Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

"He turned on the light and smoked a cigarette; when he finished smoking, he turned off the light again and pulled the quilt over his head with a thud—utter darkness.
He was staring wide-eyed...... Needless to say, he wasn't thinking anything.
He wanted to sleep!
The heart that wished for sleep had long been paralyzed....Only the sound of the clock came rushing in with disagreeable urgency—he felt something almost pleasant.
――Before long, he hurriedly turned on the light again…….
Feeling a peculiar fatigue, his fingertips reached for tobacco again……"

In the opening of his novel Sleepy Day, he wrote thus.
It continued—"As he repeated this exact sequence several times, noticing the pale light seeping through the shutter gaps, he jolted upright with that force.
Then, he carefully slid open just a single shutter panel.—The outside air still wandered between night and dawn, lingering hazily.
He spat a bitter wad of saliva into the garden, then burrowed back into bed—eyes snapping wide open—and stared at the bright shoji panel.
There was only a dim brightness like the water's depths, and nothing could be seen through the glass.
――Before long, a light fatigue resembling this dawn’s quiet glow began welling up from nowhere, and sleep softly smothered his foolish consciousness before he knew it…… With this, he fell into sound, untroubled sleep, only awakening when afternoon had well passed.
Therefore, it was only natural that he couldn’t sleep at night."

“I read that thing you call ‘Sleepy Day’.”
Having said this, Tsurumura made no immediate effort to continue.
He immediately realized that within Tsurumura’s silence was contained a note of contempt.
“You might say it’s as unchanged as ever.”
Tsurumura was blowing tobacco smoke at the light bulb.

“The first two pages or so are dreadful. The overall tone is cloying—especially that saccharine opening. It made my teeth ache.”
“Furthermore, the first theme itself is mere playacting.”
“There’s nothing here that touches the soul, don’t you think?”
“There’s no symbolism at all.”
“No yearning—and no melancholia of ennui either.”
“However, that poetic mood of yours—what one might call your ‘Pale Heart’s Shudder’—came through relatively well in a light tone.”
When Tsurumura paused here, he—a man of cheap emotions—had already shifted to a somewhat frivolous mood and crossed his arms with apparent gratitude.

“…(Not only does it fail to project images, but the dim magic lantern-like brightness thickens until clusters of small garden trees emerge like seaweed on the ocean floor.) This section here is rather clever.”
“You’re quite adept at scenic description.”
Though Tsurumura had meant this as contemptuous praise, Jun failed to notice and responded with an artificially bashful “Hm,”

“But—” Tsurumura grew impatient with his denseness, “it’s like eating tonkatsu with a silver knife.”
“Ha ha ha!”

Tsurumura likely believed he had delivered a critique on par with Bernard Shaw's, but to him—dull-headed as he was—the meaning remained unclear; he thought Tsurumura was spouting nonsense.

"Dostoevsky said he felt a certain pleasure in the weight of chains shackled to his legs when led to execution... That's it—you must go that far! In other words, we..."

Tsurumura suddenly raised his voice and began expounding this, but even he eventually came to feel these words were mere baseless excitement, growing bored.

II

By the time he had written his novel Sleepy Day, spring had already passed and summer had arrived, yet his "illness"—the complete reversal of night and day as described in Sleepy Day—still hadn't been cured.

This morning too, in the same way, he gazed at where the light streaming through a single opened door panel had hazily tinted part of the shoji pale blue. ……Though just a single branch—had it fully bloomed around the previous day? Until now he had not noticed—the cherry blossoms were vivid, their whiteness strikingly displayed. It’s like snow, he thought. He was acutely aware of his ravenous hunger—though he usually ended up falling asleep around this time—but as he gazed at the cherry blossoms while thinking he ought to hold out until breakfast, remarkably, this morning he managed to endure and take his seat at the breakfast table.” —And so the novel *Sleepy Day* depicted him spending an uncanny day overwhelmed by drowsiness. That was the novel *Sleepy Day*.

Shortly after writing *Sleepy Day* in Tokyo, he came to live in a house in the seaside town of O.

One early morning, he was squatting on the engawa gazing at the carp in the garden pond.
Having stayed awake through his inability to sleep, his head felt utterly hollow.—Remembering how he had created that juvenile story called *Sleepy Day* using occasional mornings like this as inspiration, he grimaced bitterly from sheer embarrassment.
Then, considering how his creative emotions always lapsed into sentimentality of the worst sort, he thought: I really shouldn't be writing at all.
...As he dwelled on these matters, a drowsiness like someone ascending stairs came clattering up, and he nearly rolled right off the engawa.

“Even if they say you have neurasthenia or whatever, if you’d just get up properly like everyone else in the morning and do a bit of exercise around here first thing, it’d clear right up.”
“Sleeping so soundly during the day without an ounce of restraint—if you could sleep at night like that too, you’d actually be considered sick.”

