Pathway to Japanese Literature

The strange thing was that when I first saw her, I had convinced myself she would drown herself—he began to say.
It was a story from when he was twenty-one years old.

It was on the late-night coast of Nanki Shirahama Hot Springs that I saw her.
At that time, I was a Kyoto High School student convalescing from lung disease at that hot spring town.
It was likely due to my illness that I suffered insomnia nearly every night back then. That evening too, having slipped out of my lodgings late at night, I sat on the stern of a fishing boat washed ashore on the sandy beach and gazed vacantly at the sea.
The beach lived up to its name of Shirarahama—the sand’s whiteness possessed a vivid brilliance so intense that on moonlit nights, the shore bathed in silver gleamed like fallen snow with an almost sinister pallor. That night too fell close to May’s full moon.
The beach shone whiter than exhaled tobacco smoke; the sea glared black with terrifying depth.
No human figures stirred.
The sound of silence roared violently in my eardrums.
Out at sea, five or six fishing boat lights held their positions motionless.
The briny scent hung thick in air already touched by early summer—the wind felt less cold than soothing against my fevered skin.
This comfort proved fleeting. Whether from exposure to night dew or some other cause, my skin gradually chilled until sudden shivers racked me.
I considered returning then, but knowing sleep would elude me even back at my lodgings, I couldn’t find the will to rise.
Yet neither could I remain forever on this midnight shore.
Though unwilling to stay rooted there indefinitely, I found myself incapable of mustering momentum for even so simple an act as standing—trapped in that liminal state.

Then, one of the fishing boat lights began to move.
As I quietly followed the gliding light with my eyes, it disappeared behind a small rocky islet.
I decided that once it reappeared from the opposite end of the rocky islet, I would return to my lodgings.
And I began calculating the size of the rocky islet based on the speed of the fishing boat light.
The calculated time had passed, but the light did not appear.
I grew strangely anxious wondering why it wasn’t appearing.
I thought I couldn't return to my lodgings.
The fishing boat light had probably stopped behind the islet, but I hadn’t had the presence of mind to notice such a thing.
I began to doubt my calculations, and at the same time, I resolved that I could no longer return.
This must be the kind of moment when loneliness comes over you as a physical sensation.
I must have looked quite pitiful.
With my tear-streaked face still as it was, when I suddenly tilted my head, the figure of that woman came into view.

She wore a dark kimono and stood upright at the shoreline about fifty meters away.

(—With that, he grinned.)
The women who attracted him were without exception tall and slender.
A dark kimono suited a slender woman.
Since he had described her as standing erect, she must have been tall.
(Perhaps feeling self-conscious before the author who knew these preferences of his so well, it seems he inadvertently smiled.)

The woman looked as if she might be swallowed by the waves at any moment.
The reason she appeared that way was likely because I had intuitively sensed she was attempting suicide.
Or rather, perhaps I had concluded she intended to kill herself precisely because she appeared that way.
In any case, I desperately started running toward the woman.
There was certainly a desire to prevent her suicide, but at the same time, my unbalanced loneliness in that moment must have driven me to run with a kind of yearning for human connection.
I started running and realized my mistake.
The thought of illness came to mind.
Of course, I didn’t have a body capable of running.
Even if I climbed just a slight slope, I would end up choking on coughs and gasping for air.
I thought I’d made a mistake, but I kept running full tilt.
When I reached the woman’s side, a violent cough suddenly erupted.
My chest rattled inside.
I crouched down.
No sooner had something lukewarm surged up than it was coughed out thickly into my mouth.
When I vomited, it was vividly red on the white sand.
A voice sounded overhead.

“Are you all right?”

Of course, I couldn’t respond.
I simply sat motionless, holding my breath and waiting for the hemoptysis to cease.
I vomited two or three times.
It was utterly mortifying.
More than the hemoptysis itself, having performed such a disgraceful act before a stranger was mortifying.
The woman seemed dazed for a moment, but soon scooped seawater with her hand and brought it to my mouth.
She must have known saltwater was effective for stopping bleeding.
They were beautiful hands.
They were supple and pale.
I grasped her hand and sipped the seawater.
Looking back now, that hemoptysis was a blessing, but at the time, I wanted to dig a hole and disappear into it.
Perhaps drinking the seawater had calmed me—my mind grew still, and the rattling sound in my chest ceased.
I finally raised my head and looked at the woman’s face.
And suddenly,

“Aren’t you going to die?”

I said.

What an utterly shameful thing I said.
I should have first said thank you.
That—to blurt out "Aren’t you going to die?" the moment I saw her face—was such an affected way of speaking, and far too rude besides.
But it was the woman’s beauty that made me say such a thing.

To begin with, Shirahama was known for its many suicides—so much so that when they held a contest for hot spring ballads there, someone submitted a song with the lyrics: “Nanki Shirahama, suicide capital—even in the hot springs, Korya people die.”
A few days prior to that incident, a pair of young women staying at the inn where I was convalescing had committed lovers’ suicide.
I had caught a glimpse of them in the hallway—both were unattractive women wearing cheap meisen silk kimonos with yellow merino sashes.
They had been singing "The Ōiso Lovers’ Suicide" in the seaside corridor late into the night, and since their voices carried all the way to my room, I—who couldn’t sleep even without such disturbances—flew into a rage and shouted, "Keep it down!"
Just when I thought things had quieted down, the next morning two bodies washed ashore on Shirarahama Beach.
I didn’t see them myself, but the inn manager informed me.
It wasn’t widely publicized and didn’t make the newspapers—perhaps because they were unattractive women.
Not knowing they would commit lovers’ suicide, I had thought it insufficient to have harshly shouted at them the night before.
If they had been beautiful women, I wouldn’t have shouted.
Or perhaps I might have sung along with them.

