Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Kubota Mantaro

Mukojima

Part I

……After crossing the ferry landing, Tashiro was called out to by two young women together. Ogura and Miura paid no mind and walked ahead toward Kototoi.

“What’s that?” Ogura immediately said to Tashiro, who had caught up from behind.

“That was you…” Tashiro began--"Kei-chan... You know about it?"

He turned his gaze toward Miura, who walked ahead stroking his chin—that habitual gesture. “Isn’t that Chibisaburō’s wife?”

Curtly and without hesitation, Miura answered. “Chibisaburō?” Ogura squinted his small eyes behind his glasses as if adjusting them to his posture. “Chiyosaburō, you know…” Immediately Tashiro interjected, “The Narikomaya troupe’s—that…” “Ah—that onnagata…—the one who’s slightly short…?” “That’s why he’s Chibisaburō.” Curtly again, Miura said.

“Which one is it, though?” Ogura, not riding the tide of conversation, asked, “The modern style or the ginkgo-chignon?” “The modern one.”

“Then it ain’t a big deal.” “Hey now—that’s just…” Miura spat out: “But still... What’s with that limp look...”

“Why?” “Ain’t that how it is? Why’re you askin’? Ain’t that just how an actor’s wife acts?”

“What do you mean by that ‘how an actor’s wife acts’ business?” “That’s an actor’s wife for you.” “And what about us? If that’s how actors’ wives are… then what does that make us…?” “...what does that make us…?”

“That’s why I’m sayin’—we’re all from the same stock. Not that I mean to cheapen it, but if that’s how things stand, then an actor’s wife should act the part. Ain’t it only right to at least put on a ‘Oh my, fancy meeting you here today’ or ‘My, where might you all be headed?’ even if it’s all lies? But instead you’re putting on airs like you’re sweeping some mess under the rug—you ain’t plannin’ to go there, are ya, Yō-chan…?”

“But that’s…” “If she were some upstandin’ citizen or whatnot, that’d be one thing—but ain’t you yourself workin’ as a geisha? Ain’t she even fakin’ the charm trade?”

“…………”

Tashiro fell silent.

“I can’t stand it from the get-go. —You know too damn little…” Miura alone spat such venom… the very trait that would soon earn him the epithet “Miura Kōbei” among their circle… Ogura walked alone through winter’s desolation—as if tracing the wind’s path—incessantly murmuring fragments of verses… The pointlessly vast embankment of Mukojima sprawled before them. ――What passed for cherry trees grew only along the riverbank—so-called saplings that were in truth slender, greasy, wretched things, mere tokens resembling what one might generously call withered branches. ――Beneath that moment’s leaden sky, an antiquated lantern stood whitely abandoned at the road’s center—its pallid glow merging with the water’s dull sheen to frost the entire scene in bleakness. ――Blue buses bound for Tamanoi and Azumabashi proclaimed their destinations even as they ceaselessly plied that road……

II “Hm?”

Suddenly, Tashiro stopped. “What?”

Startled by the sudden exclamation, Miura too came to an involuntary halt. “Ushijima Shrine has vanished.” “Ushijima Shrine?” Together with Tashiro, Miura also looked under the embankment. Indeed, there stood only the imposing ginkgo tree adorned with sacred ropes—no torii gate, no tamagaki fence, no shrine hall… not a trace of Ushijima Shrine remained. ――Only dried scrub spread chillingly across the barren, bald expanse……

“What the hell…”

Miura said. —as if clicking his tongue. —half muttering to himself…

“What the hell’s going on here? Did the damn thing just pack up and leave?”

Following that thread, Tashiro said. “That can’t be right. —No matter what you say, a local deity can’t just up and vanish like that.” “It burned down here, right?”

“When?” “No—during the earthquake disaster.” “That goddamn inferno.” “The whole area here turned into a sea of fire.” “But it was right by the water… How’d that happen?”

“The water itself burned.” “The very water they relied on burned and flowed away.” “That’s why all those who jumped into the river to save themselves instead lost their lives.”

“But that…?”

“You wouldn’t get it—you didn’t see it.” Miura snapped coldly, “There’s no way you could’ve imagined it after the fact.” “Is that so…”

Tashiro gazed at the river they had just crossed by ferry as if seeing it anew. On the water—coldly daubed in a monotonous dull hue—floated several ships. Steamships drifted dimly through them like beings detached from the mundane world, busily churning up white waves as they wove their paths. This was a scene Tashiro had contemplated daily during his youth as the second son of an oil merchant in Shōtenchō—long before he became an actor. It marked the beginning of his undoing: snatching moments between shop duties to ferry across and deliberately attend Kiyomoto lessons in Suzakichō—a conspicuous habit that drew neighbors’ stares. Soon after, he fled with that teacher’s adopted daughter. Ten years had passed since then—back when Tashiro was nineteen……

“Azuma is dead now…” Suddenly, Ogura turned to look behind him. “Huh?” Tashiro, flustered, shifted his gaze toward Ogura. “No—Azuma died right here.” Ogura said with deliberate gestures, “Driven by flames, he fled here from Koumai.—Thinking just reaching the embankment would be enough—that’s where that man’s luck ran out.” “That person…—But that person…” Tashiro said. “Why did he die like that? When I heard in Osaka—I was shocked.—Everyone—no, when we first heard, none of us truly believed it.”

“I suppose that’s how it was.” “And he… We all just assumed he was safe in Tanuki-ana, Azabu.” “There’s no way those in Azabu would suffer such a fate.” “—‘There’s a limit to spouting nonsense,’ they said—because by then, bit by bit, the truth had begun to surface—so everyone backstage gossiped like that.”

III “Yes, that’s right.” Ogura nodded as if to affirm. “If this were Miura instead of Azuma—even if he lived in Yotsuya rather than Azabu—would you say, ‘Is that so? Did that guy get his due?’” “I never thought he was one to die properly on tatami—but after all, was that how it ended up?” “Fate, they call it—after all…”

“You’re joking.” Miura said deliberately sullenly. “But that’s just how it goes.” Ogura said with a serious face, “No one would’ve imagined a good man like Azuma meeting such an end.” “But then there’s you—spouting logic, mouthing off sarcasm, dishing out harassment.” “No matter who you corner, you never say anything decent.” “So out of human compassion—they say Miura kept insisting—they say he pitifully burned to death in Mukojima.” “…But even so—no one’ll defend you—serves you right—good riddance—all ’cause of that rotten nature of yours…”

“That’s why I say a person’s daily conduct matters.” Riding on that momentum, Tashiro interjected.

“What’re you getting so prickly about?” Miura shot back, “If you ask me, it’s Azuma who had the rotten disposition.—That bastard’s own rotten nature brought all this on.” “That’s rash.” Tashiro fired back instantly, “Why call it rotten? Why would that person have a rotten disposition?”

“If he’d just stayed holed up quietly in Tanuki-ana in Azabu, that bastard.” “There was no need for him to crawl out to this Koumai Sangai.” “If he hadn’t come crawling out to this damn place in the first place, he wouldn’t have ended up like that after all.” “But that’s…” “It couldn’t be helped, could it? That’s just how it was.”

“Why couldn’t it be helped?” “But isn’t that how it is? Because commuting every day to Asakusa… To the park theater… It was too much of a hassle from Azabu—that’s why he moved over here, wasn’t it?”

“You’re well-informed.” “I heard about it—learned everything later, that’s how I know.” “Then do you know why Azuma went to that park theater... no, why he joined some comedy troupe?” “I don’t know that.” “What? You don’t even know that?” “I don’t know those details.”

“Because it pays.”

“I’ll hit you, I really will.”

Tashiro suddenly stopped and raised his voice.

“Why?” Miura deliberately composed himself. “I’m no amateur—no amateur.” “Who?” “Me.”

“Isn’t that obvious? You don’t need me to spell it out—you already know that, don’t you? Even if you showed it to some debt-dodging scrap dealer, they wouldn’t take you for respectable.” “Then act like it. Then have me treated a bit like that.” “What should I do?” “These days, hey—even a three-year-old knows performing in the park’ll make you money.” “But I told you I don’t know, didn’t I?”

“That’s because it was him.—Because it’s Mr. Azuma, who wouldn’t get hung up on money like that.—Or maybe not… What kind of shady dealings…” “We’re going down, come on…” Ogura, who had been walking ahead again, said this and turned around.—Just like that, the three descended the embankment toward Chomeiji.

Four

A gate… if you could even call it that—merely two pillars standing on either side as markers.—Save for a single straight stone path flanked by stone monuments of every shape—packed tight like corpses—nothing remained to evoke Chomeiji Temple’s former self.—Even the old shop famous for sakura mochi had become a corrugated iron shack—blatant, unrecognizable—where only stacked tiered boxes and eboshi baskets hanging from the ceiling faintly hinted at its past elegance; the faded carpet still laid out as of old to await customers now seemed all the more pitiful for it……

“It’s gotten terrible.” The three stood before the Ichi-kyū monument—known from its appearance in the rakugo story *Osetsu*. ——Tashiro spoke as though letting out an involuntary sigh.

“Even the main hall—it’s gone, just left burned out.” Ogura pointed with his chin toward the solitary patch of open ground at the far end. “Ah, truly.” Tashiro sighed again and said, “I was surprised, but…” “Not a bit of work’s been done over here on this side.” “That’s how it is, huh… When you’re walking around Ginza or such places, it doesn’t feel one bit different from how it used to be, though…” “In this way, bit by bit, even the famous places are disappearing into nothingness, you know.”

Beside them, Miura declared his conclusion plainly.—The few cosmos flowers still blooming behind the sakura mochi shop, the shadow of a chicken huddled beneath them, even Ryuhoku’s chipped-nose face on his monument—all of it formed a miserable, hollow scene around them, ravaged by frost. “……There are still cosmos flowers in bloom.” Ogura tried saying those words to himself under his breath. —Devising the opening line to pair with them, he once again took the lead ahead of the two and began walking absently.

The three climbed the stone steps—mere remnants of what must have once been a back gate—and emerged onto the embankment once more. “But still... him.” Suddenly, Tashiro spoke again. “But why... that man...?” “......?”

Silently, Miura looked toward Tashiro.

“Mr. Azuma…” “Since it’s his work… I don’t think he’d promote himself like that on his own, but…?” “If he were a man who could pull off such tricks, he wouldn’t have been puttering around like that all this time.” “Even so… coming to buy.” "—That they’d been coming to buy since before." “……What exactly did they see in him back then, I wonder?”

“Huh?” Miura deliberately laughed through his nose.

“His artistry goes without saying—even his very bearing—that man.” “No matter how you look at it, he wasn’t suited for comedy.—I believe he was the least qualified among us in Yanokura for that sort of thing.” “—……” “He was a man of his caliber.—A man with such skill.—So had he gone into comedy, he’d surely have made just as much of it.” “—He must have done so…”

Five

“He was no such actor.”

And Miura brusquely cut him off. “Such an actor?” “He wasn’t such a versatile actor.” Cutting in again, Miura said. “But that…”

Tashiro made a disapproving face. “They overestimated him. “It wasn’t just you—everyone overestimated that man. “He was never a good actor nor was he ever a skilled one.”

“But… but…” “Whether he could do comedy or not—that’s not even the issue.—From the start—he was never an actor with that kind of skill to begin with.” “Th-that’s not right—that’s a lie!” Tashiro grew vehement. “There’s no reason to say such things!” “I say it because it’s true.” Miura remained coldly resolute. “I’ve known that guy since the very moment he called himself an actor—since back when he was still wandering from one godforsaken end of Kyushu to the other.” “A hack—a total hack—an actor no one would take seriously anywhere.”

“Even if you say that, it’s not right.—Before—no matter how he was before—since coming to Yanokura—since becoming Yanokura’s disciple and settling in Tokyo…” “It wasn’t like he shone through his own skill. “He was made to shine by others.—They forced that shine upon him.—In fact, his lack of any real artistry is precisely what made him useful for that role.”

“Even so…” “Even so—but…”

“Enough—this is embarrassing.” Laughing, Ogura came to a halt. “It doesn’t matter either way… such things…” “That’s too much—no matter how you look at it, you’re taking this holier-than-thou act too far.” Tashiro grew vehement. “I liked him.” “That man liked me.”

“I didn’t dislike him either.—A harmless sort of good man.” Right away, Miura pressed on. “Then why?—If that’s how it was, why?”

“I’ve known that man since long ago.” Ogura calmly mediated. “That’s why I know the details well.—But phrasing it like Miura does leaves no room for nuance.” “But there’s no mistaking it—the reason people said that man had skill and flavor was ultimately because Yanokura’s leader knew how to use him. To put it plainly—it wasn’t just him. Hishikawa, Nishimaki—everyone who’s been with Yanokura for ages is like that.”

“But on that point, that man was honest.—He knew it well himself—that much.” “—unlike Hishikawa or Nishimaki, he never saw himself as some great actor of that caliber.” “That’s why… That’s why I’m saying this.” Miura pressed harder: “But people act like he was some full-fledged actor who made it on his own merits.” “That’s what’s so pitiable about him—” “Then why go to the park…? Why on earth go to such a place…?”

Tashiro abruptly steered the conversation back.

VI “He was recruited.—Thoroughly poached.” “But,” Miura said flatly, “they didn’t take him as an actor—they took him as a public face.” “As a public face?” “Exactly.—The real target was Honnō-ji—they never wanted that man at all. There was something far more crucial they needed first.”