At the rare morning breakfast table he joined, his Mother said.
He too thought so.
He had made that odd remark about having neurasthenia from feeling unwell without doing anything—something he'd never say to others—but in truth, he wasn't that sensitive a person.
Yet when faced with his Mother,

"That may well be so, but it's certain I'm not healthy."
"Even if I stayed up one or two nights, I could manage to endure through the next day just fine before, but these days I simply can't do it anymore."
"No matter how hard I try to push myself, my head just drops first, so there's no helping it."
"The fact that I can't endure—that alone is already certainly..."
As he tried to declare he was ill, the realization that he was rambling so unrestrainedly made even himself find it absurd.
But he—more than anything else—found the meal irresistibly delicious, and with wild, huffing breaths stuffed his mouth with hot rice and slurped miso soup, his attention completely absorbed in these acts.

“So today, try forcing yourself to endure through the day.”
“If you just endure one day like that, it’ll surely clear up properly—”

This was something he too had been striving to do for quite some time.
And so,

"I should try to endure," he replied, but as he gradually became full, even while still busily moving his bowl and chopsticks around, his eyelids had already grown terribly heavy right then.

III

“Why don’t you go over to Mr. Saito’s?”
“Shigeyo has returned home, you see, and they’ve been coming to fetch you several times since the other day, but since it’s always in the morning, you’re still asleep and—”

“I’ll pass on that.”
He answered hurriedly, then turned toward the cousins who had come visiting from the other day and his younger brother while declaring, “Ah, I really can’t stand this anymore!” With exaggerated flair, he squeezed his eyes shut and cried, “Ta-da!”
Of course, it had been a joke, but doing so felt oddly pleasant, and he nearly fell asleep right there.
He nodded his head a few times, making the children laugh—though it couldn’t be called entirely pointless.

“You should go.”
“If you keep dawdling there like that, you’ll fall asleep.”

“Well…”
“But…”
Going to the Saito house held no appeal—if he had to shake off this drowsiness, there ought to be something more interesting and stimulating… His sleep-addled mind, like a nearly unwound clock spring, drifted aimlessly through vague thoughts.

“So quit dawdling—enduring just one day shouldn’t be beyond you.”

However much she claimed it was for her child’s sake, that was still too self-serving—even Shigeyo must’ve had some gall… Turning these thoughts over, he gave a bitter smile.

“Come on now—since you’ve managed to wake up…”
Such voices still resounded, but by now he could no longer discern whose they were.
He resented being pulled back from his drowsy state,

“I keep telling you I’m up, but I haven’t slept a wink since last night… It’s unbearable,” he said as if belatedly justifying himself, his lips moving with incoherent grumbles that defied comprehension.
Before long, the children too finished their meal and got up to leave.

“I’ll try going out once I feel a bit better.” He said this as he stood up, though he knew full well he could never summon such courage.

When he heard his mother’s voice behind him—“If you keep talking like that, it’ll never work”—he felt a flicker of antagonism rise within him, and couldn’t help finding his own reaction absurd.

On the sunlit engawa, only his futon lay spread out with exaggerated formality. When he saw this, he let out a sneering laugh born of slight disappointment, resentment, and scorn—he lay down on the futon and gazed up at the cloudless sky. The sky shone with pure aquamarine clarity. Was there perhaps some imperfection in a particular spot? He felt such a thought—indeed it was one (or rather, it would be more accurate to call it mindless)—and stared foolishly upward. But the sky remained perfectly clear.

“The sleepiness has gotten better.”
“I want to go to the sea soon!” Mitsuko, the eldest of the cousins,
said while coming to his side and asking.
He was so sleepy that even speaking felt burdensome.

“Not at all…”

Beside them, Ayako, Mitsuko’s younger sister, and his younger brother were looking at something that appeared to be a picture book.

“Ayako, this picture’s nice, isn’t it?” his younger brother said.

“It’s nice. Looks just like a moving picture.”

The younger brother, holding up the book, pretended to be a band.

“Let me see—what’s it like?” he said, turning to look. “What? That’s all? How dull.”

He felt a comparatively genuine disappointment.
It appeared to be a photo album of the European War.

“What do you mean?!”
The younger brother, feigning anger, clambered onto his back.
He—

“Okay then, shall we wrestle?” he said.

IV

The younger brother, emboldened by Ayako and the others watching him, got thoroughly fired up. “Yeah, bring it on! No way I’m losing!” he declared—and no sooner had he spoken than he lunged for Jun’s chest.
“This room’s too cluttered and dangerous—let’s move over there,” he said as he carried his younger brother to the tatami room, with Ayako and Mitsuko following along.

“Grr!”
With a shout, the younger brother lunged at him.

“Damn it!”
He too let out an exaggerated shout and deliberately stomped his feet with rough vigor.
Grappling his younger brother as he lunged in, he hugged him tight and spun him around, tipping him over only to pull him back up while declaring things like, “This guy’s surprisingly strong! If I’m not careful, I might lose.”

“If I keep up this commotion all day like this, maybe I can overcome this drowsiness—” he thought to himself as he deliberately let his younger brother’s leg lock catch him, shouted “Hyah!”, and was thrown. Using a judo breakfall, he produced a resounding thud against the tatami. But having put too much force into it, he slammed his back against the mat with such violence that he involuntarily groaned “Ugh!” In that instant, his expression must have been so intensely genuine it looked absurdly comical—his younger brother flushed slightly in embarrassment. Mitsuko and the others burst into laughter. He scrambled to his feet feeling unwell, his body swaying as though his neck had flown off somewhere. The younger brother watched him rise before finally breaking into a smirk and declaring “How’s that? Pretty strong, huh?” Then striking a triumphant pose, he swaggered across the room and settled into the alcove to wipe his sweat.