Compared to those women who had committed lovers' suicide, the beauty of the woman from that night.
When I said, "Aren’t you going to die?" she promptly—
“You’re the one who looks like you’ll die.”
With that, she grinned.
That smile pierced my heart like a needle.
The reason I said that was…

To put it plainly, it was a bad habit of mine—back then, whenever I was with a young woman, I had this instinct to avoid being perceived as a "man" through any of my actions. In other words, I wanted her to see that I wasn’t seeking anything from her, that she wasn’t an issue for me—that I wasn’t viewing her as a "woman" at all.
This instinct, whether I was concerning myself with her or not, constantly spread like a web across my consciousness.
I think it probably stemmed from self-respect and shame.
This instinct seemed remarkably useful in love’s maneuvers, but that was merely a consequence.
Now, even at that moment, this strange instinct had been at the forefront of my consciousness.
I was thinking in this way:
Would this woman take my words—"Aren’t you going to die?"—as a sincere question born of genuine concern for her potential suicide?
Even if she did think that way, the fact that I had perceived her in such a light—if that wasn’t the case, it would be extremely awkward—but in any case, would she really think so?
Or would she see it as an even more impure question?
—
So when she smiled and said, “You’re the one who looks like you’ll die,” I now realize she was likely referring to my body that had coughed up blood—but at the time, I didn’t think so. Instead, I convinced myself she meant: You seem to have jumped to the conclusion that I’m a suicidal woman. But if I appear that way, then shouldn’t you—standing here on this midnight shore, gazing at the sea just as I am—appear the same? “Aren’t you going to die?” is quite the fitting phrase for this beach at night, isn’t it?
When I convinced myself of that, my face suddenly turned red.
I was at a loss for words.
To put it hyperbolically, it was the awkwardness of an actor who had entered the stage at the wrong cue.
But looking back now, there had been no need for me to feel such shame.
Because the awkwardness of me blushing and clumsily falling silent must have been mitigated by the circumstances of my having coughed up blood at that time.
For her, the fact that I had coughed up blood must have been such a shock that she wouldn’t have had the capacity to mind anything else.

As I remained crouched motionless, she asked for my inn’s name and said we should notify them to call a doctor or send someone to fetch me.
“There’s no need—I can walk back on my own,” I said as I stood up. She then offered to accompany me to the inn, and so we began walking side by side.
Though collectively called Shirahama, the area splits into two hot springs—Shirahama Onsen and Yuzaki Onsen. Crossing the sandy beach leads left to Yuzaki Onsen and right to Shirahama Onsen, with a bus route along the shore spanning eight chō between them.
My inn was in Yuzaki—hers too.
When we crossed onto the road beyond the beach, the hot spring vapors grew stronger.
Only then did I notice the fragrance drifting from her.
The roadside utility pole’s light seemed to illuminate that scent.
Its muted glow evoked autumn flowers.
I thought it resembled osmanthus but later learned it was white rose.
That moment was undeniably blissful.
The secret joy of walking shoulder-to-shoulder with an unknown beauty along a midnight shore—for one whose illness promised a brief life like mine, this truly merited cherishing.
I must lose myself in this joy—so I resolved then.
Yet resolving to lose myself only hindered it; bluntly put, that secret joy chafed at me.
We walked in unbroken silence, but pathetically, I couldn’t endure keeping quiet.
Curiosity inevitably unsettles, and though I burned to ask why she’d come to this late-night shore, courage failed me.
This cowardice felt shameful—and fearing she’d perceive it shamed me further.
The strain of conscious silence grew unbearable.
Given my condition, silence should have been natural—yet I’d forgotten I was a patient requiring absolute rest.
Perhaps she stayed silent to spare me speech and protect my nerves—though.

Suddenly, she started and moved away from my side.
The moment I thought I heard footsteps, a burly man was already standing before us in the next instant.
As those rock-like shoulders shifted, I instinctively shielded my chest with both hands.
With a sharp crack, her body staggered.
The man seized her hand and strode off briskly.
She bit her lip and gazed vacantly at the sky, letting herself be dragged away.
I stood transfixed, watching their retreating figures.

The next morning, when I took Trombo-Gen, the bloody sputum stopped immediately.
After lying in bed at the inn for two or three days, my fever subsided, so I could no longer stay still and began wandering aimlessly outside.
Of course, it was because I wanted to find her.
And I found her.
When I saw her walking toward me from about half a block away along Yuzaki’s coastal road, her face scrunched up against the dazzling morning sun, my heart leaped.
My face turned completely red in an instant.
Since I was just before a corner, I turned down the path as if fleeing.
As it was a slope, the coughing started and I struggled.
Rather than having met by chance, I had actually hoped to encounter her, so there was no real need for such panic—but precisely because I had anticipated it, I must have fled in fear that she would see through those very expectations.
If we had met by chance, I think I could have been bolder.
Of course, even so—given that our encounter had been strange from start to finish, and given her dazzling beauty—I suppose wanting to flee was only natural, though.
While climbing the slope, I felt somewhat miserable.
I thought I would regret it later.
When I suddenly turned around, she too turned onto the path and was climbing the slope.
It was a refreshing morning—or so I now think—but at that very moment, I felt so wretched I didn’t know what to do with myself.
She must have noticed me.
If that were the case, my figure—climbing the slope while coughing dryly, face flushed as if fleeing—might have looked comical.
That’s what I thought.
I told myself I must muster my courage, boldly approach her, and speak.
At that moment, it suddenly occurred to me that not speaking would be rude—since I ought to thank her for her kindness that night—and this thought surfaced in my mind.

