Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Yamane Kensaku exited Sannomiya Station and walked toward the coast. This was Kensaku’s second time setting foot in this area, yet he couldn’t orient himself at all. That dated back fourteen years—when he had come from Tokyo to visit a senior at the local steamship company and stayed about two weeks—but having immediately departed for China afterward, he hadn’t returned to mainland Japan until that very year, leaving only a vague outline of memory behind. Kensaku ran a general store in Taiwan. Through connections with a senior at the steamship company, he had become a clerk on a Shanghai-bound vessel, fallen ill en route to Shanghai, and while hospitalized at a Shanghai hospital affiliated with the same company, become acquainted with a man from Fukuoka Prefecture. Together they went to Guangdong before crossing over to Taiwan. Through various ventures there, he eventually came to independently manage his current store, acquired a wife and children, and gained some financial freedom—which was why he had now returned under the guise of business to visit family graves.

The air was cold on that still, hazy day, the dull sunset casting a blurred glow around it. Having fixed his gaze on that sunlight, he immediately shifted it to the building nearby—a long wooden Western-style structure with peeling blue paint, its two-story frame housing a chaotic cluster of shops displaying foodstuffs at their ground-floor entrances. In one section hung raw cuts of meat, loins, and various animal carcasses at the storefront, where two sturdy men rhythmically chopped something with kitchen knives. Three or four customers stood there, including a Chinese old woman wearing earrings who clutched the hand of a girl about five years old—likely her granddaughter. Upon closer inspection, next to the old woman stood another sturdy Chinese woman also wearing earrings. To her right stood a laborer-like Chinese man marked by white pockmarks.

He suddenly realized this was a Chinese quarter. As he thought this, he looked around. The narrow street had turned sooty black, with shops selling foodstuffs cluttered along one side where mainly Chinese people came and went. His eyes took in shops displaying large wine-jar-like vessels, shops with vegetables laid out, shops arrayed with dried objects that might have been snakes or fish - or perhaps yams or tree roots. On the glass shopfronts and interior lintels hung red paper strips resembling talismans. This was the familiar sight of a Chinese quarter that Kensaku knew well.

Kensaku remembered the sake. And now that he had returned to mainland Japan, he found himself feeling a faint twinge of regret at having to soon bid farewell to the Nada sake he had grown accustomed to drinking over the past month. He had not yet decided exactly where to wait for the six o'clock departure, so he thought he might as well have a drink somewhere nearby while waiting. He had already secured a cabin in the town ten ri ahead, loaded all his luggage, and was now in a light, unencumbered state—wearing the same Western clothes and carrying only a single rattan cane—so he had no concerns about his immediate affairs. He slightly raised his left hand and looked at the watch on his wrist. The watch had just passed three o'clock. There were still three hours until six—he thought two hours would be fine to spend leisurely anywhere. He cast his gaze toward the far side, searching for some simple establishment suitable to enter. Immediately to his right was a spot where a red post stood, from which the entrance to a side street became visible, and beyond that, at the corner, there appeared to be a Western-style restaurant with a yellow awning draped over it.

Western food wouldn't do—he'd rather have Japanese cuisine if possible, but he wondered if any was available. However, it wasn't that he absolutely despised Western food. He thought that even Western food places could at least prepare something like fried fish. He had already arrived before that Western restaurant.

He thought that going a little further might reveal something else. Pausing momentarily, he considered whether to press ahead or enter, but decided against dawdling—deeming it pointless to waste time in indecision. He approached the Western restaurant from the side street. The frosted glass door stood slightly ajar. In the dim earthen-floored space resembling twilight, seven or eight round tables were arranged with three customers scattered among them. Kensaku’s gaze immediately fixed on the profile of a man seated at the entrance table—a figure in a tea-brown tattered Western suit whose nationality hovered ambiguously between Japanese and Chinese. In the far right corner sat a woman with luxuriant hair coiled in a bun, her back displaying what seemed a gold-threaded haori as she faced forward. The comb jewel nestled in her coiffure glimmered intermittently in the shadows like serpentine eyes.

Kensaku headed to a table on the right while briefly entertaining the thought any man might have—that she was quite a woman—and sat with his back against the white-painted wooden wall so he could see the profile of the man in a tattered suit. One of the sturdy waitresses fluttered over like a butterfly before him. “What will you have?” Kensaku propped his rattan cane against the right wall.

“I want fish, but perhaps I’ll have a fry. What kind of fry do you have?” “We can prepare either sea bream or Spanish mackerel. If you require a fish platter, we can provide that as well.” Kensaku was glad. “Ah! You have the fish platter? This is a relief. Well then, miss—I’ll have that platter and the fry.” “Very well. Please do enjoy some sake as well.” “Right, the sake was indeed my primary purpose here—since I won’t be able to drink again for some time. Before the ship departs, I intend to drink my fill of authentic local brew to avoid any regrets. Bring me a good one.”