“Now it’s your turn, Ayako.”
Though he was already sick of wrestling, he blurted this out with false bravado to dispel the slightly awkward atmosphere.

“No way!”
Ayako hid inside Mitsuko’s sleeve.

“I’m going to teach you judo, you know.”
“Even girls need to know judo, you know.”

Forcing the reluctant Ayako to stand in the center of the tatami room, he let out a booming “Yah!” and gripped both her shoulders.
While spouting off some nonsense about “extending your arms this way and moving your legs that way,” he carefully threw her two or three times this time.

“Three-person judo!”
No sooner had his younger brother said this than he and Ayako lunged at him.
“Bring it on!”
“Wait a second,” he said, stripping to the waist.
Then, lying spread-eagled on his back, he declared, “If you pin me down so I can’t get up, you win.”
He had come up with this method because he was tired—they engaged in a great struggle, switching between being on top and bottom.
He alternated between biting their faces, choking their throats, twisting their noses… Whereupon they too became frantic, yanking his hair, pulling his ears, kicking his exposed buttocks where his tucked-up hem had ridden high—finally, his fist struck his younger brother’s nose, and the boy burst into tears.
He kicked through the sliding door, creating a hole.

“If you’re going to entertain the children, you should properly keep them quiet with something educational or read them an interesting book—how utterly foolish this is.”
While cooling the younger brother’s nose with ice wrapped in a hand towel, the mother kept scolding him.
He adjusted the front of his kimono as

“Well then, I’ll take a look for you,” he said, whereupon his younger brother cried resentfully: “No way! No way! I’m never playing with you again!”

"That’s right," said the mother.

"If I don’t get at least this much exercise, there’s absolutely no way this drowsiness will lift."

"Don’t be absurd," said Mother—yet sensing how strenuously he was forcing himself to say such things—she involuntarily let slip a forlorn smile.

V

With no one left to engage him, he rolled back onto the futon laid out on the veranda.
The younger brother had apparently gone to the vacant lot out back and started playing baseball with his friends; their shouts of excitement could be heard.
He thought about asking to join them, but since they would never agree, he gave up.
Since Mitsuko and Ayako were quietly playing the organ, he had no desire to go over there.

“If you keep doing that, you'll just get sleepy again.”
Startled by his mother’s voice saying that,

“I’m fine!” he cried out in a frantic voice as he sat up, though still visibly drowsy. Just then, the Saito family maid came again to fetch him. “I’ll go right away,” he answered reflexively before freezing in alarm. When he glanced at his mother, she had turned aside and was laughing.

Even if he went to Saito's, he couldn't imagine managing a proper conversation. The words slipping from his mouth felt like the hollow squeak of a doll's compressed abdomen—no trace of genuine consciousness could possibly accompany them. If someone like him came barging in, even Shigeyo would surely find it burdensome—this defeatist thought sank through him. What's more, he'd always been helpless against Shigeyo's penchant for literary discussions. Most books she favored were ones he hadn't read yet, leaving him—already inept at conversation—even more flustered.—(The hours until noon would be grueling, but perhaps being away from home might unexpectedly make enduring easier.) With no other choice, he set out clinging to this faint hope. Still, he thought, how pathetic to face Shigeyo armed with nothing but mental fortitude.

Shigeyo lay alone in the second-floor study, gazing up at the ceiling as she slept.
He felt slightly sorry for having harbored too selfish a thought.

“My, you’re quite something. Why didn’t you come?” Before he had even sat down, Shigeyo prostrated herself on her stomach, looked up at him, and interrogated. He thought about clarifying the reason, but it seemed too foolish to even discuss; and even if he were asked, he felt it would be pitiful to burden the other person with something so trivial, so he stopped himself.

“It’s not really neurasthenia or anything like that, is it? What exactly is wrong with you?”

“No, that’s a lie. Who told you that?”

"But that's why you've come back, isn't it?"

"That doesn't matter... Quit nagging."

He averted his gaze.

"I don't really understand."
"Did you mess something up over there again?"

"What's this 'illness' of yours, Shige?"

"Mine isn't something you'd call an illness either."

Shigeyo stopped mid-sentence, cheeks flushing as she laughed suggestively, but when he kept feigning ignorance, she blurted "Once every month" and hastily hid her face—he felt something cold slither through his chest.
And then he suddenly felt a vivid alertness.
The Saito family and his own had been on friendly terms since long ago, and consequently, Shigeyo and he had been friends since childhood.
He felt, for the first time, an emotion toward Shigeyo that he had never once considered until now.

“Do you have a headache or something?”
“A fever?”
He deliberately feigned ignorance and asked such things.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then you should just get up. If you keep lying around, you’ll just get dizzy and start feeling like an invalid. Let’s play ping-pong or something.”

“Oh, come on—you’re terrible at it.”

