Pathway to Japanese Literature

He would recall—one after another in his mind scrambled by anguish—the fleshy contours of women emerging from memories lured by deliberately painted pale peach hues in crude color schemes; though where or how he had even seen those women’s fleshy faces remained unclear, their beauty’s steamy warmth alone moistened the air around his seated form with an oily texture, soothing him. A sensation as if he’d slipped into a hot spring town’s entrance tickled his cheeks, ears, and the base of his chest. According to his belief, rather than beautifully voluptuous women drawing some special atmosphere toward them, it seemed their skin, nostrils, and lips were continuously warming the air immediately surrounding them.

Especially in places like train compartments, streets, and shop entrances—from the instant he saw a woman’s face so startling it took his breath—he would mentally reimagine the very air he himself breathed into something else, perceiving it anew through his mind. He first pondered with an irritation akin to shoving his hands into his hair—why did that startled feeling arise? Why did his chest feel as if lightly prodded? And why, in that split second, did his vision become so flustered that he had to abandon what he’d been gazing at and suddenly fixate on that beauty? Moreover, why did his gaze, severed in that instant, momentarily paralyze even as it clung desperately to that beauty? Above all else, it was these advertisement posters’ surface colors and textural hues that gradually reawakened within his mind’s eye the various distinctive features of women he had gazed at only to watch vanish.

Because the outside of this room he inhabited faced a thoroughfare, the shutters were always kept closed. Moreover during daytime—starting with advertisement posters—all women’s magazines and movie picture postcards he had collected, particularly that ill-omened peach-colored variety of paper along with towels, soap and soap dishes were all stored away in the closet. For even within a single sheet of paper as thin as bamboo parchment he meticulously preserved—item by item—the vivid women’s necks depicted on vulgar women’s magazine covers and even their shell-like hand gestures as though concealing them. Moreover due to a poverty that denied him even enough drink he had to find pleasure within his own inner self. For him there existed not only no dwelling of bread in this entire metropolis where he might place himself but all things had turned their backs upon him. Therefore he had no choice but to lead a life where he gradually consumed himself within his own being.

When dusk approached, he would wander off aimlessly into the streets and walk endlessly. He would most often drift like a dog lured by some scent through the geisha house alleys near his backstreet dwelling, meandering unsteadily from main thoroughfares while routinely passing house after house—observing elegant-strapped geta and zori sandals, then the inevitable large mirrors where gaudy women would invariably tie their obi sashes or apply makeup. For him, he had never approached that type of woman, nor had there ever been such an opportunity. He couldn’t even fathom that this world contained anyone who might summon geishas—those ephemeral figures resembling paper cutouts—to linger nearby. When he considered those sinuously rounded hands and feet, every unnaturally pale inch of their bodies—that such things could become freely available, that this transaction still persisted—he felt a throbbing pain radiate through his skull. So thoroughly did his shabby kimono stand out in this glittering teahouse district, so conspicuously did his gutter-plank geta clatter against stone. No one glanced back, nor did he have any acquaintances.

This street was a chaotic district like those found in every metropolis—newly built, where even the houses themselves exuded a sensual aroma and gloss. Particularly when beholding how sparsely arranged stone lanterns stood among winter bamboo, how Tama River stones were artfully laid around paving stones, and how flickering lights from metal lanterns floated coolly upon nightly water sprinklings, he would unconsciously stomp across those pavings like a beggar while showing faint consideration.

“Who’s there!” came an egg-like round, alluring voice he’d never heard before. Startled, he rushed toward the gate while drawing a single breath through pursed lips. How rare it must have been for him—such a slight fluttering in his chest—to unconsciously break into a smile from that tingling itch of pleasure. Particularly on the many second floors lining that alley, shadows always lingered with the silhouettes of women and men. The interiors seemed serenely enveloped in some kind of incense—zabuton cushions, inviting dining tables, tatami mats polished like single planks of wood, the tormenting image of women sitting with knees folded as beautifully white as confectionery boxes—each time he dwelled on these visions, he came to feel that even the listless box peddlers loitering there must be profoundly happy simply by brushing against the edges of their daily lives.

What he found unbearable was a certain type of women’s raw voices—impossible to discern where in that street they originated. Intertwined with seductive laughter that seemed to rise from every house and second floor, they coiled around him with a compulsive urgency that constricted his throat.

"Every time I hear that voice, some part of my body throbs with pain. "That voice probes every inch of my body and even strangles my breath." He always felt this way whenever he heard the mysterious woman's unmediated voice. The raw tones contained a shrike-like shrillness, a sweetness like suddenly being licked across the cheek, and a venomous quality that gouged at itches until they burned fiercer still. Among them pulsed instinctive laughter that plunged the deepest recesses of his skull into crystalline silence. All these sounds invariably reached him through shōji screens or storm shutters from some indeterminate distance.

And then there was one more thing—the women passing him by would always bestow at least once that particular glance common to their kind, making him fluster as if struck by a flower in some dark thoroughfare; he could never gauge just how much. All of them had eyes set with cunning darkness compared to their noses, lips, and ears—gazes possessing both the meticulous faculty to survey a target from toe to crown and a swift anatomical acuity. Some black-lacquered insect, an anomalous light that defied categorization, those coldly glinting things—they perpetually poured a single drop of something unknowable into him. This was unreasonably pleasant to him. Yet the gazes cast his way were half a light scorning something contemptible, half seemingly tinged with reproach that this district was no place for his sort. Because of this, he flushed crimson and walked furtively, muffling the clatter of his gutter-plank geta.

His nightly wanderings had finally, at some indeterminate time, brought a certain mysterious episode to his ears. Before all else, he had seen this woman—who couldn’t quite be pinned down as either a young girl or a maid—not just once but several times.

It was a pale winter evening when, happening upon people rushing about, he approached without particular intent—only to find the famous woman everyone called the “Electric Girl” walking by. She mainly walked around doing errands in this neighborhood and assisting with major cleanings. Once when she had stolen money or something, they all tried to catch her, but upon touching her shoulders or hands, they felt an uncanny electric vibration while also experiencing a peculiar chill. Even so, they coiled the rope around her again and again, but no matter how much they wound it, it would either slip right off or mysteriously snap partway through. In the end, everyone became so creeped out that no one even tried to chase her anymore. She had been living with an old woman, but even after that, she continued to be hired by busy families for help one after another. However, the strange thing was that all three children she carried on her back had suffocated, yet when examined by a doctor, there were no external injuries. It was said that her body simply possessed an intense electrical nature akin to eels or glowing marine organisms, and that this posed no harm as long as it remained contained within her. However,

“It depends on the type of child and only those that apply friction to her electrical nature seem to be dangerous,” was all the doctor said, offering no further explanation. Since then, no one had seen her carry children on her back again. Whenever he encountered this mysterious woman in that alleyway—which happened frequently—he would think for days afterward about speaking to her. The woman was always either carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle, going out to buy rolled cigarettes, or heading off to summon a rickshaw. At first, she had been watching him with uneasy suspicion, but lately, there had been times when she would smile as she passed by. In fact, there were instances such as when she grabbed onto some tree (the name of which he had forgotten), and the tree was alleged to have trembled violently all at once, or when, at a certain house, someone tried to strike the dining table and was suddenly electrocuted by it.