Kensaku allowed a faint smile to touch his sun-seared cheek—the one weathered by Taiwan’s sun. “Very well.” The woman showed a faint smile at her lips before turning back and leaving. Feeling pleasantly at ease, Kensaku took out a pack of Shikishima cigarettes from his coat pocket, pulled one out, lit it, and as he slowly smoked, his eyes drifted absently toward the man in the tattered suit. The man in the suit remained holding his cup to his lips, gazing with glazed eyes as if lost in thought. At the table before him sat a sturdy man who looked like a shop employee—wearing a hunting cap and straight-sleeved shirt—working a knife and fork with his back to the street. There, one of the waitresses had taken a seat on a nearby chair and was conversing with him.

Kensaku abruptly remembered the woman and cast his eyes to the right. From the comb in her bun came those same serpent-eyed glints of light, but perhaps because she was drinking something, she leaned back slightly, her right hand bent at an angle.

“Thank you for waiting.” The first waitress brought a sake decanter and cups and had already set them out.

“Oh, thanks.” Kensaku stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray before taking up his cup and having the woman pour him a drink. “It might be a bit lukewarm. If you’d prefer it warmer, I can adjust it. How would you like it?” The sake was at drinkable temperature. “Fine, fine.”

“Then I shall bring your meal right away.”

The waitress set down the sake decanter and spun around to face away.

“Hey, sake!”

The man in the worn-out suit lightly tapped the table with his right fingertips. The woman who had started to leave Kensaku’s table stopped in her tracks. “You’re still drinking.”

It was a remark utterly devoid of warmth—the sort that stirred resentment in anyone who heard it.

The man in the worn-out suit’s table resounded with a thud. “Hey! What’s this ‘still’ crap, miss? Don’t mock me! I ain’t drinkin’ your damn orders! But whatever—fine. Just shut up and bring the sake.” The waitress, perhaps startled by the man in the worn-out suit’s bluster, simply continued on her way.

“If only I had that jewel!” The man in the worn-out suit muttered this alone, then resumed tapping the table as if chasing distant thoughts—in that motion, a single bloodshot eye flashed briefly into view. Kensaku wondered what this “jewel” meant, but no matter how he considered it, he couldn’t grasp any clue. “Thank you for waiting.” The waitress had come carrying plates of fish platter and fry. “Ah, excellent! Quickly prepare what’s left—I’ve some time yet, you see, but I’m about to board my ship.”

“Where are you headed?” “I’m heading back to Taiwan.” “Oh my—Taiwan! That must be quite an undertaking.” “Ah, well—it’s a bit of a long journey.” Kensaku split the disposable chopsticks that came with the fish platter and mixed the accompanying wasabi into the soy sauce. “Taiwan’s nice, isn’t it? You were there?”

Those were words the man in the worn-out suit had directed toward him. Kensaku set down his chopsticks and looked up. The man in the worn-out suit had turned his ruddy-black, narrow face toward him. "That's right. I've been doing business over there for more than ten years now." “Keelung? Taichung?”

“Taichung.” “Is that so? Taiwan’s a carefree place indeed. I’ve spent some time there myself too—Singapore, Batavia, Canton, Manila, Shanghai, Nanking—I’ve wandered through every renowned port you could name in the Orient.” “Is that so? I’ve briefly visited Shanghai and Canton myself—perhaps for business?” Kensaku said, though from the man’s disheveled appearance, he privately concluded this must be some wandering lower-class sailor turned drunkard.

“Well, maybe I’m just some drifter—got something I’ve been huntin’ for, see—but… ain’t no use now.”

The man in the worn-out suit thumped the table again with his dirt-caked hand. “What do you mean? Some lucrative business opportunity?” Kensaku said this while putting a piece of fish platter in his mouth, then took up his cup.

“It’s nothing like that. A stone. A peculiar stone, mind you.” Kensaku suddenly recalled the man in the worn-out suit’s earlier exclamation—“If only I had that jewel!”—and felt his curiosity stir.

“Is that so?”

Just then, the waitress brought another sake decanter. Kensaku recalled that the man in the worn-out suit had ordered sake earlier, so he slightly pointed his finger toward him. “This customer was first—just serve him ahead of me. I’ll have mine later.” The waitress made a slightly odd face but silently carried it over to the man in the worn-out suit. “Miss, come now, don’t get upset—it’s the customer’s goodwill. Give it to me.” The man in the worn-out suit let out a mocking laugh, then immediately grabbed the sake decanter the waitress had set down and poured himself a cup.

“What do you mean by ‘stone’? Is it some kind of jewel?”

Kensaku asked while maintaining cautious restraint against getting too deeply involved. The man in the worn-out suit—what had he been thinking?—hurriedly gulped down the sake he’d been holding at his lips, set the cup on the table, stood up, and dragged a chair over to Kensaku’s front.

“I’ll tell you a story—a bit strange, mind you. Will you hear me out?”

Having said that, the man in the worn-out suit sat down. Kensaku thought it would be troublesome if this turned into a drawn-out story, but since he couldn’t refuse, he reluctantly offered his cup. “Let me pour you one.”