This thought gave me courage.
I turned around.
And there she was—already right before my eyes. When I bowed my head, she—

“Are you feeling better now?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you very much for the other night,” I said with relief.

For a while, we stood facing each other without saying a word, but then—comically enough—we began descending the slope without either of us initiating it. The fact that we had turned back without climbing struck me as somehow absurd, and when I smiled faintly, she too let out a stifled chuckle.

Once we descended the slope, we slowly began walking toward Shirarahama. Her features suggested not so much a melancholic shadow as rather an icy impression—sharp contours, a straight nose bridge, a broad forehead—elements whose chill paradoxically evoked a sense that touching them might warm one’s heart. Yet her slightly upturned upper lip alone held a touch of delicacy. She had a habit of occasionally knitting her brows together, which I mistook for frowning and found disquieting—though this was merely due to her nearsightedness. That expression lent her a strikingly youthful air. She was already twenty-six, yet to me she seemed scarcely five years my senior. As we walked, our conversation centered almost entirely on my illness.

“You’re quite knowledgeable about lung disease,” I said, and she—

“Yes, my husband was a doctor. He also passed away from lung disease,” she said.
I thought this was my chance,

“I see.
“Did he pass away?
“I thought that man was your husband,” I hinted about the man from that night, but she merely blushed and did not respond.

When we arrived at the Shirahama Hot Springs bus stop, we sat down on a bench under a wisteria trellis in front of it, but the constant noise of buses arriving and departing was too loud—it was an unsuitable place for my purpose of trying to get her to talk about the man from that night.
I wanted to invite her to a café or something, but couldn’t bring myself to say it.
When I made suggestive comments about being tired or having a dry throat, she sensed this and said, “Let’s have some tea or something.”
We entered a tiny coffee shop called Ginsha nearby.
In the booth sat a beautiful boy around my age—pale-skinned with womanly flawless complexion—who suddenly extended his white hand from his cellophane kimono sleeve to comb through his lush hair while quietly conversing with the café’s waitress, a freckle-faced girl in a one-piece dress who looked quite charming, both appearing to savor their private moment.
The beautiful boy, upon seeing us, said “Toshi, I’ll come again,” dropped his right shoulder, and dragged out a shabby stick-like cane as he left.
When I ordered soda water, she said, “Carbonated drinks are poison for someone who’s coughed up blood. Have black tea instead.”
I was grateful for her kindness.
When I chose black tea, the girl at the shop put on a record and listened enraptured with her head tilted.
The scent of lilies drifted through the air.
A single bright sunbeam streamed through the gap in the door’s curtain.
Through that gap, the sea was visible.
In that atmosphere, I succeeded in getting her to tell me about her relationship with the man from that night.
Her story could not be said to live up to that atmosphere, though.

According to her account, the man named Kutsukawa was from the same hometown as her husband—Akiyoko—and had been a student at a private university in Osaka at the time. When her husband—an assistant professor at a medical university—fell ill with lung disease and became bedridden, she arranged to have Kutsukawa, then a judo team member, stay at their home as a makeshift guard, since their household of two lacked male help and felt unsafe. Akiyoko was violently violated by Kutsukawa. Though his strength as a judo athlete was formidable—not entirely impossible to resist—she feared startling her gravely ill husband sleeping downstairs and agitating his nerves. Unable to cry out or fiercely resist, she yielded to Kutsukawa. Afterward, their relationship continued. Her husband soon died, and Akiyoko returned to her family home in T Port near Shirahama. Kutsukawa repeatedly visited Shirahama Hot Springs afterward to summon her. He asked her to marry him, but she had no intention of doing so. She felt no affection for Kutsukawa; her reason for coming to Shirahama this time was to sever ties with him, after which she planned to return immediately to Tanabe. The reason she had been on the shore late that night was that after arguing with Kutsukawa, she had slipped out of the inn. When Kutsukawa struck her then, it was of course an extension of that argument—but it was said his extreme jealousy toward me for walking alongside her had been the cause.

Her story was not pleasant to listen to. The account of such a beautiful woman being violated by a brute like Kutsukawa—hearing it directly from her own lips—felt profoundly sordid. I felt such righteous indignation it was as if I had developed a fever. But to be honest, I was in rather high spirits at that moment—less because she had shared such personal history with my younger self than from the satisfaction of having skillfully drawn it out from her, and the joy that this exchange had deepened our mutual intimacy. The fact that Kutsukawa was jealous of me meant that two people who had no prior connection—at least in Kutsukawa’s imagination—now shared some kind of relationship, even if hypothetical. This must have unconsciously contributed to deepening the intimacy between us. Intoxicated by the pleasure of being envied, I had no room to question why Akiyoko had continued her relationship with such a man despite having been violated—by the time we left that coffee shop, I even wore a faint smile on my cheeks. Just as we were about to exit, the beautiful boy from earlier entered through the door as we passed each other. He glanced between my face and Akiyoko’s, chuckling faintly behind his Lloyd glasses. I smirked back. When we stepped outside, Akiyoko suddenly let out a cry—there stood Kutsukawa under the wisteria trellis, his face ghastly pale as he glared fixedly in our direction. The instant our eyes met, I thought: I’m going to get beaten up. His expression was that terrifying. Then his cheek muscles relaxed, and he was already approaching us with a forced smile.

