planted along Ginza Avenue, vermilion-framed paper lanterns were lined among artificial flowers on both sidewalks, and Ginza came to present a scene reminiscent of a provincial theater town's midway district. I saw the vermilion-framed lanterns erected in Ginza and the scarlet-painted railings of Akasaka Tameike's beef restaurant, realizing how profoundly the aesthetic sensibilities of urbanites had deteriorated. The Kasumigaseki uprising that shook the nation occurred in the month following the Willow Festival. That very evening, as I happened to be strolling along Ginza Avenue, I witnessed how among the extra editions reporting this incident, the Yomiuri Shimbun's appeared first, with the Asahi Shimbun following shortly after. The weather being fine and it being a Sunday evening, Ginza Avenue teemed with crowds; yet not only did people show no particular reaction to the special editions posted on utility poles, but none uttered a single word about them either, with only street vendors ceaselessly winding up toy weapons and wildly firing water pistols.

It was around that time that Venerable Shūyōō began appearing nightly before Mitsukoshi in Owarichō, wearing an old hat and Nikko geta. The cafés that proliferated indiscriminately throughout Ginza Avenue’s front and back streets thrived most and sank into the deepest depravity—looking back now—from the summer of 1932 through the following year. At every café, they had two or three waitresses stand at the entrance to beckon in passersby. The women working in the backstreet bars always formed pairs, strolling along the main streets, tugging at the sleeves of passersby or luring them with suggestive glances. There were also suspicious-looking women who would stop as if examining storefront displays, then call out and sidle up to any man walking alone, suggesting they go somewhere for tea together. Department stores too began hiring large numbers of women beyond just salesclerks, dressing them in bathing suits and exposing their bare skin to public view—this indeed first started in that year. At every corner of the back alleys, one could always see young girls selling toys called Yōyō. I observed young women who, obeying their employers’ orders, showed no shame in exposing their faces and figures either at shopfronts or on the streets—some even often appearing quite pleased with themselves—and it seemed as though the display parlors of licensed brothels had been revived. And I felt as though I had come to realize that no matter the era, there exists an unchanging method for employing women.

The subway had already been excavated as far as the northern end of Kyōbashi, and on Ginza Avenue, the sound of machinery driving iron rods into the ground resounded ceaselessly day and night, while laborers took naps beneath shop eaves regardless of location. The female teacher from Tsukishima Elementary School would appear at night as a waitress at a café called Rabasan in the backstreet of Ginza 1-chōme, and her arrest for soliciting prostitution enlivened the pages of the newspapers. That too was in the winter of this year, Shōwa 7 (1932).

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The first time I established a friendship with Venerable Shūyōō must have been around Taishō 10 (1921). Having encountered each other repeatedly at used book markets prior to that, we had naturally begun to converse without any particular initiation. However, even afterward, our meetings remained confined to bookstore fronts, our conversations limited solely to old books—so when we unexpectedly crossed paths on Ginza Avenue in the summer of Shōwa 7 (1932), I felt as though I had encountered an improbable figure in an improbable place, and that night we parted after merely exchanging a few words while standing.

From around Shōwa 23 until just that time, I had been keeping entirely away from Ginza; but due to my sleeplessness worsening with each passing year, the need to buy groceries for self-catering, and my efforts to avoid hearing the neighbor’s radio throughout summer, I had once again begun venturing out to Ginza. Yet fearing condemnation in newspapers and magazines, I would skulk through back alleys to avoid being seen, and whenever I spotted a disheveled man approaching from the opposite direction—carrying a leather briefcase or clutching newspapers and magazines—I would duck into side streets or hide behind utility poles.

Venerable Shūyōō always wore white tabi socks and Nikko geta. Even at a glance, one could tell he was not a man of modern times. Therefore, without my needing to explain my aversion to modern literary figures, the Venerable had already keenly discerned it. He also knew why I avoided main-street cafés. One night when he guided me to a nearly deserted café called Manteitei in West Ginza’s backstreets and proposed we make it our meeting place henceforth—this too stemmed from his understanding of my circumstances.