The man in the worn-out suit moved to block it with one hand. "No, I won't take that. These formalities are a nuisance—I won't have them. You drink as you please. If I want more, I'll get it myself and drink." "I see. Then I won't offer it." "Please don't. That way I can act freely too." "Then by all means, do as you like."

Kensaku poured himself a drink into that cup and, while drinking, waited for the man in the worn-out suit to begin his story. "Well then—I'll tell you my story now. It's a bit strange, mind you—a rather unusual tale for this modern age of Einstein and whatnot." "Well then, please go ahead and tell it." "Well then, I'll begin my tale—though I shan't say where I was born. When in China, I speak Chinese; when in Java, Javanese. You may conjecture my origins as you please. My family ranked among the wealthiest in that land—my father kept seven concubines. As an only child with no siblings, I was doted upon excessively by both parents. They summoned a Frenchman and an Italian to tutor me at home, through whom I learned all manner of things. Yet I harbored peculiar tastes—had I been born later, I'd have taken to airplanes! Whenever rare amusements or novel spectacles arose, I'd spend fortunes to master them. This led me to host a troupe of Indian female magicians at my villa for a time, learning their tricks: stones thrown would become flying doves; canes laid on the ground slithered as snakes; dogs emerged from hats. All mere contraptions—trivial once understood—but how delightfully the spectators marveled! I'd invite neighbors and friends to the rear garden for demonstrations. Yes—I was seventeen then. The crux approaches, but pray—drink freely without minding me."

The man in the worn-out suit said that and, as if remembering something, put both hands into his haori. “Ah.” Kensaku nodded in response. The man in the worn-out suit took out a cigar and matches, then lit it with an air of annoyance. “The incident comes later, but—well—one day, it was summer, you see. In my rear garden stood a single large jujube tree, its branches fully laden with fruit.” “I placed a trick box beneath that jujube tree, performed two or three of my signature magic tricks, and then—just as I threw a stone that transformed into a dove and flew away—”

(Whoosh!) Some would erupt in such derisive laughter as though they couldn’t contain their amusement. Deeming him an insufferable rogue, I looked and saw an old man in a red cap laughing—his white beard sparse and straggling. Depending on what words might follow, I resolved to thrash him soundly, but when I fixed my glare upon his face—

“Young master—these childish magic tricks won’t do. Shall I show you real sorcery?” He says this, doesn’t he? I’m furious—what could this empty-handed old man with no tricks up his sleeves possibly pull off? Let him try something clever, I think—if he fails, I’ll thrash him soundly— “Very well—let’s have you do it. What exactly can you do?” When he said that, the old man smirked and—

“Young master, I can do anything you command. If you tell me to turn you into a monkey, I’ll truly make you one. But rather than that—let me show you the quickest demonstration. Young master, shall I wither that large jujube tree?” He said this, but no matter how skilled one’s magic tricks might be, a living tree couldn’t simply be withered. I thought the old man was talking nonsense to amuse himself at my expense—perhaps even hoping to get some coins—and grew even angrier,

“Don’t spout nonsense. If this jujube tree can be withered, then let’s have you wither it.” When he said that, the old man removed the platinum chain he’d been wearing around his neck like a cross, took out a small pouch attached to the chain, and clasped it in his right palm. “It’ll wither right away.” With that, he raised his hand as if to curse the jujube tree—and what do you suppose happened? The once-vibrant green leaves suddenly began to wither, and the jujube fruits came clattering down. I felt not mere surprise but true terror. Then the old man—

“See, Young master? I wasn’t lying, was I?” he said with perfect composure, “It was wrong of me to doubt you—please forgive me.”

I had no choice but to apologize to the old man, whereupon he— "If you understand, Young master, it would be a shame to wither this tree—let's revive it instead." With that, he moved his hand sideways two or three times, and the jujube fruits that had been falling ceased their descent while the withered leaves turned vividly green before my eyes. I began to regard the old man as a deity. Abandoning my magic boxes and such, I ushered him upstairs, summoned both my parents to meet him, lavished him with hospitality, and resolved to have him stay with us from that day forth. When I proposed this to the old man, he—

“Young master, I appreciate your kindness, but as I have family with me, I cannot impose on you here alone.” Since he said that—even were I to suggest bringing his family to stay together— “No—I shall trouble you again another time. Since my sorcery appears to have captured your fancy, Young master, I will teach it to you eventually. But this differs from mere conjuring tricks—it is a wondrous art. Without true resolve, instruction would prove futile. When you have cultivated that resolve, I shall teach you anytime. For now, I will visit occasionally.”

