Pathway to Japanese Literature

October 1919

I lived freely with my father, nearing seventy, in the secluded inner temple of our lonely temple grounds. By then, I was already seventeen.

Father loved tea. While gazing at the shadows of fresh zelkova leaves swaying over damp moss in the inner garden, I would often sit around the small tea hearth with Father. Even on sweltering summer days, sitting there with him transformed the kettle's deep, reverent hum into something cool and refreshing. With practiced hands, Father would take up the tea whisk and stir vigorously yet precisely inside the heavy Nanban-imported bowl—quietly, yet with a delicate tremor. In moments, the dark green liquid became foam like powdered gold—pure white and impossibly fine—possessing weight without heaviness, its noble aroma steeped in elegance permeating our minds.

At that time—though partly because it had become habitual—I hadn’t yet reached the point of quietly savoring that thick liquid with devotion, but I had come to love this drink with its strangely intertwined bitterness and sweetness. When I let it rest motionless on my tongue and tasted it carefully, something settled would gradually permeate my spirit—just as Father always said—and my heart would grow calm each time. “You’ve become quite skilled at drinking tea… When did you learn that?” Father would say.

“I ended up learning it without even realizing.” “When I see you drinking it every day like always, doesn’t it just naturally make sense?”

“That’s true too. It’s best to commit everything to memory.”

At such times, Father would take out various old tea bowls and show them to me. Many were old Kutani blues said to be close to first-generation pieces, black-lacquered stoneware resembling corroded artifacts, and bold Chinese pieces in yellow and green—all polished over decades by the pure patina and luster from countless tea gatherings. I couldn’t comprehend such things, but it was indeed true that Father’s affection for ceramics had gradually, without my realizing it, instilled in me a fondness for pottery despite my continued lack of understanding.

Father took out from among them an old tea bowl in pale egg-yellow suited for a woman’s use,

“This should be yours,” he said, placing it in my hands. I placed it in the corner of the tea shelf and was happy to make it my own.

Father had what one might call the youthful countenance of an immortal, his eyebrows long and white. In the intervals between his quiet sutra chanting, he would make tea, practice calligraphy, flip through calendars, polish Buddhist implements—spending his days in diligent industry. After losing his wife in his youth, he had lived out quiet, lonely days with a single manservant. On days when tea was prepared, well water wouldn’t do—its texture too coarse—so in the mornings... “You there—I know it’s a chore, but fetch me a bucketful without any debris.”

As if concerned I might find it bothersome, he always sent me to fetch water from the Sai River out back. This Sai River, as significant here as the Sumida River in Tokyo, possessed a fine-grained softness honed by its rapids—a quality indispensable on tea days. At such times, I would take my bucket and immediately go out to the shallows. There were stone steps leading from the garden to the shallows, and from there one could reach the river. The upper reaches of this Sai River were a continuation of Mount Dainichi, part of the Hakusan range, its waters clear through all four seasons, the rapids said to possess a particularly beautiful sound. I would thrust the bucket into the clear shallows and draw the first morning water, as always. While gazing at the Hida mountain range looming solidly behind the peaks of the upstream mountains through the mist, I would draw and replace the water in the new bucket time and again. Even after finishing drawing the water, whenever I saw the splendid new stream flowing steadily onward, I would neurotically draw it again and again, convinced that what flowed now was even more vivid and beautiful than what I had just fetched.

At this hour every morning on the opposite bank, the brewery workers had already begun drawing water. The workers, stripped naked, shouldered two buckets filled to overflowing on a carrying pole and headed toward town. On quiet mornings, water spilling from the buckets would catch the light, glittering in the new morning sun like white blades. In my hometown, a refined and delicious sake called Kikusui, imbued with a beautiful taste and made from this river’s water, was produced. From these shallows, the temple where I lived was clearly visible. Flanked by two tall Tsuga trees on either side, the great zelkova and maple that spread over the main hall stretched their branches thickly toward the river, nearly skimming the water’s surface. There, where the runoff from the irrigation channel had deeply eroded the riverbed, forming a murky, deeply blue pool. There were times when I would notice people fishing for ayu and rockfish, hunched over the gabions there, silently spending their days angling.

Father would place the first water I had drawn into the brass urn that had been carefully washed each time and offer it in the main hall. He had made it his custom to release it into the river at sunset. The remaining water was transferred to the tea kettle. Around nine in the morning, the kettle in Father’s sitting room would begin to hum quietly—particularly in winter, through the sliding doors, it would produce a sound like distant winds through pines or, quite literally, a passing shower. At such times, Father would sit as composedly as a statuette, tilting his head slightly as if considering the water’s temperature. In summer, clad in a pure white hemp kimono, his figure—with crane-like thin hands resting on his knees—appeared too lonely, verging on solemn. Apart from when fellow monks would occasionally visit, he usually spent his days in silence in the tea room.

After quitting school, I spent my days in the Inner Temple keeping company with the books I loved. Since I kept failing at school, my kind father had told me studying at home would amount to the same thing—a blessing I gladly accepted—and so I holed up in my room all day like a young recluse.

At that time, I was subscribing to the poetry magazine *Shinsei*, and when I submitted my first poem, it was immediately accepted. It was selected by Mr. K.K. I went daily to the bookstore in Katamachi to check on this often-delayed magazine. Having a poem published in *Shinsei*’s poetry column was difficult for provincials like me—without genuine talent, it was nearly impossible. Yet if one were published there, one could undoubtedly establish oneself as a poet—a status that could be reliably attained, especially in the provinces. On my way to the bookstore, my heart would grow agitated over whether it would be published or not, and alone, I would turn pale and flush.

“*Shinsei*?” “It hasn’t arrived yet.” “I’ll deliver it when it comes.” The bookstore clerk said these things with an icy expression, as though my poem had been rejected outright. Each time this happened, “Oh. Right.” I would reply awkwardly and hastily retreat.

“Oh. Right,” I said awkwardly, hurrying back. On such days I would be left in gloomy disappointment, but once dawn broke, I couldn’t stay calmly in my room without going to the bookstore in the morning to confirm whether *Shinsei* had arrived. I stood before the bookstore, scanning through all the new magazines from start to finish. Even after realizing it hadn’t arrived, I couldn’t shake the thought—what if the shipment had come but remained unopened? (Such things had happened before.) Until I asked directly, I couldn’t rest.

“You,” I asked, flushing crimson. “Has *Shinsei* not arrived yet?” “I was just about to deliver it to your residence,” said the clerk. “Would you like to take it now?” “Oh—I’ll take it.” When I received the magazine, my heart began hammering. After turning past the inn’s corner into back alleys, I threw open to the table of contents. The names of renowned poets and novelists clashed in my skull—and there, sandwiched between those luminaries, my poem stood in regimented square type, steadfastly stamped with my name despite my certainty of rejection. My face burned as if blood had surged to my scalp; my ears burned fiercely.

My fingertips trembled as I turned the pages, and I kept turning the same pages over and over. I was so flustered that I couldn’t even turn to the page with my own poem. When I finally reached the page with my poem, I saw myself there—displaying a grandeur unlike my present self within a magnificent world I had never before witnessed, sitting as if clad in armor from head to toe. The fact that my poem now appeared within its pages—in this double folio edition found only in Tokyo magazines—felt miraculous, like something out of a dream. While my eyes were dazzled by the July sun glaring off the white streets, I could not remember from where or how I had walked, which town I had reached, or whom I had met. I walked as if in a dream and, before I knew it, arrived at the temple gate.

I entered my room, placed the magazine on the desk, and remained dazed for a while, overwhelmed by joy. With eyes that saw nothing in particular, I gazed at the shallows beyond the shoji, a faint smile playing on my lips. From the shallows, the large bridge was visible. Pedestrians passed by incessantly. It was then that I first recalled having just crossed the large bridge—indeed, how distinctly different the feel of my geta against the ground had been. However, I still couldn’t recall which path I had taken.

As I alternately placed the magazine on the desk and picked it up to read—though I knew I absolutely had to tell Father—I felt intensely embarrassed yet couldn’t hold back from speaking. I entered Father’s room carrying the magazine. “Something I wrote has been published in a Tokyo magazine. This one.”

And I took out *Shinsei*. “I see. That’s well-balanced.” “If you work hard, you can do anything.” “Show me.” Father tried reading my poem but looked as though he didn’t understand it. He read it over and over, “It’s like an old Chinese poem.” “Hmm. I wonder if it’s different from that.” “Well, it’s much the same thing.”

I forced a bitter smile. When I returned to my room, I could now clearly realize the fact that my poem had been published in the magazine I so revered. And then I thought that everyone who read that magazine must surely be paying attention to my work. The people of this hometown, and even the young women nearby, must surely be reading my poem. I felt such a brilliant, irrepressible exhilaration—as though I had become the dazzling focus of the entire world’s attention and admiration—that I even thought of rushing into the garden to shout at the top of my lungs. It seemed to me that there was absolutely no one in this hometown worthy of properly critiquing the merits and flaws of my poetry. I thought for the first time that I could allow myself to believe I was the most outstanding poet in my hometown.

From the very next day, I was able to live an immensely pleasant life. I wrote poetry every day. While clinging to my desk, driven by this imperative that I must somehow become great, there were days I spent staring fixedly at a single spot in the garden, my heart filled with restlessness and groundless tremors. Then I wrote a long letter to the editor Mr. K.K., conveying that I had no intention of remaining in my current insignificance and that I wished to devote nearly my entire life henceforth to writing poetry. Mr. K.K., due to his intense day-and-night drinking, was a man who had spent his youth as a socialist and even published a socialist poetry collection. A reply came.

“A poet like you is rare. I expect great things from you, so do not neglect your poetry,” it read. Then came a postcard written in unadorned, blurred ink-brush writing that seemed to say, “May passion be with the poet raised on the rough shores of the north,” as if penned in some tavern. I deeply respected the editor’s passion. At that time, a new colloquial poetry movement was beginning to emerge in literary circles, but toward Mr. K.K.’s uncompromisingly earnest passion—which did not chase trends—I held deep respect and affection that surpassed even my regard for his artistry.

What does the fish of indigo hues grieve, It gazes up at the sky all day long, The sky shimmers across the water’s surface, The fish’s yearning remains unfulfilled.

Alas, the sky and water lie far apart— The fish take turns gazing skyward. (July 1904 [Meiji 37], debut work)

Around that time, there was a friend named Hyou Chokei who, like me, was writing poetry. This friend lived in a place called Nishimachi at the center of town. On the third day after sending me a letter expressing his desire to associate, this stranger of a friend came to visit my temple. Hyou had cheeks with an unexpectedly cute roundness that clashed with his large frame, and was a quiet man who spoke little. He was seventeen, the same age as me. We quickly became close friends.