Even during the hottest season, no matter how parched I became, I never consumed anything cold except freshwater with ice. I avoided cold water as much as possible and drank hot tea or coffee regardless of whether it was summer or winter. As for something like ice cream, I had never once partaken of it since returning to Japan—so if there existed among Ginza’s strollers someone unacquainted with Ginza’s ice cream, that person would likely have been none other than myself. The reason Venerable Shūyōō had guided me to Manteitei was also for this purpose.

In the cafés along Ginza Avenue, come summer, there were hardly any shops that prepared hot tea and coffee. Even among Western restaurants, there existed some that did not prepare hot coffee. As half the flavor of black tea and coffee lies in their aroma, were one to chill them with ice, their aroma would vanish entirely. Yet modern Tokyoites would not drink them unless they were chilled and devoid of aroma. For an old-fashioned person like myself, this seemed utterly bizarre. This strange custom had not yet become widespread in the early years of Taishō.

Both black tea and coffee were brought by Westerners, and even today Westerners do not drink them chilled. From this it becomes clear that the essential nature of tea and coffee lies in their warmth. To chill them in accordance with Japanese custom damages their inherent qualities - a practice resembling the Japanization of place and character names when translating foreign novels and plays. I tend to mourn any violation of a thing's essential nature; just as I prefer to appreciate foreign literature as foreign works, so too do I dislike food and drink that have been adjusted by Japanese hands.

Manteitei was a café opened by a Kyushu man who had worked for many years in South American colonies to sell coffee, and they served warm coffee even in summer. However, the owner passed away around the same time as Venerable Shūyōō, the shop was closed, and it no longer exists. When I went to Manteitei with Venerable Shūyōō, fearing both the stifling heat inside the narrow shop and the abundance of flies, I would sit on chairs placed under the trees in front of the shop and remain there motionless until midnight when the shop’s lights were extinguished. Knowing that even if I returned home and lay down, I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I never refused to go wherever invited, even if it meant staying out past midnight. While sitting facing me under the trees, the Venerable would count the number of customers entering and exiting the bars near Manteitei—Rheingold, Satseria across the way, Scull, Odessa—and jot them down in his notebook. He would strike up conversations with taxi drivers and street performers. When he grew tired of that, he would go to the main street to buy things or wander through back alleys, and upon returning, report what he had seen to me. These were stories of how ruffians in some alley were exchanging Shinto rituals, or how someone had their sleeve tugged by a suspicious woman on the opposite riverbank, or how a former waitress from such-and-such establishment had now become the proprietress of another. The street performer girl who called out to stop me in the side street of Terajima-cho must have first become acquainted with me under these very trees.

Through the Venerable’s conversations, I had come to grasp how completely Ginza had transformed in the mere three or four years since I last saw it. Of the shops that had stood on main streets before the earthquake, those continuing their original trades in the same locations could be counted on one hand; now all had been entrusted to management by people from Kansai or Kyushu. That signs for dolphin soup and Kansai cuisine now hung everywhere in back alleys, and that street stalls had multiplied at every corner of side streets, was hardly surprising. The swelling numbers of rural migrants and diners eating out were made plain by how every eatery thrived. People from the provinces knew nothing of Tokyo’s customs. Having mistaken everything observed at station restaurants and department store cafeterias for Tokyo’s ways, many would enter shops labeled as sweet red bean soup vendors to ask for Chinese noodles, or order tempura at soba restaurants—only to be refused and left gaping in bewilderment. The practice of displaying food models with prices in restaurant windows had likewise become an unavoidable consequence, modeled after Osaka’s example.

When the streetlights came on and phonographs began humming through the air, groups of four or five tipsy men would link arms around shoulders and waists before shambling through every corner of Ginza—main streets and back alleys alike. This spectacle too emerged newly under Shōwa’s reign, unseen during those early post-earthquake years when cafés first sprouted across the city. Though I never fully grasped what fueled such brazen disorderliness, concrete examples left no room for overlooking matters—least of all that incident from Shōwa 2 when Mita students and alumni first mobbed Ginza Avenue after a baseball game. Drunkenness emboldened them to trample night-stall wares and storm cafés where they wrecked fixtures and walls alike until clashing with constables sent to restrain them. Twice yearly since then this violence repeated itself down to our present day. Yet I’ve heard not one parent so incensed as to withdraw their child from those halls. Society at large appeared to sanction such student brutality. I myself had briefly taught at Mita during Meiji’s twilight amid straitened circumstances—a resignation I now count fortunate. One administrator back then entreated me to elevate Mita’s literary standing against Inamon’s—a vulgar proposition that wrinkled my brow. To them literature and art were indistinguishable from baseball.

