Pathway to Japanese Literature

November 1919

A voice calling me from afar roused me from sleep. When I suddenly opened my eyes, the inn's landlady stood by my pillow. While looking at her, I again began sinking into a deep, drowsy slumber. "There's someone outside insisting they must see you," she said. "Even after I told them you were asleep, they kept demanding—" I had been listening half-asleep when the realization struck me like cold water. My head turned icy all at once.

“What kind of person is it?” “He’s a man with piercing eyes—an unpleasant sort. In any case, why don’t you meet him? I already told him you were here.” “Then I’ll come downstairs now.”

When I changed my kimono, the mud that had clung to my sleeve—now dried unnoticed—crumbled away grittily.

When I went downstairs，there stood outside the lattice entrance door a sunburned man with a long beard. The moment I saw him，I recalled the blood that had been trickling down from my forehead. I remembered how，when I had staggered back to the inn，the clock showed 2：00 AM and everyone lay fast asleep in utter stillness.

“Is it you?” “Are you the one they call Mr. ××?” He suddenly spoke in a thick rural accent. “Yes.” “What business brings you here?”

"I am such a person," he said, presenting a business card. Komagome Police Station Detective So-and-so was written. "I need you to come with me immediately. You must have returned quite late last night."

I immediately,

“I returned at two o’clock. Everyone knows. I’ll change out of these now,” I said.

I went up to the second floor, took out an unstained kimono from the closet, and put it on. Then I carefully surveyed the room. I placed half the money from my clasp purse into the desk drawer, but then slipped it inside a dictionary instead. For some reason, I felt compelled to do such things. I threw the crumpled Shikishima cigarette butts into the wastebasket and folded the discarded kimono. Seeing that the room remained orderly, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I went downstairs and immediately stepped out into the street with the man. The man walked beside me, but I kept my eyes averted from his face. The morning sun was already beginning to rise. Apprentices from merchant shops were sprinkling water out front while maidservants wiped things down.

We walked in silence through the winding backstreets of Kurumazaka Hayashichō. The man’s faded navy sleeve flickered into view—he was walking alongside me on my right. In this quiet town abundant with deep greenery and trees, several sunflowers beyond a fence caught my eye as they swayed gently in the morning sun, a sight that struck me as quintessentially Yamanote at dawn. On the main street, a young wife-like woman stood sweeping with her plump white upper arms exposed, her gaze fixed on our retreating figures.

Everything was filled with the serene heart of a calm, clear summer morning.

My head was swimming from heavy drinking and exhaustion, yet contrary to this, my mind was clearly retracing every detail of last night’s events. As if a spider were manipulating its threads, my mind was swiftly reconstructing the scene.

S酒場 stood in an alleyway of bird shops and brothels slightly closer to Nezu from Dangozaka, consisting of a new building with crude glass doors. At the front of its key-shaped table, various liquor bottles were crammed tightly together, where the proprietress always sat.

S Sakaba stood in an alleyway of bird shops and brothels slightly closer to Nezu from Dangozaka—a new building with crude glass doors erected—where before its key-shaped table various liquor bottles were crammed tightly together at the front, and there the proprietress always sat.

The proprietress had large eyes and a lively demeanor; she was skilled at flattery—or rather, above all else, since there were no proper meals to speak of and the place specialized solely in alcohol, someone as poor as I would often frequent it before dinner from my nearby lodging. There was a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl as thin as a crane who often served drinks. At times this girl would serve drinks while asleep to such an extent that she seemed to suffer from severe sleep deprivation, but even when dozing off while pouring, she was so adept that she never spilled a drop. Just as one might find merchant apprentices in bustling places like Ueno—those thoroughfares teeming with fierce traffic—sleepwalking while pulling their carts yet never getting struck by cars as they perfectly fulfilled their duties, so too did this girl sometimes serve drinks while asleep, while dreaming.

This girl’s large, double-lidded eyes and her delicate beauty when she smiled made her somehow reminiscent of the girls who appear in Dostoevsky’s works. Even to regulars like me who came every day, she never said anything beyond, She was such a quiet girl that she would say nothing beyond “Welcome” or “Good to have you back.” If there was one thing to single her out, it was that she always maintained an unchanging, continual gentle smile befitting a young girl. Even if there was nothing truly amusing from the heart, it was simply a peaceful, pure, innate smile.

When I looked at this girl, I often found myself thinking about her mother. It seemed to me she was a woman who, like this child, had been wrapped in a kind smile—yet more specifically, a woman fated to be unable to raise even her own child. In fact, her mother had vanished the very moment she gave birth to her at a certain tavern. That she had endured a wretched life of vice in some grimy back-alley room was something I had often heard from the proprietress and already knew.

The proprietress often scolded this girl. But even while being scolded, her natural smile would appear on her face, so often the proprietress, “This child is such a silly little thing. No matter what you say, she just smiles. What a disagreeable child.” With that, she would often give her a little jab. At such times, this little girl,

“I’m very sorry,” she apologized.

Her large eyes blinked sadly, but when she quickly turned toward us, a kind smile would naturally appear along with her dimples. I was always drawn to the complex naturalness of those eyes that seemed to both weep and smile. At times, in her vacant look—so much that it even seemed idiotic—I somehow perceived something profoundly pure. The characteristic smile was always directed toward me the moment I entered S Sakaba. Whenever that smile turned toward me, I—no matter how difficult my mood—would immediately soften and involuntarily return a smile with my eyes to that delicate countenance.

One time,

“If there’s anything you like, tell me. I’ll buy it for you,” I said. When I said this, she blushed with her customary innocent smile and did not respond right away. “Well?” “Go on, tell me.” I peered into her face as I spoke.

“I don’t want anything. I truly don’t want you to buy me anything.” Even when she wanted something in her heart, she would stubbornly insist aloud that she needed nothing. Yet whenever there was change to spare, if I quietly let this child hold it, she would look delighted as she rubbed and caressed it between her small hands. Because of this bond, not only I but even the painters in this neighborhood would often drink late into the night.

One evening, when I staggered up to the front of the bar, I saw H and O sitting there drinking on chairs. As I hesitated whether to stop and was about to pass by, the usual girl immediately spotted me through the glass door. H and O were quite drunk. O was a man who feigned sobriety the drunker he became, always laughing deep in his throat like a goose. H was occasionally watching the girl’s large eyes, but he would say things like, "Those are creepy eyes."

“What unsettling eyes,” H was muttering.

A cool wind occasionally blew in from the street, and I ended up drinking heavily. At that moment, a man came stumbling in from the entrance. He wore a university cap, but judging by his puffed-out chest, he seemed quite drunk, having apparently been drinking heavily beforehand. “I’ll buy you all a drink. Sake’s no fun alone.”

The medical student took up a sake flask and went around pouring for us. Such gatherings of slovenly drinking companions were typical in bars like this, but that night too, everyone was drunk, noisily rambling about things that made no sense.

Just then, a rakish, sunburned man with a rough-hewn appearance like wooden clogs entered, bringing along a disgustingly obese woman who appeared to be his wife. Before long, he started complaining that the drinks were slow or some such thing and began threatening the pitiable girl. At such times, she was quite accustomed to this, yet her eyes held a sorrowful expression that seemed rather to quietly subdue those confronting her. “Hurry up, will you? What a sluggish child you are.”

The woman who appeared to be his wife also added her words. The girl cast a fleeting glance at the woman who appeared to be his wife, but immediately her eyes took on a sorrowful look as if whispering, "You shouldn't speak like that." Before long, wearing her usual smile, she went to the back to fetch more sake.

“They don’t need to scold her so harshly. What fault could that girl possibly have?” I whispered to H. The man kept looking our way, and those unrestrained, somewhat scornful glances typical of such bars were exchanged between us. O—whose drinking brought out his worst—even clicked his tongue and made a grimace characteristic of him. O often pulled such transparent stunts. The medical student said in a deliberately loud voice, “There are bastards who’ll start bullying the moment they see someone weak.”

he said in a slightly venomous tone. Then, he glared at us with a fierce look. From the moment that man entered, I knew that something ominous—a kind of mutually challenging sentiment—was gradually swelling in the shadows. A tense, antagonistic mood hung thickly in the air, growing heavier with each passing moment until it practically reeked of danger. We had been talking loudly about something when we suddenly burst into laughter. Our mirth must have struck him as deliberately provocative, for the man finally exploded with a shout he could no longer contain.

“You’re making quite a racket.” Then the most intoxicated medical student thrust up his neck like a snake and shouted.

“Whether we make a racket or not is our own business. You’d better get lost,” he retorted. “Say that again, you insolent brat!”

The man crouched slightly and glared resentfully at the medical student. His glare was thoroughly thuggish in its brazenness and brimming with malice. The medical student, before he could even register the thought, had already hurled the glass tumbler in his hand at the man.

The man roared something bestial and savage, but the glass skimmed past his head and shattered to pieces against the back wall. The man lunged at the medical student with a furious "What the hell do you think you're doing?" The two men swung wild punches at each other before spilling out into the street still locked in combat. H followed them out. O followed them out. Then the woman he'd brought with him—who'd been wringing her hands anxiously since earlier—suddenly threw herself at me when she saw them grappling their way outside.

“What are you doing to my husband?” she shrieked, clinging to my chest like a madwoman. I stared in utter disgust at her pallid, stubbornly pointed nose, but— “It’s outside. You’ve got the wrong person.” Disgusted, I tried to shove her out toward the street. The woman immediately went out to the street. In that instant, I felt a violent throbbing throughout my body—so savage, so animalistic was the rough breathing that I wondered from where in my being it was being expelled. A fierce rage—not directed at anyone—seemed to press down on me from both above and below.

At that moment, I saw the girl shrinking in a corner of the bar, trembling in terror. Her eyes were opened so wide they seemed unable to open further, within them a profound sadness I had never witnessed before quivering. I saw her hands, feet, and eyes—her entire small frame frozen stiff—crouching motionless behind the sake barrel. She appeared both petrified like a sparrow and burning with quiet fury that restrained some solemn, violent force from without.

Outside the bar came the rough sound of feet trampling dirt, the scrape of heels dragging through soil, shouts, and noises like bodies grappling and striking each other. The man's thick, ragged shouts, the woman's shrieking voice, the bar owner's mediating cries—all collided in an instant that stirred life's most savage animal instincts. I rushed out to the street. The medical student was thrusting the woman who clung fiercely to him toward the ditch edge. When the man saw this, he flared up like fire, lunged at the medical student, and struck him aiming for the skull. The medical student staggered but immediately struck back at his forehead; then the man swiftly hurled a geta that lay there and fled into the dark street. H was already gone. He who hated anything disadvantageous to himself was nowhere to be seen anymore.

O was standing by the glass door. It was as if he couldn't move from that spot, so severely had that thug struck him; the thug was not only skilled at fighting but also physically strong.