I too went to visit this new friend right away. Living with his older sister and mother in a household of three, my friend’s room on the second floor had a desk placed by a window where young persimmon leaves rustled with vibrant freshness. Magazines titled *Shinsei* and *Bunko* were stacked on the desk.

“I read your poem in *Shinsei* and was impressed.” “I thought it was extremely well done!” With that, he showed me his tanka poems. “The wheat ears have grown through your robes to pierce your skin— Now then, let us part ways.” The two poems—*“The sun hangs crimson—each soul bears its solemn grief Tears fall where sacred sorrows heave”*—left me astonished. I rejoiced that a friend who composed such splendid, beautiful, and skillful poems existed in this hometown besides myself. At the same time, I thought *have grown through your robes to pierce your skin* was masterfully done. Most of Hyou’s works harbored within them a moist richness of sentiment—a weight and warmth that felt almost tangible. Not only did the relative noun “you” catch my attention, but I also thought that since he used “you,” there must certainly be a lover.

Hyou was constantly writing letters and sending them to women. And he received letters from several women as well. He often showed them to me.

“Why do you get so many chances to get close to women?”

Feeling a pang of loneliness, I asked, “Women? I can befriend them in no time.” “I’ll introduce you to some too,” he said offhandedly. “Set me up with one too.”

When I blurted this out, he said, “Wait a while longer.”

One day, Hyou and I went to the theater. We were on the second floor. Hyou kept restlessly going down to the lower level and coming back up— “That woman’s rather pretty, don’t you think?” “I just sent her a letter.” “She’ll reply tomorrow.” He gestured with his chin toward the masu seating area. From the side, I glimpsed the white nape and plump cheeks of a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girl with a peach-parted hairstyle—likely a students’ school attendee. Beside her sat a woman who appeared to be her mother, while before them lay an elaborate spread of tiered boxed meals—the sort traditionally used for leisure excursions in this castle town since ages past.

“How did you even get the letter to her? You didn’t actually take it over there yourself, did you?” “Ah, come on—most women will accept a letter, you know.” “But if that woman tells her mother, what will you do?”

“As if she’d tell!” “She won’t say a thing.” “If she were to blurt out something that foolish, she’d only end up getting scolded by her mother instead.” “See? She turned this way, didn’t she?” “She’s dying to read the letter.” Indeed, the fair-skinned girl, feigning ignorance, occasionally stole glances in our direction. I was startled, but Hyou remained calm. The girl with eyes somehow both mysterious and approachable kept glancing toward the second floor—maintaining her pretense of indifference all the while—though her attention clung more persistently to Hyou than to me.

“I’ll have that woman come over during the next intermission.” “She’s a woman from my neighborhood.” “Of course she knows too.” “But how exactly are you going to get her to come?” “She’s sitting right there with her mother.” “Just wait and see.” Hyou calmly told me to wait for the next act’s curtain to rise, so I stared at the girl’s peach-split hairstyle and the ornate drum nearby. That meek and timid girl had even received a letter from the friend now beside me—a near miracle in itself—yet Hyou’s claim that he would summon her here struck me as an equally unbelievable mystery. Hyou appeared offhand with women, yet in truth always possessed the ability to pierce through to the deepest strata of their schemes. He never made advances toward anyone but unmarried women and had often said that with virgins, things were usually safe.

“If it’s no good, it’s no good from the start.” “If she shows even the slightest displeasure or doesn’t let you hold her hand, no matter how desperately you try, it’s no good.” “I’d just drop her.” “And besides, beautiful women are easier to handle anyway.”

“Wouldn’t that make it even harder?”

I asked in return. “If a pretty woman hasn’t had a few flings by now, she’s been doted on since childhood—that makes her accustomed to men and easier to handle.” Hyou made a serious face. “Is that how it is—I always thought the opposite was true.”

I felt there was a kernel of truth in Hyou’s words.

“That’s why beautiful women usually fall into depravity—from my experience, I can surely cut off the bad ones.”

While we were whispering among ourselves, the curtain was drawn. Hyou had been staring fixedly at the noisy, dust-filled masu seats but suddenly stood up and headed toward the corridor. And he remained standing for a long time outside the enclosure of the box seats, slightly apart from the woman’s masu. As I watched with my heart pounding, the woman talked to her mother while casting glances toward Hyou. Hyou made a peculiar scooping motion with his right hand near his knee, performing a kind of secret beckoning gesture. The woman was visibly flustered—so much so that even I could tell—her restlessness evident as she stared blankly at the curtain one moment, then suddenly glanced anxiously toward Hyou the next. The flustered timidity of those attitudes—timid yet brimming with fear—appeared to me infinitely tender. Hyou, for his part, persisted with his bewitching gestures—beckonings so subtle that the other theatergoers could scarcely discern their intent. For a while, the woman hesitated so intensely that she ended up half-rising from her seat, but suddenly stood and slipped out toward the corridor. She was a woman of tall stature with a slender neck. At that moment, Hyou also immediately hurried off toward the corridor where the woman had gone out.

From the moment the girl stood up, I felt blood flood my head—an excitement so intense it choked my breath. And then I wanted to go straight to Hyou’s side. Somehow that girl seemed pitiable beyond bearing, and I could no longer keep sitting. I tried to stand and go downstairs, torn between feeling I shouldn’t go yet compelled to move—so unsteady with dizziness that I ceased feeling like myself.

At that moment, Hyou returned. With his usual gentle eyes and a voice that trembled slightly, as if charged with excitement, “We’ve already become close. Were you watching?”

"Yeah." "I just... talked a little." "Tomorrow then." "She said she'd send the reply from earlier."

I fell silent. Hyou too, with me right there, wore an expression that seemed to say he shouldn’t have gone that far, and fell into an awkward silence. And,

“I’ll introduce you too,” he said in a consoling tone, but I deliberately remained silent, staring fixedly at her peach-split hairstyle as she took her seat. The fact that the woman had spoken with Hyou just moments earlier—that it had unfolded so swiftly and effortlessly—seemed nearly impossible to fathom. While feeling intense jealousy, I was utterly dumbfounded by the sheer incredibility and miraculousness of it all. During the next intermission, the woman would occasionally turn toward Hyou and offer subtle smiles. Hyou sent a resolute, bold smile at such times. It was a smile both unrestrained and piercing. Within me, I felt an increasingly intense loneliness. The fact that Hyou had softer features and gentler eyes than I did—something I’d always been aware of—only made me feel increasingly gloomy.

We parted immediately after watching the play.

When looking solely at Hyou’s eyes—those always gently blinking beneath his nearsighted glasses with a childlike roundness—they held neither cunning nor venom. Yet his manner of approaching women so boldly at festivals and theaters seemed suspicious beyond belief—he never showed an ounce of restraint.

On one occasion at a theater, he deliberately pretended to trip over the legs of a girlish-looking woman seated there, “I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized with feigned innocence yet polite decorum, which only caused the woman to blush.

“No, not at all,” she replied shyly, at which he would always wedge himself into the adjacent seat. Over hours of sitting together, he would skillfully engage in conversation to gradually soften his companion’s heart, then audaciously press forward until—before one knew it—he reached the point of grasping her hand; this was his habitual tactic. Even if bystanders watched intently, he paid no attention at all, being almost recklessly bold and cunning. Whenever he sent those piercing, coquettish glances from behind his glasses (even when conversing with me, he cast those unpleasant sidelong looks), there was always something repulsively lewd and sinister in his demeanor. Moreover, despite being the same age as I, the way he parted his long hair down the middle and wore stylish hats made him appear far more precocious than my student-like attire.

I was beginning to grasp the significance behind Hyou’s use of “you” as his chosen form of address. Yet even while feeling this jealousy, I found myself inexplicably longing for him. Though he would declare “I’ll introduce you to women” yet never follow through, whenever his gentle words turned to poetry, there emerged in that demonically bold man such youthful innocence that I marveled at his capacity for tender passion. In poetry composition too, he possessed an innate genius, writing with unstoppable vigor. (Several years later when I moved to Tokyo, Mr. K.K. would tell me Hyou had indeed been blessed with astonishing genius.)

It was said he had worked at a printing factory since childhood, but after coming to know me, he no longer went out to work anywhere. He, like me, sat facing his desk each day, supported by his sister. Most temple affairs were handled by Father. In the main hall stood eight golden lanterns and four Kannon lamps—throughout guest rooms, tea chambers, and the registry office too—all twelve rooms had offering lamps lit before their Buddhist paintings and statues. These were tended by Father, who twice daily at dawn and dusk would walk through the chambers, wobbling slightly under the weight of the sanbo tray bearing oil jars and rush wicks, quietly striking matches as the soft rustle of his tabi socks whispered across tatami mats. Visitors to the temple often remarked that Father’s peculiar indulgence was lighting these ritual lamps. So freely did he use the costly rapeseed oil. Father himself would say,

“The offering lamps are Buddha’s feast,” Father would say. However, the two gas lamps on the temple grounds—whenever the manservant was absent—it was always I who had to light them. When I would be reading and it approached five in the afternoon, Father’s lamp-lighting rounds had already begun. The motions of his hands—honed over decades—were those of a seasoned practitioner. When new rush wicks were inserted into the earthenware vessels, oil would flow quiet and generous from the jar into them, after which they were always lit. It was truly a tranquil, immaculately pure task, and watching it I would always feel admiration.

As the sliding doors swished open and closed with a sound, the rustle of tabi socks faded further from one room to the next—and with each movement, fresh oil lamps were lit bright and clear in every chamber. Watching this unfold, though daylight still lingered outside, I began to feel as though night had truly descended.

I would often walk through the temple grounds in the evening. A massive Japanese cedar stood there, so large it would take several arm spans to encircle, and no amount of rain ever moistened its base. Beneath it stood a moss-covered tombstone for lost children—one said that if a child wandered astray, praying at this tombstone would automatically reveal the town where they were lost—and this tombstone always proved convenient for me to linger by or lean against.

Given its proximity to the pleasure district, come evening, maiko and geisha with white-painted napes would sometimes visit to pay their respects. They would tie prayer strips for romantic ties—cherry-blossom paper cross-bound—to the lattice of Konpira-san’s shrine and go on their way. The prayer strips, it seemed, had become a custom of making rustling sounds and being lightly dampened with their mouths, and I could often detect the intense scent of lipstick on those cherry-blossom papers. That faintly sweet scent stirred up an uncontrollable youthful passion within me—a passion that made me want to cling to trees—and drove tormenting fantasies through my mind.