Despite our pleas for him to stay, he would always leave—whenever I asked where he lived, he’d evade with “You’ll find out soon enough,” making me increasingly regard him as an extraordinary foreigner. Thereafter, every two or three days, he’d appear ethereally from nowhere, demonstrating such feats as turning stones into frogs or conjuring women’s forms upon walls, partake of our hospitality, then depart. About a month later, calamity struck my household—my father, perfectly healthy, collapsed dead during afternoon tea. With no close relatives to assist, my mother managed the funeral through hired help, only to perish in her sleep on the tenth morning after his death. Though this truth emerged later, ignorant at the time, I believed my sole remaining ally was that old man, consulting him regarding my mother’s affairs—still he refused to lodge with us. Then one day he arrived accompanied by a strikingly beautiful young woman—his woman—who stayed overnight at our house on her third visit with him. That very night, our relationship transcended mere acquaintance—yet this proved terrifying—both parents had perished by that sorcerous thief’s hand, and I too stood at death’s threshold—the next day when she insisted on returning home, I accompanied her only to find her dwelling was an eerie boat moored in a cove’s shallows—I was ushered into a cabin and effectively imprisoned—any attempt to leave would have met her sister’s blades and the old man’s venomous touch—though lame and unsightly, this sister wielded seven daggers hurling them skyward in relentless succession as if demonic hands guided their flight—during my visit, the old man summoned this sister commanding her swordplay as “entertainment”—which served as my death warrant—yet his woman shielded me—ignorant fool that I was—when the old man refused my departure—I reluctantly stayed—waking once at midnight—I heard her fiercely arguing with her sister in the adjacent room.

“Isn’t this too pitiful? I can’t bear it—please spare him for my sake!”

Following that voice came the sister’s retort, “Messing around with that man, are you? Can’t stomach it yourself? Then I’ll do it.” I was to be killed that night. My teeth chattered uncontrollably as I trembled. The voices next door soon fell silent, leaving an eerie stillness. I prayed the woman who favored me would find some way to save me—if money could secure my escape, I’d have thrown away my entire fortune without hesitation. Just as I resolved to plead my case to her, dawn approached, and she slipped quietly into the room. Without a word, she pressed into my hand a small pouch attached to a chain,

“This is the magatama jewel my father possesses. If you ever face danger, simply brandish this. With this alone, everything will bend to your will. So long as you hold it, neither my father nor sister can harm you. Go now—we shan’t meet again.” After saying that, the woman began to cry. Had I been composed enough, I might have said something to her, but since my terror hadn’t subsided, I simply hurried to open the door and rushed out to the bow. When I focused my senses, I could hear the old man’s voice—a groaning roar of anger. Dawn had already broken, whitening the eastern sky. I returned home afterward, but troubled by thoughts of the woman and uneasy about the old man, I gathered five or six sturdy men armed with rifles and went to the cove’s shore—only to find the boat had vanished, likely fled. Even so, unable to shake my concern for her, I later commissioned people to investigate, but they ultimately discovered nothing. The jewel was an ultramarine stone shaped like a tree leaf. What did I do after obtaining it? With my vast wealth, I had no need to resort to robbery. I used it on women—consorting with governors’ wives, ambassadors’ wives, mayors’ sisters, geishas, actresses. And just as this was about to become a public scandal, an opera troupe arrived—purportedly Japanese born in Manila. Undeterred by past lessons, I set my sights on their lead actress and entangled myself with her—only to have her steal the jewel from me. Harassed by society’s attacks and loath to lose the jewel, I liquidated all my assets into cash… and then spent over ten years…”

Just as the man in the worn-out suit was mid-sentence, there came a soft scuff of rubber soles. Kensaku abruptly looked up. The woman from the front corner table stood poised to leave. She revealed an oval face with both gravity and sensual charm as she adjusted her long bluish scarf's collar, moving to exit behind the suited man's back. Though her retreating figure pleased him, What a striking woman, he thought—momentarily arrested by her features.

With that, the man in the worn-out suit raised his head. When the man in the worn-out suit saw the woman’s face, his eyes widened in surprise as he stared intently—then suddenly he sprang to his feet. "Hey! Isn't that Tenka?"

Kensaku compared the face of the man in the suit with that of the woman as if waking from a dream. The woman wore a coldly composed expression. “Tenka! It’s Tenka!”

The man in the worn-out suit tried to reach for the woman’s shoulder area and turned his body around to face backward. The woman tried to stride briskly past him without so much as a glance.

“Wait!” The man in the worn-out suit’s hand reached toward her left shoulder area. "What do you think you’re doing? How rude!"

At the woman’s sharp cry, the man in the worn-out suit somehow ended up sprawled on his back across the dirt floor. With that, the glass door opened, and the woman’s figure slipped outside. “You thief!”

The man in the worn-out suit sprang to his feet and threw open the glass door the woman had been closing, dashing outside. “Wait! Wait!”

The waitress who had been attending to Kensaku and the Man in Worn-out Suit's table hurriedly chased after the man from behind. Kensaku wondered if perhaps this woman might be the actress who had stolen that man's jewel. Yet even so, the story felt too divorced from reality—verging on sheer absurdity—to connect with the woman before him now. It suddenly struck Kensaku that he might be dealing with a madman. What time was it? The thought abruptly surfaced in his mind. He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch. It showed ten minutes past four.

There were still two hours left, but if he lingered here, there was no telling what new complications might arise—he decided it would be better to head straight to the ship and have his drink there instead. Kensaku raised his head, intending to settle the bill and leave.