“…………” “Don’t you get it?—They wanted Wakamiya in the first place.”

“Wakamiya-kun?” “They recruited Azuma because they wanted to recruit Wakamiya.” “For Wakamiya, Azuma was his only uncle.” “In other words—he was a decoy.” “In other words—that guy became a decoy to recruit Wakamiya.” “But that’s…” “What is?”

“No—Wakamiya-kun.” “Of all people—him.” “Such brutality…” “That’s right.” “It’s brutal—a completely reckless plan.” “But knowing that, they forced the conflict anyway.”

“Instead of that, recruit Wakamiya-kun.” “…No matter how handsome Wakamiya-kun is, no matter how much popularity he has—dragging that person into this won’t make a comedy materialize out of thin air.” “Who’d go grabbing Wakamiya and make him do such a thing…”

Miura deliberately laughed out loud. “So it’s about making him a public figure after all?”

Tashiro said sarcastically.

“They’re going to make him do *shinpa*—*shinpa*!” Miura ignored that and said, “At first, they’ll slip one or two acts into those Rakuten Troupe comedies. Then, once they’ve gauged the tide, their plan is to set up a ‘Wakamiya Company.’”

“Are those… those Rakuten Troupe bastards really doing such things?”

“That Rakuten monk ain’t someone you handle straight.—Dig into his guts and who knows what thick schemes he’s cookin’ up.” “But Wakamiya-kun—surely he wouldn’t’ve swallowed such a story?” “Jumpin’ ahead?—They just yanked Azuma in yesterday, ain’t they?”

“But…” “They’d barely finished their warm-up—just then came that goddamn rumbling.”

“Ah, an earthquake…” “That’s what made the whole market boom.” “But Mr. Azuma…” “So the one who got played for the biggest fool was Azuma.—Like some hapless badger crawling out of its den just to die.”

“Truly.”

“No—but…” Suddenly, Ogura interjected again. “In exchange for that—for the first time in his life—that man had grasped two thousand and three thousand yen bundled together.—He moved into a house with a gate and suddenly kept three live-in students.” “Might as well have nothing left to fret over.”

Passing before Okura’s villa, the three had come to be walking in front of Nakano Ferry. There—in that inlet’s small indentation where the tide was likely at its peak—the water, swollen with abundance, bleakly reflected the shadows of several withered scrub trees and the red obi of a young woman still waiting in the ferry that had not yet departed.

“Ah, excuse me.” A cart piled high with sacred ropes and wreaths hurriedly passed between the three—the sharp, fresh scent of new straw struck their nostrils violently.

“Is the market already…?”

Ogura muttered. Had they not heard? Both Miura and Tashiro said nothing.

Seven

Eventually, the three descended the embankment again. For their original purpose in coming to Mukojima—to go to Hyakkaen Garden—they turned left onto the path immediately after descending. There, small shops typical of Shinkaimachi stood lined up in a jumble. The gaudy merino fabric hanging down in front of Kogiriya’s shop struggled to brighten the heavy, lifeless air around it.

“Things have changed around here too…” Tashiro looked around intently. “But… I wonder—did this place avoid burning?”

“It didn’t burn.” Ogura replied, “This area was saved by a narrow margin.” “Still… it was all rice fields back then, but now…”

But when they turned right again there, a large muddy ditch—or rather something more akin to a stream—a lonely stretch of water like that soaked the shadows of each house as it flowed. It nostalgically recalled the time when this area had been rice paddies.—the sight of pickled greens heaped high upon the road, and the crisp white of fresh-washed vegetables that two or three women kept laying out on wooden boards—their vivid hues deepening that rustic air.

“Still not there yet, hey?”

Chuckling at Miura’s remark, Ogura pointed ahead.

“There it is.—It’s already visible there…” “Flowers never cease through spring, summer, autumn, and winter.” Soon, the three passed through a thatched gate flanked by two couplets on both pillars: “Guests vie to come from east, west, south, and north.” ―There, first upon entering, lay a desolate patch of earth where only signposts labeled “bush clover,” “eulalia,” “kudzu,” “maidenflower,” “thoroughwort”… marked a boundary now left futile.―The recently replaced bamboo’s glossy, verdant luster shone pointlessly cold amid it all. ―Amid all that withered desolation, as far as the eye could see, nowhere was there a shadow suggesting human presence.

“It’s so quiet.” Tashiro said in a moved tone.

“Of course it is.—Only fools or folks with too much time on their hands’d come out to a place like this in this cold.” “Then what about us?—Which are we?” “We’re both.” “Both?” “Ain’t that right?” “We’re not just fools—we’ve got time on our hands.” “Ain’t we just killin’ time with all this free time we’ve got?” “It’s good sometimes.—Sometimes for a rest…”

“You don’t realize our chins’ll dry up while we’re talking like this.” “Hmph—that’s just a jest.” “Well don’t fret—there won’t be any plays opening for a while now.” “I don’t mind if they don’t open.” “Poor thing, kiddo—you don’t know a damn thing, do ya?” ……Ahead of the three’s path, the uncut stalks of withered pampas grass stood towering just as they were, forlorn and pale as water.

Eight Through the withered pampas grass, the three came out to the edge of the pond. There, cattails and rushes had clustered densely together and withered into ashen gray. The dark water, reflecting a windless cloudy sky, lay heavily without stirring in its shadow.

“What… again…” Tashiro said again admiringly. “It’s just as it was before.” “This place hasn’t changed at all.” “When did you come here?” “Whenever it was… ages ago.” “—It was ages ago. Since it was before I went to Osaka—seven or eight years back.”

“Seven or eight years?”

"But—but, not a single thing…" Tashiro looked around nostalgically.

“As for someone like me, I came right after the Russo-Japanese War and that’s been it.” Miura said without laughing, “You remember, don’t you?—that around that time they held the ‘Kaidankai’ here?”

“I don’t know.”

Ogura answered clearly. “That can’t be right.” “During the Russo-Japanese War, we were still traveling.” “So by your reckoning, I came to Tokyo before you?” “That should be the case.” “Even for me, though, I’d just arrived back then.—At the Kabukiza, *Yanokura* and the late Mr. Yanagida joined forces to stage *Koi Mujō*, this play they’d adapted from *Botan Dōrō* into Meiji style.—And before that, what you’d call promotion nowadays—to drum up interest, we held a ‘Kaidankai’ right here.—Hell of a thing, and it ended up being a hit.”

“Who came?” Tashiro interjected. “Who do you think? Everyone came—every last shinpa actor in Tokyo gathered.” “And on top of that, just the clientele from Kawagishi and Kodemmacho, the newspaper reporters and literati, and the folks who came to help from Shinbashi, Yanagibashi, and Yoshicho—it was staggering. Anyway, it was Yanokura’s grand debut season.” “So what exactly did you do?” “Well here’s how we planned it—first some merchant would kick things off with a ghost story. Then five or six guys who’d brought their own tales would come out and properly scare everyone.” “Then when the timing got good, the stunt was to have ’em go alone through this grass to the pavilion, scribble their names there and come back—we’d figured forty or fifty people at most would show up, hence that plan.” “But when the day came, we got roughly five times that number…”

“So… two hundred…”

“No—rather, the neighboring restaurant… though it’s not like what’s there now… every room was so packed with people you couldn’t move.” “So a sharp-tongued guy said—this ain’t no Kaidankai, it’s a damn Ghost Story Festival.” “He’s quick to dismiss a good thing…”

As he said this, Ogura walked quietly along the edge of the pond. "If it comes to that, there's no use for plans or even a bee's head worth of cleverness." Miura and Tashiro followed behind him as he went on: "With early July's short nights, if we'd sent 'em one by one to write their names, dawn would've broken before we finished.—Then they started comin' in twos and threes—hell, even formed squads of five or ten. No wonder it turned into a damn circus." "What really screwed us was them insect whistles." "Even that—we'd planned it all out proper, bought those damn things from the bug-whistle vendor and stashed 'em in the thick grass—fine work! But when crunch time came? With all that racket, not one of these sonsabitches would let out a peep!"

Nine So, panicking that this wouldn’t do, two or three people from the dressing room ended up hiding in the thickets of tall grass—taking advantage of the surrounding darkness—to blow real insect whistles. It was Miura who had been chosen as one of them. “You can’t help but despise how pathetic newcomers are.—That’s where things differ from today’s dressing room. Back then, if you dared say such a thing, they’d brand you an uppity brat or a damn fool and kick you out of the troupe you’d worked so hard to join—just like that. So with no choice, while the others were getting good and drunk on their high spirits, I grabbed that ragged straw mat and crawled into the grass.”

“What did you do with the sandarabocchi?”

“I put it under my ass.—And on top of that compensation, I had to keep blowing away on it all night while getting devoured by mosquitoes.” “So did that work out?” “Work out? Didn’t matter—most bastards saw through it and left snickering like they’d been tickled.” “—And the ones who pulled one over on ’em? They’d stroll off cool as you please, saying shit like ‘What a performance!’ loud enough for everyone to hear.” “Then the whole retreat plan fell apart, didn’t it?”

“But at first, I thought even that was part of the job and stayed sharp.—But as the night dragged on, I got sleepy—hungry—freezing to the bone.—If I’d known it’d be like this, I’d have been better off taking my chances with disaster up in Hokkaido.” “—At that moment, I truly felt that way.” “Jest…”

As Tashiro laughed in such a manner, “That’s not it—it’s true. The honest truth.” Miura immediately cut him off. “That was the last time.” “—I haven’t been back since that time.” To the grass, the trees, the water—to any fragment of those twenty years that had passed like a dream—even Miura showed such a lonely yearning. In summer, beneath the oppressive tangle of dead branches in the tree-shaded gloom, the accumulated fallen leaves—their earthy scent moist—lay dark…

“Do you come here constantly?” Tashiro turned toward Ogura and spoke. “Not constantly—I come about once every three months.” “What brings you here?” “Still for haiku…?” “Not that. I simply wander here.—Nothing feels better than strolling about during our scarce theater breaks.”

“It’s the pair to Miura’s fishing pond.” Tashiro alone nodded. “How about you?—Have you gone yet?” “I don’t go.—Went two-three days straight but it wasn’t interesting, so I quit.”

“Why?” “Just like Ogura said—even my fishing pond only becomes worth visiting when you force yourself to go during those one or two days squeezed between hectic theater schedules.—But with this whole month off now, not knowing if we'll even earn next month... ain't worth thinking about fishing.—That's human nature for you.—Right, Ogura?” “That's right.”

“But… But that’s…” “Ever since we started talking, you all keep saying such strange things… but how… how on earth can you say that?” Tashiro demanded, his face still refusing to concede.

Ten "Why can't you grasp that?" Miura echoed back bluntly, "You're the one itching to say it." "But I did go to Yanokura yesterday—went to Yanokura and met with the Master. And not just the Master—the Supporting Actor happened by too, and I even talked with them for a while." "But if the Master didn't say anything about it," Tashiro pressed on stubbornly, "then the Supporting Actor wouldn't have said anything like that either."

“Do you honestly think they’d say anything?” “I think they would.—Actually, I asked, ‘Where will we be next month?’—That’s exactly what I said and asked.”

“What did they say when you asked?” “Where our next theater will be… they still don’t know……”

“Can’t you see that? “Isn’t that proof enough—that? “In the first place—how many days do you think today makes?” “It’s December 15th.” “You call this usual? Usual? At this point, with no theater secured, no play decided—that’s your ‘usual’? “…Has there ever been such a thing before now?” “That hasn’t happened.” “Simply put, we’ve been cut off from the company.—All of us—we’ve been fired from the company now.”

“Th-that’s absurd…” In Tashiro’s brusque manner of speaking—as though casting words aside—there lingered a faint hint of panic. Now that I think about it—now that I think about it, even yesterday…

“Alright, enough—you’ll find out eventually anyway.” Miura said coldly, as if seeing through him, “Someone sheltered like you should keep that clueless look till the time comes.” “But… But still, if that’s how it is…” “Quit it, I said.” Ogura furrowed his brows. “But… you…” “Nothing’s been clearly decided yet.” Ogura quietly mediated, “It’s just that we can sense such signs.” “Precisely because we’ve weathered more bitter oranges than you’ve peeled, we feel all sorts of things effortlessly—without reason—that someone like you wouldn’t.” “What we think might happen almost always ends up coming true before us.”

“So… you mean…” “Wouldn’t it be fine even if that happened?” “—We have Yanokura.” “—We have Master Yanokura.—Even if our company ties get cut off—this world’s full of stages waiting.”

“That—that may be true, but…” “If we just stay by the Master’s side—he’d never abandon his troupe to wander the streets.” “—He’ll see we’re fed somehow, no matter what.—Only now… there’ll be no more chances coming our way.” “……”

The conversation lapsed into silence for a while.—They crossed an earthen bridge…… Beneath it, thick stems of withered lotuses lay helplessly submerged in the water. ……Passing before the O-nari zashiki with its closed shoji screens, the three eventually settled into one of the scattered azumaya pavilions.—There, plum branches competing to reach upward…… their unseen shadows cast pale, indistinct shapes across the ground. “Oh, a crane! There’s a crane?” Miura declared as if making a discovery, “They weren’t here back then.” “They never had things like that in the old days.”