The Jizo statue I had retrieved from the river in my childhood was enshrined in one of the temple halls. Whenever I went there, I would always remember my sister. She soon left for the neighboring province of Etchu, and I did not see her for a long time. That I had held festivals with my little sister for this Jizo statue—that whenever I saw how the streamer flags, sanbo trays, and Buddhist implements we had arranged back then still remained enshrined in this hall—made me feel that even my adoption into this temple was tied by profound karmic bonds.

There were those who said my missing mother had died and others who claimed she was still alive, but her death had indeed become fact. Father had written a posthumous Buddhist name for her, which was enshrined in the family altar. Taking the day he wrote that name as her death anniversary, I observed ascetic discipline down to my very heart.

Gathering various rumors, my mother had a flamboyant streak; whenever she saw komuso monks walking through the castle town playing their shakuhachi in lacquered geta, young Mother would don the same black-lacquered sandals the very next day. Even from such small examples, I could almost see her—that composed mother of mine—looking rather pleased at having had such a reckless youth, and this vision did not displease me. Even now, I feel as though the comforting sensation of my mother’s lap—where I would sneak away from my adoptive home to meet her in secret, only to end up dozing off—still lingers warmly and softly in the depths of my mind.

Whenever I approached the Jizo statue, I would become filled with those endless lonely feelings and sink into melancholy. When no one was watching, I would stand before the Jizo statue I had retrieved from the river and press my hands together in quiet prayer. I harbored a strange superstition that somehow, by mingling prayers for my mother with those for my own long life, they would reach this river-salvaged Jizo. The childhood habit of believing my act of retrieval granted me special kinship with the statue still held deep roots within me.

Among the worshippers, there were now familiar faces. The middle-aged woman who came to pray for her master’s safe return from his long voyage always greeted me with a quiet, warm manner reminiscent of a mother’s. She would always clasp her hands together, take out a photograph wrapped in a handkerchief from her pocket, place it on her lap, and sit on the wooden floor while praying in a low voice for a long time. Day after day, she would arrive each afternoon with machinelike regularity and sit for over two hours in prayer. At times, she would have Father draw a sacred lot and check whether her husband’s life at sea was peaceful. She was well past thirty, a woman with beautiful skin who seemed rather shy.

Then there was also Nakaba-san with her sticky fingers. That Nakaba-san was extremely skilled at picking the lock of the offertory box whenever she found herself alone—during lunch hour, say, or around four in the afternoon—times when she could deftly exploit the lull in worshippers. She would insert a single nail into the keyhole and twist it counterclockwise—it always opened easily. That Nakaba-san lived just in the backstreets with her daughter, and I knew full well she would come to scrape together whatever coins she could find and take them away. Once when I deliberately jammed a nail into the lock and rattled it from inside the main hall to subtly warn her, she merely peeked through the doorway and still set to work picking it. Having seen her face two or three times now, I felt no urge to scold the old woman—nor any desire to report her to the registry office (the temple’s administrative office). Part of this stemmed from Nakaba-san having a daughter. The daughter stood tall with a sturdy build and striking looks. Though she had fled Tokyo under scandalous rumors of bad behavior, she brimmed with fresh, youthful beauty quite at odds with her reputation.

On the eighteenth of every month—the Kannon festival day—they would unfailingly come to worship together, mother and child. And both of them shared precisely the same thieving compulsion. Nakaba-san would deftly tuck any nearby copper coins beneath her kneecaps, slide her hands down to her calves, then twist them into her sleeves. This was executed while she pressed her forehead against the wooden floorboards in feigned prayer during fleeting pauses—even with strangers seated beside her—remaining undetected by most worshippers.

Taking advantage of how well I could observe all the worshippers’ activities through a knothole in the registry office’s heavy wooden door, I often managed to catch sight of her daughter. She kept stealing sideways glances at what Nakaba-san was doing, yet her attention seemed perpetually drawn to a copper coin that had fallen a few inches before her left knee—peering at it repeatedly from the corner of her eye—though she never abruptly tucked it beneath her knee, and I could scarcely believe this beautiful girl would stoop to pilfering such trifles. She appeared sturdily built enough to pass for nineteen or twenty, her fair, softly rounded skin bearing a certain luster. Those clear, large eyes would sometimes blink with unease.

At that moment, I saw her left hand—quietly, hesitantly—begin to glide along the plump curve of her flesh arched like a bow toward the rounded rise of her kneecap, gradually inching closer to its crest. Her fingers were all excessively plump, each joint displaying a beauty as if bound by thread, and especially under the inner sanctum’s light, their vivid whiteness—uncanny enough to resemble several silkworms crawling—gradually advanced toward her kneecap. When her hand hovered down through the two or three inches of air between her kneecap and the tatami, she—with a pickpocket’s fierce intensity—scanned the worshippers around her with sharp, anxious eyes. Upon confirming that no one was watching, those five white serpent-like fingers, which had been slithering through the air, limply drooped onto the copper coin. At the same moment, her hand was abruptly pulled back and pressed together in prayer toward the bright candlelight of Kannon’s inner sanctum.

I felt my breath catch watching this. Whether from nerves or guilt, her cheeks had taken on a pallid hue as her clasped left hand—contorted into an unnatural, soft shape—suddenly vanished into her sleeve. Why must such beauty harbor such petty ugliness? I kept staring.—She’d used this method countless times before, growing bolder each instance, now lunging straight for her target without the cautious deliberation of earlier attempts. No one would ever suspect this exquisite girl sat there for petty thievery. I never reported it to the registry office. Such matters were commonplace there—most would just offer opinions before turning blind eyes.

Two or three days later, as I gazed absently at the road beyond the temple gate from the registry office, I saw a young woman pass through the gate entrance. Then I caught my breath. This was the woman from that eighteenth-night incident—I recognized her with a start. Immediately, an ominous scene rose unbidden in my mind. Without hesitation, I resolved to spy on her through that secret knot-hole once more.

She appeared neat in her attire, wearing an ornate obi with a red pattern. She suddenly sat down on the wooden floor and scanned her surroundings. The latticework interior was a dim inner sanctum, so she peered through it to check if anyone was present, then surveyed the temple grounds. It was summer at the height of the heat; the stream of visitors had ceased, and only the swelling chorus of cicadas surged forth.

She took out a single nail. And just as her mother did, she inserted it into the keyhole and twisted counterclockwise; with a clink, the lock came free from the offertory box. She turned deathly pale, as if startled by the sound herself, and carefully scanned her surroundings. Anxious that a worshipper might suddenly arrive or that someone might be watching from within the main hall, she strained her ears for any sign of presence—but even from my position, I could see her white hand trembling violently. Those fingers were slender yet plump, each joint blurred with a pale crimson hue, and even tiny, adorable dimples appeared upon them.

At that moment—by some inadvertent motion—I let my forehead touch the wooden door, causing the heavy panel to thud. She started and abruptly fixed her gaze on the door. Directly opposite the knot hole through which I peered, her large eyes—assailed by violent terror in her desperate state, gathering every conceivable anxiety—glistened with an eerie allure as they burned their scorching gaze into my forehead. I tried to pull back from the knot hole immediately but, fearing light from the bright registry office would leak through, forced myself to stay motionless. Moreover, since the knot hole was minuscule and the hall interior dimly lit, she soon relinquished that relentless stare. My knees trembled; my body stiffened with suffocating rigidity. When certain of her solitude, she swept every item from the offertory box—one- and two-sen coppers, five-sen nickel coins, even paper-wrapped offerings—into a small crimson clasp purse designed for feminine hands. What wouldn’t fit inside, she separately wrapped in paper and wedged into her obi. Then she clicked the lock firmly back into place and left the temple without a backward glance. Her tall, slender silhouette—that red obi trailing behind—remained vividly imprinted on my vision.

After witnessing her acts, I would always feel my head weighed down by sexual excitement and fits—as though being shown pleasantly cruel scenes akin to those arising when someone mercilessly torments a beautiful boy. At the same time, how pleasurable yet tormenting it would feel to rush out while she was engrossed in such work, to watch with cold pride as those maddeningly beautiful cherry-blushed cheeks of hers paled under my relentless intimidation—or to calmly admonish her that what she was doing would never be permitted in this world, must never be done, and then fixate on her weeping tears of atonement from the depths of her heart. And if she were to repent, come to adore me, and ultimately grow to love me, I would surely not feel lonely. Even if that were not the case—that I could take advantage of her weaknesses and do any blasphemous thing—I found myself tormented by endless, vexing delusions. If it were Hyou, he would surely be coercing her at a time like this without fail. And he would immediately set her free, no doubt.

When I left the wooden door and came to the registry office, the elderly steward asked whether she had stolen anything. He said that even when she had come four or five days prior, her behavior had seemed suspicious, and that on the days that woman visited, the offerings were scant. “It seems she didn’t do anything,” “That time was surely just a momentary impulse.” “A woman like that would never steal,” I said, never telling the truth.

“We see. At any rate，it’s a favorable balance of things.” “If wrongdoings occur，we here cannot simply keep silent，”the elderly stewards were saying.

However, she grew increasingly brazen, coming nearly every day. Eventually even the registry office maintained strict surveillance, but though suspicion fell upon her, they could never confirm it was actually her. Every time such talk arose,

“There was a suspicious man resting near the main hall again today.” “He was a truly suspicious fellow.” I told a fabricated story I hadn’t even seen.

“I see. We must be careful,” the elderly steward said anxiously. Eventually, even Father—

“There seem to be no worshippers coming lately—the offerings have grown sparse, haven’t they?”

Hearing him say this while examining the registry book at the office, I caught my breath. The elderly stewards were likewise perplexed. Gradually, I couldn't help feeling increasingly guilty—as if I myself were the thief. What particularly troubled me was having the registry office right there; unable to bear being suspected of theft myself, I would secretly set aside equivalent sums from my allowance after she had taken all the money and surreptitiously return them to the offertory box. The most vexing part was that temple offerings needed to be deposited exclusively as copper coins. For this purpose, I often had them broken into change at the flower shop across the street before quietly slipping them in. The results manifested immediately. The elderly steward at the registry office remarked—

“It seems she hasn’t been coming lately.” “It’s truly a favorable situation.” Hearing this, I smiled bitterly to myself. However, while I had managed to gloss things over for three or four days, not having enough pocket money daily meant I had been receiving an allowance from Father nearly every day since then—making it difficult to explain. Yet I couldn’t very well just leave the offertory box untouched. One day, I took out a small amount of silver and copper coins from Father’s money chest. The chest was in such disarray with paper bills and silver coins that it seemed unlikely anyone would notice. Having grown accustomed to this, the next day I quietly pulled several bills from the bundle. After breaking them into change, I placed them into the usual box. Whenever I touched the heavy metal chest—mindful of its clattering fittings—I would recall my kind-hearted father’s gentle smile. What struck me most was how Father never once scolded me despite giving such generous allowances to a boy like me—yet I only felt truly sorry for him when stealing. But there was no other way for me. What began as compensation for her thefts increasingly became funds for my own use. Notebooks and blue ink bottles gradually began filling my desk with new acquisitions.