He had not only first and foremost failed to overlook her astonishingly pale skin, but that paleness—perhaps due to her youth—possessed an extremely softly rounded plumpness, and on top of that, even carried a subtle chill like that found in fair-skinned women of fuller complexion. Generally speaking, there are two types of coldness in skin: that from an utterly withered inner vitality of the skin, and that where plumpness itself turns cold from fat. The woman belonged to the latter category, her sharply defined pallor always carrying a substantial chill. According to his analysis, this mysterious woman’s pallid skin contained a dulled luster akin to gaslight or electric lamps—at times bearing a mineral-like coldness, at others appearing to hold the chill harbored by aquatic creatures—as observed through such scrutiny.

Therefore, he preferred above all else to gaze upon her under streetlights or in shops' gaslight. His abnormal, nearly inexplicable curiosity would torment him with a sensation like having his eyeballs abruptly sealed shut by her skin's pallor each time he glanced at her. For instance, that Western-paper whiteness always bore a faintly oil-smeared cold glow—centered around her perfectly shaped nose, gradually intensifying in pallor from both nasal flanks until at its very tip, a single gleam slickly reflected passing lights. In any case, these astonishing and somewhat eerie skin traits—coupled with her spirit-possessed electrical nature—were viewed by locals as a peculiar phenomenon. Her beauty was by no means deficient. Yet precisely this—a face too vividly pale bearing eyes of excessively vital dull black—revealed upon closer inspection pupils not truly black but tea-brown, their depths fixed with something resembling whirligig beetles skimming water's surface, rendering her a woman of unknowable essence. When he scrutinized her thus exhaustively, he finally began harboring increasingly strange doubts about aspects like her skin's excessive fineness, abnormally dense downy hair growth, overly white complexion, and bruise-like shadows occasionally appearing (though these shadows—suddenly visible when viewing her face sideways—proved upon scrutiny not actual bruises). It became a doubt about whether she was Japanese at all—the question of whether she might carry foreign seed.

That said，she did not possess all the defining facial features of a mixed-race child．When considering skillful Japanese，somewhat black hair（though appearing nearly brown when seen under sunlight），and the fact that an old woman living on Udomichi’s back-alley second floor—purported to be her mother—was pure Japanese，it seemed she was not mixed-race after all．However，what raised questions was her remarkably sturdy build，tall stature，and pelvic proportions scarcely inferior even compared to Westerners．Her long legs—always slender and quick-paced—were such that if made to wear high-heeled shoes and skirts，she would have appeared indistinguishable from a Westerner．The gait fulfilled every requirement．Walking lithely through greengrocer corners and alley bends，she turned with light-footed grace characteristic of Westerners yet retaining considerable delicacy．The curly hair created perfect harmony．Had she not carried that small cloth bundle nor worn soiled traditional kimono，she would have looked entirely Western．

And every time he encountered her suddenly emerging from a dark alleyway, he must have felt his astonishment anew each occasion. It gave him the unmistakable impression of a Westerner shrouded in shadow walking resolutely onward. Even the gentle wind that bore no relation to her skirt’s movement startled his nerves. Moreover, within his neighborhood stood that strange twelve-story brick tower which nightly loomed darkly beside her uncanny form—sometimes blackened against the sky, other times piercing through constellations before his very eyes. Though its windows remained perpetually shuttered, as he gazed at the ancient spire where mysterious thoughts wove themselves into troubling patterns, he nightly discovered constellations that kindled his mythic fascination. He never understood why he had come to link this mysterious woman with that bizarre brick tower—only that he could no longer conceive her existence apart from those twin presences.

That was the first night he heard this woman’s voice—a voice that could only be described as an eerie cry. He walked relentlessly from district to district as usual, trudging wearily through the fatigue of nightly wanderings—traversing these stagnant, waste-clogged alleyways of the metropolis without any particular impression, merely walking for walking’s sake—and when he had separated from the crowd whose origins and purposes were as ever unknowable, he suddenly encountered her emerging from a dark alleyway.

Is this how it was for everyone? When encountering someone too frequently, one puts on an act of feigned disregard. As usual, she stared intently at his face while hurriedly making her way into the street. When he gazed at her retreating figure, his eyes took in both the usual tower stacked upon the dark rooftop and her quick-stepping form. For what purpose did he walk every night? His idle indolence—this excess time requiring walking to sleep—had dwindled to nothing but fatigue lulling him into slumber. Moreover, he never once felt compelled to speak to her. The reason lay in how observing the illuminated second floors and ground-level rooms of those neighborhood houses allowed him to absorb—through some combination of prickling associations and the seductive tones of occasional real voices—a sensory pleasure that tingled through every fiber of his being. Thus he stored those detestable advertisement posters in the closet and, upon leaving his lodgings, would wander shabbily like a dog slinking through alley after alley behind raucous bands, commotion, food stalls, and licentious streets.

What had he heard at that moment? He couldn’t understand what the words meant, but it was indeed true that someone had suddenly called out to him. Before him stood the unnaturally pale woman. One side had become tenement housing while eaveslight seeped from the other—this light reflected off her pallid skin to intensify its stark whiteness, sharply etching through the night’s murk before seeming to float weightily midair.

“Was it you who called me?” “Was it you who just now called out...” He stared at her dull black eyes while saying this. They didn’t blink; rather, they held a mysterious light akin to a cat’s. While trying to say something—still holding the cloth bundle—she directed a vague gaze at him. “I do think it was you who called me...”

“But I might be mistaken. That woman has no reason to call me.” However, it was indeed true that he had heard something close to an eerie cry.

“No. It was not I.” “I…” She gazed at him suspiciously at that moment. It seemed she had little experience being called out by others in this manner. Her complexion showed a hint of panic. He perceived for the first time that the pale skin was rich in varied expressions. “Is that so?” “Please go on without minding me.” “It’s not like I have any business with you.”