“Ah, it’s you from the other night. How are you feeling?” he asked in an overly familiar tone so ingratiating it could almost be called fawning.
I was flustered,
“Ah, thank you,” I said, but my tone was curt.
The reason that curt tone emerged was likely due to my resentment toward him for having violated her, but had he approached me then with a confrontational attitude rather than a friendly one, I surely would have shown a much more amiable, even ingratiating demeanor.
Even when I showed an unfriendly attitude, Kutsukawa bustled about speaking to me in such an eager, friendly manner that it seemed he was trying all the more to humor me because of it.
The three of us walked toward Yuzaki while talking, but when I mentioned that I was thinking of changing inns because the treatment at my current one was poor, he insisted that I should come to their inn, saying the room next door was vacant—leaving me with a somewhat perplexing feeling.
It was because I thought that he, who was jealous of me, had no reason to make me come to their inn and deliberately try to bring me closer to her.
I thought that perhaps he was testing me—trying to probe the extent of my interest in her based on whether I would agree to it—so I declined, saying that as a patient, I shouldn’t impose.
Then, this time, Akiyoko joined in and began urging me insistently.
I had reached a point where I could no longer refuse out of propriety—or rather, putting on the appearance of having reached such a point—I acquiesced.
Then Kutsukawa suggested we move immediately, and upon going to my inn, he eagerly gathered my belongings and transported them to his inn.
When I saw his large frame drenched in sweat as he bustled about like an inn manager, I felt as though I’d done something inexcusable by suspecting that he was testing me, despite him being so delighted and kind about my moving to his inn.
Even so, I couldn’t understand why he was being so kind to me, but simply seeing his attempts to humor me, I savored the superiority of being envied and felt rather pleased with myself, indulging in a touch of self-conceit.

After moving to the inn and settling into the room next to theirs, Akiyoko saw the record album I had and asked me to play it for her. As Franck’s Piano Quintet and Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony played, the three of us discussed music and other matters.
Kutsukawa appeared determined to engage with my somewhat pedantic remarks, but his lack of education rendered his responses disjointed, and Akiyoko periodically gave me glances that seemed to ridicule him.
Witnessing this, I grew increasingly self-satisfied—becoming so pedantic that even I wearied of myself—until Kutsukawa looked utterly wretched, like a man engulfed in smoke.

At dinner time, we opened the fusuma partitioning our rooms and ate while talking from our respective rooms—when suddenly Kutsukawa turned to me and said, “Drink kerosene.”
As I wondered what he meant, he began tediously droning on, citing various examples of how kerosene was effective against lung disease.
Then Akiyoko retorted that kerosene’s efficacy against tuberculosis was mere superstition unless medically proven—remembering she had been a doctor’s wife, I found this rather amusing to watch—but Kutsukawa had a maid bring a women’s magazine and showed us the page containing “A True Story of Curing Tuberculosis with Kerosene.”
However, when I said I didn’t feel like drinking kerosene, Kutsukawa looked disappointed and pointed at Akiyoko: “So you’re of the same opinion as her? It would heal you if you drank it.”
Watching him like that, I felt as though Akiyoko and I were collaborating to plunge him into misery—recalling her clearly disdainful attitude and her stated purpose for coming to Shirahama to sever ties—I couldn’t help feeling some pity for Kutsukawa. But ultimately, my resentment from his violation of Akiyoko extinguished such sympathy, and I even forgot to worry he might interpret my obvious favor toward her as romantic interest. Throughout that day, I found myself helping Akiyoko cut him down whenever she did so before me.

That night, after getting into bed and turning off the light, as I wrestled with the eerie darkness pressing against my closed eyelids—wondering if I would again suffer through sleeplessness—hushed whispers drifted in from the neighboring room.
Listening to Kutsukawa’s voice droning on in a tedious, almost pleading tone and Akiyoko’s shrill, high-pitched replies laced with coldness, I became convinced they were finally discussing their breakup.
Before long, Kutsukawa’s voice began to choke with tears, until finally it broke into sobs.
I even felt sympathy for Kutsukawa—given that she was such a beautiful woman as Akiyoko, it was only natural he would shed tears over their breakup—but more than anything, I was filled with the urge to applaud Akiyoko for having made him cry.