When I abruptly stepped outside the bar, the man suddenly blocked my path. “You’re in on it too, huh?” he snarled with terrifying ferocity, lunging at me like a wild beast. I slipped past his outstretched hands, then from behind, almost looming over him, dragged him down onto his back. At that moment, I heard the hem of my kimono being stepped on by the thug’s geta, emitting a sharp, tearing sound—weak yet piercing—unique to cotton fabric.

I suddenly pushed him toward the edge of the ditch. By chance there was a ditch there that gave me better footing. But still stuck in the depression, he suddenly slammed his geta hard against my head. My skull rang dully as I staggered backward like my legs had been swept out from under me. I leaned against the bar's glass window. In that moment I thought how much better it would've been had I stayed in my room reading quietly tonight - yet I felt consciousness slipping away. Then he lunged at me again. At that instant someone seemed to come from the side and strike his head with a thick staff. With full awareness while gripping the glass door behind me...I watched blood begin oozing from his forehead. The street lay dark on one side where an empty lot stretched, yet dimly lit by the bar's light as I stared fixedly at that dull black liquid flowing through every sun-wrinkled groove of his face. And I knew had that staff not split his brow like this, I'd have been finished.

He staggered backward, and as his wife caught him in her arms, his complexion rapidly turned ashen. “Who’s the bastard that split my husband’s head open?!”

The woman screamed in a high-pitched voice; as though driven mad, she shrieked.

“Everyone! Call an officer!” she shouted in a shrill voice. Before anyone knew it, the crowd had swelled and surrounded him. At that moment, from within the murmuring throng, I slipped through as if I were just another face in the crowd. So dense was the press of bodies.

I knew the spring water rising from Otagahara wasn’t far from that bar, so cradling my aching head, I scurried through Sendagimachi’s back alleys from one hidden lane to another. Tormented by an unceasing sense of pursuit, I moved like a lone criminal through the shadows—at every crooked bend in those narrow paths, I pressed my eyes to the dirt and peered back meticulously along the way I’d come, verifying whether any follower lurked. I kept imagining hands suddenly thrusting through hedges or abruptly hearing footsteps draw near. Though the alcohol had nearly worn off, the pain rooted deep in my skull throbbed relentlessly; my ears rang without pause like alarm bells, and phantom shouts would pierce through unexpectedly. Most vividly of all, I felt certain a woman’s shrill scream—as if ripped from her throat—was shrieking out behind me with terrible clarity.

The night deepened quietly with the whisper of damp weeds, and near the clear stream's flow, each blue-crystalline star was mirrored. I soaked a handkerchief in cold water and soaked my fevered head. As the water's chill gradually cooled the heat in my skull, I began feeling tonight's events like a single dream—something existing far beyond reach. When I considered how that terrifying spectacle of mutual provocation could never be justified regardless of reason, I felt I had stained my entire life with fierce regret. Merely through involvement in those events, I came to know there was something viciously violent within me.

I crouched for a long time at the spring-fed pool. Every joint in my body had begun aching terribly, leaving me uncertain I could stand and walk again soon. In these Otagahara woods—a rare pocket of wilderness within Tokyo—insects heralding autumn sang from both young shrub thickets and shadowy stands of overgrown weeds. With midnight approaching, not a soul passed through. Whenever I imagined thieves and murderers must surely lurk in such places on nights like this—as newspapers often described—an oppressive weight settled over me, as if bearing responsibility for some grave crime. My senses sharpened painfully—ears straining against silence, eyes fixed on the faintly glowing road beneath sparse starlight—watching for approaching figures.

I thought about going back to the bar one more time, but my legs were too unsteady to make it. There was the thought that I must not go now clumsily and meet with a futile outcome, and also the feeling that if I were to go now, some terrible misfortune would occur.

After some time, I returned to my lodging. Every house lay deep in slumber—a blissful, peaceful sleep that seemed wholly disconnected from me. I gazed at the second floor where light leaked through, thinking how I too might have slept quietly like that. Somewhere a clock struck two. The fact that it was 2:00 AM settled clearly in my mind. A rooster crowed in the distance.

―――――――――――

When we reached Komagome Police Station’s gate, the detective deliberately trailed behind to make me walk ahead. As I passed through the stern granite gate, I felt violent unease and humiliation arise almost simultaneously. At the janitor’s room, told to “Wait here,” I sat down. Soon the same man came— “Come here,” he said, indicating a small stool before the detention cell. I sat there. Suddenly noticing, O too had come. When O saw me, he smiled bitterly, eyes seeming to say “So you finally came.”

When O saw me, “I’ve been here since last night. We were up against the wrong people,” he whispered in a low voice. “I was roused from sleep. You gave them my address, didn’t you?” “But it can’t be helped now.” His pale, sleep-deprived face was swollen in places, his eyes exhausted and devoid of light. I remained silent and looked around the dim surroundings that I hadn’t been able to see clearly until now. Both sides of where we were had sturdy bars, exactly like the prison cells one sees in stage plays. To the left was an entrance where a heavy lock had been fastened. Then there was another opening for inserting food and water. In the dull light streaming through the window, upon closer inspection, two detainees occasionally squirmed restlessly within the gloomy interior; not only did they appear as profoundly somber as caged beasts, but their sporadic, subdued coughs somehow felt unnatural. For their vigorous coughs sounded far too healthy to have arisen from such a sickly, dark cell.

In this gloomy, damp, stifling air, an immense swarm of mosquitoes would form and attack me. The swarm of mosquitoes—seemingly those that assailed humans with both mental and physical vulnerabilities every hour—targeted my feet, hands, face, and any flesh exposed beyond my clothing, attacking with such tyrannical vigor that there was scarcely time to swat them away. Moreover, the dimness that made it impossible to distinguish these hateful mosquitoes meant they could not be driven away until after they had bitten and the itch set in. For instance, while swatting at a part of my leg, they would then come to sting around my cheek, making me feel an irritating yet utterly helpless anguish.

I did not injure that man. The one who split open that man’s forehead was someone other than myself. However, if that cane hadn’t been swung at him back then, what would have become of me? I sank into the thought that my head must have been split open. And I gazed at O’s ashen face. O had been suffering from beriberi in his legs for quite some time, so he was sitting flat on the wooden floor.

“These mosquitoes are terrible, huh?” O said in a hoarse, sleepy voice. “These mosquitoes are truly terrible.” I cursed from the bottom of my heart this assault by detestable little insects. From within the cell where we had been made to sit under nearly unresisting conditions, the pattering sounds of feeble attempts to swat mosquitoes could be heard. That was truly a feeble, lonely sound.

The police officers guarding the detention cell changed shifts every hour. Each time, clamorous footsteps scraped gratingly. My and O’s names were recorded on the blackboard. I gazed at it strangely, with a feeling as though I were someone else. There were two other detentions listed. The police officer told O to enter the cell. O, grimacing, began to enter through the small opening when— “Take off your belt!” someone barked. Even after my belongings had been searched, I was still not told to enter inside. I felt it seemed unjust that only O was being put in, and I pitied him.

“Could you let me in too? Since we’re both involved in the same incident...” “We have our reasons. You just stay there,” he barked. I bit my lip. And I realized that the police also knew what O had done with the cane. I stared intently at O. O was sitting with his pale face turned outward.

O and I had been friends for ten years. When I thought about how he must be feeling, I imagined how excruciating it must be. Listening to the metallic clatter of swords at the waists of watching officers whenever they moved, I glared at these officials with intense loathing, doubting whether they possessed even ordinary human tenderness. From where I sat, the hallway began directly, allowing me to glimpse a sliver of street bathed in bright sunlight. After barely two hours in this darkness, I began feeling that street life and ordinary society existed in some impossibly distant realm. The hawkers, students, and young women passing by all seemed so cheerfully bright and happy—as if people like us with such shadowed hearts didn't exist in this world at all—walking about with such joy they might never have conceived of such gloomy souls. Particularly the trees swaying above townhouse roofs, bearing truly refreshing and vivid green hues, seeped deep into my heart's core. That gloriously clear summer morning sunlight—its radiant clarity, cheerful vigor, and joyful brilliance—was observed with a powerful, profound affection unlike anything I'd ever witnessed or experienced before. I gingerly leaned my face toward the street as if trying to catch even a whiff of that bright, fragrant sunlight.

I couldn't imagine ever getting out of here. No matter what reasons might exist, we knew this would end in a settlement, and I myself understood that I hadn't inflicted those injuries—yet in a sense completely divorced from those facts, various dark elements converged into something resembling mentally pathological depression, making me feel as though "I would never escape this place." Above all, the very existence of those bright streets—now that I had been sitting here for less than two hours—made me feel as though I could no longer think of them with any semblance of joy.

I pictured my quiet lodging's window thick with oak leaves and myself working calmly there—then felt all the more keenly the oppressive confines of this dark, limited world.

Then, a young woman who appeared to be a barmaid was led in by a detective also wearing a bird-catcher hat. And she was immediately made to sit on the bench beside me.

“Wait here for a while,” the man in the bird-catcher hat barked before leaving.

The woman's refined limbs—pale-skinned, coquettish, with a barmaid-like luster—appeared plump and well-formed. As soon as she entered, though it was cheap perfume, a faint scent like the arrival of spring began wafting through the air. Then a cloying odor, rising like steam from her body, assaulted me sitting beside her as if hurling smoke. A police officer came and wrote "Prostitute (1)" on the blackboard. When the woman saw this, she muttered something under her breath, pursed her lips into a wry smile. Her intense gaze also revealed a defiant, tenacious strength.

From the darkness of the detention cell, two faces that had stealthily crept out like cats emerged persistently through the bars toward the woman, and the unwavering light of hungry eyes was directed whenever a gap in surveillance presented itself. Those who had lived in this dark place for a week or even two weeks seemed nothing more than a single crawling creature. (In fact, as O later said, the cell’s ceiling was so low you’d bump your head.) They always walked on their knees even when receiving water, leaving them perpetually half-crouched. In particular, the two faces that had come out to gaze at the woman looked exactly like the most deformed beasts among the crawling creatures.

The woman instinctively sensed the glint of several eyes peering through the gaps in the bars. With a scornful laugh, she too peered intently into the cell's interior. These scenes shifted with each movement of the single guard's body—some prisoners adjusted their demeanor like lightning to assume solemn expressions, others crawled away like mice without making a sound as they vanished from sight. No sooner had they vanished than their faces reappeared.

As I gazed without really seeing at the woman’s bare feet floating white like a scrap of paper, I suddenly felt O’s sharp gaze on my forehead and turned to look at him inside the cell. O sat composedly upright and met my eyes directly. Involuntarily, we exchanged cold smiles from both sides—smiles without any clear target of derision, devoid of any discernible meaning. It could only be understood by intuitively grasping the emotions embedded within them. Clearly, O, with his characteristically brazen gaze, seemed to be whispering something about the woman sitting beside me.