VI

Shigeyo prattled on about her English vocational school, the loneliness of dormitory life, reproaching him for never visiting despite them both living in Tokyo—let alone scarcely sending letter replies—and literary discussions; topics all utterly devoid of interest to him. So the alertness that had finally awakened in his mind grew hazy and nebulous once more.
And then, making nothing but nonsensical replies, he aroused Shigeyo’s suspicion.
No matter what Shigeyo talked about, every topic felt like something he needed to change as soon as possible.
"In any case, staying like this, I’ll never be able to drive off this sleepiness."
He kept thinking about such things and felt desolate.

The two of them fell silent for a moment. Even so, he—unable to bear the stillness—pressed a hand to his forehead to hide his embarrassment.

"I think I have a slight fever," he said.
He had intended to give a reason for having been so restless since earlier.

"Let me see?" said Shigeyo, pressing her hand to his forehead as well.
"It's a bit hot."
"That's strange."

"I've also been feeling something was off since earlier."
He felt truly uneasy, yet also somewhat pleased.
"Now that you mention it, my head actually hurts a bit too."

“This isn’t a joke. Just try taking your temperature properly.”

Shigeyo hurriedly took out a thermometer from the desk drawer, shook it vigorously once, and handed it to him.

When he took his temperature, his fever didn’t even reach thirty-seven degrees.
He felt awkward, so

“This is broken,” he said.

“How could that be? Then try putting it in hot water and see.”

“How utterly ridiculous—putting on airs to take my temperature with a broken thermometer,” he said with affected composure as he dipped it into the teacup. The mercury immediately began rising.

“There, see? You don’t have any fever at all.”

“But my forehead really is hot.”
There was no use saying such things anymore. He muttered this complaint-like remark, then grew thoroughly embarrassed—though playing it off as a joke felt too tiresome—and simply flopped down sideways.—(Ah, how absurd! Why must I endure this when I'm so unbearably sleepy? If only I could slip away home right now and burrow into my futon for a deep sleep... Ah, what bliss that would be! Quickly find some excuse to dash home, burrow into the futon just like this and sleep soundly... Ah, what bliss that must be!) As these thoughts seeped through him, even his sigh carried a hint of relief.

“Today, Mother said she’d prepare something special.”
“So do stay and play awhile, won’t you? And Mother—well, she said it could wait until later—but this morning, the monkey escaped from its cage. We all chased it earlier, but couldn’t catch it at all. We’ll try again from noon, and she says she wants your help.”
“About that monkey—it’s grown quite big lately, you see? Honestly, it’s ridiculous. Like yesterday, when…”

“Hmm?”
“I… what?”
“From this afternoon…”

Half in a dreamlike state and not even understanding what he himself meant to say, he interrupted Shigeyo’s words.

“What are you going on about? Acting like there’s urgent business when there’s none.”
“Ah, and then—there’s something I want you to teach me.”
“I’ve got this translation homework, see—parts I just can’t figure out.”
“When I asked Father, even he didn’t get it, so he told me to ask you.”
“Well, that… Just wait a moment.”
Shigeyo stood up unsteadily and retightened her obi sash.

“Oh dear, the cigarette ember—on your sleeve….”
“You’re completely spaced out.”

VII

Enduring agony as if dying, he finally fudged the translation with a slipshod interpretation.
Shigeyo leaned against the railing and stood beside him where he sat slumped in the wicker chair.
In the broad garden turned lawn, midsummer light appeared to his eyes as golden vortices swirling and dancing.

“The weather’s nice—feels wonderful.”
Of course, that was far from the truth; yet putting on an air of perfect composure with chest puffed out, as he slowly exhaled the deep breath he'd drawn, even the contents of his mind seemed about to dissolve like a dream along with his sigh.
That was pleasant.
“Isn’t there anything interesting?”
He inadvertently blurted out such a thing.

“Well then,”
“There are books in the next room—why don’t you bring something interesting-looking and read it to me?”
Shigeyo settled into the chair and remarked, “It’s rather cool here, isn’t it?
“I’ll just close my eyes like this and listen, alright?” she said.
He felt a nervous shudder ripple through him.
Then—exactly like jolting awake from a dream at the terrifying thud of one’s own heartbeat—the next instant, he felt himself momentarily return to his senses.

“Come now, let’s do this already. Quickly.”

When he imagined reversing positions with Shigeyo, he unwittingly found himself entranced.
(How nice—listening to an interesting story while drifting half-asleep down dream paths... How enviable.) He earnestly repeated such foolish words to himself like a song in his mind.
“Shige-chan, if you keep doing that, you’ll get sleepy, won’t you?”

“Hmm, I do feel like I might get sleepy.”

He conceived a plan.
(Select the most boring-looking book possible and read it with feigned tedium—then she might doze off, and in that opening I could steal some sleep myself; napping in the summer afternoon, exhausted from reading—yes, this would seem perfectly natural.) In his anguish, he clung to this clumsy escape route, and even such a half-baked scheme struck his dulled mind as something resembling a brilliant idea.
But that expectation yielded only miserable failure.
The reading material he had chosen instead peculiarly stimulated Shigeyo’s interest—and though he kept thinking "Surely by the next chapter..." as he read on, after nearly an hour of plowing through it all, there had been no effect whatsoever.

He let out an “Ah!” and tumbled from his chair, hurling his upper body over the threshold onto the tatami mats.