Eventually, their voices faded away.
I was enjoying the pleasant fatigue in my eyelids before sleep, drifting drowsily.
Then I suddenly heard noises from the adjacent room—sounds so visceral I wanted to cover my ears—and turned ashen, as if undergoing surgery.
This was something I had never imagined about them.
Of course, it would be perfectly ordinary for a young man and woman to stay together at a hot spring inn like that, but in Akiyoko and Kutsukawa’s case, it struck me as unexpected.
Akiyoko was supposed to despise Kutsukawa—hadn’t she come here specifically to break things off with him?
I couldn’t fathom why Akiyoko would permit Kutsukawa to do such a thing.
Recalling how Kutsukawa had violated Akiyoko through violence, I sensed something akin to torture in what was happening next door.
I even felt a pain as if I myself were being tortured.
Never had I found women—no, Akiyoko—to feel so unreliable yet dear as in that moment.
My love then was likely—idiot!—something expressible only by shouting at them or knocking them flat.
Yet no form of love could justify expressions that would wound her so, leaving me no choice but to avert my eyes from the act’s ugliness and gravity, convincing myself they were merely engaged in some trivial daily routine.
But such mental gymnastics proved difficult for me then.
I grew breathless, phlegm catching in my throat as a cough threatened to escape.
Yet if I coughed, Kutsukawa might realize I lay awake in this wretched state and feel some triumphant glee—or worse, I even wondered if he’d orchestrated my move to this inn precisely to provoke such feelings—so I desperately stifled the cough, straining to conceal my wakefulness.
But for a man like me afflicted with lung disease, suppressing a cough brought agony akin to suffocation.

The night ended; it was before breakfast.
When Akiyoko went to the bath, Kutsukawa came to my room and sat down at the head of my bed—where I was still lying—smiling.

“You have an exceptionally charming appearance.”
“Akiyoko said that about you.”
I struggled to control my expression.
For though I felt both faintly pleased and embarrassed that Akiyoko had made such a remark, when I considered why Kutsukawa would bring up her comment at all, I resolved not to let my guard slip through careless facial movements.
Maintaining the bitterest expression I could muster, he—

“No—I’ve completely fallen for you over the course of yesterday.”
“I could even say I respect you.”
“Won’t you please be my friend?” he said.
I didn’t mind.
To be respected by an older university student was an awkward notion, but in trivial matters, students from so-called elite schools like Ichiko or Sanko—institutions reputed to gather top scholars—tend to flaunt their school’s prestige. Given that the other party was a private university student, my petty vanity likely led me to reason there was nothing strange about me, a Sanko student, being respected—and I succumbed completely to this delusion,

“Aren’t we already friends?” I said.
And for a while, we exchanged those student-like effusions—those cloying formalities—but no sooner had we done so than Kutsukawa’s expression suddenly turned serious,

“Actually, about Akiyoko—what did Akiyoko tell you?”
“She said something about me, didn’t she?”
“Since we’re friends now, won’t you tell me honestly exactly how it was?” he said.
I thought I’d been tricked.
That he’d asked to be friends or claimed to respect me—it was all just to extract this information. Now that I considered it, even his kind gestures and ingratiating behavior yesterday must have been preparatory maneuvers for this very purpose. That’s what I concluded.
I grew so enraged that I spoke in a tone meant to smash against his face—

“That woman said she hates you.”
“Did you use violence to take control of her body?” I said, sitting up in bed.
The effect of those words was so harsh that I couldn’t tear my eyes from his face—yet even without looking, I could vividly imagine his flustered expression and reveled in it.
Then came his voice in a feverishly agitated tone.

“You believe that… You really believe it?”
“You…”

When asked whether I believed it, I realized I had wholeheartedly convinced myself of its truth.
But even confronted thus, my believing heart of course did not budge.

Yet he soon said something unexpected.
"I did not disgrace Akiyoko."
"Rather, it was I who was seduced."
"Akiyoko would run around playing with her husband’s student disciples who came and went from the house even while her husband was sick in bed."
"I’d just been bitterly resentful about it." —That’s what he said.
How could that be possible? I thought... But since directly opposing him seemed too trite,

“If you resented her, why did you let yourself be seduced?” I obliquely retorted.
He fell completely silent.
I waited, expecting him to say something, but it was futile.
At that point, I thought I must interject a word, but while considering what exactly to say, I ended up being dragged along by the words I had just uttered,

“It’s possible to resent someone and still be seduced by them, don’t you think?”
“In such a way that resentment ends up drawing you in instead.”
“Also, everyone has their eye on an unfaithful woman, and...” I said.

In doing so, it was as if I were defending Kutsukawa—something deeply incongruous with my intentions—but having said such things likely stemmed from a vanity that wanted to spout such know-it-all remarks. The fact that he had said he respected me still lingered agreeably in my mind.

“Exactly. Exactly. That’s cleverly put—you are,” Kutsukawa said in a tone of deep admiration, so I ended up feeling completely pleased with myself.
And so naturally, my mind became deceived by my own spoken words, leaning toward believing Kutsukawa’s claims. The veil that had shrouded Akiyoko gradually began to lift, and I came to think that perhaps she was merely an unfaithful woman seeking men.
I had never clearly understood why she had continued her relationship with Kutsukawa even after being humiliated by him, vaguely attributing it to some sort of “weakness” inherent to womanhood—a notion that had naturally led me to associate it with the word “torture.” But in that instant, seeing Kutsukawa’s body radiating robust health, I felt as though everything had suddenly become clear, and those words in my mind were now replaced by nothing more than “pleasure.”
But even so—why did Akiyoko have to speak to me in that manner? That doubt still lingered.
Then, Kutsukawa spoke in an extremely excited tone about examples of Akiyoko having suspicious relationships with various men, and after going on at length,

“Before long, you’ll be seduced too,” he said.
“That makes sense,” I thought.
Was it to gain my sympathy and seduce me that Akiyoko had spoken to me in that way? Thinking this,
“I won’t be seduced or anything,” I said, and Kutsukawa—