After a while, the woman placed her hands on her knees and quietly began to doze off. Her tired, limp body—formless as a lump of rice cake—shifted ever so slightly with each soft sway of slumber. I realized she was a habitual offender who felt no particular fear even within these walls. To her, it seemed as effortless as moving a bell cricket from one cage to another—this transition between street life and police custody. A peace rarely seen here drifted toward me through her gentle breathing, quiet enough to sense yet distinct all the same. More than anything hoping the guard wouldn't rouse her from this dream, I startled at every clink of his waist-sword and creak of floorboard shoes as if they disturbed me instead. Yet that momentary vision of tender paradise before her showed no inclination to release its hold. She dozed calmly and quietly under some unseen demon's hand, as if spinning out a spider's thread through endless time.

Monotonous, listless, helpless time passed little by little, but we still hadn't been questioned. The sunlight on the street gradually intensified, and the heat within this place grew quite unbearable. Various street vendors' calls drifted in. “Will you be taking a meal?” “Or will you buy it yourself?”

The guard asked me and O. "I don't want it, so no need," I refused. The woman affectedly flashed a broad smile and, “Since there’s money, order me a premium lunchbox,” she said. The guard smiled, “Alright, alright,” said the guard. I said to the guard, “Could I have some hot water, cold water, or if possible, a cup of tea?” “Tea’s a luxury.” “Come with me.” “There’s hot water if you want,” he said, taking me to the janitor’s room. There, a large warm tea kettle was boiling vigorously.

“That teapot should still be usable. Go ahead and make some,” he said with forced kindness. I quietly savored the last of the tea. It was delicious.

After a while, O was called and went out. I felt a slight unease in my chest. However, I thought there was nothing to do but honestly confess what I had done, and so I waited, swatting at mosquitoes.

I was soon called.

I passed through white-uniformed policemen without swords, each engaged in paperwork at their tables, and went to the chief’s office. O switched places with me as we passed each other. The chief said in a dull, bloated voice that seemed clouded over as he spread out a blueprint. “Were you sitting here?” he asked, pointing to a section of the bar’s blueprint. “Yes, I was.” “This cane belongs to O, doesn’t it?”

The chief produced O’s cane. It had bloodstains on it. “Yes.” “Do you recall striking anyone?”

I had considered this problem at length and concluded it would be better to take responsibility myself. Since H had run off and the medical student was nowhere to be found, it ultimately came down to either O or me—but O couldn't stand properly due to his beriberi. Even if someone had swung the cane, I was the healthiest one there and therefore the most likely perpetrator. "I might have done it," I said. "But I was drunk and can't remember clearly." Then added firmly: "Though given O's bad legs, it couldn't have been him in reality."

The chief stared fixedly at my face. And he smiled.

“O claims he did it himself, and you say you did it too. But since you’re friends, I suppose either will do…” He smiled again.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t drink so much.” “The victim has sustained injuries requiring two weeks to fully heal.” “So, do you intend to settle?” “I too wish to settle.” “Well, since there’s a three-day statute of limitations for indictment, use that time to settle with the other party.” “Henceforth, we will not tolerate any further incidents after this one, so bear that in mind.” The Chief said in a gentle yet weighty tone and folded the document in two.

“Understood.” “Alcohol really won’t do. Especially you painter types—your drinking habits are downright troublesome.” “You may leave now.” I stepped into the hallway feeling as though the weight had lifted from my head. There stood H, summoned like me, now dressed in fresh clothes.

We tried to go out together, all three of us. I turned around once more and gazed at the dark detention cell. There, a woman was staring fixedly in our direction. I returned the gaze at her faintly pale face with a certain familiarity. To eyes that had emerged from darkness, the street was too bright and dazzling. I took off my hat and basked in the sunlight for joy. The intense summer sunlight scorched into the crown of my head, its heat stinging like needles.

O said to H with cutting sarcasm. “You certainly made yourself scarce last night.” “Because it was troublesome.”

“Thanks to you, I got eaten alive by mosquitoes all night,” he laughed deep in his throat.

I said to H, "You did a good thing. I think there’s also a need for you to spend a night in a place like that. People like you who enjoy dodging issues," I said with a laugh. “It’s a good thing O was the one who got hauled in instead of me.” That was also laced with the implication that O, being so audacious, could stand to learn his lesson. O grimaced. “Anyone should go to a place like that once—just once. There’s no harm in staying there a while."

I looked at the two of them. Both H and O smiled slyly. We agreed to gather tonight at S Bar to cover the treatment costs for the other man’s injuries and begin settlement negotiations, then parted ways. O and I went to the Komagome bathhouse and washed ourselves. Because I felt as though my body was filled with relentless mosquito attacks, sweat, and filth.

In the evening, I headed out to S Bar. The road had been swept so clean and sprinkled with such cooling water that one would never imagine there had been such a commotion the previous night. I stared fixedly at the ground. A desolate regret welled up in my chest. I also felt as though a savage breath still lingered in the air around me.

When I entered the bar, the proprietress came out and, “Were you not injured last night?” “I was beside myself with worry about what might happen there for a while.” “Just a slight headache. “I’ve caused you such great trouble.”

“Not at all. These things happen often—I hear their side runs a brothel. They’re rather unsavory opponents.” "I never thought they were people of good character either..." "They’re notorious troublemakers in this neighborhood." “Is that so? Then reaching a settlement must be quite difficult.” “They’ll likely demand money.” “It seems they obtained a doctor’s diagnosis claiming two weeks’ recovery for an injury that would heal naturally in two or three days.”

I sipped my black tea and gazed around the neatly arranged surroundings, which seemed so orderly that last night’s incident felt as though it had never occurred. When the proprietress left, the usual girl came out. “Welcome,” she said as she approached me. With her usual deep smile... “You must have been scared last night,” I said in a low voice. “I saw everything. Your poor head must have been...” She looked up at me with upturned eyes.

She looked up at me with upturned eyes. "It hurts a bit, but it's nothing serious. I won’t get into any more fights like that from now on."

I said gently, as if to comfort this small soul,

“Oh. Please don’t do that,” she said sadly.

This little girl must have found my appearance at that moment utterly terrifying. And I thought she must have realized how humans grow closer to beasts in their brutality as they age. I looked at her emaciated shoulders, hands, and feet. I felt a certain shame imagining how those limbs had trembled last night, saturated with terror. It was truly shameful.

“What were you feeling back then? Go on, tell me.” I said gently. “I was praying that everyone wouldn’t get hurt.” “Really.” “Yes.”

She smiled an unclouded, carved-in-stone smile. Her eyes shone quietly—no, peacefully. Her pale face, refined and elegant in its whiteness, held a clarity about it, with some separate sacredness drifting there that defied pinpointing. I thanked this girl in my heart. Before this small soul, I felt a pure emotion—as if vowing never to become entangled in such affairs again. "Do all men fight like that?"

“That’s not true. Good people never pick fights.”

I answered and felt my face grow hot. We who had fought were thus bad people. I was undoubtedly one of them.

The girl silently moved the tea set away, and then O and H arrived. As soon as their faces met, last night's incident rose in all three minds. There was something fractured in that smile.

"In any case, it was decided that someone had to go visit—" I—

“I’ll go,” I said.

Knowing that neither H nor O intended to go, I ended up being the one to set out for the settlement carrying half a dozen bottles of beer. I was reluctant, but now that things had come to this, I found myself wishing to extricate myself from the midst of this detestable affair. For even a single day spent agonizing over this affair was both unpleasant and futile. "If at all possible, see to it that they settle for just that beer." "If it’s money, we’ll take quite a hit."

O said shrewdly. H also agreed. “So we’re settling everything with beer, huh?” H also said. “If we can wrap this up with half a dozen beers after splitting someone’s forehead open, that’d save us the trouble.” I gave a wry smile. In any case, I took the beer and went to visit the restaurant he ran nearby—though in truth, it was just a tiny bar. The woman who had snapped at me last night came out, and the moment she saw me, her eyes went to the gifts I carried.

“Please wait a moment,” she said and went into the back.

Soon, the man came out. His forehead and entire head were swathed in bandages, presenting a visibly unpleasant countenance. He had round eyes that gave a somewhat petty and shrewd impression. "Well then," "Please do come in."

He said flatteringly. I asked if his head still hurt, and in as calm and polite a tone as I could muster, “It hurts quite a bit, so I was lying down. This was an absolute calamity.”

He shot a sidelong glance at the beer I had brought out but immediately— “Never mind that,” he said by way of greeting and lit a cigarette. I found it difficult to broach the subject, but “Actually, since even the police suggested settling this privately, I’ve come to discuss it with you…” “Huh? “Depending on how we discuss it, I might agree to a settlement—but after all, I’ve got two weeks of treatment ahead.” Those words clearly had a forceful quality that rejected any simple resolution—a thuggishness not even merchants would display. He then added.

“After all, it’s a man’s forehead that’s been split open. If the police chief hadn’t told us to settle privately, we would’ve handled this our own way.”

He said in a cold tone laced with malice. I began to feel an intense unpleasantness, as though I were being vividly insulted. “Excuse my asking, but how much should I provide for the treatment costs?” Before I had even finished speaking, the other party had apparently already long since decided, “I simply must receive twenty yen.” With that, he shot a quick glance at my face. That gaze was clearly tinged with the harsh—or rather venomous—glint of a victor.

I bit my lip. "If I give that amount, will you settle this?" "Naturally—since I want this kept quiet too—I'll be happy to settle."

He quickly perceived my apparent inclination to acquiesce and lowered his voice as he spoke. Unable to bear the mounting discomfort and irritable agitation, I stepped outside. At the entrance, “It’s stipulated within three days, right? As for filing charges—” he said, seeking confirmation.

I walked silently through the backstreets. I felt both a revolting filthiness—as though even the soul dwelling within me had turned servile—and rage, all at once.

When O and H heard this report from me, O immediately rebuked me.

“Twenty yen? That’s utterly ridiculous!” “What a botched negotiation that was.” He puckered his lips discontentedly. H also took it as if I had come to propose the amount, “You’re terrible at this.” “There’s no way we have that kind of money.” I bit my lip.

“The amount was stated by the other party. Do you all think this is my fault?”

I involuntarily raised a voice ablaze with anger. Though I had been suppressing the explosive combination of disgust and endurance from the very core of my being, I felt I could bear it no longer.

“Don’t get angry. This isn’t the time for anger.” O adopted his characteristically contrived cold attitude.

I fell silent. H and O ordered sake. I didn’t take a single sip, both because I didn’t want any and because I no longer wished to drink with them.

“You’re stubborn,” O said. “Stubborn. But I’m not some obstinate fool like you—” I fell silent once more. In my mind, I felt that what had happened last night—and what might yet happen tonight—were of a kind. When I contemplated those ugly conflicts where human souls mutually humiliate each other beyond redemption, those battles inflicting emotional wounds too fatal to ever heal; when I considered how such things carve coarse suffering into humanity’s very character, how wretched experiences plunge us ever deeper into worse inclinations—I shuddered with dread. To witness those unbearable struggles from without—how they must stir such ugly, base impulses in people! My gaze fell upon the girl sitting on her stool. We had forced even this small child’s heart to behold those animalistic moments of strife. Who was it that made her tremble like a dove?