By nature and ingrained disposition, I had no desire to form cliques or factions to achieve ends through borrowed authority. Rather,I spurned such conduct as cowardice. As for matters of state governance,I dismissed them beyond discussion. Observing how those who frequent artistic circles often form coteries to elevate allies and suppress dissent,I deemed this both craven and vulgar. To cite one instance:I recalled how members of Bungeishunju Society,having failed to stage their factional works at Tsukiji Little Theater,came to denounce Osanai Kaoru’s dramatic theories as erroneous.

When wild geese traverse the skies, they form orderly ranks to protect themselves, yet bush warblers emerging from secluded valleys to alight upon lofty trees create neither flocks nor formations. Yet even so, do the wild geese not still fail to escape the hunters’ gunfire? Forming associations cannot necessarily be called a path to self-preservation. Even among those women who peddle their charms, there are those who form alliances for safety and those who remain solitary shadows, uncomplaining even in their sorrow. In the cafés along Ginza’s main avenue—which blaze with light as though turned into fortresses—organizing groups called the Red Team and White Team, it is the flocks of waitresses who greedily devour their customers’ patronage.

Cloth-wrapped bundles in arm, sometimes umbrellas in hand, slipping into the crowds of night stalls to furtively tug at passersby’s sleeves—these are the independent street prostitutes. These two may differ considerably in outward appearance, but once pursued by police officers, there is likely no distinction in the peril that befalls them.

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This autumn of Shōwa 11, on my way to Terajima-cho, I encountered crowds lining the roadside near Asakusabashi hoping to see the flower tram. When I noticed, the streetcar ticket in my hand had grown larger than usual, commemorating the municipal tram system's twenty-fifth anniversary. Whenever some occasion arises, flower trams are paraded through Tokyo's streets.

Five years ago now, when I had grown accustomed to staying late at Manteitei in West Ginza with Venerable Shūyōō, autumn may already have passed the equinox. I heard from a waiter that a flower tram had just passed through Ginza. And I had heard from someone who had seen it that the flower tram that night had been paraded to celebrate the incorporation of towns in Tokyo Prefecture into the city. Prior to this, during a time when the lingering summer heat had not yet completely subsided, I had also heard from someone who had seen it that a public dance event called the Tokyo Ondo had been held in Hibiya Park.

It was said that the Tokyo Ondo had been held to celebrate the merger of county districts into Tokyo City and its subsequent expansion, but in truth, it was merely an advertisement for the department store at Hibiya Corner; one could not obtain admission tickets unless purchasing a matching yukata from that store. Be that as it may, there had never been a precedent for permitting young men and women to dance in parks within Tokyo. Even in rural areas, Bon dances were, I recall, prohibited by prefectural governors’ orders around the end of the Meiji era. In Edo-period Tokyo, only within the Yamanote residential districts were servants from rural areas permitted to perform Bon dances, while ordinary townspeople had no custom of dancing for Obon, throwing themselves solely into their local deities’ shrine festivals.

I had heard that before the earthquake, whenever dance events were held nightly at the Imperial Hotel, patriotic zealots brandishing Japanese swords would storm into the venue, causing subsequent dance events to be canceled; thus, I secretly harbored expectations that some commotion might occur at the Tokyo Ondo event held publicly in Hibiya Park as well—yet nothing happened, and the Ondo dance concluded its week-long public run without incident.

“Well, that was unexpected,” I said, turning to Venerable Shūyōō. The Venerable allowed a faint smile to form at his thinly bearded mouth, “It’s because *ondō* and dance are different.” “But since men and women are dancing together in large numbers, isn’t it the same thing?”