Outside, she came every day.

At the usual time—around three in the afternoon, during that quiet, dusty hour just past the sun's peak—her slightly vivid red obi would appear within the temple grounds' long corridor alongside her tall, slender figure. At such moments, I would immediately think, This is trouble—she's come again. Yet part of me also felt as though someone I'd long been waiting for had finally arrived. Still, I remained absolutely resolved not to report her thefts to the registry office. Partly out of pity for her, but also because if this were discovered, she'd surely never come to the temple again. That prospect of her ceasing visits had grown rather lonely for me now. Even so, I lacked the courage to rush out and reprimand her mid-theft. On the other hand, if I kept tampering with Father's money chest like this, discovery became inevitable. I didn't know what to do. These thefts—seemingly coordinated between inside and out—tormented me unbearably. If only she'd stop stealing, I wouldn't have to commit these thefts either—I even began thinking such thoughts. At times I'd lose myself in childish fantasies—wanting to cling to this woman and plead with her like a child seeking comfort from an older sister.

One day, at her usual arrival time, I wrote a letter and placed it inside the offertory box. If I did this, I thought, it would surely slide out with the coins when they spilled forth—and once it emerged, she would certainly read it. The letter stated: “You must not come here anymore. Everyone at the temple knows about your daily deeds. If you see this letter, never return.” Even after slipping it into the box, I felt a lonely pang imagining her ceasing to visit because of this. Then I regretted having put it there at all—my mind grew restless wondering whether to retrieve it.

However, the time for her arrival was already drawing near. I was waiting at the usual door panel, swatting mosquitoes crawling out from the darkness, when she came. Then, with fully accustomed hands, she swiftly inserted the nail and opened the lock. When she quietly tilted the box at an angle, copper and silver coins came clattering out one after another from the unlocked side. At that moment, the letter I had placed emerged. Since it was addressed to “Mr. Tanaka,” she flushed crimson the instant she saw it. I stared intently through the usual peephole. With eyes burning with terrible curiosity, straining not to miss a single movement—the moment she reddened, her eyes flashed with lightning-like alarm as she scanned her surroundings. As I watched, her hands and knees—all her limbs—trembled violently. She timidly picked up the letter, and in that instant, a cunning expression surfaced as she calmly compared front and back before cutting it open. She read it. At that moment her eyes grew enormous, suddenly taking on a startled hue. The moment she finished reading, she twisted the letter into her pocket and suddenly dashed off, hurriedly thrusting her feet into her geta as if kicked. At the temple gate she briefly glanced back. This entire sequence had truly taken less than two minutes.

As I watched her retreating figure, I felt intensely lonely. I had no other choice but to do that. She ran out in a state of shock and utter terror. If that would set her straight, then my writing it had been worthwhile. She must not be holding a grudge. If she were to keep coming to the temple any longer, I too would have no choice but to stray onto the same path of guilt-ridden theft.

I pondered things like, "Why must someone with such a beautiful face do such filthy things?" and wondered whether she knew that I was the one who had written that letter. However, I began to be enveloped by an inexorable loneliness, as though I had discarded all my belongings. Yet from that day onward, I ceased laying hands on Father’s money chest. Fortunately, my deeds remained undetected, so I resolved that someday I must apologize to Father—and after that resolution, I never again drew near that weighty chest.

Before long, whenever three o'clock approached—the hour she used to come—I would wander about the temple grounds, feeling intensely lonely that she never came again after that incident. At times I would quietly conjure in my mind the pattern of her red obi tied in a small drum-shaped knot, then squat vacantly at the roots of an ancient hemlock and spend two or even three hours watching ant processions climb up and down the towering heights. Why had I sent that letter warning her—why hadn't I just let her keep coming to the temple daily as before? Yet upon careful consideration, it was better I discovered her before our people did. For what felt like ages, consumed by restless agitation, I would conjure her absent figure in the temple's inner corridors and wooden-floored halls, imagining her dimpled cheeks and voluptuous seated posture. In those moments, between her and I who'd never exchanged a word, there existed something like mutual forgiveness in our hearts—an intermingling of weaknesses that made our separation feel almost intimately close.

I thought I absolutely had to see her again no matter what. Through this base confession of being the letter's sender, I wanted to carve into her heart the certainty that I was her savior. Part of me feared she might instead grow to detest me for exposing her crimes, yet still I burned with this craving to lay eyes on her once more.

I knew she lived in Omorugumi Town, situated just behind our own town. In this town where many fallen samurai from the former Kaga Domain had settled, her house stood as a single-story dwelling with a front garden—a poor home where between gaps in its ancient, crumbling roof stones, last year’s dead leaves still remained unreplaced. Within the small gate resembling a brushwood door stood two or three plum and pomegranate trees, their young fruits just beginning to form.

The inside of the house was hushed, the sound of water at the kitchen entrance splashing and gurgling noisily. At that moment, my chest quivered with unease; I intuitively sensed she was in the kitchen. A rush of water splashed against something—then came the vigorous scrubbing noise of a scrub brush working on what sounded like a wooden bucket. I immediately recalled those hands—soft as white rice cakes and etched with dimples—tracing their beautiful shapes and curves so deeply they reached the very core of my mind.

When I saw the red-thonged rattan-woven women’s geta faintly floating in the dim evening light of the entrance like lipstick—the most compelling evidence confirming she was home—I truly felt her presence within. That was because she had always worn those red-thonged geta when visiting the temple. For I had gazed almost daily at those geta left on the hall’s front steps, and they had been vividly etched into my mind.

When I saw thick, dark bundled hair moving through the small latticed window at the kitchen entrance, I knew without doubt it was her. My chest fluttered anxiously—between that and standing silent on the street, I tried to suppress my trembling knees—but when my geta bit into the gravel with a grating crunch, I broke into startled sweat. At that instant, she suddenly glanced out the window toward the street; seeing me there, her complexion seemed to shift. This face differed completely from when she'd pried open the offertory box—a face of true beauty—those very eyes now staring sternly at me head-on.

I felt the light of her large, lustrous eyes while simultaneously becoming piercingly aware through my gaze of her somewhat fleshy yet well-proportioned nose and lips, and her sanguine, beautiful skin. Those joyous yet alluring features momentarily reminded me of her base thievery, yet at that very instant—radiating the dignity of an entirely different sort of beautiful woman—she seemed to rebuke me for standing so presumptuously outside her fence. Not only had my wish to see her been fulfilled, but I felt a satisfaction as though the cherry-blushed hue of her pleasing skin had now seeped damply into my heart.

Her act of stealing and her beauty were never connected. She would always be beautiful. And stealing was ugly. They were entirely separate things, I found myself pondering. And also—because she was beautiful, even her stealing didn’t feel unpleasant. Because she had pried open the lock with those beautiful hands, I had been drawn in—I thought these things as I quietly stepped away from the brushwood door. At that moment, I plucked two or three crimson leaves from the yōgaki hedge. For even in those deep madder-red leaves verging on crimson, in every leaf, I could imagine a part of her skin.

I emerged from the back streets onto the main road and walked along the edge of the Sai River. The gravel bed’s grass thicket grew tall and thick, reaching up to the bridge’s underside; its water was dry. The area around the iron bridge had become a field of grass so thick one could barely discern the banks, and many people strolled there while taking in the cool.

Though immersed in those vistas, bound by the relentless urge to glimpse her once more on my return—the phantom of the woman that had haunted me since before—I walked back to those back streets again.

As I neared her house, my chest fluttered anxiously—yet simultaneously I found myself forced to quicken my pace, my legs moving as if under some external command in this oddly mandated manner of walking. When I reached the brushwood door there, suddenly the lattice entrance swung open—she stepped out dressed in what seemed like outing clothes, her eyes locking directly with mine. I involuntarily flushed and lowered my gaze; she appeared to flash a faint smile. Whether imagination or illusion, the fact remained that deep smile lines had etched themselves from her full lips up to the bridge of her nose. At that same moment she abruptly approached the brushwood door, making me hurriedly pretend to retreat down the path I'd come. She wrenched open the brushwood door like a falcon and took the path opposite mine. When I glanced back, she had already gone a block ahead and turned to look back from the far side.

I began to feel that I shouldn’t have sent such a letter. And as the base shame of preying on her vulnerability intensified, after she turned the street corner and vanished from sight, I alone blushed crimson.

In the temple registry,

“Lately that woman hasn’t been coming at all, has she? Ever since that person stopped coming, there haven’t been any more mistakes—but still, that woman is suspicious,” said the elderly registry clerk.

“But I peeked in many times and never saw anything suspicious, I tell you.” Yet deep down, I sometimes felt as though the elderly might know about such deeds of mine, and I would always slip away from my seat with feigned nonchalance. Even when seated at my desk, fragments of her skin—that unrefined yet intimate manner of moving, and though unclear in its specifics, that deeply impressionable smile—would rise before my eyes from that day onward, compelling me to walk all the way to Omorugumi Town without purpose. For example, whether it was the red thongs of the geta sandals at the entrance, the crimson of the yōgaki’s young leaves, or even the texture of the front garden’s soil—each one struck me as something dear. Beneath such boldness in thievery, I felt certain there lay something gentle—something that might hold space for my heart—pooled in its depths.

That day too, I wandered dazedly as if drawn to her house, only to find its interior hushed—yet I thought I heard, or perhaps imagined, the murmur of a woman’s voice. The front garden was swept clean, and under the pomegranate tree, evening primroses bore sparse blossoms in a manner typical of backstreet gardens—today, especially, I found myself gazing at them with nostalgia. The quiet interior of the house seemed filled with an indescribably warm air—as though tinted by her warm breath and the rosy hue of her healthy, cherry-blossom-pink skin.

No matter how long I stood there, no sign of anyone appeared. Just as I was about to leave dejectedly, my eyes suddenly caught on a discarded ball of thread scraps by the garden stones, their red and white hues striking me abruptly. Without any particular reason, I suddenly found myself wanting it. However, reaching that spot required opening the brushwood door. I had been deliberating for a while when suddenly I quietly opened it. The brushwood door made no sound, so I crept forward about ten steps and managed to retrieve the thread scraps.