The three waitresses, worried about their colleague who had gone out, stood by the open glass door looking outside. "Hey, miss."

When Kensaku tapped the table lightly with his right knuckle, a woman came immediately. “I’d like to settle the bill. How much is it?” The woman assessed the plates and sake bottle with her eyes and promptly stated the amount. It came to two yen and some change. Kensaku produced three yen in coins. “Give the rest to that other miss.” Kensaku watched the woman take the money and leave, then took out a cigarette, lit it with a match, took a drag, and stood up.

“It’s terrible! It’s terrible!” The woman who had been exiting in a frightened voice appeared at the glass door.

“What’s happened? What’s happened?” “What do you mean ‘what’s happened’? It’s terrible! That customer just stabbed his own throat! I didn’t know what to do!”

Kensaku dropped his cigarette.

“He ran all the way to the front of that confectionery shop in the side street, suddenly pulled out a dagger, and stabbed his own throat. It was horrifying!” “What do you suppose happened? Could it be he went chasing after that woman?”

“That’s right, but there was no sign of the woman.”

“What on earth happened? Was he a madman?” “Well he’s a madman, I tell you! If he hated the woman so much, he should’ve killed her instead!” Hearing this exchange, Kensaku too became convinced the man had indeed been deranged—that’s why he’d been spouting such nonsense, he thought. And recalling how he himself had now become involved with that man, he realized it would spell disaster if this entanglement prevented his departure.

“That’s turned into something dreadful.” Kensaku stepped outside after muttering things he seemed not to care about in the slightest as he passed by the woman, but without glancing toward the side street, he walked off along the original roadway as though fleeing.

Ⅱ

Before he knew it, the electric lights had come on.

Kensaku found the sensation of being pursued that he had felt upon leaving the Western restaurant had dissipated; his footsteps slowed as he walked along the dim twilight roadway. Had the weather changed? The dense air brushed softly against his liquor-flushed cheeks, warm and clinging. The impression of that suspicious man in the worn-out suit who had killed himself lingered in his mind, yet it felt like something from years past—or perhaps an event from some entirely different world.

He suddenly remembered his cigarette. He paused briefly, tucked his cane under his left arm, took a cigarette from the tobacco pouch in his coat pocket and placed it between his lips, then struck a match and dropped the spent matchstick to the ground as he lit it. After taking a drag, he thought to resume walking—but first raised his face and cast a lingering look toward the right side.

There was the brightly lit second floor of a Western-style house, and from its window a long-faced woman revealed herself from the chest up. The woman grinned sharply. Kensaku fixed his gaze on her face, sensing he recognized her. This was the woman who had been in the Western restaurant earlier. Kensaku abruptly recalled the name Tenka that the suspicious man in the worn-out suit had uttered. The woman dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“My apologies for earlier—do come in for a moment. Let me serve you some tea.” Kensaku wasn’t worried about the time, but not knowing the woman’s background gave him pause—entering the home of someone he’d merely exchanged glances with once at a Western restaurant felt presumptuous, and there was something faintly sinister about this forward woman’s overly familiar manner that made him hesitate. “Please do come up. There’s no one else here you need to concern yourself with.”

Kensaku suddenly thought. This woman’s bearing and appearance were unmistakably not those of a respectable family’s daughter—she must be either a retired actress or geisha. As for her being alone here, he wondered if she was traveling through town or… His thoughts turned to a certain group of women who lay in wait for wealthy men. He thought there was still time before his ship departed.

“Now then, please.”

“Well then, I’ll trouble you for just a moment.”

Kensaku discarded his cigarette butt and turned his attention toward the entrance. The glass entrance door, faintly illuminated by the gate lamp, came immediately into view.

“Please enter through that doorway there, ascend the stairs to your right—it’s the fourth room.” Kensaku studied the woman’s face briefly before moving toward the entrance. A dust-frosted glass door stood waiting like blurred cataract eyes, its handle missing and leaving a slivered gap where it failed to meet the frame. He pushed it open with casual disregard. Beyond lay a protruding reception cubicle where a ruddy-cheeked old woman sat wedged sideways—her pince-nez-style spectacles tethered by black cords as she squinted at a faded Western book with a russet cover. To either side stretched dim wooden flooring, before which rose a steep ladder-like staircase. Kensaku meticulously scrubbed his shoes with the coir-fiber wiper anchored to the right floor’s edge before beginning his measured climb.

As he climbed the white brick stairs step by step in this manner, he thought that if he carelessly succumbed to the woman’s temptations, he risked losing even his return travel funds—so if matters seemed troublesome, he resolved to leave something equivalent to tea money and make a hasty escape. Feeling pleasant satisfaction at this sensible plan emerging from his own mind, he emerged into the second-floor corridor. Before a dim corridor resembling a cavernous passage, a single door stood open where bright lamplight from within illuminated someone standing as if pressing their back against the door. Kensaku thought that must be the woman and walked in that direction. It was indeed her.