"The words 'Everyone carries something bad within themselves' surfaced. When each person strives to assert their character, there remains no space left to accommodate others."

At that moment, O spoke again. “That beer was wasteful. You’ve done something trivial.”

As for H, though he was by nature an indecisive writer who cherished elegant lines, being under the influence, he promptly agreed. "Thinking about it makes it all seem absurd," he also said. When I heard these words, I felt as though I were seeing my increasingly languid, subdued emotions laid bare before me. Yet I too possess nothing so lofty as to condemn these friends. I felt I must not blame them.

It is precisely the ugliness and baseness within the innermost depths of myself that I must excavate and condemn.

The next day, we all gathered the money and took it to the restaurant. O and H waited in the backstreets of Sendagimachi while I went to visit him at the restaurant. When I handed the bundle of money to the man, he suddenly put on a repulsive smile. “Now I can get treatment too. “I caused you so much concern.” With that, he removed the outer wrapping and checked the contents. There were four purple banknotes inside. He counted them with his sunburned fingertips, then wrapped them back up as they were.

“Then I’ll have the police drop their case,” he said. “Could you write out a receipt for this?” “Ah, is that so?”

And he wrote out a receipt for the treatment fee. I parted with him.

O and H waited for my return in the shade of a tree along a cool fence. I showed the receipt to them. “This brings it to a close.”

O turned his pale, sleep-deprived face toward me.

I, too, felt as if a weight had been lifted from my heart. And so, we were each given nothing but fatigue.

The three of us, feeling utterly drained, stood vacantly gazing at the white-glaring road for some time. To any outside observer, we must have looked like a group hatching some unsavory scheme. At that moment, we noticed a medical student trying to pass by us. He started so violently he nearly cried out. This was that same medical student from that night—the one who had disappeared into the shadows. Though we were complete strangers who had never met before, here we stood as mild-mannered accomplices whose connection even the police had failed to uncover.

“I apologize for my conduct the other night.” O immediately drew near,

“I need to have a word with you,” he said. He then recounted the details of that night. “I see. Then I suppose I’m partially responsible as well. I’ll pay my share, of course.” That night, this man had been terribly drunk and rowdy, yet he seemed to possess a gentle disposition. And, “The truth is, I was in the middle of exams and was actually trying to dodge them. I’ve caused you all a great deal of trouble.” He extracted his portion of the settlement payment from his wallet. O received it.

O handed over his written address and,

“Anyway, the case has been settled, so rest assured.”

The student left.

O said, “Though we made him bear part of the burden, the case is settled now—let’s have a drink.” H, ever the drinker, promptly— “Fine then. What about you?” he asked, glancing back at me. “I’m not in the mood. I’ll take my leave for today,” I began to bid farewell. Hearing O say “Come along with us” from behind, I returned to my lodging with a heavy heart.

Starting in the afternoon, I walked around the Yanaka area searching for a new lodging. Even in my own lodging, I felt constantly watched and couldn’t settle down. Especially in the morning, upon waking, I would feel as though a man in a hunting cap and faded indigo kasuri was standing at the entrance—even appearing in my dreams.

I had come to desire moving from this lodging where I was made to undergo an ominous experience to a quiet lodging where I might completely cleanse the stains and weariness from my heart. The dense chinquapin foliage and rain cascading over leaves felt dear to me, but more than that, when returning from evening strolls, I would suddenly sense that same hunting cap standing at the entrance, leaving me unable to find peace.

In Yanaka, on a certain slope of elevated ground somewhat near Nezu's street, I found a small detached house. The room was clean and quiet, and the entrance stood unobstructed.

Out front, a magnificent fence composed entirely of maple trees from grand estates stretched on, while the quiet street curved away, leading toward Yanaka Cemetery and Ueno.

I immediately moved there.

In front of the single room's window was a small garden where several balsam flowers bore simple red blossoms with a rustic simplicity. Since it was a garden with nothing else to look at, I positioned my desk directly facing it.

By sunset, I had completely sorted out my luggage and taken a bath. When I returned, a girl of about ten was smiling and playing with her little brother at the gate. She had an aristocratic face with a healthy complexion and refined features. Thinking what a lovely child she was, I entered my room.

Apart from me, two other families lived in this house. One was an elderly couple, and the other was the family of the aforementioned girl’s mother.

In the morning, I met the girl’s mother in the kitchen. She was a refined, high-nosed middle-aged woman.

When I gave my moving-in greeting, they politely returned the courtesy. "Since there are children here, I imagine it must be quite noisy. Please do not hesitate to scold them," she said. "Not at all."

I returned to my room. As a late riser, when I was having brunch together with lunch, she would often use a loud, high-pitched voice that leapt up like that of a young girl,

“Mom. I’m home,” she would say and toss a bundle wrapped around books onto the veranda—a sound that would reach my room nearly every day. At such times, I—who owned no watch—would always know it was precisely around 1:00 PM.

I often heard the sound of her playing in the garden with her brother.

After that incident, I rarely went out. Whenever I saw cramped houses in the townscape or small bars and cafés, I felt a pain in my heart. I lived shut away in my room like a criminal, spending my days struggling with writing and organizing old diaries. At times I would go out front to gaze at the street. Since Yanaka had many temples, the evening bell of Kanei-ji Temple in Ueno would often reach me on cool breezes. On quiet evenings especially, its sound—untainted by urban noise yet filled with solemnity—could frequently be heard.

She, along with her brother and another boy, would tap stones in the garden and mimic the sound of bells.

...She was singing what seemed to be a folk song from her homeland—"Now rings the bell, how many times? Six times..."—in a voice both childishly innocent and piercingly sorrowful. As I sat listening intently to it in the cool, somewhat brisk air of late summer, I would begin to recall the delicate life of my boyhood. No matter how much humans grow, what always remains pooled at the bottom of their utterly exhausted, ceaselessly contemplative hearts is precisely that state of mind which that girl is now singing. By recalling this, it became his blissful moment of quiet rapture.

I saw that small, flower-like face. I saw perceptive, wise, and clear eyes. When I saw those locust-like nimble and delicate hands and feet—their movements so ceaselessly dizzying—she seemed nothing less than a cluster of flowers blooming freely in mountainous regions, fearless of any being on this earth.

The girl and her brother came over to me in a friendly manner. And with that unselfconscious innocence particular to all middle-class-raised children—a guileless refinement—they began speaking to me as I stood there looking lonely. “Uncle, what are you doing there?”

“I’m watching you play.” “You’re quite good at singing.”

I said with a smile. “He’s better than me. My brother is better.” The brother clung sweetly to his sister’s hand. “Big sis is better than me.” I gazed at this young brother and sister. I too had a kind sister. The brother and sister now before me unexpectedly evoked the air of my distant childhood to such an extent. When I asked, “What do they call you?” she immediately— “My name is Fujiko.” “And my brother is Keisou.”

She looked up at me with bright, glossy eyes. Everyone has a time when their eyes are as beautifully clear as this child's. The beauty of eyes from about five or six to sixteen or seventeen—that crystal-clear transparency—seemed to perfectly mirror the purity of their spirit. A beauty never marred by others. It was the exposed radiance of life's innermost core. That clarity would gradually—as if seeping into worldly existence—grow clouded bit by bit, become weary, and lose the capacity for rest. I felt as though my own clouded pupils—reflected within those eyes—were being cleansed by their pure light, as if receiving a transmission of clarity.

“How old are you?”

“Nine.” “My brother,” “He turned six.”

I soon returned to my room. The long days of late summer took on a faint dimness.

..."Now rings the bell, how many times?"...the singing voice could now be heard coming from her mother’s room. I faced my desk.

At that moment, O came to visit. Since that day, we had not met. The subtle nuances of various emotions made me averse to this friend, and I felt it would be better not to meet for a while.

O entered and immediately,

"Nice room," he said. "And I hear you still haven't gone to Shiba." But I couldn't make sense of it. "To Shiba?" "The Shiba Ward Court," he continued. "Both H and I got summoned and lectured by the prosecutor." His voice dropped lower. "That was when..." He paused meaningfully before adding: "Since you never showed up yourself—they kept muttering about it." "But since I moved addresses," I countered through gritted teeth, "there was no way to receive their notice—I'll go check tomorrow."

“Go ahead and do that. “It’s a hassle,” O said.

As I came to realize that incident still lay spread like a net across my path ahead, an unfortunate, seething irritation began to rise within me. "What on earth will the prosecutor say?" "Just the usual lecture. Nothing serious. So they sent the notice from Komagome." O wore a desolate expression. "The bar owner's testimony was accurate then?" I said. "It's work—accuracy matters." I had finally settled myself, yet now felt an ominous premonition that tomorrow's visit to that place would destroy the work I meant to begin. All these varied sufferings and obstacles seemed poised to act upon my meager growth. Tonight again I had contemplated losing myself quietly in poetry. I'd been savoring how to express through verse that interplay between human hearts and the light in eyes—yet O's poison arrow had already pierced clean through my tender heart. And in my despair, I let it all boil over violently.

I said to O.

“Let’s drink. It’s getting stifling—I can’t stay cooped up in this room anymore.” O seemed to perceive this state of mind and laughed coldly. When I sensed this, my heart grew increasingly agitated, as if screaming with endless anger in two ways.

“Do you have money?” “Money can be made if you work for it.” “Let’s get going.”

I took two or three volumes of books and went out. I entered the pawnshop I always went to. And then I slammed down the books and stuffed several bills into my sleeve.

I forcibly took O—who claimed he had his reasons for disliking it—to S Bar against his will. I hadn't wanted to go to this bar either. Though going there would only plunge me into this unpleasant gloom, and I would have rather gone to some brighter café instead, tonight I had wanted to come here.

We began to sip our drinks. Like a seasoned drinker savoring liquor over long hours, like sinking sip by sip into a deep groove, I gradually softened my consciousness into a state of rounded suppleness. The alcohol repeatedly tried to lure my consciousness into a certain fantastical state of mind—a kaleidoscopic chaos of bewilderment. However, I could no longer get drunk. In my head stood something sober and ice-cold, as if pierced by a needle. The usual girl remained seated in her spot, staring in our direction. ......To prevent any mistakes... To ensure that terrible thing wouldn’t happen again......her large eyes seemed anchored to a single solemn point in the depths—jet-black and unyielding. Moreover, that smile which appeared destined for eternity would at times reveal a withered quality like an old person's, pouring down upon me with a great sorrowful light—a complex radiance one could never fully express even through deliberate effort—in perfect stillness. When I showed her a steady smile, she rose and came over to us.

I had lately stopped having her pour drinks. In some strange, immoral emotional sense—as if toying with this girl’s very soul—I had always taken to drinking by myself. However, tonight I wanted her to pour it for me with those slender flaxen hands.

The girl poured the drink. And stood silent. ......Words like "Will these people keep drinking forever......?" seemed to rise in her little chest. As I grew drunker, I strangely began sensing shouts and sounds of rough grappling from somewhere distant. My head took a solid blow. I cracked the opponent's skull right back. Blood trickled down—I kept thinking of things as if under threat.