He said this and moved to yield the path when her eyes snapped to his forehead—a motion swift as pupils swirling within sockets, carrying an almost seductive fragrance. For these were large eyes and expressions belonging to foreign women that no Japanese woman could ever replicate. “Then I beg your pardon.” Bending at the waist as she spoke, she straightened while glancing upward—a soft yet penetrating look—before walking briskly away. What had he truly heard at that moment? If not her voice, who could have called out? He wandered aimlessly, turning these questions over in his mind.

Whenever he walked through these streets lined with various filthy bars, cafés, and eateries, he would gaze at the night sky enveloping them and either doze off into a light sleep at the nearby park or, failing that, invariably witness crowds of people stealing moments of barely undisturbed ease—sleeping against taxis idling in the same spot for over an hour each night waiting for customers. Or he saw nightly beggars—their lower bodies swollen with moisture from being stuck in mud—gather only to disappear again, though he never knew where or how they vanished.

Even during the day, he sat on a bench placed by the pond in this clamorous park. It was around this pond that he caught sight of that mysterious woman for the second time.

Almost uniformly, the people gathering on this bench were all exhausted and disheveled in appearance; every face bore the fatigue and weariness that ought naturally to show itself, followed by a sorrowful, irritated poverty. Some held train transfer tickets in their hands, tearing them lengthwise and crosswise as if testing how finely they could shred the paper, all while vacantly gazing across the pond at the street beyond. Among them were others who sat with their jaws propped on their knees, staring blankly at some fixed point like souls in a trance. Among them were some reading kodan tales, yet despite sitting on adjacent benches, none attempted to converse with one another. They appeared to have no interest in such matters. They either stole glances at each other to pick up discarded cigarette butts or became so deeply lost in thought that they appeared rooted to the spot, unable to rise.

He was gazing at the dust- and soot-covered koi in the pond there. For some reason, he could not perceive these aquatic creatures as truly living beings. Had the colors from garish movie posters not been washed into the pond by rain, he found himself staring at scarlet and azure koi with an uncanny quality—as if they’d been papercrafted. They swam languidly through stagnant slime-thick water with heavy motions, bodies—seemingly wearied by bottom sludge—breaking surface to gulp single breaths of outer air. Air fouled by clamorous crowds’ dust, soot, and noise hung ashen over pondwater. Moreover reflected there upside-down stood the building that had swallowed countless spectators—its glass windows and round-hipped women peering through each pane. Some wore alluring indigo half-Western dresses; others pierced reflections with necks whiter than knees—all mirrored on grayish-blue water without ripple or quiver. Sunlight seemed to shine upon main street roofs behind high-rises, casting oblique shadows that rendered bench-bound pallid faces more melancholy yet languid. Warmth of sunlight also reached his body.

Sunlight also reached the middle of the pond. Their sorrowful swimming toward the warmth sent all motes dancing in that brightness falling onto the water. Burst balloon fragments, rolled-up theater programs, fruit peels, silent film actress postcards torn in half—such debris had been washed toward shore by lapping waves, floating upon ripples too faint to truly exist. The sorrowful postcard of Anita Stewart—her pale smiling visage—appeared to float from his direction, still damp, drifting wherever sunlight willed it. As he gazed absently at this image, the strange dampness clinging to the printed paper's pallid skin suddenly made him recall that woman—the Electric Girl.

He stared at the postcard—exactly that sort of pallor, he thought—and she always walked with such slender grace. They closely resembled each other. The forlorn curve of those cheeks could almost have been said to mirror hers exactly.

As he was filled with these thoughts, a red koi suddenly emerged from the depths of the pond, sucked in something, somersaulted crisply, and vanished back beneath the water. At that moment, he saw the scarlet koi’s rounded body twisted, curved, and smoothly revealed. To him, it was not merely the gracefully rounded torso; it drew him into a beautiful, fleeting fantasy. When he looked around, the water had turned murky, and her figure had vanished without a sound. Yet the portion of its body floating on the surface continued to glimmer faintly, clinging stubbornly to his vision and refusing to fade away.

Glancing up, he saw that even on the signboard painting of ×× Hall directly ahead stood a lurid painted woman's face—disheveled hair framing features clenched around a sharply gleaming dagger held between her teeth. While sensing those lips' carmine hue, those cheeks' deathly pallor, and the maddening disarray of hair that seemed to flutter diseased toward his own cheeks, he stared unceasingly. Through all these visions, his afflicted sexual paroxysms now drew upward from within—summoning a self beyond his ordinary self. To him now resonated every element: streaming banners and signboard paintings; carelessly discarded Anita Stewart; carp torsos; women vexingly wrapped in indigo haori; wooden sandals' scrape; willow branches' stubborn droop; even the police box officer's forlorn red epaulets—all blooming through his flesh like some sporadic floral eruption. Contrastingly, his own face parched into desiccation—merely etching deeper those sorrowful nasal creases.

"I had a desire to firmly grasp his carp’s torso and examine it to my heart’s content." Was that a mysterious cold creature? “Was it merely that? Or was it another indescribably soft creature—one from which I might derive some pleasure by grasping and examining it? Whatever the case, could sensations of myriad things—something from this tumultuous city—be lurking within that body?”

Such trivial thoughts of his spread through his body almost like a fever.

Dust and soot and scraps of paper. This pond—nothing but air thick with such filth—its surface reflecting every uncanny shadow, made him think there might exist within it things even he himself couldn't know. During each triennial dredging of its depths, they said several diamond rings always turned up mysteriously dropped there—pure gold rings without fail too—along with silver coins submerged beneath. Beyond these lay pure gold filigree combs, hairpins, coral beads, and at times bundles upon bundles of peculiar paintings tightly sealed and sunk into the abyssal mud. There were even male and female dolls bound fast from both sides, weighted down and cursed before settling into the silty bottom. All the abominable workings of lurid passion from the city's deepest depths still lay submerged in these waters—thick as spring sap, some gleaming resplendently. Night after night before the pale blue dawn could fully break—how countless were the things discarded and sunk into those depths. From these thoughts he gazed at the surface—a kind of oily film that could scarcely be called water—as if scrutinizing something mysterious for longer still.

At that moment, he felt as if the sunlight had dimmed slightly. But this was not actually so; about ten meters ahead, he saw a woman walking along. Before he could react, she noticed him and smiled with natural innocence. In that instant, he realized for the first time how her skin—which he had previously only seen at night on the streets—appeared translucent in daylight, so white and sharply defined. It possessed a pearlescent luster—a whiteness resembling shellfish flesh faintly blended with orange—displaying a pure pallor rarely seen among Japanese people. Her eyes, which at night had seemed tinged with brown, revealed themselves as undeniably indigo-tinged blackness beneath long lashes that resembled reed beds around a clear blue pond—and with lingering light, they calmly met his gaze.