The thread scraps had been rolled up as they served no practical purpose, providing no pretext for sneaking in to see her—yet when I clutched that small, fluffy yet fibrous ball in my fist, I seemed to perceive there a sensation akin to some part of her body: her hand perhaps, or her foot. When I picked up those thread scraps, the almost sudden desire I felt for the red-thonged geta sandals discarded at the entrance was unexpected even to myself. It was because of two impulses: a vague notion that it might be intriguing to tentatively place my foot upon those geta sandals, and the conviction that doing so would allow me to feel—as though transmitted through their soles—the warmth of her entire body. As a child, I was often scolded for wearing my sister’s geta sandals—but more than that, a far stronger, secretive, tingling pleasure was certain to course through my entire body the moment I let my foot touch those sandals. Just as it would rise gradually from my heels to my knees and chest, surely leading me into a beautiful, rapturous state of mind unlike anything I’d ever known, I stared resentfully at the geta sandals. Just as any man might feel that instinctive curiosity to hook a woman’s geta sandal without thinking, in my case—whether it was wanting to rub my hands freely over its wicker surface, or desiring to cruelly dismantle that sandal into its constituent parts, thongs as thongs, surface as surface, sole as sole—such near-brutal impulses would suddenly resurface.

Another mischievous impulse that had sprouted from the depths of my heart—whether as proof that I had indeed sneaked into this garden or from a desire to somehow make her aware of this fact—led me to even consider stealing just one of her geta sandals (in this case, I absolutely did not want both). This was partly because I had grasped a reason why she might forgive me even if she discovered I had stolen those sandals; moreover, I sensed she herself would not reprimand me for it. The lattice door at the entrance was closed—opening it would surely make a sound, and I felt anxious that someone would come out if there was noise. I contemplated how to open the lattice door. Though it was a backstreet with few passersby, people still came and went intermittently. At such times, I would walk slowly as if strolling, and once the passerby had gone, I would hurriedly peer into the entrance’s interior. There, the geta sandals with crimson thongs—now something beyond mere footwear, possessing a separate value—held me rooted in place with their deeply troubling allure, as though a fragment of her beautiful form had been severed and installed there.

At that moment, I felt a shudder as though some entity had suddenly poured tremendous force into me while keeping watch on the passersby around me. In that exact lull—as if shoved from behind by some unseen force—I slid through the brushwood door. When my hand touched the lattice entrance door, aware of a tremor like lightning striking me and sending coarse pulses through my entire body, I began inching it open. The lattice door opened more quietly than expected—without creaking—inch by inch. Once opened wide enough to slip my small frame sideways through, I removed my footwear and entered the entrance barefoot. The cool, damp air—different from outside—and the coldness of garden stones transmitting through my heels made me tremble even more violently. I saw. I grabbed the red-thonged geta sandal there—and in a near-dreamlike state slid through the lattice, crossed the garden, and slipped out through the brushwood door. At that moment my kimono caught on the brushwood door; when I yanked it free, the door emitted a high-pitched creak. Nearly overcome by dizziness then, I broke into a frantic run.

When I returned to the temple, I took out the woman’s geta sandal from my pocket. It was still new, its rattan surface glossy. I stared fixedly at it, and strangely, I began to feel an anxiety and agitation that hounded me—as though having stolen this geta sandal was a terrible crime I must not keep even for a moment. It seemed to exude both the weight of an entire body and the mysterious scent imbued in the woman’s heels. Rather than gazing at it nostalgically, I found myself pondering why I had decided to steal such a thing. I placed it under my desk but, suddenly fearing Father might discover it, shoved it into the dark space beneath the floorboards along with spiderwebs—yet even there, the image of it being hidden so vividly rose before my eyes that I couldn’t settle. In the end, while holding this geta sandal, I couldn’t even sit still.

My heart gradually began to regret. How desperately she must be searching for it. And if it were discovered that I had done it, I would have committed the same crime as her. I began to grow terrified. I took it out from beneath the floorboards again, brushed off the dirt, slipped it into my pocket, and left the temple once more. I arrived before her house about an hour after I had last sneaked in, yet the interior remained as hushed as before. I quietly slipped in through the brushwood door, carefully slid the geta sandal into the entrance as if inserting it furtively, and immediately retreated to the street. When placing the geta sandal back in its original position required opening the lattice door nearly a foot, I set it right beside the threshold to make it look as if a dog had played a prank. On the inner wooden floor, one of the geta sandals, separated from its pair, sat lonely and alone, as if waiting for its soon-to-arrive mate, left behind.

After that, I did not go out for a while and did nothing but shut myself in my room. Ever since committing that impulsive mischief—unexpected even to myself—I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I went out constantly, I would be reproached by someone. As days went by, I even began to doubt whether my impulsive mischief had truly occurred.

Of course, she no longer passed by even the front of the temple. I would sometimes take Father’s hand to help him ascend to the main hall or fetch water for tea ceremonies. The temple kept sand from mysterious talismans—sand that had undergone consecration rituals—and devotees would often come to receive it. Wrapped in paper parcels of just five or six grains each, it was said to be a medicinal remedy that—when swallowed with pure water—could miraculously exorcise spirit possessions and soften rigid corpses until they became pliant at will. Every time I saw it, I felt an uncanny sensation.

Another common occurrence was women coming to draw the sacred lot. The middle-aged mother of a fairly renowned Japanese painter in this city would come to see Father whenever her daughter had a marriage proposal, having him draw the sacred lot to determine its suitability. The daughter was a famous beauty. She always came to worship at Kannon with her mother. Strangely enough, this old castle town had long been home to many Buddhist devotees. This extended beyond the elderly; mothers with young daughters would take their six- or seven-year-old girls on temple pilgrimages—to instill faith in their hearts, teach them religion’s necessity in women’s lives, or use these visits to imply such truths. The painter’s daughter possessed a startlingly pale complexion, her cheeks bearing a delicate frailty reminiscent of consumption that held an air of troubled allure.

The mother would always say to Father, “The current marriage prospect seems generally favorable, but just to be safe, would you draw the ‘sacred lot’ for us?” she said, having Father perform the divination. Father came down from the main hall, “The result shown by the sacred lot isn’t very promising, but if you’re all right with it, I suppose you could go ahead with the marriage,” he said. The painter’s wife had been searching for a fortunate marriage match for her daughter for over three years now, but whenever she drew the sacred lot, it always came out inauspicious—which was why Father had taken pity and spoken those words.

“Oh, so the sacred lot is unfavorable?”

She was not only always disappointed but would often cancel the long-sought marriage proposals altogether. I had always felt pity for both the absurdity of human destinies being decided by a single sacred lot and the mother’s skewed heart that couldn’t help but believe in it. “That person comes to draw the sacred lot, yet she cannot bring herself to believe in it,” Father had said. Last month, I had Father draw this very thing in the sacred lot. I also wanted to see for myself whether it would prove accurate or not.

“Please check whether the writings I sent to Tokyo will be published or not.”

Father came down from the main hall,

“It will be published. It will indeed be published,” he said. Somehow I felt Father had given that answer offhandedly—out of concern I might be disappointed.

“Is it true? What sort of ‘lot’ was it?”

“It says, ‘Like the rising sun.’”

Father showed me a bamboo slip (the sacred lot box contained one hundred of these; when shaken one by one, they would emerge—where that chance outcome had become everyone’s fate). On it had appeared the literal “great blessing.”

And my poem was printed. I found myself believing it at times, even though I couldn’t fully accept it. I even came to feel something approaching the mystical manifested itself in the sacred lot at all hours. Rice brokers and such would often come early in the morning. When an auspicious result appeared, “Is it really all right to buy? It’s truly acceptable, isn’t it?” some would press with frantic intensity. Those who profited by following the sacred lot’s guidance often brought large gold lanterns, brass candlesticks, and paper lanterns when coming to offer their thanks.

Young geishas and such often came to have the prospects of their relationships judged. Father was sparing with words to everyone. He would state only the essentials and often retreat to the back rooms.

Ten years prior to that time, a fire had broken out from the temple’s kitchen quarters, and the flames had spread to the roof. Because it was still early evening, the fire could be quickly extinguished. But when they noticed afterward, Father was nowhere to be seen. When they searched, they found Father reciting the Heart Sutra at the homa altar in the main hall. The witness later said, “The way that little reverend chanted sutras with a voice like a bell was truly astonishing.”

“Would you care for some tea?”

Father would sometimes come to call me to the room where I was reading. When the afternoons grew so quiet they felt lonely, even Father would look lonesome. “Huh?” “I’ll have some.”

When I entered Father’s room, the kettle’s hum persisted as always. Father silently poured tea and had me drink it. Along with it, some yōkan and such were arranged. Father loved plants and flowers, and seasonal blooms were always placed on the tea shelf. “You must become an adult soon,” he would occasionally say things like that. Every time I gazed intently at Father’s face, I became certain that he too would one day pass from this world. I came to hold the conviction that this too must surely happen in the near future. And still I gazed even more intently at Father’s face and grieved.

The tea Father prepared always possessed a beautiful green fragrance, with its mild, mellow flavor and perfectly measured temperature. It was as though Father’s gentle nature was steeped into its very flavor and scent. Father always kept a vermilion bronze kettle hook prepared outside the hearth as well. In terms of both size and weight, it was truly splendid. Father always,

“When I die, I’ll give you this kettle hook,” he would say.

And from time to time he would polish its vermilion bronze body with a silk cloth. I too had wanted it. (After Father’s death, I received this kettle hook. It now rests beside my desk in this suburban house.)

Hyou’s reputation was poor. When Hyou walked through theaters and festival grounds at night, the town girls would clear the path to avoid him, all pointing from behind as they feared this gentle delinquent youth. At girls' schools and such places too, Hyou's name seems to have been generally known. Around that time, Hyou was getting along well with a teahouse girl named Otama-san at the park. At a quaint teahouse with a wisteria trellis, where a fountain pond could be viewed from the window, I too was often taken by Hyou. Otama-san wore a merino apron and had, before I knew it, developed an intimate relationship with Hyou.

Often, when Hyou and I went out for walks together, “Since Mother is out today, please do stay and relax.” she would say things like that.

Hyou, at such times, “Right then, show Mr.M the calico you got from that Ruskie. Mr.M really likes those kinds of fabrics.” “Is that so?” “Then I shall show you.” She brought out a patchwork-lidded box filled with various fabrics—exactly the sort one would expect a young woman to possess. It was when Russian prisoners were being held nearby; everyone came flocking to this teahouse during three o’clock strolls—some becoming hopelessly infatuated.