“Let’s go back. Don’t stagger around.”

I admonished O. Even I, in that state, staggered. The ground quietly drew a large circle and swayed like waves as it receded.

“Goodbye.” “You’re in danger.”

She ran over and tried to support me. The voice of his sacred creature—pure and emaciated like a solitary locust—resounded through my innermost being like thunder. While vowing inwardly not to drink again, I thought what wretched human dregs I was. "I'm fine. Go back inside. You needn't worry about me." "Right," she said as she went into the bar. "Goodbye." I tried to give her all the money from my sleeve but berated myself for this wretchedly transparent loneliness. That loneliness one must never yet cannot help but feel—I had pondered it countless times.

I stepped out into the street.

When we parted, O said again. “I’m going tomorrow. Make sure you don’t forget.”

I walked on without responding to this. The chaotic jumble of shops along Nezu's streets dazzled my eyes.

I tried to climb the slope toward home. But right away I went into the café at that street corner.

I drank there in silence. Even if a consciousness existed that could firmly piece together a single thought, I became so drunk that it would inevitably scatter apart before I knew it.

A woman sat across from me. Her white makeup had dried like chalk dust, leaving her face utterly devoid of oiliness. To call it ugly would be an understatement—it was hideous in the extreme. All the other women were flirting with customers. Yet this woman maintained a gentleness that suggested she knew me. I felt pity for her because of that ugliness.

When I reached my lodging, I tumbled into the room like a beer bottle. An ashen sleep soon descended over me.

When I woke in the morning with a heart full of dread, I changed my clothes and set out to appear at Shiba Ward Court. The scorching sunlight burned bright, withering the leaves of street trees. Even within the city, cicadas sang faintly here and there—a rare sound that carried through the distance. At the court reception desk, I submitted my business card and explained to the assigned prosecutor that having moved residences, I hadn't received the notice but had come to appear upon hearing of it today. I fluttered my summer haori restlessly and leaned against the waiting room bench among a group reeking of earthy yukata. It struck me that everyone gathered here shared my sort of background and some inscrutable cunning in their hearts. Yet simultaneously, I felt as if nothing but human dregs—cluttered like dust—swarmed about like mosquitoes. The stench of sweat and these people with exposed limbs formed a brutal contrast to my seething disgust. Finding myself amid this grime filled me with revulsion. Though my soul—ever striving toward spiritual work—remained untouched by any and untouchable to all, I could do nothing about the dark melancholy seeping in from without.

I was called. The attendant led me before the young, pale-complexioned prosecutor's table. Trying to restrain my trembling heart "quietly," I steadied myself and fixed my gaze on the prosecutor's face.

“Did you move? No wonder you were the only one who didn’t come,” he said, examining the documents stamped with numerous seals. “About how much income does someone in the writing profession make?” he said on the bus. “If I don’t write, I don’t earn a single penny.” I answered coldly. “Then how do you live—without income, you can’t possibly manage, can you?” I calmed myself as much as possible. “Writers have assets. And since they maintain reserves even without constant writing, they can manage without it.”

I said with a wry smile. “I see. Then that’s acceptable—I understand you reached a settlement for this incident. Is that true?” “Yes.” “And if such an incident occurs again, I will prosecute without mercy—bear that in mind.” “I understand.”

The prosecutor said I could leave soon, so I went outside. The prosecutor’s brusque, mechanical way of speaking—stiff, as if handling machinery—was also unpleasant. My heart—as if thoroughly defiled—gasped on, still polluted.

When I returned to my lodging, I was exhausted. As I gazed absently at the weeds in the small garden, Fujiko came along the garden path and,

“Earlier, a visitor came by.” “What kind of person was he?” “A man with long hair.” “And he had a beard like yours, Uncle.” “That’s right.” “Thank you very much.” Her cheeks, translucent with vitality, were taut with the beautiful luster of girlhood, as if polished.

“Wouldn’t you like to come into Uncle’s room? Please call Keisou to come along too.” “I must tell Mother first—it wouldn’t be right otherwise. If she says it’s all right, I’ll come with my brother,” she said, blinking her bright eyes. “That would be better. Then come if you get permission.” I sensed the refined upbringing of her mother. Her father had served as an interpreter-official and was now in Manchuria, it was said. The mother had been sending newspapers to Manchuria nearly every day. I would often see Fujiko return from school and take the opened newspapers to the post office on the street.

Whenever I encountered her during those times,

“Where are you sending that?” I asked. “I’m sending them to Father.” “So I should put the stamp here?”

Though it was something she always did, she made a small, childlike worried face. "That’s where it goes." Fujiko came to this annex together with Keisou.

“Did you get your mother’s permission?”

“Yes. “She said it’s fine as long as we behave,” she said, glancing at her brother, “Keisou, you have to behave too,” she said in a sisterly tone. Fujiko looked around the room and fixed her gaze on a framed painting. “What is that painting? “I don’t understand, Keisou,” she said, looking back at her brother.

I said. "The red part is a brick wall." "It looks that way to you, doesn't it..." "Yes." "A person is walking in front of it, you see." "He's looking down—and in the sky, clouds are turning red, don't you think?" "And there's grass growing all over, don't you think?" "That is a field."

“It’s evening, isn’t it?” “Yes. That person looks terribly lonely, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, where could he be going?” “Well, where could he be going?” I, at a loss for words, fell silent and stared at the painting. A man was depicted walking heavily from the edge of town toward the fields. It was H’s painting. H often painted melancholic, lonely self-portraits. He always liked to depict himself cast out into nature.

Fujiko now turned her attention to another painting framed in smoke-blackened gold.

“What could those two be doing?” “They’re praying. In the evening, after finishing work in the rice fields, they pray before returning home.” “...Evening bell... What does that mean?” “It says that there, doesn’t it.” “In the evening, bells often ring—you’ve heard them? That’s what it means. The other day you were singing... ‘How many bells toll now?’... remember? Those dusk bells are what we call an evening bell.”

“I see.” She said admiringly. She made me explain each painting in the room one by one. That attentive, knowledge-hungry girlhood now overflowed through her entire being. “Uncle, what do you do every day?” “What do you write?” When addressed so directly, “Uncle is...”

I was cornered. I didn't know how to put it into words. For some reason being questioned like this made me feel as though I were blushing. "What Uncle writes about—when you grow older—you'll come to understand on your own." "So I won't understand at all until then?" "That's right. It's quite hard to understand." She looked at me with doubtful skepticism but soon wore an expression as though she had already forgotten.

When they left, I leaned against the window in a daze. I pondered deeply on work that could never be made comprehensible to a child’s soul.

Fujiko often visited my room. And with words as open and generous as unfurled petals, she would speak to me. Within that innocent smile lay something that quietly calmed me. I no longer ventured out into the city for extended periods. Day and night, I shut myself in my room, gradually putting out my writings.

Creation—or rather, immersing myself in the spirit of poetry—was a kind of happiness, albeit a painful one. As long as everything remained within this realm, nothing could be harmed from without. The free air roused my new life to wakefulness.

Fujiko often said. “Uncle, you’re always sitting so properly, aren’t you.”

At times, she would speak of her family home situated a short distance from Kagoshima's city center where she was born. "Kagoshima never gets any snow. It's warm every single day—so nice! Huge bontan citrus grow there! Some get really big! Like this!" With girlish excitement, she gestured with her hands to show their size. As she spoke, she pictured the heavy golden bontans gleaming among thick green leaves, their luminous forms flickering through her mind.

“And behind my house in the mountains, there are so many mandarins growing—branches so low even I can reach them.”

“So Miss Fujiko, you like the countryside, don’t you? Don’t you want to go?” “We’ll be going back soon. Because Father is returning from Manchuria to the countryside, we’ll go wait there first.” “Around when?” “It’s not certain yet, but soon.” “I do like the countryside.” “The garden is spacious and lovely.”

I had heard from Mother about their return home, but I often found myself imagining this delicate girl making her way back there. I would envision scenes of fresh air permeated with the intensely rich fragrance of citrus fruits ripening as if pressed against low mountain fields, and the figure of a girl darting about those slopes. "When I go back home, I'll send you bontan citrus, Uncle. Big big ones!" She made an innocent face as if she might send them right that very moment.

“Is that true?” “Oh. “Tell Dad, okay? “Dad listens to everything I say. “He buys me everything I want.” I felt that father’s love.

I would go out to the streets whenever loneliness overcame me. As autumn drew near, a quiet dampness permeated the roads, carrying with it a certain cool clarity. When Fujiko returned from school, she would often,

“Uncle. I’m home,” she would sometimes say with a smile.

“Welcome back.”

I also smiled. Mother,

"I'm sorry Fujiko is always coming over and troubling you," she said modestly. Neither did I go to Mother, nor did she come to visit me. Fujiko was inside, and from time to time she seemed to mention things about me. On days when I didn't see this innocent child, I felt lonely. A certain warm, special air always seemed to envelop her peacefully.

One evening, the painter S came to visit. Since I hadn't seen this gentle friend in so long, I spoke with heartfelt sincerity. "The other day when I came by, there was a little girl here. She's a beautiful child." S said in his characteristic rapid manner. "So it was you. I'm sorry I wasn't home. That girl's from next door. When I see children like that, I feel something indescribably pure." "She truly is a sweet child." That day, S had sunk into gloomy silence. He seemed to be struggling painfully within his heart - trying to speak then holding back, making efforts to converse only to restrain himself again. I felt I could quietly understand this.

“Is it still painful for you?”

I saw my friend’s pale, exhausted face. “I tried painting signboards too, but it’s still no use.” “I just can’t become a house painter no matter what.” “It must be unbearable for you.” “But you did keep at it for some time.” “After about a month of doing it, my mind got completely worn out.” “I won’t go anymore.” “I’m terrified of my own moral decay—” The gentle man looked at me sorrowfully. This friend was desperately poor, yet his spirit always stayed pure—almost tender in its delicacy.

“So things remain difficult for you lately, then.” “Yeah.” “You haven’t eaten yet.” “No.”

He flushed slightly and smiled. I hadn’t prepared any money either. I opened the closet and looked inside the trunk. Amidst what had been lost one by one, there was still enough for this friend’s meal. I took out one bill. “Why don’t you use this for funds? Will that do?” He looked embarrassed, “That’ll do. Thank you.” “We’re in the same boat.” I saw him out to the entrance. “Take care of your body.”

“Then I’ll borrow this for a while.” “You may use it as long as you need.”

My friend walked into the darkness.

My heart sank. Because I was poor in the same way as that friend.

Two or three days later, S came. And took out the money. “You don’t have to return it.” “There are times when I feel compelled to return it. I can’t rest easy unless I return it,” he said. “When I look at that girl Fujiko, I feel like she’s of a different kind of human than us.” Melancholic, he added these words as he spoke. “That’s right. The difference between things too pure and things too defiled—sometimes it drives human isolation further away, don’t you think?”

The two sat facing each other in silence. I recalled the Sendagimachi period when I suffered together with this S. We often went out drinking.