“Do you really think so? What exactly do you think of Akiyoko?” he pressed.
I thought I saw an intensely satisfied expression on his face.
Then suddenly—with a start—the realization flashed through my head: This man was trying to distance me from Akiyoko by slandering her. Now that I considered it, every action he’d taken since yesterday could be explained by that motive—even those excessive displays of kindness had ultimately been about imposing obligations, meant to make me feel indebted and thus avoid approaching Akiyoko. The fury of having naively fallen for Kutsukawa’s machinations overwhelmed me.
But having realized this much, I decided I might as well play along with his scheme—

“I hate that woman,” I said.
And yet, deep down as I spoke those words, while regretting having been taken in by Kutsukawa, I felt a faint gladness at the thought that his words were lies and that Akiyoko was not, after all, the sort of woman he made her out to be.

Just at that moment, Akiyoko returned from the bath.
I was mortified and at a loss.
What troubled me most was that, having declared my dislike in front of Kutsukawa, I now had no choice but to act distant toward Akiyoko.
What did Akiyoko think of my attitude? Or perhaps, seeing such behavior, she believed herself disliked and thus grew even more drawn to me—so much so that she bustled about trying to please me with an eagerness that made me flush, appearing to send me meaningful glances.
I thought it was more than Kutsukawa could bear, yet he remained composed.
I supposed it was likely because I had coldly rebuffed Akiyoko’s manner.
My cold rebuff had been necessary for Kutsukawa’s sake—but rather than being compelled by necessity, it had felt natural to me in that moment.
For when I saw Akiyoko acting that way, it occurred to me that perhaps she was indeed the unfaithful woman Kutsukawa had described—that she might be trying to seduce me—and I felt repulsed.
However, this unpleasant feeling was not so much disgust toward Akiyoko as it was a revulsion at having to think of her in that way—which would once again force me to validate Kutsukawa’s words as true—and thus an unwillingness to admit my own miscalculations.
Had I truly been disgusted with her at that moment, what I am about to describe would likely never have occurred.

It was something so unexpected that even I was startled—but that evening, when Kutsukawa left saying he was going to buy tobacco, I found myself standing beside Akiyoko in the corridor looking out at the sea. Suddenly catching sight of her pale nape, before I knew it my hands were on it, tilting her face toward mine as our lips met.
Teeth clattered.
It ended in an instant.
We separated.
I wiped my lips with my hand.
I couldn't clearly explain to myself why I'd done such a thing.
In the end, asking why I kissed her seemed trivial—I suppose I did it simply because I wanted to.
If forced to articulate it, deep within me lay a desire to test through that act whether Akiyoko was truly the unfaithful woman Kutsukawa claimed.
That this testing purpose doubled as self-justification gave me some courage to commit that rough act.
But such an attempt proved utterly futile.

I was simply left dumbfounded.
The absurd thing was how my body kept quivering uncontrollably like spasms.
Being my first experience in life, this couldn't be helped—yet it felt somewhat disgraceful.
I found this trembling as disagreeable as someone afflicted with hiccups finds theirs.
Though attracted to Akiyoko and having shared my first kiss—a moment that should have been intoxicating—I instead felt nothing but discomfort.
This stemmed from the disgrace of trembling.
But also because Akiyoko having permitted this compelled me to acknowledge her as an unfaithful woman.
Yet truthfully, being so caught in the moment, I couldn't discern whether she'd allowed it gladly.
Even after kissing, I couldn't face her properly or hear her words—but regardless, I'd resolved then.
Finding it rather unpleasant, I despondently thought this must be what kiss-induced intoxication felt like.
To salvage any joy from it, I needed to recall how boldly I'd acted—that regardless of her nature, she must love me enough to permit it—thus salvaging my self-esteem.
And suddenly picturing Kutsukawa's face—how he'd schemed endlessly to distance me from Akiyoko—it struck me: hadn't I ultimately prevailed? For the first time, a faint glimmer of joy emerged.

We kept our faces turned away from each other in silence, but perhaps about five minutes had passed when Kutsukawa returned to the room.
And upon seeing my face,

“Trying to run away won’t work,” he said.

I started, holding my breath to see what he would say next.
I felt he had seen through something.
He opened the paper package he was holding and took out a small bottle,

“Now, drink this.”
“It’s kerosene.”
“I went through quite a bit of trouble to find and buy this,” he said as he took a cup from his pocket and poured the thick liquid from the bottle into it.

“You mustn’t drink such a thing,” said Akiyoko.
Then Kutsukawa,

“You stay quiet,” he said to Akiyoko, then turned to me and, “You’re going to drink it? Aren’t you scared?” as he handed me the cup.
I gulped it down in one mouthful.
The fishy smell assailed me pungently, and I felt like vomiting.
I drank it because I had heard Kutsukawa’s words: “Aren’t you scared?”
When he first took out the kerosene, I thought he had likely brought it intending to prove her wrong—perhaps believing that after my words that morning declaring my dislike for her and my subsequent coldness toward her, I might side with him in opposing her superstition about kerosene and drink it.
If that were the case, I thought it necessary to act exactly as he had calculated.
It was necessary as a continuation of my attitude since morning, and moreover, since the act of kissing Akiyoko earlier was something I felt inexcusable toward him, I also needed to please him as atonement.
I had thought so, but now that Akiyoko had told me not to drink such a thing, I could not defy her will in vain—not after having just kissed her.
But also, since the fervor of his determination was extraordinary, it occurred to me that perhaps when he had entered the room and seen our state, he had grown suspicious of something—and thus I also thought I ought to drink it to dispel that suspicion.
Even so, when I thought that having mistaken Akiyoko for a suicide on that late-night beach had ultimately led me to drink kerosene, I felt utterly pathetic.
When I thought I would regret it later upon reflection, I hesitated.
But when he said, “Aren’t you scared?” I stopped thinking altogether.
It was my self-esteem—the need to show I wasn’t afraid—that made me drink the fishy-smelling kerosene with a tragic expression as if it were poison.