“This one here is quite beautiful, isn’t it?”

It was genuine Russian calico, with white polka dots dyed in reserve against a solid crimson ground. Among them were expensive handkerchiefs with delicate embroidery showing a raised texture on the fabric surface. Then there were old silver cross-shaped pins and other truly splendid items that were plentiful.

Hyou, at such times,

“To think they brought handkerchiefs like these to war,” he said. “Just as I thought, Russians really do take things easy.” I asked, “And do the prisoners always come?” “Oh, when it’s time for their walk, they come.” Worried about Hyou, Otama-san fell silent. Hyou would sulk during those times. And when it became around three in the afternoon, Hyou would adopt a resigned tone and,

“It’s already three o’clock. “It’s time for their walk.” “Let’s head back, you.” Hyou left after uttering jealousy-laced sarcasm. Otama-san—who had just turned seventeen—watched him go with lovely yet lonely eyes that seemed to want to speak. Even when Hyou drank beer there, Otama-san would discreetly manage things at the housefront and never let him pay. I believed Otama-san loved Hyou profoundly. Those anxious eyes of hers visibly fluttered at every habitual motion he made. And he inherently possessed that quality which made such delicate girls invariably adore him. What seemed like careless spontaneity was in fact Hyou’s artful method—always acting under calculated designs to endear himself to women.

One day while Hyou was away, a high-ranking detective from the police came and investigated his daily life. Then a policeman came and told his mother not to let him go out too much at night—Hyou later recounted this with a laugh. Yet he still went to festival grounds and parks to lure Otama-san out, staying until they were drenched in night dew and returning home well past midnight.

One day, when I went to visit Hyou, he had a slightly pale, swollen face. "You," he said to me, "I think I've been had." "Your lungs?" "But you're physically strong, so it's nothing." "It's just your imagination." "I wonder..."

And we often went to Otama-san’s place. By then, I already knew the taste of beer. With Otama-san joining us, there were times when we would sit silently for long periods. By then, I had come to understand that during such moments, Hyou surely wished to speak with Otama-san alone.

At such times, I alone would leave first. Otama-san would come to see me off all the way to the top of the slope.

“Please do come again.” “Thank you. Since Hyou seems unwell, you shouldn’t encourage him to drink so much beer.” “Yes... I’ve thought something seemed amiss myself. He does have those dreadful coughing spells at times.” “Do look after him properly. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.”

On such days, Hyou would look at me with eyes that seemed to pray in silence. For some reason, I liked this vulnerable side of Hyou. In that bold philanderer of a man, I engaged with an indescribably soft, subtle tenderness through emotions akin to love. In the evenings, I would often firmly grip his hand—the one that Otama-san seemed to have held so frequently. It was a soft yet large hand. I had no doubt his illness was genuine tuberculosis. The gradual reddening of his cheeks seemed unnatural, and I thought it must be a symptom of that.

He had published a short story in *Bunko*. “She often comes to call on me in the evenings, you know—whistling as she comes.” Hyou happily said that Otama-san came to call on him. In those evenings along the quiet backstreets of Nishimachi, I would mentally picture Otama-san’s working-class-girl figure pacing before Hyou’s house while whistling, etching the scene vividly in my mind. Moreover, since becoming involved with Otama-san, Hyou had ceased paying much attention to other women. I contemplated the tender affection between them with a heart attuned to poetry’s beauty. Not the faintest flicker of jealousy arose within me. Through such a lovely woman’s influence, it even seemed my friend’s very countenance grew beautiful in tandem with his spirit.

One day, I visited Hyou after a long interval. He had taken to bed in the inner room and was lying there.

“You’ve finally taken to bed.”

He had a pale face. In that short time, he had become terribly emaciated. “This morning, you know. When I saw the persimmon leaves had already started falling, I felt terribly lonely.” In the garden, the balsam flowers were already blooming. “I never imagined you’d take to bed like this.” “So you won’t be going out for a while, then.”

“I intend to recuperate for a while. I can’t die now. I’m dying to write more sensual things.”

Only his lips remained dry from fever, glowing an unnatural red. “Does Otama-san know about you being bedridden?”

“No, she doesn’t seem to know. “Well... “She often comes calling in the evenings, you know. “Since her whistle’s the signal, even lying here in bed makes me all jittery, you know. “I want to go out but can’t get out, you know. “And with Mother around too, you know.”

“Does Mother not know?”

“She doesn’t seem to have noticed.” “I’m sorry to ask, but could you meet her and explain things about me?” “Then I’ll stop by on my way back today.”

I stared fixedly at the narrow garden. And in my heart, I thought of my friend who had said he felt lonely when he saw the persimmon leaves scatter.

We remained silent for a while.

“I just can’t shake this feeling that I won’t die. Like the very idea of dying doesn’t seem possible, you know.”

Hyou stared fixedly at my face. In the depths of his eyes—like those of someone whose vitality had waned—there glinted something fierce and emotional. When I remained silent without answering that,

“What do you think?” Hyou asked. “Is there such a thing as anticipating death?” “Well.” “I can’t properly articulate it now, but there probably exists something like that at death’s very moment—I suppose.” “Death’s moment—the instant before dying—you mean?”

He sank into thought again. He spoke again after a long while.

"I keep trying to tell Mother about Otama-san, but I just can’t." "I prefer not to mention that matter." “I’ve been causing Mother and Sister nothing but worry all along.” I too had sometimes considered whether it might be better to just tell Hyou’s mother, but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject. When I looked at Hyou’s face, I felt I could never say it. The very recklessness that had allowed him to live so freely now made it impossible for Hyou to tell his mother about this woman’s existence.

“Well... You shouldn’t say anything. It’ll become known when it becomes known.”

“It’ll become known when it becomes known—”

Hyou stammered and let his eyes dart restlessly.

I gradually came to realize that Hyou had become far more high-strung than when we’d last met, and that his bold, carefree character was slowly eroding away.

I soon announced my departure and started to leave,

“Will you come tomorrow?”

“I don’t know about tomorrow.” “If I can come, I’ll come.” “Do come.” “When I lie here, it’s so lonely, you know.” “I’ll be waiting, okay?”

He stared at my face—quieter than usual yet intense. When I saw my friend’s hair—now slightly thinned—I suddenly thought I must come again tomorrow. “I’ll definitely come. And since *Jashūmon* has been published,I’ll bring it.” “Ah. Has *Jashūmon* arrived? I want to see it. Do come tonight.” Hyou suddenly grew agitated and said fervently, “Wait for me tomorrow; I’ll come. Well then goodbye.” “You will.”

When I stepped out into the street, I took a deep breath.

As I began to climb the park slope, the cicadas' cries had already grown sparse, and the grove of trees appeared translucent. I stopped by Otama-san’s teahouse.

Fortunately, Otama-san appeared. I felt my face grow somehow flushed. We had always met, but there had been few occasions when we were alone. “Welcome, it’s good of you to come.” Otama-san said in smooth tones. In the time since I had last seen her, her face had grown even more beautifully radiant.

“Hyou has finally taken to his bed. I visited him today—he said to tell you that. However, it’s nothing serious,” I said.

“Oh. I’d been sensing that too.” “And I wonder if there’s anything serious?” “Oh.” “However, he’s grown quite thin.”

We remained silent for a while. Suddenly, Otama-san said. “So it really is that illness after all.” “I hear that illness is quite hard to cure.” “They say nine out of ten cases are hopeless.” “But Hyou isn’t yet at a point where you need to worry so much.”

Otama-san’s eyes were already moist. Her beautiful eyes, brimming with the guileless tears of a young woman, tugged at my sensitive heart. And I felt that women possess a beauty more intense than usual when they hold back tears.

“When will you be coming next?”

“I’ll go tomorrow as well.” “If there’s any message, please tell me.”

Otama-san hesitated slightly,

“Please. Do tell him to take care.” “I’m also praying for his recovery.” I felt that Hyou and Otama-san’s bond resembled something from a beautiful story, and my nostalgic affection for Hyou seemed to transform directly into tender feelings of love for Otama-san. When I viewed them side by side, my lopsided passion always felt a more intense yet harmonious love in observing them together.

“You really are in love with Hyou, aren’t you?” I blurted out. And when Otama-san blushed, I realized I’d said something unnecessary.

“Yes.” Otama-san said in a low yet pleasant voice. And then,

“My family has an inkling, and they say some rather harsh things, but…” I said forcefully, “Hyou is a good person. Please keep seeing him.” “Thank you,” she said, her eyes brimming.

I soon bid my farewell. As I began to descend the slope beneath the wisteria trellis, Otama-san—who had been seeing me off—hurriedly ran up and, fidgeting,

“Um… I have a request,” she said in a low voice.

The surroundings had already grown dim with approaching dusk, the coolness now edged with a hint of chill. Otama-san pressed close against me,

“Please let me meet him once.” she said with desperate resolve. The warmth radiating from her face reached my cheek like heat from distant charcoal embers. And there was an intense smell of her hair.

“I’ve been considering that too, but Hyou can’t go outside, and you can’t visit him openly.” “I truly spoke selfishly, didn’t I.” “Please forgive me.”

She gazed fixedly at the ground and said. Her slender, delicate neck moved quietly with each breath, its stark whiteness vivid. "I was in the wrong." "Excuse me."

She ascended the slope. The heavy footsteps became inaudible to me as I descended. When I casually glanced back, Otama-san had stopped and was watching me go. Her sorrowful figure weighed heavily on my heart.

The next morning, I asked Father to recite sutras for Hyou’s swift recovery. Father, while draping his priestly robe over his shoulders,

“That person, eh? “That’s most unfortunate.” “I’ll perform the sutras,” he said, and ascended to the main hall. I too remained still on the lower dais where Father’s sutra chanting fell like rain, quietly praying with all my heart. Though I knew it was an incurable illness, I couldn’t help believing some external force might intervene. Father’s withered belly-deep voice would resonate with the bronze bells of the ancient main hall. A solemn hour passed.

Father descended from the main hall. His face looked troubled, as though tormented by some ominous prophecy.

Father said. “How old are you now?” “I’m seventeen.”

“The truth is... “The temple lamp went out during the sutra recitation, you see.” “His condition seems grave.” “There have been times when the temple lamp went out like that before—when it does, things tend to take a grave turn, you see.” Father stared at my face. “Is that true?” “Don’t you doubt it.”

My taciturn father entered the next tea room. I couldn’t decide whether to believe it or not.