Even as he spoke, he immediately stood and walked back toward that cage. “What’s wrong, hey, Tashiro?” “Why did you suddenly go silent like that?” Ogura asked as he poured tea from the pot the maid had brought. “Suddenly now… It’s like I’ve suddenly fallen into ruin…” “Fallen into ruin?” “It’s like… I ended up feeling this sort of lonely, wretched thing.”

“What a fool you are.” Ogura laughed pityingly.

Three Crows

I

When Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro were wandering about Mukojima like that. To put it more precisely—at the very moment those three exited Chomeiji Temple’s grounds onto the embankment, wandering while Miura and Tashiro debated fervently about the late Azuma Ichirō—Nishimaki of the same troupe… their senior brother disciple and veteran comic actor Nishimaki Kimpei walked alone and desolate along Yanokura’s riverbank toward Ryogoku.

That day, Nishimaki paid a visit to the Master’s place after a long absence, just as Tashiro had done the previous day. Nishimaki had wanted to subtly probe into the matter of the year-end greetings and their aftermath… which referred to the November play in Hongo—a production the company had originally intended to send to the provinces but which the Master had stubbornly insisted on staging locally—and how it had turned out to be a dismal failure. Consequently, shortly before things settled down, rumors had spread vigorously among a faction backstage that yet another awkward tension had arisen between the Master and the company. Of course, even so, Nishimaki trusted the company and trusted the Master. Even if such a thing had occurred, he couldn’t imagine their troupe coming to any real harm over something so trivial now. Such things—the kind of miserable, not-even-remotely-joyous matters that Ogura and Miura spoke of—had not crossed Nishimaki’s mind by so much as a single hair’s breadth. The relationship between the Master and the company wasn’t like that; the relationship between their troupe and the company wasn’t so naive. Both the Master and their troupe had contributed considerably to the company up until now. The company knew that well. ……Therefore, the concern was whether they could stage a play in Tokyo for New Year—having forced their way through November, they might well face a backlash and end up being sent off to Nagoya come spring. Spring’s haste made the provinces unwelcome.—In holding such a rough, single-minded view, Nishimaki found himself aligned with Tashiro, who was over twenty years his junior.

After all, even as part of the same master’s fold, Nishimaki’s upbringing—his very upbringing as an actor—was fundamentally different from that of Ogura, Miura, or even the late Azuma. The path they had walked was entirely different. As for Ogura, Miura, or Azuma—to speak of those men—they had all become actors on their own whims, traveling relentlessly, touring with troupes they themselves led, scraping by through odd jobs when desperate, and after enduring every conceivable hardship, they had finally discarded their well-trodden straw sandals at the feet of their current Master, having sought refuge under his great tree. Yet Nishimaki, older than any of them, had scarcely known such rough winds and waves of the floating world himself.—From the summer he turned twenty-one, when he first became an actor under the Master’s guidance, over thirty long years had passed with Nishimaki of Yura’s troupe shadowing him like a silhouette day after day… though to say “every day” would be a lie: once, around twenty-five or twenty-six, when Yura fell ill and abruptly withdrew from the troupe they were performing with—Yamato’s troupe—Nishimaki was taken straight to Osaka under Yamato’s wing.—After wandering the Kyushu circuit for about half a year and returning to Tokyo at last, he found Yura staging a desolate play to empty seats in Yokohama. After that, Yamato’s troupe was set to make a splendid debut at the Kabukiza Theater, but when Nishimaki heard this, he broke away and immediately rushed to Yokohama. ……So except for that half year when he hadn’t been by his side, after that, no matter what happened, he had resolved never to leave his master’s side again.……

II

To put it in passing, Nishimaki was originally a fishmonger shouldering his pole and hawking through the neighborhoods of Nihonbashi’s Ishichō, Ginchō, Denmachō… A habitual theater lover, he couldn’t rest unless he saw every play by its third day, no matter the troupe. After watching the Fifth Generation Benten Kozō, he resolved to carve cherry blossoms into his own arm, and while flattered by his regular customers, he neglected his trade to entertain them with vocal impressions—things were still manageable then. But this escalated into “I want to become an actor,” leading him to seek connections and plead with two or three former actors to take him on as a disciple. At one place, he was refused outright, told that his fishmongering trade was unacceptable; at another, he was tactfully dismissed with vague excuses; and at yet another, despite his earnest pleas about his misconduct, he was kindly admonished. For a time, he had resolved to give up—but proof that the clouds of obsession had not truly cleared came one morning when, heading to the riverbank for supplies as usual, he idly picked up a newspaper at the wholesaler’s shop, and a certain report within instantly reignited his hopes. It was an advertisement seeking temporary hires for the Washio Troupe’s play *Sino-Japanese War* at Asakusa-za.—Upon taking the newspaper and stuffing it into his apron, he hoisted his empty fish tray… for that day was stormy, and no fish were to be had.—Midway across a bridge, he suddenly hurled the tray—cutting board and all—into the river.—It was a cloudy late-summer day; an autumn-like cold wind blew desolately over the water, through the gloomily overgrown willows at the bridge’s edge.—Even such imitations of Igakeshimatsu… For him, to achieve his ambition this time by any means necessary, he first had to quit the fishmonger trade.—It was to make that firm resolve even clearer to himself…

That afternoon, he immediately prepared and visited the teahouse attached to Asakusa-za where Yamato was. His attire at that time consisted of a matching yukata from the riverbank quarter, an eight-paneled three-shaku sash, gaiters around his legs, and a sedge hat held in hand. —They would gather all applicants and select from among them—so come again tomorrow—but that attire wouldn’t do. The young man acting as Yamato’s proxy told him. He politely bowed his head and withdrew.

The next day, he stood once more at the teahouse gate in an outfit utterly unlike yesterday’s—a kasuri-patterned kimono and a cotton heko obi as instructed… and of course, he hadn’t forgotten to hang a grimy hand towel from it. He was added to the nearly hundred applicants who had gathered.—And what must his joy have been when he learned he had become one of the twenty-five selected from among them……

From that day onward, he immediately began rehearsals. The role assigned to him was that of a Chinese soldier in the full ensemble of the War scene. Every day, he eagerly commuted to the theater. He received a hefty daily wage of sixteen sen.

III The Washio Troupe’s production was a great success. Not merely a success—through that single production, “student theater” came to establish a clear presence… an unshakable foothold within Tokyo’s theatrical world. Yamato, who wielded greater skill as an impresario than as an actor, did not let the moment slip—he swiftly nocked and loosed a second arrow. This time, they staged a detective play that appeared utterly transformed from its predecessor. At that time, they sifted through those twenty-five temporary hires and selected only five to be promoted to apprentices. He stood foremost among them.

Entirely, that was the fruit of his attentiveness. For example, when playing a Chinese soldier, he shaved his head completely and threw himself into the role. During the intervals between scenes, he proactively took care of the senior actors’ needs without fail. This was due to his former trade having made him naturally sharp as a boar’s tusk—lighthearted in spirit, clear-spoken in speech, and never faltering in execution—so everyone relied on him, calling him “Baldy.”……Particularly for guest member Yura, it was because he was a rare Edo native in that troupe……for indeed, of the thirty or forty members in that troupe from top to bottom, most hailed from Kansai. Yamato himself was originally from Kyoto. ……He was particularly favored.—Yura, whose popularity stemmed from his beauty and his unpretentious yet masterful artistry, was—needless to say—born and raised in Tokyo.

Upon becoming an apprentice, he resolved anew to take charge of Yura’s sandals himself. After that, he became a Class B member, then head of the common quarters, and successfully rose to Class A member in no more than three years. Steadily he rose through the ranks.—No stature, no looks, not a single actor-like quality to his name—yet that very rise was born of nothing but attentiveness, of simply “fixating”… fixating on his roles… that alone. That alone was his life.—For every trifling role he passed through, the more trifling it was, the more he strained to breathe life into it by any means.—To put it plainly: among those slapdash, rough-edged, blunt companions of his, he darted with vigor—like a young sweetfish.

After parting from Yamato and returning to Yura’s side, his shadow on stage grew even thicker. He became an indispensable charmer in Yura’s troupe. When he appeared, the audience was delighted for no reason. The theater critics, eager to showcase their connoisseurship, unfailingly devoted excessive ink to him with every production.—He, for his part, could not help but be elated.

It was exactly around that time. They decided to stage a new Western-style play called *The Dark World* at the Ichimura-za. When he heard the script reading, there was a part where the protagonist hypnotist placed a man under his spell and manipulated him at will. Though he listened in silence, he secretly smirked—convinced that he himself would be the man ensnared by Yura’s hypnotist; it had to be that way, it simply had to be. Even if not for that, he was the one who never stopped mocking Koya’s flightiness. But when the roles were finally decided, that part did not come to him. There was someone else to play that role……

IV

He was bitter. That night, he lay awake until dawn, his bitterness leaving no room for sleep. ――At daybreak, after half an hour of fitful dozing, he dreamed of the Fifth Generation actor's monster cat from *The Fifty-Three Stations at Ōgi Inn*―the one he'd once seen in Kabukiza Theatre's "Old Temple" scene―toying freely with Okura's role.――He himself had become that Okura being manipulated. ――After all, he was sharing the stage with the Fifth Generation actor; one misstep here would end his acting career forever... Driven by this terror, he poured his entire being into the performance―ready to die if only this went well.――Then came the voice: "Hmm, not bad," it said. "You've got skill. Quit this student acting nonsense and become my disciple..." So spoke the Fifth Generation actor.――What bliss!――The instant this thought formed, he awoke.――Beside his pillow, a wicker lantern's feeble glow lingered on the verge of extinction.――That night, in his despair―unable to face returning home―he found himself collapsing into the Asakusa teahouse he normally patronized...

But even so, he was not yet an actor who could openly voice such grievances. He had a good reputation among audiences, but even as a Class A member, his backstage standing remained lowly—this being where Yura’s rigidity manifested: no matter how beloved a disciple might be, no matter how skilled the person, he would never extend such favoritism to one who still lacked gravitas. With a true Tokyoite’s scrupulousness, he drew clear lines between essence and triviality—elevating what deserved elevation and suppressing what demanded suppression. —This was precisely why Yura Ichiza’s cohesion persisted undisturbed in tranquility even thereafter…

What kind of blunder would that fool who took the role make? What humiliation would he suffer through his incompetence? Watching from afar—*Serves him right! As if he could manage it—you think Master would ever approve?*—this bitter mockery became Nishimaki’s sole means of soothing himself at the time. For this purpose alone did he throw himself into rehearsals—only to be assigned, in cruel irony, a rickshaw driver’s role offering no room for refinement, no matter how he might strive to perfect it.

Sure enough, that actor failed after just one day of rehearsal. The body not moving as intended was fundamentally displeasing to Yura. Lightly, just lightly—that had been Yura’s demand.—But it was too much; he couldn’t manage it……

“If you can’t do it, there’s nothing to be done. …I’m not telling you to force what can’t be done.” “But if that’s how it stands, our play won’t come together.”

……Usually, Yura was not one to speak so harshly. Only when it came to matters of the stage would he rarely fly into such a rage and become sharp-tongued. When things reached that point, they no longer knew how to push the rickshaw sideways.—Everyone simply folded their arms, fell silent, and could only watch the ominous turn of the clouds.

“You haven’t called an acrobat—call an acrobat.” “If it’s an acrobat, they can do it.”

The matter had truly escalated to that point. Yura dug in his heels that far.—At that point, he could bear it no longer and burst out.—In a frenzy, he went before Yura and pleaded to be given the role.

“Can you do it?” “I can do it.” “You certain?” “Yes—absolutely.” From that night onward, he did not return home. He stayed behind alone at the theater and rehearsed. He lit a candle on the third floor and practiced single-mindedly until dawn.

V

His single-minded rehearsals bore fruit—he succeeded splendidly. He performed stunts so astonishing they left even his fellow troupe members gaping. The final dolphin leap especially—that moment when he cleared three standing men in one bound—drew fervent praise from Yura himself on opening night. The scene became their crown jewel, drawing crowds daily. By every measure, he’d redeemed his honor. Then came that day—another packed house, another display of his trademark “frenzy”—when at the climactic instant, whether through misjudgment or fate, he miscalculated the leap. His body pitched forward—front teeth shattering against the stage, a molar tearing through his cheek. Crimson bloomed across his Western-style costume.

Carried backstage just as he was, he did not regain consciousness for a full day and night. It was that grave an injury. Yet after a day’s interval came the riverbank crowd’s appointed date— the day when wholesalers from the docks would arrive en masse to watch their old acquaintance perform. The thought left him no peace to lie still. Though none opposed it, he forced himself up and took the stage still bandaged. There he displayed a brilliance sharper than ever—so brimming with fervor was he……

The broken front teeth were restored to their former state with dentures. But the wound on his cheek did not heal so smoothly. It remained as a scar for a long time afterward. But even so, through it all, he reaped benefits that far outweighed a wound of that caliber. Of course, the riverbank crowd redoubled their support, and soon from bustling districts like Daikongashi and Machi—all those places that patronized Yura—curtains and banners began arriving even for him; at the same time, from then on, as the Yanokura troupe’s lead actor, he came to be treated with great favor.