“You’re still so good at reading aloud.”
When Shigeyo said this to him, he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of pride despite his current state.

"What time must it be already?"

“On that desk lies my watch.”
Even when told this, he found reaching that far too bothersome.
He gathered all bodily strength into his eyelids and stared fixedly at the ceiling.

“My, what a Musyouya-san you are.”
Shigeyo rose and approached,

“Eleven o’clock. Still early.”

“Still!”
He inadvertently let out a sigh.
He could no longer remain still, so he shouted “Yah!” and stood up.
While simultaneously devising an excuse to leave and looking up at the old plaque hanging in the transom—he suddenly said such a thing.

“Apparently, my family’s ancestors were retainers of this household.”

“Is that so?”
Shigeyo answered listlessly, but he remained rather intrigued by such matters.
And still muttering as if to himself,

“Tradition is such a terrible thing. Even now, whenever I pass through that massive crown gate exactly as it stood in the old days, I feel this inexplicable sense of inferiority in my heart—somehow like this…” he began, but unable to conjure an apt adjective and already preoccupied with devising an excuse to leave, he found himself at an even greater impasse.

“What’re you even saying? How dull.”

“No, but really, that’s…”
He stammered in panic—“Haha…I got annoyingly serious there”—and no sooner had he spoken than the area from his cheeks to the tip of his nose flushed faintly red. Then, with an abrupt laugh, he suddenly burst into a cheerful whistle and began circling the room.

VIII

A call came from his house saying that Tsurumura had come to visit. Shigeyo said it would be just perfect if he came over here, so when he relayed that exactly, Tsurumura replied he would come right away by rickshaw. Tsurumura had met Shigeyo at his house when visiting the previous Sunday.

Damn it—can I really never sleep again?! As this thought struck him, he felt himself on the verge of fainting. He felt so forlorn that tears threatened to spill—he regretted letting Tsurumura read Sleepy Day. Why? Because he now found himself exactly in the same predicament depicted in his novel Sleepy Day—and were he to confess being utterly exhausted from drowsiness today of all days, Tsurumura would naturally find it all the more laughable. Moreover, that Tsurumura fellow particularly enjoyed making odd sarcastic remarks; having written such things in his novel out of childish vanity, Jun would no doubt be sneered at for trying to lend practical value to the work through such tiresome means. Even if it weren't Tsurumura, anyone who'd read that novel would surely be unable to suppress a bitter smile... He had nearly confessed his sleepiness to Shigeyo earlier but was glad he hadn't—so he thought.

And so he sank into depression, feeling that everything he did—every action taken, every thought pondered—was utterly ridiculous and laughable. Even so, today's events were so permeated with cheap comedy that he found himself feeling an inexplicable sense of terror.

Shigeyo cleaned her room with the maid upon hearing Tsurumura was coming.
He was asked to cut turtle plant from the back garden to arrange in the vase atop the bookshelf.

The three of them—Tsurumura, Shigeyo, and he—shared a midday meal around one table.
Tsurumura, who harbored particular enthusiasm for “associating with ladies,” naturally abstained from alcohol and made various topics bloom—chiefly theater talk.

“You see, I’ve managed to secure about fifteen tickets for the ××-za performance this coming Thursday. Won’t you come? I’d like to invite you.”

“Oh, is that so? It’s from the Bunmei Association, isn’t it? How interesting. Well then, I shall ask Mother about it.”

“Please do come together with your mother.
“—And what about you?”
Tsurumura turned toward him—sitting cross-legged in his slovenly posture—and inquired.

“Me?
“Hmm, let me see...
“It has been ages since I last attended a play, but...”

“If you’re coming, could you decide by the time I leave today? There’s seat allocation to consider!”
Tsurumura was already facing Shigeyo.
He appeared to mutter “So then…” while deep in thought.
“They say this show’s selling unusually well—likely because the program’s good,” she said, though Tsurumura didn’t catch it.

“Since it’s so hot here, why don’t you take off your haori?”

“No, isn’t it cool? Compared to Tokyo, it’s quite…”
Tsurumura slightly adjusted the collar of his light blue-collared undergarment with his fingertips.
When he glanced at Tsurumura’s haori, he noticed it bore an unobtrusive embroidered crest.

“Don’t lie… It’s not cool at all.”
“Near the sea, it’s actually hotter at midday—the thermometer shows barely any difference from Tokyo.”
“I’m so damn hot I can’t stand it.”
He spread his chest and stroked it with his sleeve, both to put Tsurumura at ease and to console himself for his unbearable drowsiness.
Tsurumura abruptly stood up, fidgeting awkwardly as if about to ask something shameful, then spoke in a thin voice ill-suited to his face,

“Um, excuse me! Where’s the restroom?” he said. Now that he mentioned it, their conversation had somehow been losing its momentum since earlier.

IX

“Did you have a chance to read ‘Olive’ that I sent you the other day?”

“Oh my~! I completely forgot to thank you.”
“Your essay was included there too, Mr. Tsurumura.”