He always lived in a poor attic in the backstreets, spending many days scraping by without enough to eat. I often met him there. He was always failing to find work and turning pale,

“Even when you’re supposed to work like you do, you manage to stay composed without working,” he often said to me. As for work that arose from within me, I did it, but I couldn’t extract money from my work. Even when I did such work, I didn’t necessarily exert myself.

I was living off the meager compensation I obtained through my poetic works and the scant remittances from my hometown. I often faced starvation.

At my lonely boarding house around sunset, I spent endless hours. I kept at my desk and hurried to complete my work. Only work provided my soul with true comfort and drive... "Even now it's hard, but Sendagimachi was hard too, wasn't it?" I said to S. "You were something else back then. Back then, you had eyes that always stayed perfectly still, as if fixed on a single spot." He stared into my eyes.

“When someone’s suffering, their eyes change color right away, don’t they?” I myself gradually came to understand how my eyes were growing fixed—how they took on a wild, brazen look, sometimes gleaming with cunning. With each instance, their clarity faded away. They were clearing only in a cold, murky manner. “You can tell most people by their eyes,” said S. “You see right through to their innermost depths.” He too had eyes that looked weary and strained. “Now look at O’s eyes,” he added. “They perfectly manifest that man’s character. Seemingly gentle yet harboring deep cunning—doesn’t it become clear right down to the core?”

O’s eyes, with their distinctive quality and expressions that shifted depending on whom he faced, always revealed turbid emotions. “He’s completely laid bare through his eyes,” he said. “But what do you think of H?” “H—” I replied, “he harbors a carnal filthiness and debauchery. Yet when he smiles, it emerges even more distinctly. At any rate, eyes that avoid meeting others’ gazes are contemptible. A man who affects an intense stare is one who nurses falsehood within.” “(O bears this trait.) Still, those who gaze calmly with their eyes—they possess an essential goodness of character—” he concluded, rising to his feet.

“Are you leaving?”

“I’ve stayed too long—I should take my leave.”

We parted ways.

When his footsteps faded beyond the entrance, I quietly contemplated my impoverished self from that era. S had rented an attic-like room, subsisted on nothing but bread, and grown gaunt. When I went, on a Western-style plate lay several slices—for him, the sole noble sustenance—roasted to a fox-brown color without butter. “Food?” “It’s food.” He began crunching on the powdery bread. “Will you have some too?” “I too am compelled by necessity.”

Laughing, the two of us began to eat in silence. The two of us found ourselves contemplating, quite unexpectedly, how we were each driven by separate anxieties in our lives. The question of how I could escape this suffering even reached me in my state of having no sustenance for tomorrow.

“Lately, I’ve become unable to laugh at prostitutes. I suppose it’s rather natural for uneducated women to descend into depravity to such an extent,” S said. I agreed.

“That’s true. At the very least, even if we were to cast off our bodies now, we’d still need money, you know.” “For women to obtain their sustenance from their own bodies is almost natural, don’t you think? When you dissect humans more primitively and think about it, especially in the case of women, isn’t there simply no other way but that?” “That’s true.” We fell silent together, and my friend looked out a different window. Despite the ardent longing for life always betraying us, we still yearned to somehow reach it.

“How do you feel when you see people living comfortably?” “For them, their very existence is destiny,” I answered. “I feel neither envy nor any special affection. However, it strengthens our confidence that those of us who are poor like us are in no way inferior to those people.” One must permit the existence of all beings. Even thieves or murderers—one cannot eradicate the fact that such beings arise out of necessity. Yet, one cannot love that fact. One cannot rejoice.

S, “At least there’s joy in the struggle until I achieve greatness. There must come a time when even this present suffering will be rewarded.” “Happiness seems to arrive all at once. Just as everything becomes painful in hard times, when things turn for the better, they can all improve at once.” I felt a burning, elevated passion within my heart. Just wait—I firmly believed there would come a time when those who tormented me, scorned me, and belittled me would each have to recognize my worth on their own.

We finished our meager meal.

…The events of that day now floated up vividly within me. Hunger too had ceased to be a problem when viewed through our blazing desires. It was a fierce era of germination—when they had to emerge, they would emerge unbidden.

I soon went to bed. With a prayer-like, almost harmonious heart toward my friends and myself, I fell quietly asleep.

One morning, I went to the zoo with Fujiko. Fujiko and I walked along the well-swept road of the park’s cherry tree rows, which had quickly taken on autumnal hues as soon as fall arrived. From over her pale blue unlined kimono, her slender neck supported her small head, appearing as though translucent like agate. We saw cranes. These long-necked, red-crowned animals would occasionally let out piercing, high-pitched cries toward the clear autumn sky. It seemed both like a cry of prayer and like a ceaseless, untiring eternal messenger whispering of earthly life toward heaven.

One aspect was how the swan’s legendary charm found expression in its pure, refined, and leisurely yet lofty gait.

There, two adorable fledglings were playing, fluffing up their soft gray garments.

“Uncle,” “Do cranes have babies too?” “That’s a baby crane, right?” “That’s right.” “All living things—even cranes—have children.” The crane stretched its long neck toward the girl. “So they come from eggs after all?” “They do.” The tiny fledglings wobbled about, clinging to their parent as they played. When fed, it would immediately carry the food over to its young.

We saw the elephant. This colossal creature with rock-like rough skin kept picking up straw and salted rice crackers, carrying them to its mouth to eat, revealing its gentle childlike nature to the watching onlookers. What caught my attention more than anything was when I saw—in this vast indoor space—an octagonal clock of extreme precision and solemnity ticking behind the elephant's coarse-skinned back, making me feel immediately unsettled. Moreover, I observed how the building's brickwork and the elephant's legendary fascination combined to create a truly exquisite harmony.

It evoked in us a clock that seemed drawn from the fairy tales of our childhood years, while through its contrast with such a primitive giant animal, it stirred a sense of anachronism—something one might call civilization versus barbarism.

“Do you like elephants, Miss Fujiko?” “They’re smelly. I hate them.” “But you must like them because they’re gentle, don’t you?”

“I hate them. Let’s go see the monkeys.” The monkeys chased each other, ran about, and fought within a fairly spacious cage. Their clever, lively antics amused everyone. Despite there being a sensation akin to gnawing frustration—a kind of hatred—the very spitefulness that seemed so innocently meant even provoked laughter among the people. I felt an eerie discomfort wondering how those people surrounding the cage and watching—despite being separated by just a single wire mesh—would feel if it were the monkeys observing them instead.

“The monkeys are adorable,” Fujiko remarked. “Why do you say that? They’re making such hateful faces, aren’t they?” “It’s not their faces. It’s because they do amusing things.” I could not immediately come up with a response. The fish exhibit delighted her. She gazed at the beautiful Dutch goldfish—their crimson tails and quivering fins like dear friends—with heartfelt affection entirely different from when she had observed the elephants, cranes, or monkeys.

“They’re truly beautiful.” She pointed at the gorgeously shimmering fish. I found something sickly and false in the coloration of these goldfish that I disliked—how their long tails and fins, which reminded me of prostitutes, shared something in common with humans, particularly with prostitutes themselves. At times, I even felt they were filthy. “Why do you dislike them, Uncle?”

“They glitter too much, don’t you think? I prefer black carp over those fish.” The carp remained motionless in the water, utterly composed as it quivered its tail and fins. Compared to those glittering goldfish, its magnificence stood out all the more and conveyed even a sense of quiet loneliness to my heart. Especially from our human perspective, the profound depth of the fish tribe—somehow tinged with loneliness—could be fully discerned even in this healthy creature. Those motionless eyes were so clear and pale blue, mysterious and mystical yet seemingly thoughtful, that they reminded me precisely of the heavy eyes of a cow.

Not only did salamanders and eels disgust Fujiko,

“Uncle, let’s leave. I get scared when I see fish like that,” they even made her say.

Under the shade of a large Japanese evergreen oak, a camel stretched its long neck beyond the fence. The red soil there dried to a whitish hue and looked scorching hot.

We saw the lions. We saw the tigers. Fujiko was frightened. I felt a strange longing for the beast—a desire to touch with my own hand the swelling flesh bulging beneath the tiger’s beautiful fur. Moreover, peering into a cage that posed no danger to myself, I felt secure yet found myself despicable for entertaining such fantasies.

Two leopards. It was as if gazing upon the endless depths of a beautiful velvet carpet, yet they frolicked ceaselessly with a soft luster, full of unrestrained freedom. Moreover, their long, spotted tails were freely coiled up like snakes or dragged across the floor. I conjured in an instant the landscapes where these beasts dwelled—the highlands, forests, shadowed valleys, and vast, desolate deserts. Under that lingering mood, I gazed at the radiance in their eyes—unmatched by any precious gem—and their crimson lips that never parted. There was a fierce, living beauty there, and that beauty poured ceaselessly into me with its rough breathing. The ideological essence of life dwelling within me—that innermost core perpetually devoted to work as if in ceaseless concentration—now quietly caused me to feel an intense joy, vivid as though it were whispering in communion with their souls.

Fujiko hurried me along. From this small hillock just below us appeared a scene reminiscent of San Francisco—waterfowl of various species shaping their varied cries into a unified chorus that ceaselessly clamored. We went there. The dazzling commotion of various species crying out, swimming, and flapping their wings here not only diminished the beautiful appreciation of each individual bird but also evoked something human—reminiscent of a crowd encountered one night somewhere. Or rather, amidst that chaotic jumble, I found myself growing restless, unable to fix my gaze on any single thing for long.

However，amidst that clamor，when I caught sight of a solitary heron walking slowly with its white crest held high，I found myself considerably calmed．The heron，which always seemed so lonely in marshes and waters，appeared to be solemnly maintaining its solitary existence amidst all this．We watched two polar bears lying quietly on their backs in water，gazing up with an almost unimaginable sense of strangeness and wonder．We saw them submerged there with an innocence like children swimming backstroke and an utterly carefree，liberated air．Their coats，white with spear-like sheen，glistened wet within moments．Moreover，when they emerged from water and shook themselves to fling off droplets，their truly magnificent，abundant pure white coats stood erect．

The feeling that began to well up within me as I gazed at these animals was partly the desolate air of the Arctic. It was a rare and wondrous spectacle—as if upon a vast sea of ice unobstructed by anything within view, a scene conjured in some liminal space between dream and reality. There was not a single green tree there. There existed in those profound depths of nature's artistry a severe coldness devoid of light, solemnly shaping human hearts' expressions even in imagination. There was a death-like desolation, terrifying in its barrenness, and a cluster of drifting icebergs.

Moreover, when seeing them living in this human world with such small water pots provided, within their expressions that had grown gentle lay a domesticated familiarity—the inherent kindness and affinity common to all living beings.

“Miss Fujiko. “This is an animal from the land of ice.”