He felt this mysterious woman was unmistakably of mixed parentage. He returned her smile almost instantaneously, and she reciprocated just as swiftly. Likely returning from shopping, her tall figure—carrying a furoshiki bundle while kicking up her hem as she walked—drew people's gazes. She strode briskly into the thoroughfare, her unnaturally white neck remaining etched sharply in his vision.

At that moment, near his weary ear, he heard someone whisper in a listless voice. Her figure so caught people’s eyes, and she herself had become so renowned. When he pricked up his ears, the whisper arose again from the bench behind.

“That woman’s got electricity in her body.” “No telling what she’ll do.” “They say she’s not human.” He caught their words—a tired voice, dull as a horsefly. “How’s she got electricity?” “Ain’t possible in a human body.” When another voice spoke, the first answered again. “See here—that woman—” “Shake a tree and it rattles like mad.” “Carry a child on her back strange-like, they say it suffocates quick.” “So she keeps clear of electric lights.” “Always picks dark places to walk.”

By the time they finished speaking, her figure had already been swallowed by the crowd.

“How could such a mysterious woman exist in this day and age?” As the voice continued in admiration, “It’s a kind of… that sort of illness, you see.” “Just look at that unnaturally pale complexion—doesn’t it make clear she’s got some illness?” And the earlier weary voice persisted wheezily.

After a while, he left that bench.

At that moment, sunlight slanted over the rooftops of houses. The yellowed light of late afternoon—winter approaching—laid bare the interiors of two-story homes and stained the noren curtains of shops and taverns. Coming to this district and seeing these rays of light always plunged him into unbearable desolation. When he came near the back of the Kannon Hall, he noticed a man who had approached from behind—seemingly intent on saying something—hovering furtively like a shadow.

When he came under a young ginkgo tree, the man approached until they were nearly touching and whispered in a low voice.

“Do you have a train ticket? Actually...” He began—then took out a single indigo-colored ticket. “I was hoping you could buy this—that’s why I approached you. I haven’t eaten anything yet... since this morning...” He took in the man’s rumpled summer kimono and old geta sandals—the sun-darkened skin characteristic of those endlessly wandering this city—yet remained silent while staring into those sleep-deprived eyes.

He pulled out a single silver coin from his inner pocket and, still in that low voice, “You must be in trouble—please use this, since I have this much.” With that, he placed the silver coin in the man’s palm. The man thanked him repeatedly and persistently tried to hand him the ticket.

“I don’t need that. Please don’t worry about that,” he said as he spun on his heel and started walking away. He walked listening to the man behind him repeatedly uttering obsequious greetings, harboring an unpleasant hatred toward his own actions out of disgust. Wandering without direction, when he emerged at a street corner he found himself bleakly eating his evening meal inside some eatery.

He saw various people there. That was a vulgar group of street musicians who played popular ballads of the time on violins. They continued singing from morning till night in damp makeshift lodgings near Yoshiwara behind the embankment, squirming like maggots in their clammy quarters. When he happened to visit their lodgings one day, the setting sun around three in the afternoon cast a sorrowful russet light across the blackened tatami mats of a six-mat room smothered in soot, dust, and tattered rags.

The musicians not only rented their violins at ten sen per day but also bore all costs for string replacements and instrument repairs themselves. The instruments coated in grime bore a blackened luster from countless hands that had touched them, their bodies clogged with immense amounts of dust. When he entered the place casually, as everyone did, he was immediately introduced. Toshiro—an old friend from his hometown who would often threaten him and take things like train fare—ultimately introduced him there.

There were four youths there, all uniformly sunburned yet with skin that appeared pale from malnutrition. During the day, they were sometimes occupied with practicing the daily new ballads that came from Mannen-cho's overseer, but since they only played melodies anyway, it wasn't particularly difficult. One would sing as another played, Mr. Gaslight, I’ve fallen for you— Freshly fallen— I saw you had a heart and fell—

They sang in voices that were mournful, parched, and rough-hewn. As he listened to all three of them opening their large, fish-like mouths to sing out in the dim room, he recalled clusters of hatless vagrants chanting in Hongan-ji’s shadowed precincts, park corners, and back alleys of the town. Their voices held a strangely fractured, floating hoarseness; listening too long made one feel their heart growing barren while sinking of its own accord. Above all—the grime-caked clothes and shirts and hats dangling from bent nails; ceilings blackened by fly droppings; damp rotten planks partitioning the adjacent toilet beyond the window; that lonely streak of sunlight gradually creeping ceilingward—all harmonized perfectly with his voice and continued without end.

Freshly fallen in love, love... And so, with the violin screeching away, the same melody was sung over and over again. He borrowed the thin pamphlet Toshiro was holding and read it. Inside were written about ten popular ballads, each with a fixed price listed. Those printed materials had been distributed through wholesalers from Mannen-cho's overseer and were meant to be sold on those very streets.

“I met the man who writes these ballads—he dropped out of Waseda and now specializes in this field.” “It’s still handled like manuscript fees.” “He’s constantly setting nothing but new works to music.” Toshiro explained that the man actually made his living solely from these manuscripts and that all the popular songs sung in Tokyo were composed by him. And, “He even makes special trips to Osaka and Kyoto using travel funds.” “In other words, starting from Tokyo—as long as you’ve got fare to Yokohama—take one violin, sing while selling these pamphlets town to town, and you could reach Osaka or Kyoto.”

Having said that, he folded numerous pamphlets in half and stacked them one after another. A young man who seemed to be a fellow member had been staring intently at him for some time, “Are you an artist?”

He hurriedly denied it. However, Toshiro immediately spoke up, “Since this person writes poetry, popular ballads are nothing.” “You should have him write one,” he said, “Hey, could you write something for us—a thirty or forty-line piece?” Then the man,

“When you say ‘poetry,’ do you mean new-style poetry? They say the author of Mannen-cho’s ballads is skilled at poetry too.” “I too came from the countryside with literary aspirations, but ended up sinking into a place like this. I’ve even met Mr. T and Mr. S. If I’d kept at it since those days, I might’ve amounted to something by now, but...”