“Oh, not at all….”
“That magazine operates on a membership system for its waka and poetry sections—what do you think? Though even without joining, if you have any works you’d care to send my way, I could arrange something.”
“Even if it’s not ‘Olive,’ whether ‘Black Eyes’ or ‘Poetry Literature,’ most of them are friends of mine—I can make it work.”

“Oh my, you know so many people.”
“I’m hopeless at it, but I’ve written ever so many pieces! Yet they’re all worthless!”

“I simply must read them. Truly.”
“Truly.”

Tsurumura and Shigeyo were talking about such matters.
He went out to the engawa and leaned against a chair.

“Are you referring to Mr. S—?”
“Yes, we’ve been keeping regular company. Why, just the day before yesterday, we went to the Imperial Theater together.”
“On our way back, he and I got into such a heated debate that we ended up staying awake all night—yesterday I was unbearably drowsy and utterly spent. After all, our way of living is completely undisciplined.”
“Ha ha ha.”

“Oh, he’s just an interesting sort, isn’t he?”
“Does that gentleman even drink alcohol?”
S was the famous poet whom Shigeyo revered.
Shigeyo referred to him as “that gentleman” though she didn’t know him at all.
He had become acquainted with Tsurumura long before through occasional meetings at a friend K’s house, but they hardly interacted ordinarily; consequently, Tsurumura’s social circle and his own seemed entirely distinct worlds.
Moreover, Tsurumura had graduated from the school where he was enrolled a full two years prior.
This was a sentiment unique to him alone, but since Shigeyo—to his mind—still didn’t feel like a fully realized person no matter how he considered it, he found it somehow comical that Tsurumura addressed her with such exaggerated courtesy.

“I heard your group is planning to put out some sort of coterie magazine—is that true?”

“There might be such talk, but I don’t know the details.”
He knew slightly more than those words suggested, but found it too bothersome to explain.

“Mr. Tsurumura, where was your hometown again?”

“Me? It’s far,” said Tsurumura as he struck a match to light his tobacco.

“A place facing the Sea of Japan.”

“Ishikawa Prefecture?
“Or Echigo?”

“No.”

“Then where?”

“Go on, guess.”

“I don’t know.”

“Tottori Prefecture,” she began to say when Tsurumura interjected, “Excuse me for a moment,” and went back down to the restroom.

“Is it true Jun-chan’s group is doing a magazine? What’re you making?”

“Just something friends were talking about. I don’t know squat.”

While they were talking about such things, Tsurumura quietly entered, so he hurriedly tried to cut off the conversation when—

“Okamura is a novelist, you know. Ms. Shigeyo, you still weren’t aware of that? Well, that’s a surprise! I’ve read everything Okamura has written—why, there’s a truly splendid masterpiece among them!”

“Hey, stop it, stop it.” Under normal circumstances, even if told such things, he wouldn’t have been surprised at all—but when he thought he’d have to make some pointless reply to match it, he found himself utterly devoid of the energy required, so he cut in. ...The only work Tsurumura had seen was Sleepy Day—and hadn’t he taken that without permission after I showed it to K?...

X

Though he had tried to stop him, Tsurumura kept smirking as he said, “I’m shocked you didn’t know, Ms. Shigeyo! Do you mean you’re unaware of that masterpiece called Sleepy Day?”

“My, there’s such a thing?”
“Sleepy Day, you say? What did you write about?”
Shigeyo turned toward him on the engawa and said, “Won’t you let me read it too?”

“What nonsense are you spouting, idiot?” he said, but when both stared at him with puzzled expressions, his discomfort only worsened. “I tore that up long ago—that sort of thing.”

Seemingly having perceived his momentary yet unmistakable expression, both Tsurumura and Shigeyo refrained from mentioning him any further.

“Mr. Tsurumura, don’t you return to your hometown even in summer?”

“As for me—I’ve grown so thoroughly accustomed to Tokyo that even my spiritual life can’t be properly maintained unless it’s in the city.”

“That must be the case.”
Shigeyo chimed in with a vague agreement: “I feel the same! I detest the countryside! There’s no theater to watch, no music to listen to…”

“In every sense, stimulation must be what we need most—those elements lurking within one’s own soul, things even oneself hasn’t yet noticed. Such vital matters might suddenly awaken of their own accord through mere chance opportunities: while watching a play, say, or being made to listen to splendid music.”
“To put it in a word—it’s inspiration.”
“In such cases, we become consciously aware of the soul’s growth.”
“With modern people’s acute senses, we must cultivate ourselves to some extent through external stimuli.”
“Otherwise, one’s hard-won talent will wither away eternally.”

Tsurumura rattled off all that in one breath.
To his ears, it came through in fractured bursts.
Only Tsurumura’s nasal high-pitched voice and Shigeyo’s frantic clucking tones—modulated in her throat like a hen’s—intertwined into a muffled dissonance that throbbed through him.
He could no longer hold out by just clenching his eyelids—channeling all remaining strength into his torso, he recklessly hurled down his hollow head.

In the garden, a clamor arose, so he turned toward it.

“Hey, Tatsu-an!”
“No backbone at all!”
“You’re all talk and nothin’ else—ain’t ya good for nothin’?”

“Dammit! We let it get away again!”

“Hit ’em with stones from Seki’s side!”