“Welcome.”

“Excuse me.” Kensaku made a slight bow while giving an ambiguous reply. “What a dreadful place this is—do come in.” “Excuse me.”

Kensaku stepped inside. A folding screen glinting like mica stood there, so he passed by it to the left. In the center of the room stood an angular table bearing a pot blooming with rose-like flowers, surrounded by chairs and armchairs upholstered in crimson velvet. Green curtains hung by the window. Beneath that window too were placed a crimson velvet-covered daybed and various chairs, all arranged beautifully.

When Kensaku saw that, he felt compelled to remove his overcoat. He looked to the left wondering if there might be a hat rack. There stood a small three-tiered shelf. He went to its side, placed his cane and hat on the bottom shelf, then started slipping off his overcoat. A softly warm hand touched his back. “Allow me to take that.”

The overcoat was slipped off with effortless ease. Kensaku felt awkward. “Thank you.” “Now then, do have a seat.” As she said this, the woman folded the overcoat in two and placed it on the shelf. Kensaku headed toward the table while glancing at his wristwatch. The watch showed 4:40. “I must take my leave shortly, as I’m scheduled to board a ship.” “Even so, do stay and chat awhile.”

The woman was already beside him and turned the swivel chair’s seat toward him, urging him to sit. Kensaku sat down on it and turned his gaze to the faintly white flowers in the pot. "My apologies for earlier. You see, I am all alone here, and when loneliness strikes, I find myself wandering off to such places alone. But earlier—getting entangled with that strange man left me quite startled! What do you suppose that was about? He kept calling me ‘Tenka’ or some such thing, you know."

The woman was sitting in the chair to the right.

“That’s right—he’s a madman. After you left, something dreadful happened. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?” “I hadn’t the slightest notion. Since he seemed to be pursuing me, I fled through those peculiar alleyways. Did something occur...?” “He went rushing out after you—they say he stabbed his own throat right there in front of the building and died. I didn’t witness it myself, but the maid went later and brought back the tale. He truly must have been mad, don’t you think?”

“Well now—to stab his own throat. What could have driven him to that? How pitiful, don’t you think?” “Pitiful indeed. He came to my table claiming someone had stolen his magatama jewel—said that’s why he’d been wandering from port to port across the Orient searching for it. All that strange, dreamlike rambling—he simply had to be a madman.” “Is that so? Still, doesn’t it strike you as tragic? Where might he have been from?”

“Well, he does seem to be Chinese, don’t you think?”

“Is that so?” At that moment, Kensaku thought this woman wasn’t what he had imagined and felt a faint disappointment. He decided to cut it short and took out cigarettes from his inner coat pocket. “I’ll bring something shortly, so please make yourself comfortable—I’ve been so terribly lonely here all by myself, you see.” The woman raised her body that had been clinging to the table with one hand and struck a match from behind the pot. Kensaku held out his cigarette to the flame.

“Excuse me, I’ll have a cup of tea before I go—I’m scheduled to board the six o’clock ship.” “But you should find it at least somewhat enjoyable.”

At that very moment, the door creaked open and someone entered. It was a sturdy woman wearing a white apron who had brought a gourd-shaped ceramic bottle placed on a tray, accompanied by a small long-stemmed cup.

“Bring it here.”

The woman in the white apron wore her hair in a Shimada. She placed the tray at the corner of the table, bowed, and left. "I have something rather trivial here—please take it. Who knows, something may come of it in time." The woman took the bottle, poured its contents into a glass, and placed it before Kensaku. Kensaku thought that if he dawdled here any longer, he would miss his ship, so he decided he would leave immediately after having one drink. "In that case, since you've gone to the trouble, I'll have a drink."

Kensaku gave a slight bow, placed his cigarette in the ashtray before him, then brought the faintly bluish liquid to his lips. It had a taste reminiscent of weak whiskey. Whether it was the scent of that liquid or perhaps the fragrance from the potted flowers, a pleasant burdock-like aroma seemed to permeate deep into his brain. "How does it fare? Is it to your liking?" Kensaku drank it in two gulps and set down the glass.

“This is quite sweet... but... I really must be going now, as it’s getting late.” Kensaku said this and tried to rise. The soft tip of the woman’s foot brushed lightly against his right ankle. He found himself strangely reluctant to dislodge her foot. Kensaku turned his gaze instead to the potted flowers. The blossoms that had until now appeared faintly white were now dyed a vivid crimson. He looked up at the woman’s face in surprise. Her voluptuous features—the almond eyes set in that pale oval—seemed to float in vivid relief against the dimness.

“If it pleases you, do have two or three more cups in succession—it will put you in such a pleasant state.”

The woman took the bottle and poured a second serving. At the same time, he felt the tips of both her feet coil around his right ankle. Kensaku lowered his eyes as if dazzled. “With the old woman pouring your drinks, I’m afraid it’s rather pitiful.” Kensaku smirked lopsidedly and picked up the glass.