But even the way his popularity had risen in such a manner was ultimately due to Yura’s—to Yura’s troupe’s popularity increasing day by day. The two or three years after parting with Yamato were, from the start, an unreasonable founding; there were various obstacles and difficulties as well. Each play, before it could even begin, first required securing funds. The only places where the troupe could perform were either small theaters in Honjo, Fukagawa, or Asakusa, or else dilapidated huts—rotten shacks where no audience would come no matter what they staged, left neglected with no one to care for them. Yura drifted from one shabby hut to another.—Meanwhile, Yamato—after achieving success multiple times on the Kabukiza’s hinoki stage—took his troupe on breather trips abroad or built his own small theater right in the heart of Tokyo, displaying an unrivaled heyday.

But once Yura had gained that popularity, rivaling Yamato’s heyday became no difficult task. Before long, Yura allied with the theater manager in Nihonbashi Nakasu and made it his permanent theater. By that time, not only had the troupe members multiplied to three or four times their founding number, but actors from first-rate lineages—Tsukushi, Shima, Shirakawa—skilled actors, handsome actors, capable and steadfast actors—all stood by Yura’s side assisting him. Even the original members under their master’s relentless, exacting training had grown skilled beyond recognition. And those in the common room too were all earnest and devoted.—But strongest of all was the stage’s harmonious cohesion……

VI It was around that time that he came to be called one of Yura’s “Three Crows” alongside two others.—The other two were Hishikawa, who had made his name in villain roles, and another comic actor like himself. That said, compared to him, Washio’s range as an actor was somewhat broader, and he could even skillfully handle convincing old man roles when called upon. Though both were veteran members who had endured since the Yokohama days, Hishikawa alone had previously belonged to Yamato’s troupe, and in status, he was not so different from Yura. As a regular troupe member, he was considerably favored. The clearest proof of this was that when Nishimaki first saw the advertisement for temporary hires and went to visit Yamato at the Asakusa-za teahouse, a young man came out as Yamato’s proxy. And then he noted the getup he had put together at that time.—That young man was Hishikawa…

But Hishikawa was shrewd in a different sense from him. When he had parted ways with Yamato and first attached himself to Yura, he had of course addressed him simply as “Yura” with the familiar “-kun” suffix. But as Yura gradually gained prominence over time, before long it became “Mr. Yura,” then “the troupe leader,” and by the time they took root at the Nakasu theater, it had fully shifted to “Master”… even when addressing him directly to his face.—For Yura had his disciples call him not “Sensei” but always “Master” from some point onward…

Therefore, those unaware of these origins all regarded Hishikawa as the same old hereditary retainer as him and Washio.—they believed him to share an especially deep bond among the many disciples.—Thinking so, they arbitrarily counted him among the “Three Crows.”—Thoroughly pleased by this, Hishikawa thence spread his wings even wider than before, flitting freely through Yura’s patronage circles…Kabutocho stockbrokers, Kiba lumberyards, civil engineering clients…he darted about as he pleased.

To him, this was displeasing. More than displeasing—it was bitterly galling. His resentment grew deeper still. Whenever an opportunity arose, he would speak of this baseless matter to anyone within reach. Yet more people clapped their hands and cheered “That’s the way!” than those who knit their brows in genuine concern.

“These times.—That’s how these times are.” “It’s the ones who deftly maneuver like that who achieve victory in this world.”

Indeed it was. Though shrewd in his own way—this honest man who was at heart as plain as daikon—he… This was precisely why he had once remarked of Hishikawa,*“He’s shrewd in a different sense”*… found himself perpetually outmaneuvered. Each time, Hishikawa struck first. Even when invited together to patrons’ rooms—drinking, singing, dancing—it was always Hishikawa who single-handedly managed the scene and stole the show. The rumor that he’d been a rakugo storyteller in Osaka before becoming an actor held true—Hishikawa overflowed with talents. And he possessed an uncanny genius for all such social graces as “hosting gatherings.” In these moments, his stage role as a “villain” paradoxically lent him disarming charm.

To avoid such a miserable reckoning, to avoid being left one step behind, he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor. There was simply no other way but to act so haphazardly. If he didn’t do that, he couldn’t maintain his dignity…

“Stop it, hey—don’t force yourself to drink like that.”

Washio—nicknamed “Hermit”—… Another of the Three Crows always worried about that. But society eventually turned even such a man into a gilded drunkard.

VII

Twenty years passed. For him, those twenty years that followed were hollow, dream-like days. Speaking of which, the Nakasu era was when he had climbed to the very summit of his peak as an actor. In the twenty years that followed, he gradually began his descent from that height painstakingly scaled over the previous decade. ……Yet he himself had never intended it—he absolutely never thought so.—And precisely because of this, those twenty hollow, dream-like years held none of those vivid, decisive moments: no hurling stage trays from bridges, no abandoning the ascendant Yamato troupe to rush headlong into the desolate Yura troupe with not a soul to witness it, no injuries from botched dolphin leaps that would linger for a lifetime. As a leading man, as a comic actor, as a charmer, as a veteran, as a busybody, as one of the Three Crows, as a drunkard—merely existing as all these things—he remained among Yanokura’s now-numerous members, who had grown so different from their former selves. Unfortunately, his fame never kept pace with that of Yura and the Yanokura troupe, which surged onward without restraint.

To say their fame grew boundless—over those twenty years, Yura’s Yanokura troupe finally surged from Nakasu into the heart of Tokyo, performing without exception at grand venues like the Kabukiza, the Shintomiza, and the Tokyo-za of that era, gathering unto themselves the adoration of the entire capital. In the wake of the Russo-Japanese War, as society’s economic fervor rose unchecked, Yura’s good fortune undoubtedly stemmed from two factors: on one hand, Yamato had overexerted his prowess as a producer and fallen from power; on the other, the Kabuki world—bereft of its center after the deaths of Danjuro and Kikugoro—had plunged into futile chaos. Yet beyond these circumstances lay Yura’s own art: an unpretentious, intense, and deeply considered force honed from his origins, coupled with the beautiful unity his troupe achieved onstage—a magnetism that captivated even those who had once disdained such “student theater.” Moreover, the tremendous support from longstanding patrons—the *karyukai* and their prosperous clientele who thrived in that world—also contributed formidable strength to this.

Afterward, they formed a contract with a major entertainment company that had emerged around that time, becoming its exclusive affiliate, and for a while performed plays alongside stalwarts like Yanagida, Fujikawa, and Misono—former pillars of Yamato’s troupe. But before long, Yanagida died, Fujikawa succumbed to an incurable illness and left the stage, and Misono soon returned to his hometown of Osaka. And thus, the realm was completely Yura’s. In Tokyo, designations like “new school theater”… “student theater” or “new drama” had now become a bygone dream—to speak of such things was to speak solely of the Yura troupe. Yet by that time, nearly all the veteran members who had supported Yura since the troupe’s founding—Shima, Shirakawa, and others—had already died or vanished. And so, those who remained were truly just three: Chikushi, Hishikawa, and him.—Washio had long before declared he had his reasons and quit acting, departing nonchalantly for the countryside of Okayama alongside an associate who had resolutely gone straight.

VIII But Yura’s scrupulousness—upholding what needed upholding and restraining what needed restraining—remained unchanged from before. Thus while neither Hishikawa nor he attained the status or salary of a rising star like Wakamiya, they still ranked far above newcomers such as Azuma and Ogura. Even if Hishikawa’s “villain role”—which assumed merely bellowing exaggerated lines sufficed—was deemed outdated and crude; even if his choreographed stage combat no longer thrilled audiences as before; even if his meticulously crafted performances now seemed haphazardly anachronistic… still, once Yura’s dominance solidified, Hishikawa amassed tens of thousands in wealth. For all his bluster about being “a damned Edokko” who’d never hoard coins past midnight, he maintained a stylish latticework house in Hatchobori—compact yet dignified. Yet what remained unchanged was the relationship between Hishikawa and him. The bond between them, once strained, could never be mended no matter how time passed.

But to him, it meant nothing at all. For him, it was rather more convenient that no settlement could be reached between them. A man who hoarded money even at the cost of neglecting his obligations, a man who thought nothing mattered but amassing wealth… To be lumped together with such a creature—that was what he couldn’t stomach. Was he not an actor? A performer? An artist?—For that actor, that performer, that artist to lend money with promissory notes, to play at being a usurer… Hishikawa would accommodate anyone who asked—thirty yen, fifty yen, one hundred yen, up to three hundred yen depending on circumstances—always taking his cut. He had a way of saying things like, “As long as you handle things properly—since I’m just idling around anyway—I’ll gladly assist anytime. We all share the same troubles.” ……To be grouped with such a man—with such a petty-minded wretch—was his unshakable conviction.

But even so, given the way things were, one could never truly know how much Hishikawa’s side business had saved all the backstage members. Even if the interest was somewhat high, being able to pass it from right to left within their own circle and have matters settled immediately was a godsend. Therefore, nearly all the backstage members—save for him and three or four others—owed their relief to this arrangement. Even someone like Azuma—their most reliable customer—ended up reduced to selling himself in the park, with half his monthly earnings always flowing untouched into Hishikawa’s hands. After Azuma disappeared, Miura took his place.—Thus backstage, they came to call Hishikawa “Choco Bank” for that very reason. The “Choco” came from how his large frame—clumsily bloated with fat and perfect for villain roles—kept him constantly fidgeting, while “Bank” naturally referred to his moneylending.

But for him, while things were acceptable with Hishikawa, they were not acceptable with Yura. He could not resign himself to letting things remain as they were. Year by year, he found it increasingly difficult to get along with his master. Even if it hadn’t reached such extremes, he had gradually come to sense something amiss between them—like a loosened barrel hoop or a dislodged tenon—taking shape during that time. He had come to feel their mutual understanding no longer flowed as smoothly as it had ten or twenty years prior—a reality that grew unmistakably clear after the earthquake disaster...

IX

During the Nakasu era, even when he said such things, he often failed. Whether he drank too much and botched his performances, got into fights and injured others, or went out carousing and caused unnecessary scandals—through such things, he was constantly causing trouble for Yura. No matter how much he apologized, they would never listen, and there were more than two or three occasions when he had to plead with customers to intercede on his behalf. But back then, no matter how much he failed or how badly things turned out, it never led to any distortions in the gate’s stability. If anything, the more he failed, the worse things turned out, the more deeply Yura could feel a sense of closeness each time. Gradually—partly due to age, for seeing his child grow up meant he could no longer act the fool as he once had, nor recklessly play the daredevil—yet even so, the days when Yura would unhesitatingly summon him, lay down the law, and set him straight from the outset… such things… such treatment had utterly vanished. At the same time, even in matters of the stage, Yura no longer gave his usual harsh corrections. Not giving corrections meant he did not praise either. Even when he went to ask, Yura never gave a clear answer. Yet despite this, ever since expanding into Tokyo’s heartland, Yura had directed all other troupe members more fervently, more strictly, and with minutely detailed instructions on every matter. The ones who did not receive those instructions were Chikushi, Hishikawa, and him alone.—To put it another way: special treatment. ……he had become such a distant, stranger-like master, yet one still sentimentally attached……

Under such circumstances, it stood to reason that they would no longer meet face-to-face except for theater matters. As pilgrimages, banquets, and social obligations increasingly found him absent from such occasions, he never turned his feet toward the Imado main residence—the one he would never sleep facing—…that old dwelling of Yura’s from the Yokohama founding era, where once he had even lived alongside Washio for over a year, assisting the still-unmarried Yura by taking charge of everything from cooking to all manner of tasks… Gradually, his visits there too grew infrequent. Except for such occasions as Obon, year-end, and New Year—times that marked turning points—he rarely showed his face unless there was a specific reason. Even when he showed his face, he felt somewhat ill-at-ease, so he never lingered long before Yura, instead retreating to the back to pass peaceful hours with the mistress and the young lady.—The mistress and the young lady were his favorites.

But after that, when even the mistress passed away, that Imado residence—so deeply etched in memory—was obliterated without trace by the earthquake disaster.—Ever since then, Yura had forsaken Imado and relocated to the present Yanokura. Since Hatchobori and Yanokura were now so close compared to former Imado, they might as well have been next-door neighbors. In earlier days, he surely would have visited practically every day, overjoyed to become a constant fixture there. ...but now that the mistress was gone, his sole refuge was the young lady alone.— His visits grew even more infrequent than before.

Thus, this visit was truly his first in three or four months since summer.—No matter how he looked at it, this neglect was inexcusable; today he would apologize properly, perhaps even vent his long-pent-up grievances… With these thoughts, he stood before Yanokura’s semi-Western entrance—ill-suited, unwelcoming, its design awkwardly stubborn. And so, he rang the doorbell with gusto. But the one who came out was an unfamiliar maid, who flatly stated, “Master is not at home…”

“What about the young lady?”

“The young lady is also not at home.” “Where did she go?” “The young lady has gone to visit a temple today.” “And is Okita-san not here either?” “No, he is not here.”

Okita was a long-serving maid who had been attached to the young lady since long ago. If this maid were there, no matter who else was absent, she would come out with a “Why, Mr. Nishimaki,” and immediately smooth things over. Even if not—well, to press the point—there must be someone who understood, be it a student servant or one of the male attendants. But even if he met someone like that, there’d be no point. It would be better to just leave quietly without another word.—Suddenly, for some reason, he felt that way.

“I’m Nishimaki.” “Please pass along my regards.”