And I whispered to her like a child. Anyone who spent time gazing upon these animals would come to feel a strange sense of harmonious intimacy—that peculiar animalistic closeness that mysteriously brings everything into alignment. We parted at this ice field. And we climbed a small hill. There was a bear that would bob up and down in bows whenever it saw humans. Whether he had become habitually degraded or been trained by a showman, he too bowed repeatedly before Fujiko without pause.

“My, what a clever Mr. Bear!” Fujiko said and gave it food. He perched on his hind legs, gripped the bars with his front paws, and bowed. Just as tigers and lions made endlessly circling their cages their occupation, so too did this pitiful bear seem to spend his days doing nothing but bowing. I smiled bitterly time and again.

I saw a cunning wolf. I saw a fox. Finally catching the scent of a peculiar stench permeating the zoo and an oppressive air that seemed to weigh heavily on one's head, I thought anyone here would inevitably feel both tenacious phantoms of creatures clinging to them and a ceaselessly fantastical childlike innocence. When she had already begun her homeward journey, I noticed she had grown far more vivacious than when we'd set out, her eyes now sparkling with life. That they carried this intensely fantastical light was indeed true.

“Wasn’t it interesting?” I asked. “Mr. Bear’s bowing was so funny,” she said. “What I like most are rabbits.” “I like those red eyes best.” She said something so girlish. “The one I hate most is—” “There was a fire-eating bird, wasn’t there?” “That’s the one I hate most.”

We emerged from the park onto Yanaka's streets. "Miss Fujiko, when are you returning to your hometown?" "I don’t know yet. But it'll be soon. You’ll stay in that house over there all along, won’t you?" "I’ll probably be there." "It’d be so dull if I left, wouldn’t it? I’ll send you a letter when I go to Kagoshima. I really will." "Please do send them. I’ll send them too." "Yes. I definitely will. And then, after about a year passes, Father will come back to Tokyo with everyone this time."

“That sounds wonderful.” “By then, trains will probably be running to Nezu.” “Since it’ll be completed next year, they’ll surely start running.” We stood on the slope overlooking Nezu’s valley town spread below, listening to vendors’ lonesome cries rising through the approaching evening bustle. Smoke drifting from those clustered houses crept low across everything, rendering all especially melancholy and somber.

The fact that this girl would no longer be in that house made me feel as though I were losing a friend—and because she was so small and delicate, the loneliness seemed all the more profound.

"When Father comes back, let's all go to the botanical garden together." "Oh. I will." When we returned home, the woman we called Mother expressed her gratitude for today's great kindness and took her leave. I waited alone for the delivered, unappetizing dinner. The feeling of waiting for that dinner always cast a gloom over me. It was nothing but poor fare that arrived punctually from town. I would often spread it out on my desk alone. Even as I did so, because I possessed a great power to believe in myself, I told myself that my current life would surely make me a better person. When I thought of Dostoevsky on his travels without even tea to drink, Verlaine’s endless wandering between love and hunger, Millet’s destitution, Michelangelo’s suffering—the paths of such predecessors—I instead felt in the direction they pointed a radiant light, hope, and life. I felt I must endure each hardship required to approach the happiness, joy, and birth of art still yet to come—gazing ahead at them as one might contemplate a mountain range. Night fell.

One day, someone came to my house. When I went out to look, it was a policeman. In that instant, the agonizing events of that summer came flooding back to me. But that was my own delusion. The policeman had come to check the family register. When he left, I felt the pain of an old wound. Not only that, I feared those who came seeking me. Whenever footsteps passed beneath the window, my entire nervous system would prickle with an electric jolt and tremble. At the same time, a small unease would well up within me like a fit of purposeless terror. At such times, I was not only startled enough to drop my pen—merely contemplating who might be behind those unsettling footsteps filled me with discomfort and a profound loneliness.

In such times, I often had Fujiko answer the door.

“Uncle isn’t home right now,” I would often hear her voice carrying to where I was. “When is he here? He never comes anyway.” When I heard that deep voice, I realized he was the creditor to whom I owed money. I had thought through day and night for his sake, but it was a debt beyond remedy. For me, there were now circumstances that made it utterly impossible to fulfill that obligation.

"But Uncle is here when he's here." "You can come again next time." "Then please tell him I came by." "I'm counting on you."

He promptly left from near the window. “He left his card.” Fujiko showed it to me. I turned my face away with an unpleasantness as though confronted by the creditor’s harsh, cold visage. I thanked Fujiko. “Thank you very much.” “I hate people like that. Because he keeps staring all around the house,” she said, furrowing her brows. But why did I have to make this innocent girl tell a lie? I should have given a proper explanation myself. Even though she remained indifferent, from what a petty place in my heart did I have to offer those words of temporary evasion. I apologized in my heart to this girl’s soul. Once I pass through this present time of hardship, I will never harm anyone other than myself. To me as well, the “time” for the proper fulfillment of beautiful obligations will surely come. While thinking this way, I thanked Fujiko for her kindness.

But they were people who, as written in the Bible, had to repay every last penny—and so too had to exact every last penny. They came to see me frequently. I lived with an extremely anxious heart. Fujiko finally grew angry, “If Uncle’s out, he’s out! I don’t know! If you open that, Uncle will scold me!” she would sometimes shout in a high voice.

Each time, they were driven away for the sake of this kind girl. Leaning against my desk, I teared up whenever I heard her voice like that. I couldn’t even properly express my gratitude to her.

“Uncle.” “They’ve already left.” “There, that should do.” She peered into my face. At such times, she too would inexplicably look sad.

“Thank you.”

I said and turned my face away. Tears that could not be restrained overflowed.

One day, S came to visit, bringing a small framed portrait in the style of a hand sketch.

I saw it. It was a portrait of Fujiko, drawn with such depth of expression that one might almost think her gentle breath was captured within it. “It looks just like her—to have captured this after only seeing her once.” I was astonished by how his fierce insights always pierced straight to the soul of things. “The moment I saw that child’s face, I felt as though something like a flower had been hurled at me—that soft color can’t exist except in such children—a true color without any taint.”

His eyes burned with a feverish intensity. “You suddenly grasp the essence so well.” “For me, rather than spending a long time looking, the first impression reflects most accurately.”

Just then, footsteps sounded at the front entrance. The moment I thought it might be them, my heart started racing. I hated those persistent creditors who came nearly every day. "Hey, sounds like someone's here." "Go check," said S. I replied in a low voice, "They're creditors." "They come almost daily—it's unbearable." "Ah—so that's why you're grateful Fujiko-san keeps shooing them off. Got any way to pay?"

“I can’t manage anything for the time being—it’s really a problem.” “Just wait.” “I’ll go out and talk to them for you.”

S went out. A drawn-out argument could be heard. The sharpness of S’s voice mingled with the other party’s dull, evasive mutterings until eventually S returned and, “I’ll step out for a moment,” he said. “I’ll have him wait outside—don’t you meet him.” “But where are you going? I’ll handle it myself soon enough—just let it be.” “No—he’s spouting things that grate on my nerves.” “Wait here.”

He went outside. While intuitively sensing that S had gone to procure money, I felt pained at having made this friend worry. As a man of S’s temperament—once he set his mind to something, he couldn’t rest until seeing it through nor stop himself—such was his intensity. I passed an anxious, prickling stretch of time. Outside stood a man who occasionally seemed to pace the area. Those listless footsteps shuffled back and forth in fixed patterns, each one weighing heavier until they stifled my breath.

S returned.

He said something to the man outside and,

"As long as I get what's owed me, I won't say another word," I heard. "Then go home now," said S. "Bear in mind you shouldn't wound people's feelings over trifles." S entered my room. "I've sent him packing. I paid him off, so set your mind at ease."

“I see.” I noticed he wasn’t wearing the haori he cherished. “The haori—”

He flushed slightly, "I turned it into cash. How could I just stand by and watch you being tormented by those bastards?" "You didn’t have to go that far, but I’m truly sorry."

We sat there together, suppressing the kind of agitated emotions that typically follow such incidents. S wore a serene expression of having accomplished his intended purpose as he stared fixedly at the portrait on the wall. I felt deep gratitude even while weighed down by something oppressive in my heart. We remained seated like that for a long time, mutually avoiding each other's gaze. Anxious about appearing overly sentimental, S would occasionally glance restlessly at the wall painting or peer out the window. I myself suffered acutely from how my heart continued losing its balance—thrown into disarray by my friend's well-meaning yet excessively radical methods.

S suddenly, “Why don’t we have a drink—it’s been ages,” he said.

I, too, felt that this might be necessary to break through the heavy silence.

We went out into the streets as dusk approached. A short distance from my house, there was a slope leading down to Nezu, with cherry trees forming rows on both sides. Around Hongō Heights, the quiet faint light of an autumn day still lingered. We no longer went to S酒場. At a small café on the street corner, we began to sip our cups. "If you emerge into society first, I'll plant myself in your territory." “You’ll take me under your wing then, won’t you?”

He raised his flushed face. “I’d be glad to. “Even if you’re first, it’ll be the same.” “So one of us will make it first, huh?” “And you know, “I feel like I’ll be able to emerge into society before long. “Because I feel that even having suffered alone would compel me to emerge.” “That’s true. “We’ve been too quiet. “We’ll never forget each other, right?” As we talked, we felt our hearts had completely melted together.

“Thinking about what lies ahead excites me. You must feel the same way.” “I want to break through—even a day sooner.”

While talking in this way, we soon emerged onto the streets. The vibrant attire of every nighttime thoroughfare gleamed brilliantly, longing for whatever grazed our robust frames. Tonight, even the figures of beautiful, sturdy women out strolling appeared particularly serene to my eyes of their own accord. “The women look absurdly beautiful tonight,” “And not a single disagreeable one among them.” “They all have such kind faces.”

S looked delightedly at the white or graceful shoulders and hairstyles of passing women. As if some commander had sent down these varied women to earth to dispense ample solace for the lonely, none of the usual standoffish types or those perpetually wearing disagreeable expressions walked about. A perfectly harmonized celestial night—radiant with freshly bestowed novelty—shone upon every street we traversed.

It was, as S had said, an evening that made you “want to kiss everyone,” and also one that made you “want to lay bare your heart and speak with all.” One person’s joy is never confined to that person alone. It must be something quietly shared between people during those moments when human beings remain unaware. Beyond hearts and nerves, there must exist another realm—subtle spiritual things unknown even to fellow humans—secretly whispering to one another. Just as there must be an invisible commander, there must exist a world inhabited solely by spirits.

“Let’s go to S Bar and see,” said S. “Let’s go see that child’s face there.” I immediately felt a gloom come over me, yet I also wanted to know how that girl was doing. It had been ages since we last went. When we entered the bar filled with those ominous thoughts, there was a young woman we’d never seen before. At first glance, she struck me as flimsy and disagreeable.

“It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it?” said the proprietress as she emerged. We ordered drinks. Yet something felt incomplete. Of course, this was because the girl who should have been sitting there as usual was absent, but with no other customers either, the place was profoundly quiet.

I asked the proprietress.

“What happened to the girl who was here before?” “She isn’t here today either.” The proprietress,

“That girl? She’s a little unwell and is resting.” “What kind of illness is it?”