That night, after getting into bed, I was relieved that the neighboring room wasn’t tormenting me—but instead, I was tormented by severe diarrhea and a headache. Of course this was due to having drunk the kerosene, but when I recalled the delighted expression Kutsukawa had shown as I drank it, I spent that night without sleeping a wink—clutching my lower abdomen with a foolish expression—wondering what would become of our relationship now that we had performed even a scene as absurd as drinking kerosene.

The next morning, I slipped away to see a doctor.
I thought it would be utterly foolish if Kutsukawa found out.
The doctor gave me anti-diarrheal medicine, but when I told him I’d drunk kerosene, he made a surprised face and said it was reckless. So, while picturing Kutsukawa’s pathetic expression, I cited an example from a women’s magazine and offered a half-hearted defense.
Then the doctor said that recently, women’s magazines had raised a fuss about kerosene being effective against tuberculosis, and medicines using kerosene as their main ingredient had even gone on sale. Because of this, the Ministry of Home Affairs’ Health and Medical Bureau conducted experiments and ultimately determined that kerosene had no power to kill tuberculosis bacteria—rather, it was harmful to the human body—and those tuberculosis medicines had been banned. “Didn’t you know this was in the recent newspapers?” he asked.
Suddenly, I wondered if Kutsukawa had known about this and deliberately made me drink it. If so, confronting him with that fact would bring a pleasure that would more than compensate for last night’s agony. And even if he hadn’t known, telling him would still serve as atonement for having defied Akiyoko’s wishes the previous night.
As I left the clinic with these thoughts, despite my body suffering from diarrhea, I headed back to the inn with a strangely fired-up determination.

When I returned to the inn, I found to my surprise that Akiyoko was preparing to depart for T Port. She explained she had worried I might leave without saying goodbye since I wasn't there, and so had waited for my return while keeping an eye on the ship's departure time. Then she asked where I had been.
I thought this meant they had finally settled their farewell, but when I glanced at Kutsukawa's face, I clearly saw tears glistening in his eyes. Thinking it would be cruel to bring up the kerosene matter with someone so dejected, I answered that I had gone out for a walk. Then when I asked Kutsukawa if he too would be returning together, he said with a face nearly on the verge of tears, "No—I'll follow later."

Because the ship’s departure time was approaching, we immediately left the inn, took a bus, and went to see Akiyoko off to Tsunashirazu Pier in Higashi Shirahama.
As the bus passed before the coffee shop "Ginsa," the beautiful boy from before—his vacant face tinged with a streak of sorrow—was just entering.
That he was already visiting “Ginsa” so early in the morning struck me as somehow endearing, and when I involuntarily smiled, Akiyoko looked at my face and smiled too.
It was a knowing smile shared only between us.
I suddenly grew boisterous.
I desperately wanted to speak with Akiyoko alone.
I thought that kissing her yet ultimately parting in vain—having reluctantly convinced myself she was an unfaithful woman—would betray the nature of the smile we had just exchanged.
But since I couldn’t possibly broach this before Kutsukawa, I had no choice but to erupt into boisterousness, unable to bear the stifling silence.
Or was this boisterousness merely clowning to lighten the group’s somber mood?
In any case, whenever I opened my mouth, it became an unbroken stream of jokes and quips.
How did Akiyoko perceive me in that state?
She likely saw it as the childish exuberance of a twenty-one-year-old youth.
To call it cheerfulness—there had been a moment of intense mirth, but it didn’t last.

Before long, Akiyoko boarded the ship, and it began to move.
Akiyoko waved from the deck.
Kutsukawa and I both waved.
I stopped waving because my stomach began to ache.
When I stopped waving, I instead began staring intently at her face, making it seem as though Akiyoko was waving more for me—who had ceased—than for Kutsukawa, who kept waving.
Was it my vanity that made me think so?
At that moment, I resolved to stop convincing myself she was an unfaithful woman.
But having no grounds to persuade myself she wasn’t unfaithful felt heartbreaking.
At that moment, I was intensely sentimental.