With that, he placed the Odawaraya pickled barrel—his year-end greeting was always that, without fail—there, then immediately walked out past the gate, leaving the curt maid behind. And so, he walked alone along Yanokura’s riverbank toward Ryogoku, steeped in loneliness.

X

“Oh?”

Suddenly, he stopped—just as Tashiro had done earlier in Mukojima before Ushijima Shrine. For until now, the river scene that had spread before him—the bright vista above the water—had abruptly vanished from sight at that very moment. There along the bank stood a boat restaurant connected by a pier—a large vessel perpetually empty of customers, made all the more desolate by winter’s chill… listlessly blocking the water’s surface alongside its clumsily built gate. These remnants of old scenery still clung to existence. But beyond them, stretching to Ryogoku’s edge where the one-sen steamers docked, nothing had once obstructed the river’s view. Rather, scenes verging on lonely bustle—ships gliding back and forth, steamers churning up urgent waves, blue water spilling luminous over banks, white gulls skimming liquid glass—all these once filled his vision with vivid clarity. Yet now there loomed unreasonably—a large, grimy barrack cobbled from old corrugated iron: Tokyo Tsuusen Corporation’s warehouses, offices, wharves. Around it lay heaped oil drums and beer crates, coal sacks and flat bamboo chicken coops—a barbaric jumble exuding desolation. The laborers huddled around bonfires on paths strewn with rope scraps and cabbage leaves… the garish Odaiba-bound steamship sign… even the movie poster dangling beneath—things unseen before the earthquake—all conspired to deepen December’s overcast gloom into something darker, bleaker, more bone-chillingly stark.

“Things have gotten terrible…ah…” He said it as if sighing to himself— Just as Tashiro had said while standing on Chomeiji Temple’s paved grounds— But in Tashiro’s case, it wasn’t something unique to him—it would have been an appropriate line whether spoken by Ogura or Miura. But in his case, this sentiment belonged to him alone—for that area between Hamacho Riverbank and Yanokura Riverbank was truly his cherished “nest” from the Nakasu era. There had never been a night when he didn’t send his rickshaw to that riverbank. From Yoshicho to Ryogokubashi, from Ryogokubashi to Yoshicho—the moment his role ended, he would leave the theater and, whether summoned by fish market clients, favored Kabutocho patrons, or Kiba masters, constantly immerse himself in the neighborhood’s famous teahouses… Okada, Fukui, Kamesei, Ryukotei, Fukagawatei…

He turned his eyes and looked toward the tram street. There, on the wide road, automobiles and bicycles mingled with trams as they ceaselessly came and went. Trucks ceaselessly wove through the gaps, creating a deafening rumble beneath the ground. But where were the shadows of those rickshaws that once darted like arrows? ...Nostalgic, deeply familiar shadows of those rickshaws...? "Things have changed...ah..."

He soon started walking.—Aimlessly, alone and lonely, he walked toward Ryogoku……

Sleet.

I

“So, after all that ‘Should we go here? Should we go there?’—we wound up at Mukojima…”

“That’s a terribly twisted way…” “The thing is—no—the place we visited someone ill was Yoshinocho. “…Being right by Bishamonten-sama’s side, we ended up strolling along Sanya-bori on our return when—‘How about Hyakkaen Garden?’” “——Ogura-kun was the one who suggested it…”

“So—you, Mr. Ogura, and then Mr. Miura…?” “Just that.” “Just the three of us.” “Anyway, Mr. Ogura is—as you know—a man of refined tastes; he prefers quiet places over bustling ones.” “But nowadays, Hyakkaen Garden…?”

“There’s absolutely nothing to see there. A true winter desolation—only withered pampas grass standing. Even people… not a single soul comes in anymore.” “Well, it’s because folks don’t call it Hyakkaen like they used to.” “They shouldn’t! There’s nowhere else to go, but only a fool would visit such a dull, inconvenient place. It went beyond quiet—lonely, unnerving… in the end, it felt eerie. After thirty minutes there, we rushed out. Boarding the steamer from Komatsushima was fine enough, but this one too had barely any passengers to count. Desolately empty… When I look outside the window, it’s so bitterly cold… even as I say that, cold water flows.”

“…………” “Those who’d grown increasingly uneasy—they were all so crushed by the gloomy scenery that no one spoke.” “Even you, Mr. Miura, didn’t utter a needless word.” “When we reached Azumabashi—‘At last!’ I truly thought… ‘A drink—just one drink,’ I said, and half in a daze, rushed here the moment I disembarked from the steamer… Then with a clatter—throwing open the door in high spirits—there sat Mr. Kimpei… all alone, absentmindedly fiddling with some trifle.”

“So, then… was Mr. Nishimaki with you all from the beginning…?” “That wasn’t how it was… We just happened to bump into him here by chance.”

“Ah, so…” “We both went, ‘Oh?’” “So that’s how it turned out.—Exactly so—right where you are now, Mr. Nishimaki was there, and the three of us took our places before him.” “So, well… the four of us started drinking then.” “So, by the time the three of you arrived, Mr. Nishimaki had already started drinking here?” “A few bottles were already lined up.” “But he still wasn’t drunk at all.” “Not only was he not drunk—he had an oddly gloomy, listless expression.”

“Huh?” “That—that is—no, it’s strange—it’s such a reason that’s just like Mr. Nishimaki…”

Saying this, one of them—as if suddenly noticing—picked up his sake cup that had lain neglected before him during their absorbed conversation. Needless to say, that one was Tashiro Yojirō. The other eager listener was the proprietor of Nihonbashi’s "Utamura" meeting house…

II "That day, Mr. Nishimaki had gone to deliver a year-end gift to the Master of Yanokura."

Tashiro promptly said again. “But unfortunately, neither the Master nor his daughter were home, so he turned back at the entrance and strolled aimlessly along the riverbank toward Ryogoku. As he walked, what suddenly struck him was how utterly transformed the scenery there had become lately—even someone like me felt deeply, every time I passed through, how much it had changed—so I imagine he must’ve felt it all the more. To put it plainly: the ferry to First Crossing was gone, the signboards for express boats to Fourth Crossing’s peony gardens had vanished, and not a soul remained fishing as carefreely as they once did. And that street—once so quiet you’d think it strange even a streetcar passed through—now had cars and bicycles rushing by nonstop.” “As if seeing the scenery for the first time—Mr. Nishimaki seemed completely taken aback by it…”

“No, even someone like me experiences that sort of thing from time to time.” “A scene one has grown accustomed to seeing can—with time’s shifting tides—suddenly make one go ‘Huh?’ as if noticing it afresh.” “So I’ll think, and flustered, find myself rubbing my eyes.” “Among those—no, another thing that startled Mr. Nishimaki was how no rickshaws pass through.” “Amidst all these cars and bicycles streaming by, not a single human-drawn carriage comes—not even an empty one.”

“I see.” “Rickshaws have vanished—before anyone knew it, they disappeared from Tokyo’s streets. No one pays them any mind anymore… He said he felt an indescribable loneliness—as if confronted with irrefutable proof of it all—and an unpleasant sensation…” “That’s just like Mr. Nishimaki.” “He said he crossed the streetcar avenue and headed into Yanagibashi like that—out of propriety, he couldn’t bring himself to take the streetcar right away, nor could he simply go straight home… With that resigned mindset, he thought if it were a place like that, given its nature, at least one rickshaw would pass by… or so he reasoned.” But whether due to the off-hour timing or sheer inevitability, not a single one passed by—not one among the geisha or servants he passed recognized him, nor did anyone pay heed to the once-renowned Nishimaki Kimpei—they all walked by without a glance.

Have I really fallen this far out of demand? They say he stopped dead in his tracks and heaved a sigh without thinking.

“In the past, he wouldn’t have passed through here unnoticed.” “But isn’t the reverse not quite so extreme…?” “Well, no—there was a Mr. Fukui from Kiba back then. Even someone like me enjoyed his patronage—he was a man of great stature. In those days, if you mentioned Mr. Fukui, there wasn’t a soul in the pleasure quarters who didn’t know him.” “He particularly favored Yanagibashi and was always visiting that area.—Mr. Nishimaki was his cherished favorite.—Since he kept constantly by his side, not knowing Mr. Nishimaki in Yanagibashi would mark one as a complete outsider.” “It was truly a grand display.”

“So, even coming from the man himself, it’s not entirely an overvaluation…?”

“No, that’s not it.—In those days, even those who didn’t know him would bow their heads first.”

A day that was but yesterday’s year-end market.—Even if not that, with a sense of closure settling in, this area—nowhere in particular—lay hollow and desolate as usual, when into this scene came the rain that had begun falling last night, now mixed with sleet and still drizzling without pause. So, even this usually bustling Kikunoiya had no customers besides the two...

III

“But in reality…” The proprietor of Utamura promptly resumed: “We too had long thought it would come to that someday… that such a time would come.” “But for it to happen so soon, so abruptly… To us, it feels less like something wondrous… and more like something terrifying.”

“……” Tashiro turned his eyes—which had been about to scoop tofu from the sea bream stew—toward his companion.

“No, rickshaws—humans pulling other humans.” “…They weren’t proper things—no, not proper at all—but in our youth, we had nothing else to depend on. There were railway carriages and Entaro carriages drawn by horses, but they didn’t extend to every corner like today’s streetcars do.” “When one wished to travel some distance, or venture to unknown places… in such times, whether one liked it or not, there was no choice but to ride them.” “In short—we were born in their heyday, which only makes us feel their impermanence all the more acutely.” “Even Mr. Nishimaki shares this fate.—From young people like yourselves—no, you might consider it all just trivial matters…”

The proprietor of Utamura laughed and wiped his sake cup. "No, even we ourselves were like that.—After all, we too used to delight in those sights—geishas in white-collared spring attire riding through town, thinking how lovely and beautiful they looked." "Even that nowadays—in places like Shinbashi—if three or four people are together, they’ll have a one-yen taxi take them.—It’s quicker that way, and first of all, they say it’s more economical." "Indeed, that way, all you need is the tip for the rickshaw puller.—It’s not entirely dismissible as mere criticism, for today’s young geishas don’t seem particularly pleased to ride in rickshaws." "Even in spring, you see—even when dressed up, they don’t ride exposed like they used to." "They conscientiously have all the hoods put up properly."

“One reason might be the cold…” “No, you’re absolutely right…”

Lightly removing it, the proprietor of Utamura inserted his chopsticks into the pot—though this one was an anglerfish hot pot.—When the conversation lapsed, the hushed sound of sleet pattering against the oil-paper door outside drifted in softly. Tashiro turned his chopsticks around and poked at the brazier’s fire.

“But no—I can’t speak only of rickshaws.” Laughing again, the proprietor of Utamura broached the topic. “There are many other things that thrived before the earthquake but have suddenly ceased here in these five or six years.” “But among them, there exists a pitiful, wretched livelihood—one that goes largely unnoticed, utterly bereft of any footing.” “Do you realize…?”

“What sort of line…?” “But no—it’s not entirely without connection to you all…”

“And that would be?” “What truly should have been… a livelihood that had no choice but to become that way…” “Well?”

IV “It’s theater teahouses.” “………?” “The livelihood we were engaged in before…” The proprietor of Utamura laughed once more. “As for rickshaws—well, here in Tokyo, they’ve become quite disregarded. If you step just outside Tokyo, they’re somehow still managing to sustain their meager existence. But as for this one, there’s nowhere left for such an escape route to take hold. If they’re flattened, that’s the end—there’s absolutely no way to recover from it.”

"I see." "I had certainly thought it would happen someday—that such a time would inevitably come—but for it to arrive so soon, so abruptly... When I think on it, it truly feels like a dream." "Even someone like me remembers as if it were yesterday—the sight of those flower-patterned curtains hung across the front of teahouses for so long... Nibancho, Hisamatsucho, Shintomicho... Just passing by a theater's entrance used to send shivers down the spines of theater lovers..."

“In the forty-first year of Meiji that Mr. Takashimaya returned from the West and tried reforming theater customs.” “…tried abolishing all teahouses and attendants at once but failed spectacularly.” “Then in Meiji forty-four came the Imperial Theater—showing off Western ticket systems without using teahouses or attendants.” “…first time performances started opening at dusk instead of broad daylight like other theaters.” “When Nibancho’s Mr. Murata—the showbiz titan they called him—heard this, he said ‘Splendid! Progress at last.’” “But even so—today’s theater still can’t stand on its own.” “Those reformists kept insisting our best patrons were from the pleasure quarters… yet night shows inconvenience those very patrons.” “Him of all people saying that… From then till now—barely fifteen years it’s been.”

“Fifteen years…” Tashiro shook his head admiringly. “It changed.” “Truly—it’s this world alone that has changed.”

The proprietor of Utamura quietly picked up the sake flask. "But now—if you were to call the pleasure quarters the theater's foremost patrons—" "You'll get torn apart.—That's why you fall behind the times when you keep saying such things." "You'll stop being acknowledged." "...They'll scold you till your eyes bulge out."