“I’ll have some as well.” By the time Kensaku looked that way, the woman had already brought the glass to her flushed crimson lips and was displaying an alluring smile. A world of resplendent brilliance had spread around Kensaku.

“What is your name?” “I don’t have a name. Let’s see... How about we settle on Tenka?” Kensaku felt the vivid touch of a warm hand upon his right hand resting at the edge of the table. He impatiently grasped that hand.

Ⅲ

Kensaku awoke from a suffocating sleep. It was a sensation as though the wings of some bird—a peacock perhaps—that had been madly frolicking through a flower garden had abruptly scattered in disarray. He took two or three deep breaths before opening his eyes. A white warm naked body lay covered by a sage-green feather quilt.

Kensaku was startled. At the same time, an uncanny poem-like impression came surging back into his head. He felt the pale light of the fully dawned morning piercing through fissures in that impression. He remembered he had missed the ship. This—

Kensaku lay face down. He deeply regretted. He remembered that he had sent a telegram saying he would return on yesterday’s ship. In that moment, he conjured before his eyes the image of his eight-year-old daughter and five-year-old son waiting for him, gossiping with their mother about his absence. He was unbearably anguished. He could not stay in bed. He suddenly tried to get up and noticed that he himself was naked. “It’s still early. Do rest a while longer.”

The woman had opened her eyes slightly. Kensaku could not stay still. “No, I can’t stay like this. Where’s my suit?” He saw a disarrayed box containing his suit and shirts placed on the stand by the pillow of the bed. He slipped smoothly out from the side of the feather quilt and got down. “What do you intend to do now?” “I’m going to the steamship company now.”

Kensaku said while putting on his shirt.

"But there's no ship today, is there?" The woman said composedly. Kensaku resented that tone. "There isn't one today, but there will be on the third day. I'll just go check." "Is that so."

The woman said with a sneer. Kensaku hastily pulled on his white shirt, fastened his trousers, and since there were shoes available, slipped them on as well. Then, as he thrust his arms into his coat and checked inside, he found both his watch and wallet neatly stored in the box. He suddenly wondered if something might be wrong with his money, but unable to check it there, he placed it in the coat's inner pocket and fastened the watch to his wrist. "Even if you rush about like that, do you really think you'll find the company?"

The woman was lying back on her pillow. "Well, if I go to the coast road, it's there. I'll just go and come back." "What about your meal?" "I'll eat somewhere." "Is that so?"

Kensaku went toward what he thought was the entrance and opened the door there. The room looked exactly as it had when he saw it the previous evening. He crossed the room and headed toward where the screen stood. On the right-hand shelf there were his overcoat, hat, and cane—all left exactly as he had placed them the previous evening. He took them and hurried outside.

The hallway was bright. When Kensaku stepped into the hallway, he reached into his inner pocket and took out his wallet. The money had nothing wrong with it. He thought he ought to leave some money for the woman, yet somehow the whole notion felt absurd. He just descended the stairs.

As he reached for the door to step outside, a low chuckle—fu, fu, fu—sounded through the air. When he turned to look, inside the checkpoint window sat the same old woman from the previous evening, her oversized glasses glinting. Feeling unsettled, Kensaku stepped outside without so much as a proper glance.

The morning sun coldly tinged the roof tiles on the opposite side. Workers were coming and going in crowds along the narrow street. Kensaku had lost track of the direction to the coast. He thought to ask someone.

“Might I inquire—how should one go about reaching the coastal area?” He noticed one carpenter among a trio shouldering toolboxes and approached to ask.

“We’re headin’ to the coast too, but where’s this coast supposed to be?” “It’s where the steamship company for the Taiwan route is located.” “Then it’s right nearby. Stick with us.” Kensaku followed behind the three men. After exiting the narrow street onto the tram line, crossing the tracks, and entering the wide street beyond, the carpenters vanished into thin air.

“Excuse me, could you tell me how to reach the coast area where the steamship company for the Taiwan route is located?”

Kensaku asked a man who had come over with a sailor’s pipe clenched in his teeth. "That way—go down this alley, then turn right at the third street."

The man with the sailor's pipe pointed to an alley that branched immediately left. Kensaku walked in that direction. He found the third street, turned right, but neither reached the coast nor found any building resembling the company.

“Is the coast still far ahead?”

Kensaku asked an old man unloading loach soup bundles. "This here's Yamanote," he said. "If you were headin' to Arima Onsen, this'd be your way—but that coast you're chasin'? Back the way you came."

The old man pointed back the way he had come. Kensaku had no choice but to trudge back the way he had come. And as he walked, he lost track of the path.

“Could you tell me how to get to the coast?” “If you go right from here, that’ll do—but it’s quite a ways yet.”

Kensaku went in that direction again. However, the coast still did not appear.

“Is there somewhere around here where I can get a meal? Anywhere would be fine.” Kensaku, driven by hunger, entered an inn—and it occurred to him that it would be wise to make his call from there. He went looking for an inn.

“There’s an inn just up ahead.”

Kensaku went in the direction he had been told, but the inn was nowhere to be found.