In the afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about Hyou. A sickly pale face wasted by illness floated before my eyes. It quietly called my name from the corner of the room. I heard a voice call out “Murou-kun.” I immediately went out to visit my friend.

I bought some fruit.

In front of my friend’s house, I stood for a long time listening intently for any sign of disturbance, but the interior remained deathly still. Occasionally there came the sound of a feeble cough. Each time I heard that sound, I felt a terror like my chest had been struck by a sudden jab. Thinking “It really was bad after all,” I went inside.

When Hyou saw my face, he said with apparent joy, as though about to leap forward. “You came! Since this morning, every time I heard geta clacking out front, I’d start getting up thinking it was you—time and again. You were listening from outside just now, weren’t you? I knew because the clacking suddenly stopped.” I flinched. But I couldn’t lie. “You’ve become quite hypersensitive.” I took advantage of the moment when Hyou’s mother had left her seat,

“I met with Otama-san yesterday and talked to her.” “Ah...” “Thank you.” Hyou’s eyes shone as though anticipating the words I was about to report. “That person loves you.” “When I told her you were asleep, she said she’d take good care of you.” Hyou remained silent. “So,” “she said she wants to meet you once—I somehow felt sorry.” “She’s truly a kind person.” “You’re fortunate.”

“But women are impossible to understand.” “You can never truly know what’s in their hearts.” “But she loves you from the bottom of her heart. You should be grateful.” Hyou gazed at his own hands with that familiar doubtful look— “I do think I’m loved, but somehow I just can’t believe it.” “When I think about everything, I want to live.” “I want to get better soon.”

“You’ll definitely get better.” “How about an apple?”

“Thank you. “I’ll have a little.” I began peeling the apple. The apple’s crimson skin was gradually peeled away in smooth, continuous strips. Hyou was watching it, but— “Next time, bring the letter with you. “I’m counting on you,” he said in a slightly brighter tone. “Sure. “I’ll bring the letters you’ve written.” “That apple has such a lovely color.” “Oh.” We were eating this soft fruit. Suddenly, Hyou spoke again.

“I feel like seeing someone.” “Once you’ve recovered.”

The afternoon in this Nishimachi was quiet，and bright sunlight streamed into the small garden. I was watching that when I took out the promised *Jashūmon* and showed it. “It’s already been published，then.”

Hyou took it in his hands and looked at it happily. This fiery poetry collection—bound with habutae silk resembling rough proofs—comforted him. The heightened pulse that arose with each page of this book—swollen with sensation, exoticism, and new sensuality—not only flushed my friend’s cheeks crimson but even imparted to him a fierce will to live.

My friend placed this book beside him, “I wrote a short one the other day—take a look,” he said, taking out his notebook and showing it. The notebook had also absorbed the medicine, and when I turned the pages, a smell burst forth. I read the work I hadn’t seen in some time as though savoring it.

Where does this loneliness come visiting from? From the deepest depths of the soul, As the distant sky passes by, As if it dwells within my breast and whispers, Though I try to grasp it, it remains formless.

Ah, I sit all day long— My loneliness seeks to touch— Yet the formless thing casts its shadow.

My breast weakens day by day. I saw my friend being tormented by a spiritual loneliness that had pervaded the very essence of this poem. Moreover, as if some force was stealing his vitality day by day, the way he gazed intently at the subtle decline of his own life—and the way I discerned this friend of mine, even as he denied death, gradually coming to accept it—unfolded before me. “You wrote this after you fell ill, didn’t you?”

“I wrote it four or five days ago.” “I still can’t escape that feeling.”

We remained silent again for a time. During that interval, Hyou coughed two or three times. The strengthless voice made me turn my face away. At moments I felt anxious about catching the infection, but it quickly faded.

I soon parted ways and returned. When I returned, I was running a high fever. By now, only the lingering heat of summer could be felt, and everything on earth was hastening to don autumn’s attire. In the temple garden, chrysanthemums formed buds, and persimmons hung heavily from the branches. Yet the soil was parched and bleached white. For some reason, whenever I looked at them, the profound emotions of this transitional season—from late summer to early autumn—settled over my heart with a damp heaviness.

In autumn, the pilgrimage groups making the rounds of the Thirty-Three Kannon sites would often come to my temple too. Among the women wearing lonely white leggings, young girls had mixed in. After those people finished chanting their pilgrim hymns before Kannon's hall and left—the boisterous yet desolate commotion now over—I felt a loneliness that was autumn itself. I wrote poetry every day. After my friend fell ill, in solitude so complete it felt like being alone with myself, I shut myself away in my riverside study as though living alongside my own heart.

That day too, I visited Hyou. This friend had grown alarmingly thin in the four or five days since I’d last seen him and now lay bedridden, unable to rise. “How are you holding up? If you believe you’ll definitely get better, then you will get better, you know.” He wore a forlorn smile so pale it seemed white. That smile could be perceived as mocking his own illness, yet also as sneering at my detachment from his suffering. It was a grave, unpleasant smile.

“I really don’t think I’m going to make it.” “When I’ve gotten this thin…” Hyou took his hands out from under the futon and rubbed them together to show me. The pallid, slackened skin—devoid of luster—looked so fragile it might peel away at a touch. “You’ve become terribly gaunt.” I gazed with pained eyes. “And then… “You must become friends with Otama-san. “In my stead. “I’ve been considering this for some time now.” He wore an earnest expression. I felt my face grow hot,

“That doesn’t matter at all. If you recover, we’ll all go out together again, won’t we? You shouldn’t think about such things.” “I suppose,” he said weakly before breaking into a cough. Flushing as if suddenly feverish, he tried to sit up and declared: “If I’m gone, you must become famous in my stead. Do twice the work—my share included.”

I stared fixedly at his eyes. His eyes burned fever-bright.

“Don’t talk nonsense.” “Once you’re better, why don’t we work together—the two of us?”

I tried to encourage him, but my friend already seemed to know himself. That manner of decline gradually eroded the strong will of this stubborn friend. However, he spoke again. “I’ll lend you my strength.” “Do double the work.” “I’ll give it my all.” “I’ll do your share too.” “I’ll study persistently for ten years.” I involuntarily shouted in agitation. The two of us kept talking like this until dusk. Before long, I bade farewell to this friend and stepped outside. After stepping outside, my chest tightened and tears welled up. This friend died in the middle of autumn.

The day of Hyou’s funeral was a bleakly clear autumn afternoon near Higan. As the coffin finally departed from the house, my eyes caught Otama-san standing quietly alone—wedged small among the neighborhood crowd—her pitiful tear-glistened eyes imprinting themselves on me instantly. What passed for mourners numbered barely four or five in that impoverished procession, winding through endlessly stretching towns until reaching open fields. In those fields, fierce northern winds had already begun whipping across millet-bordered paths and taro paddies where porters’ hurried footsteps pressed onward.

Hyou's short seventeen-year life was, in its own way, quite a fulfilling one. I came to feel that even his various ruthless means of luring girls and bold temptations—plunging ahead without any external constraints binding him, without the slightest consideration—were gradually seeping into my own state of mind. Yet it was also impossible to forget that he possessed an indescribably tender friendship on another level.

After the funeral ended, I returned home and spent my days in loneliness.

One day, I felt inclined to visit Otama-san at the park. Though I considered going, the very notion of calling upon the woman my deceased friend had loved tormented my conscience unbearably. One part of me reasoned that with Hyou gone, I could converse with Otama-san at leisure—unburdened by his presence—and that since he himself had committed so many wrongs, there could be no harm in my keeping company with her. Yet another part felt profound shame before his departed spirit. Together, these conflicting impulses kept me from paying her a visit.

The tips of the park’s turfgrass had begun to scorch, and around the thickets of pampas grass and bush clover where wild bell crickets cried out their autumn songs, when I walked through the groves of tall pine trees, the sound of my wooden clogs carried with a distinct resonance in the crystalline afternoon air. When I approached the teahouse, Otama-san came out. That modest red tasuki sash stood vivid against her form, imprinting itself sharply upon my vision. “You’ve come,” she said, and the instant her eyes met mine, she remembered Hyou and brimmed with tears. Since we had seldom met alone before, I found myself drawn into those moistened eyes while feeling a faint constriction in my chest.

We talked about various things. At times, it seemed as though the deceased Hyou sat forlornly between us. Then I recalled how Hyou had once said, "Please keep company with Otama-san." I remembered him adding, "With you, I could rest assured." Hyou—who had declared, "I couldn't die peacefully if it were anyone else, but with you I can"—had worn that lonely expression even while speaking those words himself. "Please visit me sometimes from now on," she said. "I truly have no friends left."

The death of a single person intervened between her and me, gradually putting her girlish frailty at ease and drawing her closer to me. As for me—while troubled by a guilty conscience that felt like I was exploiting Hyou’s death—I gradually began to sense an intimacy born from her gentle, approachable femininity. “Please don’t mention him anymore. It makes me sad—remembering all sorts of things,” she said.

When I heard this, I sensed she was trying her best to forget Hyou, if only a little. I found that unsatisfying. On one hand, her continuing to yearn endlessly for the dead was only natural for someone as demure as her—but on the other, I felt a jealousy unlike any I’d known before. “They say Hyou-san’s illness is contagious—is that true?” said Otama-san.

At the same time I recalled how I had often dug into meat hot pots and drunk sake with Hyou, feeling a chill at whether I too might have been infected. "It often spreads through food," I said. "Those with weak constitutions seem especially susceptible." I remembered when Hyou had been seized by coughing fits—how tuberculosis germs like mosquitoes seemed to scatter all the way to where I sat. Back then I'd dismissed contagion risks, even leaning close to reassure him; now those memories returned with terrifying force, leaving me gripped by an irrevocable dread.

“I’ve been having such a strange cough lately.” “Don’t you think my face has gotten quite pale?”

Compared to when we first met, her complexion now seemed tinged with a bluish dampness. Instantly I pictured Hyou and her relationship unfolding in dizzying flashes—their lips meeting. Those two I'd once regarded through a lens of poetic beauty now became intermingled with an impurity I'd never before sensed, until jealousy pulsed hotly through me. Even as we sat there conversing with solemn faces, knowing she'd revealed herself in countless ways to our departed friend made it seem inevitable that this tenacious illness had rooted itself deep within her chest—yet still it stirred something pitifully fragile in me. At once I felt a perverse satisfaction and, seizing upon it as pretext for intimidation, a prickling irritation too. But then, hearing how her household now daily reproached her over the money she'd lent Hyou—how she could never relax—I found myself thinking: "Hyou truly was a wretched bastard."