“That may be so, but in *ondō*, neither men nor women wear Western clothes.” “It’s permissible because they’re wearing yukata, I suppose.” “Permissible because they don’t expose their bodies, presumably.” “Is that right? But if we’re speaking of bodily exposure, isn’t the yukata actually more precarious?” “With Western dresses, the chest may be revealed, but everything below the waist remains secure.” “The yukata inverts this arrangement entirely.” “Ah, Professor—when you dissect matters so logically, there’s no room for rebuttal.” “During the earthquake years, patrolmen would stop women in Western clothes as they passed.” “They claimed the women had said something provoking, then stripped off their dresses and made a great fuss about conducting body inspections—or not conducting them.” “Those very patrolmen wore Western suits themselves.” “Thus their grievance about women’s Western attire defies all logic.”

“Come to think of it, women’s Western clothing was still quite rare around the time of the earthquake,” I said. “Nowadays, when you look out at the passersby like this, half the women going by are in Western clothes. Even the waitresses at Café Tiger have mostly worn Western clothes in summer since two or three years ago.” “If an age of militarist government arrives,” the Venerable mused, “what will become of women’s Western clothing?” “If dances are deemed acceptable when done in yukata under this custom,” I replied, “then Western clothing might fall out of fashion. However, even if modern women were to abandon Western clothing, I don’t believe they would become adept at wearing Japanese attire. Once something has collapsed, it can never be made good again. Whether it’s theater or performing arts—isn’t that the case? The same goes for writing, isn’t that the case? If you break something down however you please, even if you try to fix it, it will never be repaired.”

“Even among *genbun itchi* works, only Mr. Ōgai’s can be recited aloud, don’t you think?” Venerable Shūyōō removed his glasses and closed both eyes, then recited a passage from the biography of Izawa Ranken. “I lament my lack of scholarly attainment. I do not lament my lack of common sense. The world cannot endure the multitude of people rich in common sense.”

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As we engaged in such conversations, the night deepened with unexpected swiftness, and the sound of the clock striking twelve from Hattori’s tower struck our ears with a strange freshness in those days.

The Venerable Shūyōō, with his strong penchant for historical verification, would launch into explanations upon hearing the bell’s toll—how the clock of Kobayashi Clock Shop, which had stood in Hachikō-chō until before the earthquake, had been counted among the Shinbashi Eight Views in early Meiji times. I recalled how around Meiji 44 or 45, I would wait each night on the second floor of a brothel for the woman’s return, straining to catch the sound of that great clock. The topic of Miki Aika’s novel *Geisha Seasonal Almanac* would often come up between us.

By this time of night, one-yen taxis would gather on the road in front of Manteitei, lying in wait for returning waitresses and drunken patrons. The bars in this vicinity whose names I remember include Odessa, Scull, and Sicilia on the opposite side of Manteitei, and Moulin Rouge, Silver Slipper, and Rheingold on this side. Moreover, in the alley behind Manteitei and Shiroutoya, there were places named Lupin, Sliissta, Shiramuren, and such. They may still be there even now.

At the signal of Hattori’s bell, these bars and cafés would simultaneously extinguish their front lights, causing the streets to abruptly dim. The gathered entaku—even when loaded with passengers—could only blare their horns uselessly amid such crowding that movement became impossible, until drivers began to brawl. No sooner would one think this than, the moment a police officer came into view, not a single one of them remained—they would all flee—but after a short while, they would once again fill the entire area with the stench of gasoline, just as before.

Venerable Shūyōō would always cut through the alleyways, emerge via a back alley onto the crossroads of Owari-chō, stand by the roadside with waitresses who had already gathered waiting for the red streetcar, and whenever he spotted an acquaintance, call out to them in a loud voice without regard for their inconvenience. Through his nightly observations, the Venerable had come to know well which train lines carried the most waitresses and which outlying areas received the greatest number of them. He would often become so engrossed in recounting these observations with evident pride that he frequently missed the red streetcar, yet even on such occasions showed no sign of dismay; rather, he seemed to welcome it, saying, “Professor, won’t you take a short walk? “I’ll walk you that far,” he said.