The violinist nearby burst into laughter with a Kansai accent and said mockingly while lowering his instrument from his shoulder: "What could a guy like me possibly do for you?" "I'm just some talentless bum better off lazing around in cheap lodgings than anything else." "It's just some damn habit making him whine like that," he added in a piercing, flippant tone. "Even someone like me failed the music school entrance exams three times." "You know that grassy spot on the school grounds?" "I used to walk into that exam hall there with my heart pounding away." "But that's all just ancient history now." He let out a dry laugh dripping with self-deprecation. The man from earlier kept staring intently, but

“Stop lying! Since when do you have the qualifications to take something like a music school exam?” “First of all, you never even finished middle school, and you can’t even read the English on a beer label.” The violinist immediately turned red, bit his lip, and seemed flustered about what to do with his hastily reddened face as he said, “Don’t talk nonsense!” “What would someone like you know about music school? I still have all those intonation books I studied back then!”

As he said this, slightly pale, the man from before cut in as if chasing his words,

“Well then, let’s have a look, shall we?” “What a joke those intonation books are!” he sneered, impatiently lighting a cigarette. Toshiro spoke up from beside them, “Enough nonsense—we need to practice tonight’s piece.” “The day’s nearly gone,” he said with forced formality, then muttered, “You’ll have to excuse me,” before throwing his mouth wide open and dragging out a lengthy song. Those uniformly gaping mouths, those grimy teeth—they simply flapped open and shut like machinery. During mournful passages, they’d deliberately squint their eyes, crease their brows, and let out voices that quavered like sobs.

“Sing loud as if there are no instruments!” “Don’t let it drop.” As the violinist snapped scoldingly, the man from before barked back curtly. “What human could possibly produce a high-pitched voice like a violin?”

“Shouldn’t you emphasize that part? The violin’s nothing but accompaniment here—just accompaniment, I tell you.”

As he snapped back, the man from before retorted, "Accompaniment means playing a different piece altogether." "It's just melody!" he bit out, chanting the words mockingly. "Don't get cocky—there, you messed up." "Draw it out longer." "Freshly smitten—like this—"

The violinist, while looking at him out of the corner of his eye, snapped brusquely as if to declare he’d never yield to this man. Toshiro remained silent, but even he—unsettled by the awkwardness of having his squabbling comrades witnessed before his childhood friend—sank into brooding contemplation.

“These squabbles happen every day.” “It’s just hopeless.” Toshiro had been skilled at playing bright flutes and singing popular ballads since childhood, but he always despised himself for having sunk to such a place whenever he was before him. “It’s all the same either way,” he whispered in a low, sunken voice. “Even someone like me can’t manage work like you all and just loafs around.” “After all, we’re just singers who can’t even scrape by,” another said in a lightly conceited tone,

“We manage to eat,” “Nor must we bow our heads to anyone.” “We need only sing haphazardly wherever takes our fancy.” “That’s our sole virtue,” said Toshiro with a relieved face, “but let ten days of rain fall, and we’re finished.” “There’s no work to be had outside.” “We lie here like maggots.” “When such times come, I start thinking of our hometown where I played with you.” “I find myself wondering what became of it all,” said he—this nearing-thirty good-for-nothing—wearing a desolate look that seemed to thin his very brows.

He had been stealing glances at the fair-skinned boy sitting perfectly still in the corner of the room without moving an inch since some time ago. Following along behind the others, his mouth working awkwardly, the boy’s voice alone—compared to their roughened tones—took on a raw, discordantly high pitch, so he would sing a little then stop, only to resume abruptly with an oddly leaping voice as if he couldn’t bear staying silent. And so, while occasionally stealing glances his way, whenever their eyes met, he would fluster and avert his gaze, somewhat panicked, causing his voice to falter. He couldn’t help but think those behaviors could only belong to someone who had recently joined this group. Moreover, the boy’s face still retained a youthful luster—smooth and untainted by vice—unlike those of his companions.

He whispered quietly near Toshiro’s ear, “What’s with that boy? He doesn’t seem like the type to come to a place like this…” When asked this, Toshiro gave a brief glance and said in a low voice, “That boy? He came here on his own about a week ago. He seems to have come from the countryside but couldn’t find any work anywhere else, so he ended up here.” He lowered his voice further. “When I asked him, ‘What will you do in the future?’ he said, ‘I want to study hard at school during the day—I can do anything at night.’ But everyone starts out saying things like that. In the end, they all become completely stuck.” His tone grew analytical. “Even now as he sits there, I feel I can clearly see what sort of person he’ll become—though he still acts all shy like that.”

Even as Toshiro spoke in a tone that seemed somewhat confident, the boy—with an uneasy premonition that he was being discussed—kept staring fixedly in this direction.

“So he’s already going to start singing in the streets? That won’t amount to anything,” he said. “He’s still shy about it, but give it two weeks. Once he sings in the streets even once, that’ll settle it. You have to become thoroughly shameless through and through. The police will chase us away harshly enough. When you think about it, it’s a wretched business.” Having completely organized the printed materials, Toshiro filled the portable gas lamp and soda bottles with cooled water and packed them into a small furoshiki bundle.

“What about the soda bottles?” he asked. “You get thirsty when singing.” “That’s why we prepare them to bring along.”

Toshiro laughed hollowly, a lonely sound. The others too, once they finished practicing, all bundled the printed materials and portable gas lamps into one package. The aforementioned boy stood up firmly, arranged his own share and Toshiro’s—who was being taken along—on the earthen floor’s planks, and lined up everyone’s geta sandals. By then, the light had faded both indoors and out, and a chilly evening air began creeping through the surroundings. The violinist placed his instrument into a cotton bag, then cradled it as if he had completely forgotten their earlier squabble.

“Well then, let’s head out. Please stay and take your time,” he said, then added, “What are you dawdling for?” “Let’s go,” he told the man from earlier. The man from earlier pulled a double-cut cigarette from a blue cardboard box, lit it, and muttered something in lieu of proper farewell as both men stepped barefoot into old geta sandals and left. Their retreating figures—matched in height—bore a similar forlorn appearance, dust clinging to their forms like urban residue.

“You’ll be heading out soon too, I suppose,” he said. “We should get going soon…” he said, standing up. The young boy, cradling a violin and printed materials, still wore an indigo-dyed Satsuma kasuri kimono with unfaded navy-blue straight sleeves that retained a touch of endearing charm. When they went outside, he parted from Toshiro and the boy. Along the street from the Twelve-Story Tower to Yoshiwara—exactly behind the Katsudōkan—next to the public toilet, there was always a single automobile resting. From around midnight until sometimes the early morning hours of one or two o’clock, the automobile that always rested there as if by routine had rarely ever moved. Having arrived at some unknown time and of uncertain departure, it sat there as was its routine—curtains drawn over every window, its dull glass windows glowing faintly within the darkness between streetlamps.