Two craftsmen were dashing about between the garden trees.
Shigeyo’s Father stood there too, hem tucked up and bamboo broom in hand.
They were trying to catch a monkey.

“Ah… So you’ve read it?”
“That’s rather good—though if I may say, its religious conception feels inadequate.”
“If only one could break through that with one final push…”

"But I do like it."
"They say those are all genuine experiences."
"Even my school friends thought it remarkable."

"That must be so, such things being..."

He could no longer remain still.
His whole body seemed to float upward.
Having passed beyond any perceptible drowsiness, he felt an inexplicable heat coursing through every part of his being.

“I!”
“I’ll go help with that.”
He stood up, signaling toward the garden with a glance at Shigeyo.

“That’s enough already.”
“It’s rude when Mr. Tsurumura has come all this way.”

Tsurumura too—what a weirdo this guy was!
He looked at him with a gaze that seemed to say just that.
He thudded back down into the rattan chair.—(It’s no use!) That’s how it felt.

Eleven

“……But ultimately, it’s Western works that matter most. Doesn’t the current impoverishment of Japan’s literary world defy description?”

“Don’t you write novels yourself, Mr. Tsurumura?”

“Of course I write—but presently I’ve no inclination to do so. After I’ve thoroughly examined my own life for a time longer, I want something that truly feels written… something that resonates within my chest like a heavy thud.”

“‘Wait endlessly for experience.’…… ‘As for me—music and poetry…’”
“Naturally art knows no boundaries—eternal…”
Only the shrillest fragments of Tsurumura and Shigeyo’s conversation made his eardrums quiver.

“After all, you’ve got to use bait.”

“Damn it! I’ve gone and panicked completely!”

“Shoo! Shoo!”
“I’ll shake you off!”
From the garden came such voices.

And so the two voices would occasionally fall silent for twenty or thirty seconds at a time.
In the depths of his ears remained a faint ringing sound.
The scorching heat poured down from a cloudless blazing sky became a heat haze as thick as steam, swaying and blazing from the lawn, between the garden trees, and across the corrugated iron roof beyond.
The cicadas' cries were clamorous, but instead they deepened the profound stillness of a summer noon.

“Since I have the book, I’ll send it to you.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“Anyway, I don’t need it anymore—it’s somewhat interesting, though quite sentimental.”

The cicadas’ cries lured him toward sleep, but upon noticing Tsurumura and Shigeyo, his consciousness awoke inch by inch as if being dragged back from a staircase he had begun to climb.

“Why don’t we go to the sea?”
He stood up with a thud of his foot.
When it came time for their usual trip to the beach, he thought his younger brother and cousins were probably waiting.
Rather than that, he thought if he went to the sea and plunged headfirst into the water, his sleepiness would probably clear away.
When he imagined that delight, his heart began pounding unbearably.

“Shall we go?”
“I’ve no objection to going today myself.”

“Come on, come on—it’s unbearably hot! I can’t stay cooped up in this house in the middle of the day!”

“To the sea!” Tsurumura said.

“You’re supposed to be good at swimming—you said so yourself last time we met.”

“That’s quite skillful, but I’m afraid I can’t today.”

“Why?” Shigeyo said.

“You know, I’ve got intestinal trouble.”

“It’s fine—actually better this way!”

“No—the doctor told me not to as well.”

“If you can’t even get in the water, there’s no point in going.”

“That’s right—remaining here conversing is preferable. I am not bored in the slightest.”

"It would be disastrous if this got called off," he thought.

“Come on, let’s go! Shige-chan, hurry up and get ready.”

“But I didn’t bring a swimsuit, you see.”

He, who thought it seemed quite promising,

“Who needs that? I’m always just in a loincloth anyway.”
“But if you need a swimsuit, I’ll go buy one for you.”

“No way! I have particular tastes when it comes to swimsuits—I can’t stand makeshift ones. And you’re impossible—you’ve got this oddly childish taste, flaunting your cheerfulness and carelessness like that. I can’t align myself with you in such matters.”
“Moreover, your true character as a person isn’t like that, is it? This is something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but… well, that is…”

Twelve

To become indignant required using rather lengthy words and necessitated correspondingly deep contemplation—he found himself thinking such trivial thoughts.
The startled emotion smoldered soon after being deemed strangely perplexing.
“Don’t I even have the vigor left to get angry?!”
When he thought such things, he nearly burst out laughing.

“Honestly,” Shigeyo said.

“Jun-chan，you must have friends who’ll advise you—that’s just undisciplined otherwise.”

“Oh dear, this has turned into quite an unexpected mess!”
As he said this, he gave his forehead a light tap.
Then once again, Tsurumura gazed at this frivolous gesture of his with a look of displeasure.
And then began droning on about something again.

He came to the veranda chair and leaned against it just as he had done a moment before.
The thought of the sea alone kept obsessively surfacing in his mind.

“Well then, shall we play the gramophone? I’ve collected quite a few records lately, you know.”

“What do you say, Okamura? Even if you go to the sea and end up drinking saltwater through your nostrils, it won’t do any good, will it?”

“I’m going no matter what. If you hate the idea, then just wait here.”

“What are you talking about? If you’re going to go, even Mr. Tsurumura would come along, wouldn’t he?”