Reflecting on the Venerable’s ill-starred life, it struck me as being much like his attitude of showing no panic even when the red streetcar he had awaited slipped away before his eyes. He had graduated from his hometown’s normal school and come to Tokyo in middle age, working at the Navy Ministry’s Documents Section, Keio University Library, and the editorial department of Isshōdō Booksellers among other places—yet never remained long in any position. In his later years he devoted himself solely to literary work, though even this mostly ended in failure. Still, he betrayed no deep sorrow; instead, he turned his uneventful existence into an opportunity to observe post-earthquake street life, finding amusement in this pursuit. Those acquainted with him, seeing his composed manner, had assumed he possessed assets back home—yet when he died suddenly in spring of Showa 10 [1935], they found his household contained not a single coin saved beyond old books, suits of armor, and bonsai.

That year, Ginza’s main street was in the midst of subway construction, and from around the time the night stalls disappeared, a dreadful clamor arose as laborers’ fearsome figures began to appear; thus, even when our strolls carried us as far as the corner of Owari-chō, they would swiftly shift to back streets and naturally lead us toward Shibaguchi. After crossing either Dobashi or Naniwabashi Bridge and passing beneath the Shōsen railway viaduct, there were various papers pasted on dark wall surfaces bearing unsettling phrases like “Release the Blood Pledge Corps.” Underneath them, beggars always slept. As we emerged from beneath the viaduct, one side of the sidewalk stretched with countless street stalls displaying signs like “Nutrition’s Throne,” their square tanks filled with eels swimming around hooks for sale—a line continuing nearly to Sakurata Hongō-chō’s crossroads where crowds gathered: waitresses returning from cafés and men who seemed local pleasure-seekers.

When we turned into the back street, there was an alley facing the station’s ticket gate, with sushi shops and small eateries lining both sides. Among them was a shop I knew. At the house marked by a noren bearing the name Yakitori Kinbee, the proprietress was a certain renowned courtesan who had lived across the way over twenty years prior, when I was dwelling in a geisha house in Sōjūrō-chō. Kinbee had indeed opened his shop around spring of that year, and as it prospered year after year, the interior was now remodeled to the point of being unrecognizable.

In this alley, even after the earthquake, teahouses and geisha houses lined the eaves, but since cafés began trending along Ginza-dori, eateries gradually increased, typically keeping their lights on until around two in the morning to cater to those taking the Shōsen railway past midnight and men and women returning from cafés. Because there were many sushi shops, some people also called it Sushiya Yokocho.

When I observed this situation where Tokyoites had taken to roaming about drinking until past midnight, I found myself compelled to consider when this new custom had arisen. Apart from areas near the Yoshiwara pleasure quarter, pre-earthquake Tokyo had seen no eateries in its urban districts keeping lights burning past midnight save for soba shops. Venerable Shūyōō answered my inquiry by attributing modern people’s enjoyment of late-night dining to two factors: the Shōsen railway extending its operating hours beyond one o’clock in the morning, and street taxis displaying citywide fare boards reducing their rates from fifty sen to thirty sen. Removing his glasses as was his custom, he blinked his narrow eyes and remarked, “Were certain moralists to witness this spectacle, they would surely lament profoundly.” “As I neither drink nor tolerate fishy odors, it matters little to me personally,” he continued, “but should one wish to reform modern customs, making transportation inconvenient again—as in Meiji times—would suffice.” “Failing that, simply raising entaku fares substantially after midnight would serve.” “Yet paradoxically, the later night deepens, the cheaper these entaku become—their fares dropping to half daytime rates.”

“However, today’s world cannot be governed by past morals or such. If one considers everything to be a phenomenon of vital energy’s expansion, then even assassination and adultery—no matter what occurs—need not be so furrowed at the brow. When I speak of ‘the development of vital energy,’ it refers to the passion for pursuing desires. The popularity of sports, the popularity of dance, the popularity of travel and mountain climbing, the popularity of horse racing and other forms of gambling—all are phenomena of the development of desires. This phenomenon possesses distinctive features unique to the modern era. It is that state of mind where each individual wants others to think they are superior to others and also wants to believe it themselves—that sentiment. It is the desire to feel superior. I, having grown up in the Meiji era, do not possess this state of mind. Even if there were any traces, they would be exceedingly few. This is where those who grew up in the Taishō era—the modern people—differ from us, you see.”