Moreover, strangely enough, he had never once seen the driver’s figure. No matter the circumstance—as if someone had gone to fetch machinery while making repairs—the entire automobile, devoid of human presence and bearing a seal-like black gloss, lay utterly still in the hollow wind.

He had once peered inside from beside the gutter-side steering wheel on a night when yellowed zelkova leaves scattered down, prompted by sudden curiosity. At that moment he nearly cried out in shock, reflexively covering his mouth with his hand. As he crept closer to peer through the lacquered car body that reflected his dim silhouette, the deep green curtain inside—tinged that night with velvet-like blackness—had been drawn open about two inches. When he looked through the gap, shock gripped him like a hand around his throat. Within the unlit interior sat a woman's fleshy face as white as porcelain—or rather, had been placed there perfectly motionless.

Moreover, at that very moment, he nearly cried out again in surprise—for he had discovered another man's face right beside the woman's. Their postures resembled two white gourds placed side by side, floating into view within the dim light filtering through the curtains from the street as if existing yet not truly present in that interior. The woman's face possessed a starkly white and vivid contour. Though he hadn't anticipated this, merely discovering a woman's fleshy countenance within this strange automobile—the extent to which it had shaken his utterly corrupted psyche remained unclear. Even as something that ought to exist where expected, her face—glistening pale as a flatfish in that deathly silent interior—had shattered his perverse obsession.

Judging from the extravagance of her attire and the fur stole around her neck, the woman possessed an actress-like alluring charm and commanding poise. First of all, her eyes gleamed with a dim light like frosted glass even in the darkness. The man wore formal clothes. He had pulled a black soft hat low over his head. They kept silent. Not a word passed between them. Their stillness could only mean they were waiting for the driver—who seemed to have been sent to buy cigars or something—to return. Yet even after ten or twenty minutes passed, not only did the driver fail to reappear, but there was no trace of him whatsoever.

At that moment, he was suddenly seized by a peculiar neurotic compulsion.

"What on earth were they doing?" They neither spoke nor smoked cigarettes. That they sat utterly still like white gourds was strange. "Could they be reading a book or something?" Even as he thought this and looked carefully—finding nothing resembling that on their laps—he suddenly recoiled from the door in shock. As if flicked away by some invisible force, he swiftly concealed himself in the narrow gap between two houses—a space leading from the gutter to a household’s back entrance. In that moment, he sensed pale forms of unknowable nature lying piled together.

Two or three minutes later, on the lacquered door opposite the street—directly facing him from his position—a deathly pale hand slid out smoothly before seizing the steering wheel's handle and twisting it the opposite way. The heavy-looking thick door opened as if weightless and utterly soundless. There a tall woman suddenly leaped down, followed by a clothed man descending. They scanned their surroundings before walking briskly down the dark street. At that moment he detected an intense fragrance—overpowering the gutter's stench—wafting through the air like sheer silk gauze, its scent drifting ethereally.

He stood there a while longer, his chest poked by these mysterious scenes, when from nowhere a driver approached the automobile and immediately climbed into the driver’s seat. Before long, this suspicious automobile began moving slowly, made a loop toward Tawaramachi, then dashed off somewhat quickly. In the blink of an eye, the automobile vanished like a shadow.

After jumping out from between the houses, he casually looked at the automobile’s tire tracks but soon began walking vacantly again. While tormented by the assorted visions flooding his mind, his brain felt heavy and his heart was weary. He gave no thought to why he himself was compelled to wander these detestable streets night after night, nor to how doing so caused his own inner self to deteriorate ever further. He was merely walking the inevitable path of all desolate single men, the unemployed, and every incompetent individual.

He was soon walking through the park, weaving almost ghostlike from one cluster of trees to another. He himself, with no particular purpose, was leaning against a bench there alongside many idlers. From half a block ahead came drifting a singing voice he once remembered hearing. When he looked closer, in the shadow of a grove with gas lamps lit, surrounded by thirty or forty people, their usual vulgar sentimentalism was now being vigorously played and sung. He immediately recalled the group of street musicians. At the same time,

“Whoever sees my face—I no longer care at all.” “When shame sinks this low, it settles into place.” He recalled the sullen old man saying this with his usual dour expression.

He left the bench and started walking toward the crowd. Toshiro sang in his usual sunken voice as he played, occasionally drawing out notes with deliberate sorrow while surveying each face in the crowd. The young boy crouched forlornly, clutching booklets in his right hand as he restlessly shifted his gaze between Toshiro's face and those in the crowd.

He, wedged within the human wall of the crowd, listened until it seemed this uniformly entranced mass could almost discern the mournfully sobbing violin with rapt absorption. Toshiro naturally remained unaware of him. When the playing ended, the young boy—voice faltering—began circling the throng,

“Does anyone need one?” “Each booklet is ten sen.” “The songs with their melodies are all collected inside here,” he said, thrusting the booklets before people’s eyes only to pull them back. No sooner had a strange voice from the dim crowd called out “One over here” than a mousy voice from the opposite corner chimed in, “One here too.” When a buyer appeared, Toshiro suddenly shouted loudly,

“For just ten sen, every last song is included.” “Hurry now, before they’re all gone!” he urged. Then, peering anxiously over the crowd in every direction, he kept urging the young boy to hurry. This was because they would be driven off by park patrol officers; anticipating this, they swiftly sold off their booklets. As he watched, eighty-seven booklets were sold, and the crowd gradually began to disperse. The dark ring of onlookers was being peeled away one by one until only four or five remained; Toshiro had been persistently making sales up until then when suddenly he sharply called out to the boy and waved his hand,

“Turn off the gaslights!” he shouted. The young boy immediately tried to blow out the gaslights, but they stubbornly refused to die. Toshiro extinguished them with practiced ease while muttering under his breath.

“We’ve got to get out of here fast.” “Hurry and fold up the gas lamps!” Toshiro briskly packed the printed materials into a furoshiki bundle. And the two of them hurried toward Kannon Hall and disappeared into the crowd. As he watched this, he indeed observed a single patrol officer approaching with stealthy footsteps.

The aimless day and night wanderings cast his figure into every street and back alley. If someone were to ask him why he had to wander aimlessly every night like this, he would not have been able to give a single answer. For him, there was no reason—his feet would automatically head toward the bustling streets each time. Winter completely froze the bark of the trees in this district's park, and the cold intensified into a chill so fierce it could crack flimsy buildings.