“There—that’s precisely why…” “Speaking of which, there’s a good story—you know Enshūya, don’t you?” “Ah yes—the one skilled in Kiyomoto?” “Well, for an amateur… That guy still thinks there’s no actor like the Fifth Generation among our colleagues, hobnobs with the Kuya chanting group, preens when geisha call him ‘brother’—thoroughly steeped in that old-fashioned mold.” “After the earthquake, while the rest of us had already given up and were considering switching trades, Enshūya alone stubbornly insisted, ‘It’s unthinkable for Tokyo not to have even one theater teahouse—how disgraceful!’… and kept campaigning everywhere.” “He’d spent a fair amount of money on it too.” “Then one day he went to Nibancho Theater on that very errand and tried heading straight to the partitioned area—no, I shouldn’t say that, these days they all call it an office—but when he tried marching straight into that office: ‘Where might you be going?’” “Out of nowhere, some waitress stopped him at the gate—can you believe it?”

V “But why would that happen?”

“Quite a—no, an incomprehensible matter.” “But here’s the thing—that man just coolly replied, ‘Ah, to the office.’” “And you, sir—who might you be?”

“Who?” “It’s Enshūya, I tell you. “If I’d said that, even some greenhorn waitress would’ve understood… Or at least fetched someone who did. But that was my big mistake—‘Enshūya-san? Which Enshūya would that be?’” “You must be joking…” “Enshūya sighed deeply when he complained afterward. ‘It was so wretched I couldn’t even cry. I’ve made up my mind to follow your lot’s example. Even if they beg me, I won’t start another teahouse.’”

“That’s right—it’s only natural for Enshūya-san to say such things… Even if today’s ignorant folk don’t know better, for someone working in Nibancho of all places to not recognize Enshūya-san… It’s preposterous—I can’t fathom it.” “We feel the same way,” “But step back and consider—that version holds truth. I can’t help feeling ignorance itself has become the real truth.” “In short—it follows the same logic as Mr. Nishimaki’s current tale about Yanagibashi.”

“Master has given up so completely… As for someone like me, even when I think, ‘Ah, so that’s how it is—the world has truly changed,’ when push comes to shove, my pride still rears its head.” “That’s because you’re still young…” “No, it’s not that… With other matters, I don’t harbor any pride—” Tashiro gave a somewhat sheepish laugh and turned toward the kitchen. “Please—the sake flask.”

“While you’re at it, me too…” The proprietor of Utamura added, “The conversation’s been so engaging I’ll stay a while longer today.” “But you were here drinking alone…”

“No, I was rather hoping for company myself.” “If anything, you’re the ones who’ve endured such trouble…”

“No, I’m quite—well, since it’s come to this chance to speak plainly, there’s something I’d like to ask you, Master.” “But what might that be?” “No—but Master—” “……I’m certain Master would give me a clear answer.”

“Such a difficult matter…” “No, it’s a simple matter.—What will become of ‘Shinpa’ from here on?” “…………?” “And what about the female impersonator—what will become of that role from here on?”

“……” After a while, the proprietor of Utamura opened his mouth. “Well…” “Thank you for waiting.” The young girl, at that moment, brought that very hot sake flask before Tashiro and the Utamura proprietor.

VI

“I—well, as you know—am a carefree soul. I’ve never even thought about such things, nor do I care what anyone says about me. That’s why Mr. Ogura and Mr. Miura often tell me things like ‘You’re blessed in your next life’ or ‘You’re a spoiled child who’s never known hardship.’ But no matter how much they say it—*Shinpa* will always be *Shinpa*, and the Yura Troupe will always be the Yura Troupe.” “No matter how much new plays or sword dramas flourish—they’re their own thing, and we’re ours—I don’t think the foundation of *Shinpa* could possibly be shaken now.” “Even for someone like me—when things hit a dead end, when there’s no endless New Year’s celebration—if I listen to all the clever things people say out there, well, the audience numbers… sometimes they don’t even reach half of what they used to.” “……I wonder why—there are times when I think, ‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to be’—and over these past four or five years, it’s started happening again and again.” “But that’s just how trends come and go—it happens with everything.” “If I may say so, it’s precisely because of that that theater progresses, I think.”

“That’s already…” “As Mr. Kimpei often says—long ago when Old School actors were pushed aside by the New School and kept performing only old plays until audiences stopped coming—that’s why performers like Utaemon-san and Kōshirō-san today ended up staging *The Cuckoo* and *Milk Sisters*.” “In other words, even that happened because Old School theater hit such hard times, but that doesn’t mean the Old School vanished completely.” “Far from disappearing—it’s thriving more now than ever before.”

“If something has that much value, there’s no reason it would just end there.” “Someday, without fail, the time will come around again.” “Otherwise, you…” “That must be so.—Therefore,” “Therefore—I, with the pride I mentioned earlier—our master, Mr. Tsukushi, Mr. Shiomi, and one more person, Wakamiya-kun…” “I’m not just flattering you—in truth, everyone here is truly steadfast.”

“New plays, sword dramas… Sword dramas aren’t even worth considering from the start. But when it comes to *artistry*—how many actors could even approach the feet of these four? How many have undergone that level of training? Even among the Old School actors, I doubt there are ten who could truly stand shoulder to shoulder with them.”

“W-well, that’s already…”

Utamura’s proprietor nodded in agreement. “Especially Wakamiya-san.” “Though young, he…” “A female impersonator of his caliber would be rare even in the Old School… No, among today’s Old School female impersonators, there’s truly no one like him.” “Would you really say that?” “Well—I’m his staunchest advocate. With that face—so striking yet refined, alluring with an indescribable charm—and when it comes to skill, today’s actresses… why, they couldn’t approach his shadow. A genius among female impersonators. While someone like him exists, the female role… such a role could never—no, never—come into question.”

“That’s… that’s, well…” Suddenly cutting in, Tashiro said, “Wakamiya-kun himself has been saying lately that he dislikes the female impersonator role…” “Dislikes the female impersonator role?” “He simply hates it and wants to quit…” “Th-that… again…?” Interrupting, Tashiro pressed on. “Therefore.” “Therefore, I…”

VII

……And then, at that moment, the entrance opened quietly.

“What are you doing here, huh?” The moment he spotted him, Tashiro snapped. “How many hours does it take to get from Mitsujimachi to this dump, anyway?” “Not everyone’s an idler like you.”

Ogura Takeo entered sullenly, yet made an unobtrusive gesture toward the Utamura proprietor while heading toward Tashiro’s table as he spoke. “But when I called, your wife came out and said you’d come right away, didn’t she?” “I said that because you were being noisy.—There’s no need to make someone trudge through the rain to that person’s house over and over.” After handing the dripping umbrella to one of the young girls, he wedged his large frame beside Tashiro and immediately pulled the sake flask warmed by the brazier within reach.

“Hey, you—let me introduce you. This is Mr. Utamura from Nihonbashi… or rather, the former Nichōmachi—” “I know.” Ogura cut through Tashiro’s response. “We’ll skip formalities—I’ve seen you often enough. Ogura.” He gave a brusque nod. “Not at all—I’ve long admired your performances… ever since your days at the Tokiwa-za.”

In response, the proprietor of Utamura amiably acknowledged with a nod. "Just like on stage—no different in everyday life—good-natured, quite broad-stroke..."

Immediately cutting off Tashiro’s attempt to speak up again from beside him, Ogura snapped, “Shut up—you’re being noisy. Are you drunk already?” “I’m drunk—just got a bit tipsy now.” “No self-control at all. If you were going to show up drunk, you shouldn’t have come. I only came out here because you said it was urgent.” “Well, come on… let’s have one…” Tashiro ignored this and said, “Even if I’m drunk—so what? Even drunk, I can still properly discuss what will become of Shinpa—what will become of female impersonators? The Master and I are currently researching that.”

“Hmph.” Ogura didn’t take the bait. “Miss,” he called to the young girl, “hey, give me some crab.” “That’s why… That’s why I…” Tashiro, keeping the conversation going as it was, said, “I thought— “I thought— I…” “But why that?” “And why would Wakamiya-san do such a thing?”

The proprietor of “Utamura” carefully observed Tashiro’s face. “Female impersonators are half-persons—no matter what you do, they’ll always be called that. That’s their true nature. No matter what you do, from now on actresses… an era where women’s roles must be played by women is coming…” “But even if you say that,” Ogura interjected, “if all those actresses are no good, then…” “It won’t lead to a fight—that’s why I said so too.” Tashiro pressed on. “That’s just what today’s audiences—those who’ve watched plays since the old days—are saying. The audiences emerging from now on will never see it that way. Even if they’re unskilled, that’s what will feel genuine to future audiences.” His voice hardened. “No matter how skilled they are, female impersonators are lies.” Leaning forward, he demanded: “And how can anyone claim there’ll never come a time—any time—when some actress skilled enough to astonish the world appears?”

“I see…” While meticulously picking at the legs of the crab that had been brought over, Ogura remained aloof, quietly refilling his sake cup alone again and again.

VIII “But… But, the other day…” The proprietor of Utamura remained unconvinced. “The young geisha in that recent Hongo play—the one struggling under terrible relatives… That role—I truly thought it was masterful.” “I couldn’t help but marvel once more at what remarkable depth she possesses.” “I shouldn’t say this, but even viewing it as a script—it’s quite poor… hollow, inconsistent—why would Master Yura choose something so outdated these days? …Forgive my bluntness, but that’s what I thought. Yet within it, Wakamiya-san’s geisha alone—separate from the script—felt utterly natural, as if she could exist beyond it… especially in that final scene where her mind unravels. How astonishing that she could display such delicate, heartfelt artistry there.” “……Truly, I thought so deeply it brought me to tears.”

“No—that was Wakamiya-kun’s recent standout role.—Backstage, everyone agreed—which makes it all the more regrettable that it didn’t gain acclaim purely because the play itself was poor…… I find it truly lamentable.” “If I may speak plainly—without embellishment or concealment—it’s this year’s crowning performance blending tradition and modernity. To such an extent that… no, I’d venture to say I wanted to champion it even beyond measure…” “Hearing you say that makes even people like us feel we can hold our heads high.” “But even while performing that role—Wakamiya-kun himself takes no joy in it. If anyone nearby comments, he begs them to stop… As for me, I’ve grown utterly sick of it.” “What cursed fate makes me expose these sins… I don’t know whether I’m enduring disgrace or merely making a fool of myself…” “With that… you…”

“…” “I was actually told that too.—When I went around to the curtain to take a look, he suddenly came in and said, ‘What, Yō-chan, what are you looking at?’ “So I told him, ‘The old man insisted I take a look, so I’m looking.’ When I said that, he made a disgusted face and snapped, ‘You’re just saying that on purpose because you’ve given up on me—that’s why you’re being deliberate about it! Watching some dull performance by the person actually doing it can’t possibly be interesting. There’s no point in watching such a thing—stop it, stop it…’”

“…………” “If they say this has a bad reputation or that its popularity has dropped, I can understand feeling disheartened.” “But when that’s not the case, it becomes troubling.” “That’s exactly how I feel too.” “No—no matter how carefree I might seem, this…” “How old are you, Wakamiya-san?”

The proprietor of “Utamura” said abruptly. “Since he’s three years older than me, thirty-two…”

“So… thirty-three next year…?”

“That’s correct.”

“And… is there something specifically wrong with him?” “Yes, well… He’s quite sturdy for being so slender… It’s just that sometimes he can’t sleep.—He often can’t sleep at night.—Though he does say he’s been taking medicine for that regularly…” “You’re pressing too hard on your thoughts…” “That’s how it is.—He thinks too deeply about things.—He’s too meticulous with his worries.—Master is always concerned about that.”

“Actors are better off being carefree.”

And then, as if prompted by some thought, Ogura interjected. “Carefree?”

“That’s right—just like you.” Slowly, Ogura wiped his fingers soiled by crab.

IX

“Oh no, I’ve ended up rambling on completely…”

As if suddenly remembering himself, the proprietor of Utamura stood up shortly after saying this. “Are you leaving?” Tashiro spoke with lingering reluctance. “But you see—it’s already four o’clock.” The proprietor of Utamura took out his stopped watch again. “Today I’ve actually been out since before noon.” “I went to Tamachi to meet a landowner about the land readjustment, and on my way back I suddenly thought of visiting Yoshiwara—you know her, don’t you? Madam Onae?”

“Yes, I know her well.” “She’s always coming around kindly to Master’s group.”

“Ah, that’s right.” “That old woman has been a staunch supporter of Master Yura since long ago.” “That’s how it is.”

“It’s been quite some time since I last saw her, so I thought I’d check on how she was doing and stopped by her gate for a moment.” “Well, as it happened, she’d been bedridden with a cold for two or three days, but she insisted, ‘Come on up—have a drink before you go,’ so that ended up taking about an hour.” “Even when claiming poor health, she’s bursting with energy—fuming that someone had neatly pasted a ‘For Sale’ sign on the Nakamachi teahouse’s door panel, or seething because a Kabukiza taxi driver said ‘Yamaya’ instead of ‘Yoyogi.’ It’s unbearable how she craves company, chattering away like that without letting me get a word in edgewise.” “I barely managed to make my escape, but that old woman might well vanish along with rickshaws and theater teahouses—gone without a trace.”

“In Yoshiwara, however, someone like her will always…” “You say that because you’re an Edokko.” “The Yoshiwara of today is no such place.” “…………”

“Well, this is…” The proprietor of Utamura laughed cheerfully. “Well then, I’ll be going ahead…”

“This was rude of me.”