Standing by the roadside where entaku were blaring their horns, unable to engage in lengthy debate, the Venerable and I happened to see three or four waitresses accompanied by a man who seemed to be a customer enter the sushi shop across the street, and we followed after them through the noren. To what extent modern people fiercely compete for superiority, no matter the place or circumstance, can be immediately observed even in a back-alley sushi shop. As soon as they see that the shop is crowded, their eyes instantly sharpen, and upon spotting an empty seat, they push through the crowd and charge forward. Even when ordering food, they try to outdo others by raising their voices, slapping the tables, banging the floor with canes, and calling for servers. Among them are some who, unable to wait even for that, stand up to peer into the kitchen and directly issue orders to the cooks. These are the same people who, when going out sightseeing on Sundays and trying to seize empty seats on trains, would not hesitate to push women and children off the platform. On the battlefield, it is also these people who achieve the feat of being first to strike with their spears. Even in sparsely populated trains, these people sit with their legs spread wide like May dolls in a V-shape, trying to take up as much space as possible.

Everything requires training. Unlike those of us who walked to school, they were well-trained since their elementary school days to leap onto packed trains and jostle for precedence on the stairs of crowded department stores and movie theaters. To make a name for themselves, they willingly took it upon themselves to represent their entire class and sent letters to current ministers and high officials without the slightest hesitation. They themselves interpreted that because children were innocent, they could do anything they pleased, and there was no reason for them to be blamed no matter what they did. When such children grew up, they would strive to obtain degrees before others, seek employment before others, and amass wealth before others. This effort constituted their entire lives; beyond it lay nothing.

The entaku driver too was one among the modern people. Therefore, when faced with the disappearance of the red streetcars and the necessity of taking an entaku to return home, I could not help but feel a vague dread. I had to search for a driver who appeared, as much as possible, not to harbor any sense of modern superiority. I had to search for a driver who appeared to lack any eagerness to overtake the cars ahead even when there was no need to do so. If I neglected this, my name would likely be written up in tomorrow’s newspapers as a victim of a traffic accident.

***

The voices of people and the sound of a broom outside the window roused me awake earlier than usual this morning. Reaching out from my bed to push aside the window curtain near my pillow, the morning sunlight streamed through the oak thicket that overhung the eaves, casting a deeper glow on the remaining persimmons clinging to the tree by the fence. The sound of brooms and voices came from the neighbor’s maid and the maid from my house talking over the fence as they each swept the fallen leaves in their respective gardens. The rustling of dry leaves sounded nearer to my ears than usual because both gardens’ accumulated foliage was being swept up simultaneously from either side.

Whenever I hear this familiar sound of sweeping fallen leaves during my winter awakenings, I find myself recalling, just as I do every year, Kan Ryūwan’s verse: “Old sorrows—like leaves swept yet unending—through their rustling sound bid autumn farewell once more.” That morning as well, I silently recited this verse while rising in my nightclothes and leaning against the window. From the boughs of the enoki tree on the cliff—its yellowed leaves now mostly scattered—came the sharp cry of a shrike, and a red dragonfly had alighted on the yellow flowers of the Japanese silverleaf blooming in a corner of the garden. Red dragonflies, their countless transparent wings glittering, were flying high even into the deep blue, crystal-clear sky.

The November weather, which had been prone to cloudiness, had fully settled after the rain and wind of two or three days prior, and at last it became that fine season of Indian summer—as Dongpo once said, “Take note of the year’s finest scenery.” Until now, even the faint insect chirps that had lingered like a thread or two at times had entirely ceased. Every sound that reached my ears had changed from yesterday’s, and when I thought how this year’s autumn had passed without a trace, even the dreams from those sleepless nights of lingering summer heat and the moonlit vistas I had gazed upon in cooler evenings now felt like things from a distant past… Yet the scenery I behold year after year remains unchanged. Toward the unchanging scenery year after year, the sentiments that arise in my heart also remain unchanged. Like flowers scattering, like leaves falling, those people who were dear to me have departed one after another. I, too, like those people, know that the time when I should follow after them is already not far off at all. In today’s clear weather, I will go sweep the graves of those people. Just as in my garden, fallen leaves must be completely covering the graves of those people as well.

November 1936 (Shōwa 11), Year of Bingzi: Manuscript completed.