One evening, he climbed the twelve-story spiral staircase. Though he had always thought he would climb it someday, he had never actually done so before. He found intriguing the musty odor of old mildew he had anticipated, the swelter of dust, and the stairs that groaned and creaked mysteriously everywhere. The desolate echo of his own footsteps—somehow stimulating his curiosity—and the swarm of girls who had climbed this tower for sightseeing just as he had compounded to weave within him a certain bizarre illusion.

When he finally reached the ninth floor, he read the various scribbles on the walls there—marks left by pencils and fingernails. There were writings where sightseers who appeared to be from rural areas had noted their home provinces and era names. Among them were Hokkaido and Hyūga Province. Where fingernails had scratched, dust had accumulated, and some pencil marks had faded until barely visible. “I came bearing my pilgrim’s pack to the capital, only to return now broken and empty,” or “From here, I breathe in the distant air of my homeland. From here, my wish turns to naught”—such phrases were inscribed there. Those urban dropouts—he felt them within himself as well. Those who left the city and those who agonized over leaving were vividly conjured before his eyes. Or there were meaningless scrawls like “October 5th, Meiji Year 45: Takejima Ten’yo.” Yet how desolately those era names must resonate in one’s mind. When he had been gazing blankly for a while, he immediately recalled Toshiro’s grim, old-man-like face.

When he finally reached the summit, all the surrounding windows had been tightly fitted with wire mesh to prevent anyone from jumping from them. The wind was fierce. He looked down from there at the buildings, roads, and clusters of electric lights spread across the entire park area. On the road, swarming black shadows of pedestrians teemed like ants across the whetstone-white pavement—stretching and shrinking, some undulating as if floating on water, others squirming like birds. There, electric lights were sorrowfully lit everywhere. They blazed resplendently between each human shadow and around every building. As he gazed at this scene, he suddenly conceived the idea of hurling himself toward the ground below—as though he were a crow pierced through mid-flight, plummeting earthward.

By then, he was already on the ground—flattened as if crushed—lying prostrate on the road. People formed a dark mass around him, but he was already gasping for breath. When he had thought that far, he noticed his fingertips gripping the wire mesh had gone numb from clutching too tightly.

"Would even the death of a worthless person like me deserve to be called a death? My suicide leap would surely draw a crowd. It would surely disturb the expressions of those who had been at peace until now—if only for a while. But in the next moment, as if ripples subsiding without incident, people would regain their composure and resume pondering whatever they had been contemplating before, while those seeking pleasure would hurry back toward their diversions. In that place, there is nothing of me worth valuing." When he thought this, the group of girls who had come up behind him were peering fearfully down at the ground while chirping like small birds.

“I want to try jumping from here.” “Will I die?” asked the girl, turning to the tallest girl beside her.

“Oh! “You’ll definitely die.” “That’s dangerous!” “Don’t go so close—” said the largest girl as she grabbed the small girl’s shoulders from behind. He stood there, seemingly indifferent but gradually growing pale. If I took these two girls down to the ground and jumped from this upper floor—if I did that—then maybe I could… Such tormenting thoughts consumed me.

It was then that the girls first discovered his figure between the door and the wire mesh. Their peaceful, unblemished faces seemed to quietly turn pale, as if directly mirroring his own pallid visage. At the very least, their anxious expressions—fully aware that he posed no threat—yet gradually retreated backward to protect their own delicate bodies in midair.

"I am feared. "I must look so coarse to them." When he thought this, he whirled around to face the opposite direction and bathed in every sharply gleaming light of the constellations blazing across the intense night sky. It was cold. It was cold—so cold it verged on painful.

After a while came the hurried sound of them descending the stairs. When he heard this, for the first time he felt a tranquil state of mind. "There's nothing I can do at all." Yet he feared what seethed within his own being.

Five or six minutes had passed. But at that moment, he suddenly dashed toward the wire mesh. "I'm just dashing like this—no—I'm absolutely not going to jump." "I'm not such a fool." "I'm just dashing like this—nothing more," he restrained himself while scratching at the torn section of the wire mesh. The taut wire mesh emitted an uncanny metallic clangor, its eerie resonance reverberating all the way to the inner side of the door. It was then that he first noticed the guard who had been there. The old guard emerged quietly and restrained his cold hand.

“You mustn’t act so roughly. “Don’t break that,” he said in the parched voice common to all old men, scrutinizing him from head to toe. He looked back almost mechanically, his gaze vacant, “Rough behavior…” he murmured absently. The old guard smiled with practiced familiarity and drew nearer, “You’ve been here rather long, haven’t you? “This is a high place. “They say demons tempt people here, you know. “You ought to go down now.”

While saying this, he quietly guided him through the door as if pressing on his back. He wordlessly did as the old guard directed. He escorted him all the way to the stairway entrance.

“Keep going down. Keep going down without looking aside,” he said. He felt his lower body growing unsteady. For the first time he realized that as dizziness intensified rather than subsiding, it instead intoxicated his flesh. He descended stair after stair while thinking. “Had I become so deranged that old guard needed to intervene? Could there truly have been something in my eyes revealing such madness?” Then came an uncanny notion—that anyone ascending this tower’s heights, upon reaching its summit, might effortlessly think “Why not leap?” as though obeying some cosmic law— “Does demonic temptation strike them all?” Or perhaps through long observation, that watchman had learned to read climbers’ purposes etched upon their pallid faces? Thus he brooded, descending step by cramped step. At every landing sat a guard facing desks. Each time he heard time’s lonely ticking through silent rooms. Guards noting his corpse-like pallor and faltering gait would watch him vanish into subsequent stairwells. Strangely, this endless procession through countless thresholds— ceaseless whether day or night— made deserted stairs creak unexpectedly, until phantom footsteps seemed always at his back. No sooner would this dread take root than faint creaks would rise from opposing stairs below, as though specters circled endlessly like shadows cast by whirling lanterns. Eventually he lost count of ascents and descents. His vision swam. Clinging to brass rails left hands dangling limp, fingers frozen dead-white. Then a guard panicked—

“The entrance is over there.” “Don’t be absurd.” “You’ll tumble out the window.” “Don’t be absurd.” While saying this, he pointed to the stairway exit with hands like coarse hemp. The hippopotamus-like large entrance faced toward him, floating in the window light as it stood open. “I see. So it was over there?” “So it was over there?” he said, also hurriedly starting to walk. The moment he thought this, he realized that although he should have descended to the seventh floor, he was still on the eighth. Outside the window, the dim string of Yoshiwara’s lights came hazily into view. As fear began to take hold, he started descending the stairs at a run. The footsteps continued ceaselessly one after another, slapping against his back.