“It was all my fault, so I don’t resent him at all,” she said, looking at me. “If Hyou had lived just a little longer, he might have found some concrete way to take care of your situation... though.”

Even as I spoke, I felt that Hyou's emotions had never been built upon solid ground—a reality that now weighed particularly on Otama-san's circumstances. Hyou should have simply indulged in pleasure. Hyou had wanted to enjoy the woman before him rather than dwell on the future or the past. When I considered how what Hyou had done continued tormenting his victims' souls even after his death, I felt there were sins that even death could not fully expiate. He himself had likely been fine with that. But as I wondered what would become of the suffering left for those who remained, I sensed fate's cunning—how Hyou, through his brief lifetime alone, had managed to exhaust in mere years what others would need decades to experience.

“Lately, I can’t help feeling like I’m going to die.” “You shouldn’t dwell on so many things, you know.” “But I truly do feel that way, you know.” She too seemed to be contemplating that gentle death common among women. I made arrangements to meet another day and took my leave.

When November arrived, one day no sooner had a surge of cold crept in near dusk than it suddenly turned into hail—large pellets sharp with biting chill—pummeling the fallen leaves on the roof. The fierce hail fell so violently that people’s voices became inaudible. When I slid open the study’s shoji screen and looked out, the hail—striking the river’s surface and rebounding off garden leaves—resembled pure white beads being scattered. Every year when this season came, particularly when I saw this hail, I felt an ethereal remoteness. It was as if winter’s first tidings were being solemnly proclaimed, evoking a restless yet intensely lonely feeling.

Father began secluding himself in the tea room. The quiet sound of the simmering kettle filtered through the fusuma panels to reach my room. "Father's at his tea again," I thought as I closed the shoji screen. The scent of plum blossoms drifted faintly and distantly into my room, though from which chamber it was being burned remained unclear.

Starting in the evening, I slipped out stealthily from the temple and, alone, made my way from behind a shrine toward the red-light district. Hail had piled up on the streets of the red-light district; elegant silk lanterns glowed here and there along vermilion-lacquered lattice houses that stretched in rows. Moving furtively through the area to avoid being seen, I entered a certain large house.

“I must apologize for the other day. Please do come up.” I was shown upstairs. The previous evening, I had summoned a woman of corresponding high status. I felt that if I simply kept looking at women to my heart’s content, it might gradually fill that habitual hunger I carried within me. “You’re the young master from Konpira-san’s shrine, aren’t you? I had thought I’d met you somewhere before.”

She turned to the younger apprentice geisha and laughed. I always thought I wanted to meet and talk to her whenever I saw her slender figure in the temple grounds, and coming here like this, I was glad I could always meet her so easily. “You would often come here in the rain, wouldn’t you.” She stirred the brazier’s fire. As was customary in this red-light district, every house burned incense. Moreover, there was a beautiful doll-like maiko known as “Red Collar,” and it became customary for her to come to the parlor together with her elder sister.

“Would you care for some sake, you know?”

She gave a slight start. “Since I can handle a little, please pour some.” Lately, I had mentioned being able to handle a little alcohol. “You’re always so quiet…” The woman said idly. I had nothing particular to say, and strangely, the words seemed to spin dizzily in my mouth. Moreover, whenever I entered this red-light district, my body would tremble uncontrollably. When conversing with the woman—seeing her intensely vivid facial contours and her solid form seated close to me—I felt a pressing beauty, beautiful yet unsettling. That sensation gradually turned into trembling until my fingertips began quivering. What I never felt even when meeting Otama-san would always come over me here.

“Please keep still. You surely won’t tremble anymore.”

The woman had said this, but even as I focused all my strength to remain still, my fingertips still trembled. The more I tried to suppress it, the more violently I shook. There, time always felt excruciatingly long. For instance, because barely three shaku separated us, the tormenting weight of her body—emanating gradually from her beautifully rounded sitting posture with its gentle poise, from her full curves, and especially from that vividly animated part of her that parted like a small bird’s beak—seemed to press down upon me with unrelenting force. My delicate adolescent frame, utterly overwhelmed by this presence, made me realize how timidly hesitant I became even when attempting to speak.

“This humble one... Yesterday when I went to pray at the temple, I thought you might be out in the grounds somewhere, so I waited in the corridor for a while.” “I’m usually in the back chambers, so I rarely go outside—” Her saying this—something that seemed rather improbable—struck me as odd. Moreover, I couldn’t stop thinking about temple matters since earlier. Thoughts of Father and the money I had obtained through deception kept repeating in my head, leaving me unsettled. For instance, while engaged in such frivolities, I couldn’t shake the dread that a fire might break out from some trivial mishap during my absence, or that some extraordinary calamity might occur. Above all, this parlor’s gaudy decorations—the woman’s shamisen, those ostentatiously arranged fruit dishes—when compared to the temple’s quiet rooms, made me feel that merely sitting here constituted a profoundly wicked act. In the end, I tormented myself with so many thoughts that my face turned pale and my chest grew tight with anxiety, until I felt compelled to return home immediately.

“I’m in a little hurry tonight,” I said as I stood up. “There’s no need to rush. It’ll be too late for you to go home if you stay much longer, but it’s still only nine, you know.” Even though she tried to stop me, I felt I absolutely had to return and went outside. When I returned to the temple, I found myself unable to meet Father’s gaze—as if he knew exactly where I had been all this time.

“It seems quite late, but while you’re young, it’s best not to go out too much at night, you know.”

Father said gently. "I got caught up talking at a friend’s place." I entered my room as if fleeing. My room was situated where the sound of the Sai River’s rapids could be heard right from the veranda. Tonight, for some reason, even that rushing water failed to lull me to sleep as it usually did. I lay awake for a long time, thinking I should have stayed longer with that woman. "We typically decline young gentlemen like yourself, but being well acquainted with your household..."

Even the proprietress had come to feel a deeply sincere, unprecedented sort of human compassion. Yet I couldn’t escape the conviction that the woman I had called to the parlor and this same woman who unfailingly visited the temple—sitting properly ablaze with pious entreaties—were entirely different beings. Even from the registry office, I could distinguish her prayers—hands clasped, eyes closed, voice trembling with stifled sobs—by their piercingly sensual gloss. But face-to-face, she possessed neither that provocative intensity nor beauty. What’s more, while her ginkgo-bun hairstyle appeared exquisitely balanced with the votive red lanterns—inscribed “Offering” or “Devotional Light”—that hung from the main hall’s ceiling when viewed from within, seeing it up close reduced her to an ordinary woman devoid of mystique. I felt that everything I pursued would inevitably slip through my fingers.

As a result, I kept thinking I shouldn’t go anymore, and I couldn’t help but see it as terribly wrong that I had started frequenting such places.

Even when sitting alone at my desk, I would often write various love poems or spend endless hours staring blankly at a single spot, doing nothing at all. A strange itchiness crept through my entire body, my mind grew restless, and I found myself continually thinking of women. For instance, I would stare fixedly at the pale underside of my arm, extending and bending it until it formed a beautiful curve, then savor the intensely sexual pleasure that arose there. I would suck at my own firm white flesh while losing myself in claustrophobic delusions—tormenting fantasies that never seemed to exhaust themselves. Nor was this all: sometimes, upon seeing wretched semi-nude women in newspaper advertisements, the shapes conjured by my inner fantasies would merge with those images. My mind would agonize for long stretches over treating these forms as living beings, uttering small cries of pleasure as I built up their beautiful contours only to dismantle them again.

Each morning’s awakening brought a dull warmth that hung over my eyelids like a spiderweb—a mist-like haze I couldn’t brush away no matter how I tried—leaving my days to drag on in languor.

I staggered outside.

After the hail had fallen two or three times, the border mountains deepened in the sunlight, glowing under the weight of heavy snowdrifts as if freshly carved. The grasses on the gravel bank, their ears fully drooping, now trembled within the desolate, rough scenery—honed by the season’s harsh winds that would no longer let them stand. It was something felt by all those born in northern regions—the monotonous stillness of the suffocating landscape before winter’s arrival would seep into people’s very hearts, leaving every action blunted and numb.

The roofs of Mukougashi blurred into the same color as the sky on this cloudy day, with only the shoji doors of each window bleakly projected upon the water’s surface. I then ascended the slope and emerged toward the park. The onset of winter could be felt in the fallen leaves scattered across the park’s paths by the wind, in the tightly shut shoji doors of the teahouse, and in the desolate patches where trimmed bush clover stumps stood forsaken along the winding stream’s banks. The soil’s moisture—chilled by sasanqua blooms scattered among bright mixed forests stripped of leaves—swelled up here and there, battered nightly into frozen harshness by frost and hail.

I peered through the sparse woods toward the fountain situated slightly lower. Pitter-patter... pitter-patter... The spray striking and falling upon the water's surface dampened the small azalea leaves there, continuing ceaselessly with a desolate, chilly, monotonous sound. I squatted down and thought about how Hyou often used to rendezvous with Otama-san around here. Her house stood right beside the fountain, but the hushed stillness behind its tightly closed shoji doors evoked a loneliness in me akin to that of a remote mountain village home. Especially now that people had stopped coming for walks around this time, even the gardener's dutiful sweeping—done to no purpose—only rendered the roads all the more bleakly pale and desolate.

I went to Otama-san’s house. And when I said, “Excuse me,” a hushed voice sounded from within. I couldn’t tell whose voice it was, but for some reason it stirred an uneasy feeling within me. When the hushed voice ceased, Otama-san’s mother appeared. I had met her two or three times and knew her. “Do come in,” she said, but when I looked at the mother’s face, I saw a somewhat preoccupied, unsettled expression. “Is Otama-san…?” I said, and the mother drew closer to me,

“The truth is, she’s been feeling unwell and resting since the other day…”

I froze. Immediately—at once—I recalled her face from our last meeting: bloated with a bluish pallor. The inner shout of “It’s infected me” immediately gave way to a muttered “I’ve been done in.” “Is she quite unwell?” “Oh.” “The doctor says it will be prolonged with its ups and downs, but I believe it’s the same illness Hyou-san had.” Since there was a somewhat ironic aspect to it, I—

“Please take good care of her.” “Please give her my regards.” With that, I immediately went back outside.

I suddenly felt that the terrible illness had already begun to manifest in her. Tormented by anxious nerves that the illness might lurk within me too, when I thought of that small, girlishly lovely body lying quietly at home, I felt—just like with Hyou—that she would not last long. I descended the park slope with a sunken heart, watching the fountain ceaselessly rise.

“Lately, I feel as though I might die.” I felt that those words she had spoken the other day were now truly taking effect upon her.