But naturally, Kutsukawa displayed even greater sentimentality.
He became completely drunk and made a pitiful spectacle that night.
When he invited me to a café, I refused by saying it would affect my health, adding that since the cafés here were houses of ill repute, he too should avoid going tonight if he wished to spare himself future regrets. At this, he repeatedly agreed before bursting into tears, wailing, "You must take care of yourself and grow strong—I'm beyond saving now."
Seeing his hulking frame stomp bowlegged around the room, tears streaming past his florid nose as he wept, I suddenly realized this wasn't a man I could hate.
I concluded that when he'd urged me to drink kerosene, it stemmed from genuine conviction in its tuberculosis cure and true kindness.
This realization made me sense his friendly demeanor might spring not from guileless trust but calculated performance.
I became convinced this man wasn't capable of scheming.
Akiyoko's current absence likely contributed to this interpretation.
Regardless, finding him thus redeemable brought peculiar comfort now that we alone remained at the inn.
Yet accepting this view inexorably forced me to credit his claims about Akiyoko.
Until then, I'd resisted believing him precisely because I suspected strategy—yet simultaneously felt compelled by her conduct to reluctantly accept his words. But once absolving him of cunning, seeing her exactly as he'd described became unavoidable within my thought trajectory.
This struck me with unbearable sorrow.

The next morning, the inn maid brought a fruit basket to my room.
It became clear that this was a gift from Akiyoko, who had returned to T Port, through the letter inside the white square envelope within the basket.

At that time, I caused you so much concern, and I am deeply grateful for your kindness.

When such a thing was done, for a time I resented you deeply, but now I no longer feel that way—indeed, I even feel something nostalgic.
Please don’t laugh at me.

When I think we may never meet again, I feel lonely.
But I also think it might be better if we don't see each other.
Please take good care of your health.
Please don't push yourself too hard.

Akiyoko

P.S.

Has Kutsukawa returned to Osaka yet?
To keep him from self-destruction, should he still be there, please advise him properly.

Such was the letter.

I felt as if everything before my eyes had suddenly brightened.
Looking at the sky—vivid in the morning light—I thought I saw there the hue of my own heart.
Didn’t Akiyoko’s letter make it abundantly clear she wasn’t some unfaithful woman trying to seduce me?
Moreover, I was loved by her.
With vain pride, I wondered whether her being even slightly drawn to me had become the decisive motive for her to sever ties with him.

I too, like her, tried secretly pursing my lips in yearning for "that incident." And naturally, a whistle escaped those lips. As if summoned by the whistle, Kutsukawa entered my room. I quickly hid the letter but was troubled by how to handle the fruit basket. Having no choice, I claimed it had come from an acquaintance in Wakayama and offered him the fruit.

He appeared deeply ashamed of his drunkenness from the previous night, peeling a mandarin orange with an embarrassed expression. Now that I believed Akiyoko wasn’t the woman he’d described, I should have concluded once more—as a natural consequence—that he was a liar. Yet seeing his face like that, I simply couldn’t bring myself to think so. When I heard him say “You’re a good person” while eating the fruit with relish, unaware it was Akiyoko’s gift, I too strained to think of him as decent in return.

Suddenly it struck me—if I saw him as virtuous, then Akiyoko must have found some goodness in him too. Perhaps that explained why she’d maintained their relationship despite claiming to dislike him. Then, recalling how she’d mentioned him in her letter despite their supposed parting, it occurred to me their ill-fated bond might continue after all. Remembering that tormenting night, my heart clouded momentarily—but if that were so, then so be it. I had no right to interfere—and I forcibly tried to dispel that shadow.

Suddenly I noticed a fly perched on Kutsukawa’s large red nose. Whether from insensitivity or absorption in eating the sanbokan, he seemed oblivious. I burst out laughing—"Ahahahaha!"—which brought on a troublesome cough. Coughing dryly, I found myself again wondering whether Kutsukawa’s claims about Akiyoko were true or if her version held merit.

But that remained an insoluble riddle to my twenty-one-year-old self.

(His story ended there.)
The author contemplated the final mystery he had left behind as follows:
That being—their initial relationship was likely neither one where Akiyoko had been violated through violence nor one where Kutsukawa had been seduced by Akiyoko.
Yet such an interaction—from the woman’s perspective—might not have appeared entirely free from the man having exercised some degree of coercion; conversely, from the man’s perspective, it might not have seemed entirely free from the woman having provoked him (even if unconsciously on her part).
Thus they likely each merely exaggerated such subjective perspectives when recounting them.
When Akiyoko claimed she had been violated, it must have been because convincing herself of that was the only way she could endure it.
If she had not consciously seduced him, then maintaining that conviction would not have required such self-deception—or so one might reason.
As for Kutsukawa asserting he had been seduced—having been confronted about whether he violated her—he likely felt compelled to reflexively deny it by reversing blame. Moreover, given Akiyoko’s striking beauty, a jealous man like him would naturally harbor constant anxiety about her potential infidelity—anxiety that morphed into suspicion of actual betrayal until finally swelling into a persecution complex that convinced him she ceaselessly seduced others.
He likely recounted his persecution complex exactly as he perceived it.
Furthermore, if she indeed disliked him—as evidenced by her attraction to this story’s protagonist—one must imagine there were necessarily moments when she felt drawn to men other than Kutsukawa to escape him; thus his persecution complex could not be entirely dismissed as baseless.

However, why would Akiyoko—who claimed to dislike Kutsukawa—have engaged in the sort of night that tormented this story's protagonist?
It was likely her physiology as a widow that compelled her to do so.
And might not such things often be performed with joy even absent spiritual love?

That the protagonist of this story failed to understand these matters was likely due to his feminism at the time—as he was both embroiled in the incident’s vortex and in love with Akiyoko.

When the author said this to him, he promptly answered as follows.

"I don’t say you’re mistaken, but had I possessed the insight to discern such things at that time, this story of mine that became material for your solution would likely have been quite different from the start."