He could no longer endure it and asked the guard who was there. “What floor is this place anyway? I’ve been trying to figure it out since earlier, but I just can’t tell….” The guard stared fixedly at his face. Those eyes did not move. He too remained motionless for a while, but felt his face drying out as if a feverish heat were rising. “This is the seventh floor. What on earth have you been scurrying around here for? You’re a creepy one. Now then, here’s the exit.”

The guard, appearing impatient, led him to the exit and, as if pushing him along, said in a dull voice,

“Descend from here without looking aside. “Don’t look at the windows.”

Having said that, he turned away and left. He did as instructed. As he descended flight after flight of stairs, he caught a distant glimpse of a guard about to make tea from a steaming iron kettle—a scene that appeared almost dreamlike. He descended even there without catching his breath. Three minutes later, he felt as if the soles of his feet were lightly jabbed. When he came to his senses, he was standing on the road. The soles of the feet throbbed dully. When he instinctively looked up at that moment, all the doors of this strange old tower began closing.

The tower was bathed in a sea of surrounding electric lights, leaving no shadow, and he stood there holding his breath. Moreover, when he looked up again, he grew so dizzy and unsteady that he even felt a chill.

He soon came upon an ominous incident one winter night. It occurred during his habitual wandering—first witnessing the entire park crowd surge toward the tower, their dark mass staining its base like spilled ink. That same evening, he chanced to hear of the Electric Girl's suicidal leap from the tower's summit. When he rushed there, her corpse had already been removed, the dispersing crowd leaving only whispers behind. Though he couldn't fathom her reasons—having glimpsed her but three or four times—a chill seeped through him alongside profound sorrow. Moreover, that pure white skin never left his sight; it clung ceaselessly like frost on glass.

Then several nights later, he heard his destitute street musicians singing as they played violins in the vacant lot at the tower’s base. He stood amidst the crowd and gazed at Toshiro’s face for a long time. Rather than questioning why Toshiro had chosen such desolate ground—that day he found himself seized by a passive, idle sort of desolate notion—one so overpowering he even contemplated throwing himself into that group of musicians. When people began to disperse, he tapped Toshiro on the shoulder. Toshiro started in surprise, and then—

“Have you been listening since earlier?” “To what I was singing—” he said, his face reddening. “Well I wasn’t exactly listening, but are you quitting already?” At these words, Toshiro turned off the gaslight, had the young boy bundle their things in a furoshiki cloth, then picked out a shadowed corner and hunched down.

“Such nights won’t do.” “It’s just too gloomy.” “The moment one person gathers, two leave. In the end, when four or five cluster together only to scatter apart—it kills all desire to sing.” “It’s an oddly nervous thing.” “On nights like this, I can tell from the start—yes, from when we leave the inn.” Having said this, Toshiro made his aged face even gloomier. He, as if trying to summon some vigor,

“Let’s try again—first off, this place is no good.” “It’s dark and clammy here too,” he said, abruptly turning his gaze toward the tower. He couldn’t dispel the sensation that something clung to the sharply carved octagonal spire. “The location’s bad enough… but tonight’s hopeless.” “The folks gathering here are all faint shadows of people—and worse yet, tonight they all looked peculiarly starved.” “That gaslight over there didn’t help either—made everyone’s faces appear ghastly pale and warped,” said Toshiro, glancing briefly at the gaslight. Beneath it, a black dog trotted briskly past. A scrawny, skeletal creature.

Until that moment, he had been fidgeting with the thought that he might still speak even now, but suddenly let the words slip out.

“Didn’t they say there was a suicide leap here yesterday?” “Do you know?” “It’s right around here.”

He said this while looking at the weeds that had grown like an old man’s head. Toshiro grimaced but, “Yeah, I know.” “I’ve been thinking about that since earlier.” “When that sort of thing happens, business never goes smoothly,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “For those of us who do business out here like this, we take omens from things like suicide leaps.” “I’d resolved not to perform here when leaving the inn tonight either, but before I knew it, we’d already begun,” he said, hunched his shoulders against the cold. The regular boy was also crouching in the same posture as Toshiro, steadily tapping stone against stone. He was unbearably bothered by a dry, strange sound. Toshiro too kept glancing back as if bothered, but the young boy continued tapping without noticing.

Both he and Toshiro remained silent, but abruptly, Toshiro asked:

“Have you ever seen that woman? The one with the white face—” he said while casting a fleeting dark glance at his face.

“I’ve seen her two or three times. On the streets around here.” He recalled how she had once smiled faintly before walking away. After that, they fell silent again. The young boy kept steadily tapping stones, producing a dry clacking sound. “Hey, stop making that strange noise. It’s irritating.” When Toshiro snapped irritably, the sound ceased at once. After that, their talk never turned back to women.

When they emerged onto the bright street, Toshiro whispered to him with an ashen face. There, right before the juggling booth, a woman was passing by. It was unmistakably her slender form—the familiar woman’s neck stood out pale and distinct. “That woman’s leaving. What a strange night this is. It must be her,” Toshiro exclaimed. He felt a strange rhythmic tremor course through his entire body then. For even his own eyes had clearly seen that figure. The brisk, Western-style walk matched perfectly with what he’d witnessed in the teahouse alleyway before. Yet there was no way she could be alive. That woman had truly leapt to her death. Even so, the resemblance chilled him.

He cut in on Toshiro’s words, “How could that woman be walking around? At this hour, how could someone who’s already dead be walking around?”

Toshiro’s chest pounded violently as he gasped for breath,

“But this is strange.” “She does resemble her.”

And once again, he looked back behind him. The crowd moved ceaselessly, shifting from one place to the next. They would gather in one spot only to flow away, and just when you thought they were flowing, they would clump together again or stagnate sluggishly. He was suddenly assailed by a thought. While thinking "What if... perhaps..." he abruptly began to speak. “Have you known that woman for quite some time?” “You know her inn near your lodging house, don’t you?”

Toshiro’s complexion changed at that moment as he stared into his face. It had turned paler than paper and seemed to tremble. They remained silent for about two minutes, “I’ve known her for quite some time. But…” he said, stumbling into silence. He too walked in silence, gradually beginning to feel trembling throughout his entire body from a certain premonition that seemed to drain the color from his very mood. If that woman had indeed been pregnant as rumored, and if the child in her womb had truly been crushed like a frog when she leapt to the ground... he considered this and, glancing at Toshiro, glimpsed a pale face threatened by some mysterious chill blending extreme terror and unease.

He then casually became aware once more of the large, heavy twelve-story building looming ponderously behind him. The figure like a shot-down crow, the form leaping down from that tower's heights, and all the shadows flickering across his enervated nerves—