“It seems to be an unpleasant illness. We’re quite troubled ourselves, you see,” she said, knitting her brows. Those cheeks were cold, and they didn’t seem likely to show much compassion for such a small patient. “That’s so pitiful.”

S looked at my face. Immediately—just by imagining that narrow chest of hers—I felt I could grasp her illness emaciated like a crane’s frame; all at once my mood sank heavily. “Is it quite severe?” asked S, “She’s been bedridden three weeks now,” came the reply. “The doctor says it’s grave.” S and I exchanged looks again. That small soul—now vividly surfaced in my mind. The ever-present kind smile she wore contrasted starkly with those large sorrowful eyes of hers—calm yet perpetually on edge.

S and I paid extra beyond our bill and said, "Please buy something that girl would like," then went outside.

We emerged onto the street. We both walked on in low spirits.

“That girl looks like she’s going to die. “That girl will surely die—” S declared with absolute conviction.

“I think so too. It’ll surely be soon. That girl had a kind of religious quality—though I can’t clearly say what exactly it was—a solemnity that resided in her features. That much is certain.” Even as I said this, I recalled her appearance—always looking sorrowful, sometimes dozing off. Her peaceful naps, stolen in the intervals between the proprietress’s scoldings—to me, those moments seemed like that girl’s happiest. At such times—the guiltless beauty of her startling awake and flashing a smile—that too came back to me.

“If that girl dies, I’d like to send some flowers or something.” “But I wouldn’t want to seem too meddlesome.”

“Right. Flowers seem a bit off, don’t you think? But whether it’s you or me, we should pray for that girl. Though I hate how deliberate the word ‘pray’ sounds—still, I want to pray for her.”

I wholeheartedly agreed. For that woman who had walked the flowerless path of her brief, painful life, I wanted to quietly bless that child in my heart. The two of them had reached the edge of the pond before they knew it. The lotus had already begun to wither, and the moisture-laden wind carried a faint chill.

On Hirokoji Avenue，the two of them parted ways. After walking a few steps，S，as if remembering something，suddenly came running back， “Let’s part with a handshake tonight.” “Isn’t that fine？”

“Very well.” The two shook hands like interlocking keys. I had always called Fujiko Bontan—Bontan. Somehow I’d felt this naming better conveyed that girl’s inner state.

“Bontan.” “Come here.”

Whenever I called her out to the garden, without fail, "Bontan, what is it?" Over there, she too would call me by repeating "Bontan." "Mother. Uncle calls me... Bontan—isn't that funny?" She would often laugh and say to her mother.

Then again, when I was studying, she would immediately come to the window, “Bontan, what are you doing?” she would sometimes say. “Uncle. When I go back to Kagoshima, I’ll definitely send you Bontan. Be sure to tell Father that. I promise.” She promised.

“When you peel the skin, the inside turns purple, and it gives off such a lovely smell. “Uncle, have you ever eaten one—?” “I never have.” “Right. “I’ll send you one eventually.” “I’ll hold you to that.” I promised, laughing. “You’ll still be here until then, won’t you?” “I certainly will be. “I’ll be waiting for Bontan to arrive.” As we chattered away like children, Fujiko glanced toward the entrance,

“Uncle, someone’s here. It’s that awful man. I’m going over there,” she whispered. “Oh? Come back later then,” I said. I was immediately seized by anxiety. Lately, I had come to feel this foreboding whenever someone visited. Today, it struck me with particular force.

“Forgive me,” came a deep voice.

I went to the entrance. There stood a man in black cotton haori and hakama, his face dark-complexioned with deep-set eyes. When I stepped out, "Are you Mr. Murou?" he said. "I—" "That’s correct." "And who might you be?" When I said that, he took out a business card. When I took it and looked, it read "Komagome Police Station Special Investigations Division Detective ××." I felt an unpleasant sensation down my back like cold water had been poured over me.

“What brings you here? Please come in regardless.” “Then I’ll take you up on that,” he said, entering the room. He scrutinized my space thoroughly. His gaze remained fixed on everything around us, conducting sharp, meticulous inspections. At times, it would dart rapidly from one focal point to another. “Have you been writing anything recently?” “Nothing of particular note worth discussing...”

“I see. Haven’t you been publishing a magazine yourself by any chance?” “No. I haven’t published anything at all.” “I see.”

He calmly puffed on his cigarette. I couldn’t quite grasp what he had come to investigate. But it seemed he had indeed come here because of that recent incident at S Bar.

“Wasn’t it because of your poem that the magazine called ×× was banned?” I felt a chill run through me. It seemed my poem “Express Train” had been prohibited for corrupting public morals. “That might be so. I can’t say for certain.” “What’s it about?” “It’s a poem about a certain kind of love affair. Just a trivial thing.” Disgust welled up in me. I didn’t want these people understanding my poem.

He changed tack, "I hear the matter regarding S Bar the other day has been settled out of court." “Oh… I ended up doing something foolish.” He seemed calm and unhurried, which frustrated me. I wanted to return to work quickly. I wished he would leave soon.

“Do you drink quite heavily?” “Only a little. I don’t drink every day.” “People often err when drinking. You ought to show more restraint.” “No—I’ve inconvenienced you enough. You needn’t concern yourself with my visiting again,” I said as he departed. After seeing him out, I felt how those night’s events would forever cling about me—perpetually overshadowing my mood and work, casting gloom upon my being.

I stood at the window for a long time. I felt detestable—this terror of being utterly ensnared, this unrelenting criminal dread—that would continue assailing me even two months hence. To escape these torturous thoughts, I contemplated traveling.

Just then, Bontan arrived.

“The guest has left...” “He’s gone.” “Uncle’s friend…? That person...” “No, that’s not it. He’s nobody important.” “Uncle, you dislike that person, right? Uncle was making such an unpleasant face.”

“Well, I suppose I do dislike him.—”

I looked into this sensitive girl's eyes. These eyes, I thought, were precisely the ones that could intuitively discern truth from falsehood.

I suddenly thought of my sister. I thought of my sister, enveloped in her gentle soul.

"I should just return to my home country," I thought. "And I must rest my head a little."

I thought.

Yes. Now I would part with everything and go to that deep green country. With this thought I quietly surveyed my room.

“Miss Fujiko. I’ll return home before you do,” I said. “Really? It’ll be so dreary if Uncle goes back.” “But you’re returning too, Miss Fujiko.” “Yes.”

"Then you can just come back to Tokyo again." "That's right." "Then will Uncle return to Tokyo too?" "Yeah." "In about a year." "Then we can play together again."

When Fujiko left, I went to see S. S was working in the attic. “I intend to return to my home country for about a year. I’ve somehow become terribly tired,” I said, staring at my friend’s face.

S gazed back steadily,

“That’s right. Go rest for a while. You’ll surely regain your strength.” “It’s a good season now.”

“Don’t stay too long. Make sure to come back as soon as possible,” he said. “And then, “If you get too accustomed to the countryside, it’ll do you no good—so make sure to come back before long. Work can be done even in the countryside, you know.” “I think I’ll stay until around next spring.” “That’s for the best.”

I bid farewell to S and returned.

I wanted to return to the countryside even a day sooner. While packing my modest belongings, I tucked away S's paintings and H's sketches into my bag as keepsakes from my time in the capital. Then I made some trivial purchases at Aokidō in Hongō. Amidst this flurry of petty errands and hurry, I felt both the delight of soon returning to my autumn-steeped hometown and the ache of parting from this metropolis.

Bontan came.

“So. Mother said, ‘Please don’t eat dinner and come over.’ That’s what she told me.” “Yes—she’s treating me.” “Huh? Since it’s a farewell—there’s something special.” “Then please tell your mother I’ll come over without hesitation.” “Huh?”

She left.

When I checked the timetable, there was a direct train at 9:30. I decided I would board it tonight and depart.

After a while, Fujiko came to pick me up. “Please come with me.” She happily pulled my hand and led me to the room. Her mother said, “So you’re departing tonight. It’s quite sudden that you’re returning home.” “Since I had resolved to go, I decided to return home abruptly.”

The mother arranged various items on the low dining table while,

“It’s truly a shame, just when we’ve finally become acquainted,” she said.

Fujiko,

“Uncle is here. Next is Keisou, then me—is this okay?” she said to her mother.

"Ah, that's perfectly fine," she said, turning to me now, "It's nothing special, but I've prepared this as a farewell token—please do partake." She spoke in a quiet, pleasant tone with a faint regional lilt. "Then I'll partake."

I moved toward the low dining table. During that long period when I had always eaten alone, becoming part of this small beautiful family and sharing meals with them quietly warmed and softened my heart. Fujiko giggled happily while glancing at my face and scolding her brother. The mother, “As we too will be returning home by month’s end, I shall have my husband send you a letter as well—but please do keep in touch with us,” she said while providing her address.

“I’m truly the one who received so much kindness from you. Please do convey my regards to your husband.” Fujiko turned her small face toward her mother and said: “Uncle! I’ll send you letters too! It’s all right, isn’t it Mother?” Her mother smiled and replied: “You must practice writing properly so Uncle won’t laugh at your letters.”

“Huh? “I’ll definitely write, okay? “You’ll send me letters too, won’t you?” “I certainly will.” We finished a leisurely dinner with Fujiko at the center. I soon bid farewell and returned to my room.

The car arrived.

At the gate, Fujiko, her brother, and her mother had come out to see me off on my lonely journey.

To the mother, “Well then, I must take my leave now. Please give my regards to your husband.” “Please take care of yourself.”

The mother too wore an expression that seemed to commiserate with my difficult life as she saw me off, placing her hand on Fujiko’s shoulder. “Fujiko-san. I’ve caused you so much trouble,” I said as I boarded the car.

“Uncle.” “Let’s play together again next year, okay?”

“Ah, let’s play together again. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

We parted ways.

Fujiko, who had been cheerful until now, teared up in a girlish manner as the car began to move and suddenly pressed her face against her mother’s obi. While letting out low, muffled sobs—.

On October 3, Meiji 44 (1911), I made my first exile from the capital. When December came, I received a letter from her father, Mr. Yamamoto Tsubakiso. When I opened it, it stated that Fujiko had contracted an intestinal disease and passed away. It expressed gratitude for the kindnesses shown during her lifetime and added that Fujiko had always spoken of "the long-haired uncle."

I looked at that letter and felt violent tears. Then I pressed my hands together in prayer toward her soul—now hollow—that had been my little savior.

Elegy Beneath the tree where Bontan ripens, sleep. When I think of Bontan, tears flow Bontan died in distant Kagoshima Bontan, nine years old

Eyes are pearls

Bontan was cherished by all

Iroha ni hohe ra ri ru re ro

Ah ra ri ru re ro

Those dear hands too have gone to a distant place. The heavenly mother has sought and taken her away. Your uncle

Searching for you at the sparrow's lodging Won't Fujiko come? Is Fujiko not here?

This is a chapter from an elegy I wrote for a certain magazine at that time—