Kensaku, utterly exhausted, was walking along the twilit streets.

“My, what have you been doing all this time? You’ve no idea how your wife has been waiting.”

Kensaku found it strange and looked in that direction. There stood the Shimada Mage Maid, half-revealed in the doorway of the Western-style house, its entrance door left ajar. That was the woman who had brought the drink last night. Kensaku realized he had returned to the house from the previous night.

“Oh, it’s you.” Kensaku had no choice but to go up to the second floor. The room already had its lamp lit. The woman was leaning against the table inside, watching him enter with a laugh. “Did you go to the steamship company?”

Kensaku couldn’t exactly claim ignorance, so he gave an evasive reply as he approached her. “You must be exhausted. Please have a seat. You must be hungry too—I’ll bring something right away.”

The woman kept smiling all along, though there was something oddly sarcastic about it. Kensaku reached for a cigarette and felt inside his coat pocket. The cigarettes had disappeared, leaving only the empty Shikishima packet behind. He could do nothing but sit motionless. "Have you been at the company this whole time?" "No, not exactly. I was just wandering about."

Kensaku found the day's events unbearably strange. He thought perhaps his inability to find either the coast or the inn meant he was losing his grip on reality. He felt terrified. The Shimada Mage Maid brought dishes arranged on a wide-lidded tray and placed them before the table. "I've already eaten, so you should partake." Hungry as he was, Kensaku immediately picked up his chopsticks. It was a Western-style meal, even including bread. "Please drink last night's sake—it will clear your mind."

The drink poured from the ceramic bottle passed from the woman's hand. Kensaku set down his chopsticks and brought it to his lips. Then before Kensaku's eyes bloomed a vivid world.

Morning came. Kensakus body lay preserved beneath yesterdays conditions.

Kensaku resolved that today of all days, he would take a rickshaw to the company. He got up again and put on his Western clothes. "Where are you off to again?"

The woman remained lying down. “I’ll be right back.” “Oh, do stop with such trivial matters.”

Kensaku nevertheless went out. The old woman's creeping laughter—"fu, fu, fu"—echoed mockingly. As soon as he stepped outside, a rickshaw came. He decided that first, taking advantage of this development, he would go to an inn for breakfast before heading to the company.

“Take me to a decent inn along the coastal avenue.”

The rickshaw loaded Kensaku and set off running. It went from street to street without rest, but whether because there were no inns or not, it never once stopped.

“Hey, isn’t there an inn yet? If there’s no inn, then even the Taiwan route company would do.”

Even so, the rickshaw did not stop. Kensaku, having no other choice, changed rickshaws and had it run, but that rickshaw too did not stop anywhere.

The sun that had been shining down on the rickshaw all day faded away before he knew it.

“That’s enough—let me off.” Kensaku got off the rickshaw, paid the fare, and attempted to walk. “Oh my, welcome back, my dear boy.”

From the second-floor window, that woman was peering out. Kensaku stepped inside while thinking, *I must be going mad*.

The next day, because Kensaku had become terrified for his own safety, he decided to seek police protection and went looking for a police station.

“The police station is just ahead.”

No matter how far he went forward, there was no police station. He thought that if there was no police station, even a police box would do. "If you're looking for a police box, there's one just past this street." However, he could not find a police box either. Kensaku was walking along in disappointment when, before he knew it, he had come to the front of the Western-style building. In the second-floor window was that woman's face.

The following day, Kensaku went to Sannomiya Station intending to flee the town, but he couldn’t find Sannomiya Station either. When he gathered his wits, the woman’s face was peering from the second-floor window. That night, she brought Kensaku’s head to her own chest and whispered something into his ear, but for reasons unknown even to himself, he did not lift his body. “Let me show you something nice, my dear boy.”

The woman inserted her right hand into her left sleeve after saying this and pulled out something she had been clutching. “Let’s wither this impertinent flower, shall we?” Something pierced sharply through Kensaku’s dreamlike head. He managed to open his entranced eyes with effort. “Wither away, you insolent flower!” The woman thrust her right hand above the flowerpot—and before his eyes, the flower shriveled up, its petals scattering down in tatters. “My dear boy, how about that?”

After briefly looking at it, Kensaku closed his eyes.

“Oh my, you’ve dozed off, haven’t you?”

Kensaku pretended to be asleep, fully aware that the woman and the Shimada-mage woman were escorting him to the bedroom. As dawn broke after a night of wakefulness, Kensaku’s hand—having remained awake all night—reached for the woman’s left arm.

“What are you doing?”

The woman suddenly tried to sit up. At the same moment, the bag chained to her arm shifted into Kensaku’s hand. “Ah!” She screamed and leapt downstairs like a hare, fleeing beyond the bedroom. Kensaku clenched the bag between his teeth, swiftly donned his Western clothes, and stepped outside—but she had vanished. Night had already given way to dawn. His mind stood lucid. He walked one block, found an inn, and entered.

Kensaku had appeared aboard the Takao Maru, a Taiwan-bound ship that had departed that evening.