“Eventually.—Once spring arrives, I’ll properly arrange an opportunity to meet with all of you.” “Thank you very much.” “Please give my regards to Mr. Yura.—Now then, Mr. Ogura, if you’ll excuse me…”

“…………”

Ogura silently bowed his head. When he received the black-and-white patterned umbrella that the young girl held out, the proprietor of “Utamura” went straight outside.

“Does that boss come here often?” After ordering a replacement sake flask, Ogura said. “Yeah, he seems to come sometimes.” Tashiro nodded. “Having so many spectators like that around does make us feel reassured, but…”

“That’s not it.” Ogura frowned as if repressing something. “Relying solely on those kinds of patrons only makes things rigid.” “Enough of that.” “Leave the snide remarks to Kei-chan.” Tashiro grabbed the sake flask. “Come on—let’s have a drink while we wait for the hot dishes.” “What? More importantly—what’s this urgent matter you mentioned?” “I’ll tell you.—I will—but first—how about ordering more food?”

“You’re being awfully generous, aren’t you?” “It’s fine, I assure you—since I’m well aware… today…” “You’re really splurging, aren’t you?” “Damn right I am!” “I’ve got plenty of gold coins, I tell you!” Tashiro called out airily, “Miss! Hey, bring us the hot stuff— “And also, whatever’s fine—tell the chef to make something tasty…”

10 Ogura silently studied Tashiro’s face for a long moment. “Still not going home yet?” he suddenly blurted out. “What?” Tashiro turned with a bewildered look. “Don’t play dumb—you haven’t been going home at all these past days, have you?” “…………”

Suddenly, Tashiro laughed out loud. “See? Isn’t that right?” “Here it comes—the hot stuff…” Without responding, Tashiro took the sake flask that the young girl had brought out from the copper pot, received it, and poured into Ogura’s cup and his own.

“That was the fifteenth, so sixteenth, seventeenth, eighteenth, nineteenth—that’s four days by today, isn’t it?” Ogura said almost pityingly, “Together? Miura too?” “We’re all together.” “All of you together?—And Nishimaki too?”

“Kimpei-san was the one who took charge.—Kei-chan and I never had any such notion at all.”

“But what happened?” Ogura pressed again, still not fully comprehending. “I thought for sure I’d put Nishimaki in a car right there at Azumabashi.” “That was the plan.” “That was the plan.—But Kimpei-san just wouldn’t listen.” “He’s saying he wants to go somewhere else for another drink.” “He was drinking quite a lot, wasn’t he?” “There’s no way Nishimaki could drink any more than that.”

“But even if we say that, he won’t listen.” “Since it was too much trouble, we figured, ‘Fine, just go wherever and settle it—as long as he goes somewhere, he’ll feel satisfied.’” “…and so we ended up turning back to Nakamise again.—That was a bad move.”

“…………” “Thinking to make it quick, we rushed into a Western restaurant—there we carelessly downed five or six more bottles—then this time Kei-chan went limp—by the time I thought ‘This is bad,’ my own vision was already swimming.” “…………”

“Well, Kimpei-san was overjoyed.—All his initial vigor had vanished.—‘Let’s go somewhere—since we’re not likely to meet face-to-face like this again—let’s go somewhere.—Just agree to anything.’ “‘Just go along with me, whatever I say.—Did you think I wouldn’t have prepared for something like this?’ he says, and then pulls out these wads of bills from his belly band—rustling away—claiming he’d had a war chest ready all along.”

“…………” “So we ended up at the waiting room behind Miyato-za.” “Well, Master... after some time... ‘What happened next...?’ and such—Kimpei-san received quite the royal treatment.” “Just when we were all properly awestruck and completely at their mercy—guess who showed up?” “It was Chiyosaburō’s wife—the one we’d met in Mukōjima that afternoon. I was stunned. Because listen—that woman, seems she’d been with Kimpei-san before Chiyosaburō.”

“…………” “He’d drink again—like a drunken demon.” “——Finally until three in the morning at dawn.” “——When we woke up the next day, the lamp was still lit.” “——Kimpei-san, in the state of a semi-invalid, couldn’t lift his head.” “Even if we forced ourselves to go home now, it’d be pointless—‘Let’s drink another night,’ ‘another night.’” “——And then the next day comes, and it’s agonizing—he can’t move at all…” “…………” “And so, we ended up dawdling away four whole days in a haze…”

“Weren’t you ever anxious?” Ogura said bluntly. “About what?” “Your wallet.” “I was anxious.—No matter what, you see, Kei-chan and I only had three yen and fifty sen to our names.” “I already know that.” “No matter how prepared Kimpei-san might be, this…”

“What happened then?” “It couldn’t be helped—under the pretense of shrine visits, we went out and rushed to Choco Bank.” “To Choco Bank?” “He’s a disagreeable fellow, but comes in handy at such times.” “What happened? Then what?”

“It was—it was strangely enough.” Tashiro lowered his voice. “With deft efficiency, he just…” “Even if I said that—he didn’t hesitate…” “Did he give it?” “It wasn’t just that he gave it.—If you’re in such high spirits, take as much as you want… he didn’t go that far, but…”

“So, how much did you borrow?”

“One hundred yen.”

“……” “And there’s still half left.—If you’re in, I’ll lend it to you.” “Who’d borrow that sort of money?” “Why not?” “What do you think that money’s meant for?” “What ‘meant for’?” “Exactly.”

“……?” Suddenly, Tashiro looked at Ogura’s face.—For in Ogura’s words, he had sensed something unusual.

The tolling of Benten Mountain’s bell resonated through the air like something falling away, and outside, the sleet-laced rain had turned to snow……

Winter Solstice

I

……When he parted from Miura and Tashiro and returned home, Nishimaki fell ill all at once. He remained bedridden from then on.—The real issue was overdrinking… While there was no doubt that days of heavy drinking had taken their toll, part of it was that if he hadn’t done so, he wouldn’t have been able to face his family’s financial predicament. In truth, Nishimaki had no idea how to explain his misconduct to his wife. Frankly, he couldn’t face his wife and children. Spending time with friends… Even so, four days was far too long…

“What on earth was I…” He was utterly consumed by regret. The more I thought about it, the clearer my own lack of discipline became. I’d start to call it quits—then drink just a little more. Deftly... Well then... Have another drink... Whether I went home now or tomorrow... The taste of returning would be just the same. Plainly—the one who could have withdrawn early yet prolonged things by a day with such words wasn’t Miura or Tashiro. Everyone—myself... Among them all... I was the oldest...

"What’s so fun about drinking sake anyway?"

With a sigh, I said to myself. In reality, that was indeed the case—in reality, I couldn’t understand sake’s worth. For thirty years, when it came to sake, it was Nishimaki; when it came to drinking, it was Kimpei-san. If people would allow it—if I could believe myself to be a renowned drinker… If I’d kept drinking blindly and recklessly on that belief… did I truly love sake? At times, I questioned my own heart like this and found myself at a loss for an answer. But back then—at least up until five years ago—hadn’t I drunk because I liked it? Wasn’t that an obvious fact?… I could brush off such thoughts without any trouble. I could force myself to keep guzzling—as if to say “Proof over theory!”—just to dispel those pretentious doubts. To put it plainly: Even recently, watching Tashiro—who still seemed a child in my eyes—earnestly, joyfully bring each sake cup to his lips one after another, I’d been struck anew by the senselessness of my own approach—how I’d crack open any cup handed to me without hesitation, as if drinking alone sufficed. And I’d found myself utterly despicable for it. In the end, I’d been the first to collapse……

“Stop it, hey—don’t force yourself to drink like that.”

In the past, Washio often said that to me. That “Hermit” would often say that and take good care of me. That man might have known all along—from those very days—that I wasn’t a true drinker at heart… "But even so, I’ve gotten weak." With a sigh, he said to himself again……

II As for getting drunk—he got drunk. Getting drunk—even in his younger days, he’d get drunk quickly. In truth, he’d gotten even more excessively drunk in years past than he did now. But no matter how drunk he became—no matter how far gone—he never lost his bearings. ――However plastered he got, he always knew his limit.――However drained he became, he could rally when needed.――The clearest proof was that no matter how deeply he drank or how long he binged, his body never failed him afterward like others’. ――Such weakness had never touched him. Even when occasionally wondering, “Have I pushed too far this time?”—if he soaked in scalding water upon waking and threw back a stiff drink afterward, he’d recover instantly, almost unnervingly so. And then he could keep going as long as he pleased—such was his unflinching nature……

“You’re strong, Kimpei-san…” Most people were impressed just by seeing that. “Immortal, huh.—So that’s what I am.” In response, he would always stroke his chin while saying so. And yet… no one truly believed it. But starting around forty, that invincibility gradually began to prove unreliable. By the time murmurs of fifty grew audible, he’d unwittingly developed a habit of falling asleep immediately after drinking. He’d become literally oblivious to his surroundings. His hangovers now lingered—starting within a day and persisting until the next.—Of course, once it reached that state, hot baths and strong drinks only sharpened his suffering, never offering the feeble relief they once had. From then on, his vitality waned, his digestion faltered, all vigor drained from his spirit… his physical decline pressed in with sudden force. When those around him badgered him to see a doctor, they told him his kidneys were failing. He needed to recuperate now. This… went without saying—he’d been advised to quit drinking.

But he refused. Stubbornly, he insisted on its senselessness.—But then, one day, a man from the large dressing room—considered the next heaviest drinker in the troupe after him—suddenly collapsed, vomiting blood. It was a stomach ulcer caused by alcohol.—When he heard it was an incurable disease of that nature, he shuddered in secret.—That very day, he followed the doctor’s advice. “But listen—it ain’t like I quit drinkin’ ’cause I’m scared of no damn disease. Sickness? I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. It’s just Shōtarō—Shōtarō’s why I stopped. Felt sorry for the kid. How long’s a father s’posed to keep boozin’ when his boy’s ’bout to start middle school? How long can a man like that just… just keep drownin’ himself?” “Thinking of that—that’s why I quit.”

He insisted stubbornly with a serious face.

But his abstinence didn’t last three months. Before he knew it, the screw had wound back to where it began.――At the very least, when Shōtarō triumphantly passed his middle school entrance exam, he―ecstatic―gathered a large group of companions that very evening and drank through the entire night in a frenzy; that much was certain……

III

"Completely—but what if I had stopped back then?" At times, he would look back with lingering regret, as if tallying the years of a dead child. "In the end... in the end, even that was Choco's doing.—That bastard set me up perfectly." Every time he looked back, he resented Hishikawa. If only that guy hadn't said those unnecessary things—he bitterly regretted having quit so thoroughly. He had quit drinking so resolutely—everyone backstage praised him, saying "That's Kimpei-san for you"... Though they lamented losing their "famous drinker," they agreed it was for his own good—even Chikushi, who never idly judged right or wrong, said "You've really committed to this." Yet among them all, only Hishikawa brushed him off with a dismissive snort.

"A Nishimaki who doesn't drink is just a deflated balloon." "Useless—nothin' as wasteful as this." When he heard they'd snickered those words behind his back, he burned. "How dare you, bastard," he bit his lip. Even without that provocation, he was withering... Day by day, his spirit bending further, resignation taking root, the world turning duller—he timidly began glimpsing this crumbling version of himself. For him—yes—they'd struck right at his rawest nerve...

But if those words had come from Chikushi or anyone else, he might not have felt this way. He might have instead taken it as a grateful and happy remark. “A deflated balloon…” It was precisely the kind of phrase he would relish. But if it was Hishikawa who said it… if it was that Hishikawa—the one he detested most in the world—who said such things, then even gold or iron guarantees… Well, if he drank, it’d be fine. If he drank, there’d be no mystery to it.—And so he couldn’t help but sulk like that……

“That bastard.—Just how low will he sink…”

And now, as if it were only just dawning on him, he started up again with that slovenly drinking… learned to drink himself into oblivion. ……Unless he drank himself into oblivion like this, he couldn’t escape the lonely memory of how, twenty years ago in the guests’ quarters, he had persistently held Hishikawa to account.—And that memory also brought back the warped mutual feelings from their recent performance on the Hongo theater stage just one month prior.—Over twenty-two days, not a single day passed without their rhythms aligning—this very unpleasantness further invoked that discomfort once more.

That was a good role he had secured after a long time. Though it was practically a stock extra role, it was a noticeable one. Depending on how it was performed, it was a role that could earn as much as he wanted. Eagerly, he threw himself into rehearsals. As if for the first time in ages, he leapt with a vigorous bound. But Hishikawa, as his counterpart—for instance, if *his* role in a New Year’s manzai were Saizō—had abandoned from the outset the necessity of adopting the Tayū style for the other role. No matter how he devised his approach, Hishikawa never responded.—Not only that—Hishikawa wouldn’t even properly accept the lines handed to him.—No matter how he agonized, the other man remained unfazed.

And the result was disastrous. What should have naturally been well-received found no reception at all. Not only did it fail to land, but it was rather poorly received. Even the theater reviews in newspapers that usually sympathized with him splendidly dismissed them outright with the comment, "Hishikawa and Nishimaki both lack their former charm—it's truly lamentable." "Bastard... Hishikawa, you bastard..." "—That Hishikawa bastard..." Frankly, he shed tears of bitter frustration upon reading that theater review.