“Well… but whether we go or not, it’s not like it makes any real difference either way.”
Tsurumura said to him.

“Let’s go, so— I’m already tired of staying home.”

“So which will it be?!”
Shigeyo grew impatient.
“I can just go if need be.”

“Anyway, could you show me the records first?”

“I hate records.”
Merely fighting off sleepiness while enduring the agony of being ostracized was somewhat better than listening to the gramophone, but when he considered the invigorating seawater, even that didn’t measure up.

As Tsurumura kept insisting, Shigeyo went downstairs.
Then Tsurumura suddenly stood up and, grinning slyly, came over to his side.
And then, lowering his voice even further,

“Hey, quit going on about heading to the sea already—I’m begging you.”

“Why?”

“Truth is… I don’t even have a proper swimsuit—well, though I do have a bit of an upset stomach too, but that’s not really the issue—the thing is… I’m not wearing any underpants.”

“So if I buy some for you—”

“Do you really think that’s possible? You fool! But hey, you—summer’s all about this,” Tsurumura said while pulling out one end of his white loincloth, which had shriveled like crepe.

“Now listen—seriously, drop this sea talk already.” Tsurumura pressed further.

――The sound of Shigeyo climbing the ladder steps could be heard.
Tsurumura,
“Shh!” he said, brushing off his front.
“I still have some others, but I only brought the new ones.”
“Well, well!
It’s all Victor, isn’t it?
Now this looks interesting! Why don’t we put on a little concert?” With that, Tsurumura, without saying anything else this time, tactfully made his way downstairs.
He somehow felt sorry for Tsurumura.

Thirteen

“Hmm, truly splendid—it’s so refreshing to the chest.”
“Mendelssohn—whenever I listen to him, it leaves me suffocated without fail.”

“I love it too.”

Tsurumura and Shigeyo chattered away, saying whatever they pleased to each other, getting carried away as if they were performing a play or something.

He was blankly watching from the veranda as Tsurumura—back hunched—selected records and nimbly changed needles with practiced hands. That Tsurumura wasn't wearing any underpants! This absurd notion kept gnawing at him relentlessly.—He had actually managed to sleep while the gramophone played. When a record finished, he jolted awake to Tsurumura and Shigeyo's voices. Given how things stood, perhaps staying put had been more fortunate than going to the sea after all—so it struck him.

Something else began again.
He waited in readiness and closed his eyes.
—He could fall asleep right away.
At that moment, these words suddenly surfaced in his mind.
(It must have been a line from the beginning of An Opium-Eater—that book he'd only just started reading around this time—) he thought.

“A man who is inebriated, or Tending to inebriation, is, And Feels That he is, in a condition whichcalls upinto Supremacy. The Merely Human, too often The Brutal, Part of His Nature; ……

“Indeed!
“But you—you insist on making grand gestures about trivial matters.”
“Still impossible to resent.”
“Ha ha ha,” Tsurumura said.

"He failed! Just as he tried to shout 'It's a joke!'—his heart pounded and he jolted awake. It had been a dream.

Tsurumura sat with eyes closed, a gold-tipped cigarette between his lips, utterly engrossed in the gramophone’s sound.

'Jun-chan, come help me over here for a bit.'

'No, let’s keep listening like this awhile longer.'
'It’s rather interesting.'

'I want everyone to hear just this much.'
'Well now, Okamura!'
'Isn’t this far more amusing than sea-going?' Tsurumura said."

“Hmph.” He gave a quiet, bitter smile.—Just then, the clock downstairs struck three.
(Finally made it that far!) As this thought came, he felt a faint joy like when a hated school exam was seventy percent finished.

“How sneaky of you...”
“Now it’s Jun-chan’s turn.”
“No one wants to spin something like this, right, Mr. Tsurumura?”

“Indeed it is.”
“Okamura has been leaning against a chair all by himself since earlier—how utterly sneaky of you!”

“If it’s about operating it, I don’t want to listen.”

“In that case, I’ll stop too.”
Because the tone of his words was too forced, Shigeyo indignantly turned away.
As Tsurumura kept lavishing praise, he felt that if he didn’t match his enthusiasm, he might be scorned, so he put on an amiable front; however, Shigeyo, who didn’t actually understand music as much as she claimed, had already grown thoroughly bored, which turned out to be rather convenient.

“Well then, shall we stop? —I’m currently working on a paper someone requested from me—could you listen to the general argument for a moment?...”

He had been certain Tsurumura would play the gramophone when instead he came out with such a statement.

“Hey now! Cruel of you to just spectate from up there!”
Shigeyo’s father called out to him from the garden.
He, finding this a convenient excuse, was about to head downstairs when Shigeyo—having heard the voice—flusteredly rushed out to the veranda.

“Father! Jun-chan has a guest over.”
“That’s precisely why I asked Tatsubei to handle it, isn’t it?”

“Ah! Right, right.”
Shigeyo’s father laughed while wiping sweat and began walking away.
“Whole day wasted thanks to that damned monkey! What idiocy—Hahaha!”

“Hahaha! I can’t stand this heat!”
He gazed at Shigeyo’s father and, in a tone that was neither soliloquy nor reply, said as much before laughing magnanimously once more.