IV

……And in those roughly five days，he wasted away as if by some cruel magic． Even to himself，he felt as if he had just recovered from a prolonged illness—flat and drained． He tormented both body and soul to such an extent even while asleep． For no reason，he felt lonely and empty． He felt utterly desolate，as though he had plunged into an abyss． Wherever he turned，within this sensation of darkness—no light reaching him，no edges to grasp—lay a life he had never once considered stylish… That precious，irreplaceable person’s life… Such things now seemed to be looked back upon with futile resignation．

"What a fool I am..." He forced himself to say it—tried to summon the courage to laugh. But it was no use—he couldn't laugh—instead, tears of unknowable origin welled in his eyes...

“Age… It’s just age…” When this thought came to him—amidst tear-blurred vision—there floated before his eyes the dear figures of his wife and children… His wife and children who depended on none but him alone.

“But if something were to happen to me? “But if something were to happen to me now…?” Suddenly he was seized from behind—in haste he tried to wrench himself free. But it didn’t go as smoothly as the stage combat techniques he himself had devised. Helplessly, miserably, he was dragged back. He was hauled onward without end… “I’ll quit.—This time I’ll truly quit.” He swore it fiercely. “No matter what anyone says—no matter what they say—this time I’ll quit…”

……But suddenly… so suddenly, the reason his spirits had plummeted, his vigor drained away—was partly due to a discrepancy in his wife’s attitude toward this recent dissoluteness of his. It was because there was something in the way his wife treated her husband—who had left home without a word for three or four days—that he couldn’t recognize as her usual conduct. Even so saying, he was gently received in good humor.—Even so saying, he could easily cross his home’s threshold unharmed. A sternly pallid face; icy words; interventions tipped with spiteful needles. …assuming warrior-like severity, he never felt those lashes meant to bite into flesh upon his body……

He was left deflated. …He curtly ordered the bedding to be laid out. He curtly ordered the medicine to be brought.—Undoing his obi, he collapsed into bed still wearing his Yoshiwara-style habutae underrobe.

“Are you in pain?” “Yeah.” “Shall I call the doctor?” “Yeah.” Hurriedly, she rose from his bedside and left. _I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…_ Listening to her footsteps fade down the staircase beneath him, he murmured these words from beneath the covers—the image of her from her days working in Yanagibashi returned vividly before him. When he thought of it, they were comrades who had struggled together…

At that very moment, at Kiku no Ie, Tashiro was preparing a sea bream chili pot and starting to drink. Over Hatchōbori too, the rain was falling... The sleet-mixed rain clattered coldly in his ears...

V

But compared to that day’s sodden scene, how absurdly clear today’s weather was. A deep blue sky stretched above, sunlight filtering softly through faint shadows. Thanks to this, his thoughts cleared up. He left the bed and stood by the window. Without consciously intending to look, he saw the view outside—an endless sprawl of makeshift barracks roofs and radio antennas tangled endlessly—yet this was the same vista he had looked out over for more than twenty years in these deeply familiar towns. Since it stood along a newly built road slightly removed from the main thoroughfare, neither the rumble of streetcars nor the growl of automobiles reached here. ……Under that quietly clear blue sky, at that moment, the lonely sound of Ichimonjishi drums drifted faintly from afar.

He closed the window and returned to bed. He hurriedly clapped his hands.—When no response came, he called out again in a loud voice, overlapping his words: “Omasu… Omasu…” “Did you need something?” The one who slid open the sliding paper door and showed his face was the student assistant Nishizaki. “Isn’t Omasu here?” “She has just now gone out shopping.”

“What about Shō-chan?” “Earlier, he said he was going to visit school friends and has gone out.” “So there’s nobody downstairs?” “Right.” “What time is it now?” “The clock struck three a little while ago.” “Three o’clock?” “Right.” “I’m going to the bathhouse. Get things ready right now.” Abruptly, he said this and tightened the sash of his sleepwear—the underrobe he had removed immediately after the doctor’s visit that night—once more.

“Right now?” Nishizaki asked again, as if doubting his own ears.

“I’m going to the bathhouse, so get the soap and stuff ready downstairs.”

“But…?” “Hurry up, hurry…” He stood up as if to cut off Nishizaki’s attempt to speak. He took the crested tanzen robe from the bedside and draped it over his sleepwear.—Seeing this, Nishizaki hurried downstairs… He hung a hand towel around his neck and went outside. Once more, he looked up at that deep blue—blue and cold as water, yet still a beautifully clear sky. ……And at once, he noticed how everything around him—all that met his eye—had already busied itself with year-end adornments.—Even the people walking the streets seemed restless, whether by chance or imagination.—Along the main avenue, bamboo decorations awaiting spring stretched on in unbroken succession.

“Are you going to the bathhouse, Master?” From behind, he was called out to.

“Huh?” When he turned around, there stood the deliveryman from the neighborhood eel restaurant—a man fond of theater.

“Hey, Kinkō…” He amiably asked, “How’s business? Busy?” “You can’t come here anymore.” “Can’t? —Getting cheeky with me now?” “I’m not being cheeky—it’s the truth.” “Right, perfect timing.” Abruptly, as if struck by inspiration, he said, “Three portions of the leaner cuts in one bowl. Deliver it to the house later.”

“Three portions of the not-too-fatty parts in one bowl?” “That’s right.”

“Understood.” Shortly after parting with the deliveryman, he stood before the bathhouse.

“‘Today: Yuzu Bath’—Oh, right. Today’s the winter solstice?” He muttered and opened the entrance door.

VI

At the zenith of the year’s shortest day—with a jolt—abruptly, within moments—the sunlight faded, and the sky’s color lost its luster. And so—after soaking in the yuzu bath with uncharacteristic calmness, emerging refreshed yet somewhat listless—by the time he stepped outside, the surroundings had already reached that point where lamplight shadows felt thick, serene, and strikingly vivid… yet paradoxically, the sky still retained a clear brightness… dusk had settled. He walked as leisurely as he could, savoring the cool moisture of air that touched his flushed cheeks.

“Well, you…”

As soon as he opened the lattice door and stepped inside, Omasu abruptly spoke to him. “I was just about to send Nishizaki to fetch you, you know?”

“Why?” “What do you mean ‘why’? Isn’t that obvious?—Sneaking off to the bathhouse while I was out…” “Even if you say that, I wouldn’t know when I’d be back… If we dawdle around, the sun will set… Even if we hadn’t, look—it’d still be like this no matter when we left.” “There’s no need to rush off like that… If you’re going to go, you should at least ask the doctor first. If the doctor says it’s fine, then… then it’d be all right, wouldn’t it?—No, it wouldn’t be all right—you have to do it that way… Don’t you realize we still don’t know if you’ve really recovered yet?”

“I’m better now.—Completely better now.” “That’s why I went to the baths.”

“You decided that entirely on your own.—What if you have a relapse from acting so carelessly again?” “A relapse? That’s… “It’s nothing serious.—I’m not some invalid anymore.” “Then fine.—No, that’s precisely the problem.—What do you imagine the doctor would say?” “The doctor?” “Don’t you have any regard for your own health? “You’re not young enough to keep behaving this way…”

“I’m getting up for good—getting up for good.” He involuntarily flinched and said that to cover it up. “I just told the deliveryman from Izumoya, so the eel will be here.” “—Right away, so get the meal ready.” Just like that, he handed the hand towel and soap to Nishizaki and entered the tearoom. He briefly pressed his hands together before Konjin-sama, then immediately sat down on the large yuzen-patterned futon in front of the long brazier. The aroma of the generously poured Binchō charcoal wavered within the bright lamplight. He poured the boiling water from the iron kettle into a teacup and took a relishing sip...

“I’m home…”

Just then, Shōtarō came in from outside.

“Ah, you’re awake, Dad?” “Yeah.” “Are you better already?” “I’ve recovered.” “Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine, really.” He averted his eyes from Shōtarō, who stood there looking concerned as he removed his mantle.—Though none would know it, in those very eyes he’d turned away, a tear glistened at that moment…

VII

Soon, a chabudai was spread out beside the long hibachi; Omasu had Nishizaki assist her and brought over the various dishes for the evening meal arranged on it, carrying them on a wide tray. Bustling about together, he opened the tea cupboard to take out the chopstick box and prepared to lower the iron kettle to roast tea.

“Ah, that thing.—It ain’t goin’ in… that stuff…” As usual, Omasu settled herself before the brazier and began slowly lowering the tin sake warmer—the one sent years ago by an Osaka patron—into the copper pot. Seeing this, he panicked… lunged to stop her… “……?” Caught off guard by his abruptness, Omasu looked up at him. “Why?” “I ain’t drinkin’.—Ain’t drinkin’, I tell ya…”

“You don’t want to drink anymore?” “That’s not it—I’m not drinking.” “……?” “I’ve quit.—I’ve quit, I have.” “Suddenly, again…” Omasu laughed unperturbed and submerged the sake warmer. “That won’t work, even if you say such a thing…” “Why?—Why?” “You can’t quit now.—It’s pointless to say such things…” “Why? “Why’s it pointless?” “Even you—just now—weren’t thinking about your health at all.” “Y-you said that yourself, didn’t you?”

“I did say so.” “But that wasn’t about the alcohol.” “Then what were you talking about?” “It’s not about any one thing—all sorts of reasons.” “When you get a little carried away, you immediately go too far—that’s just how you are.—And that’s what’s no good.” “The problem is that you immediately become so reckless.—As for alcohol—if you drink one bottle at home, then one bottle; two bottles, then two—as long as you set a limit and stick to it properly, there’s nothing wrong with that at all.” “Even if you called it medicine, there’s no way it could be poison, I tell you.”

“That’s not it—it’s not like that.” He clung stubbornly to his position: “No matter how you look at it, it can’t be medicine.—It’s poison.—I’ve understood through and through—that it’s poison.” “Take just one sip… Right then—that’s all I can stand—it’s no good. …It hits me right away.” “But for someone like you… someone who’s been steeped in drink all this time—they say stopping suddenly does more harm.—And not just that—they say a body soaked in liquor, once the alcohol wears off—even if something ails you, medicine won’t take effect in that state.”

“That’s… That’s ridiculous.” He laughed outright. “No, they say that’s how it is. The doctor said so.—Right, Shō-chan?” Omasu turned back to Shōtarō without flinching. “He said that the other day, didn’t he? Dr. Yamaji.” “He did say that.” Shōtarō nodded clearly and said, “You should drink, Dad. If you don’t drink these days, you’ll lose your vigor—that won’t do.” “Energy?” He looked at Shōtarō, who had spoken those words.

“That’s right, truly.” Following that, Omasu pressed on slightly as she spoke. “If you don’t drink, lately, you’ve been making such a strangely gloomy face.” “—It’s a problem, starting now…”

VIII “Th-that’s… That’s not true.”

He hurriedly said that. But at the same time, he was seized by a loneliness with no way to resolve it. Take Hachiman’s Yabu-shirazu… In the very heart of that thicket, every path he might take was blocked. ——There was nothing to do but stand there frozen… “It’s floor-raising—a floor-raising celebration.—So—well—just for tonight’s special.” Immediately he picked up the sake cup and said, “Starting tomorrow—starting tomorrow I’ll quit for sure.”

Omasu took out the sake warmer from the copper pot.

“It’s ready… the heated sake...” Without responding, she pressed her hand against the vessel’s base to test its warmth, then poured just the first cup across the brazier. “Eat up now, Shō-chan.” He turned toward the boy while still nursing his sake cup. “Thought I’d take you to Maekawa or somewhere—been too long since we went anywhere proper. But then this damn body gave out on me.” “When spring comes—I’ll take you wherever you want.” “So let’s just… call this year a loss, eh?”

“Yes.” With just that answer, Shōtarō promptly opened the lid of the grilled eel and served it onto a plate. “Omasu, you eat too—with Shō-chan.” “Eat up quick before it gets cold.” “Yes, I’ll eat.”

“Nishizaki, I’ve troubled you again this time.—So I’ll treat you too.… Take that donburi over there and eat however you like.” “Ah…” “Ah—for the first time in ages, I feel like myself again.” “No matter where I go, there’s nowhere better than my own home.”

When he put down the sake cup, he gave his collar a firm tug and made an effort to appear as cheerful as possible.

“That just shows you’ve aged after all, doesn’t it?”

Deliberately, Omasu said coldly.

“That’s right—absolutely right.” He nodded at once. “When I’m alone, I don’t think much about it—but being with someone like Tashiro makes it sink in deep.” “It’s so goddamn stupid—I can’t bear watching what those bastards are up to.—That’s the honest truth.” “But if I think back to when you were around Tashiro’s age—” “That ain’t it—quit talkin’ like that.” He cut her off sharply. “What I mean is—look—I’ve gotten older too; I can’t keep wasting time on half-hearted nonsense like before.” “If I’m gonna say somethin’, then the stage better damn well carry that weight.—That’s what I’m gettin’ at, plain and simple.” “—Told Tashiro and Miura the same thing.” “They both agreed it was spot-on.” “So they’re sayin’—if we just get one thing squared away, they’ll try peddlin’ Nishimaki Kimpei here all over again.”

“So, after all…?”

Abruptly, Omasu cut in. "Huh?" He raised his face that had been about to reach for the sake warmer. "Is it really true, then—what that newspaper said?"

“Newspaper?” He made a puzzled face.

“Yes… the other day’s…”

“Is there something about it in the paper?”

“This recent matter… you…” “This recent matter?” “What do you mean by ‘this recent matter’?” “No—this business about Yura Troupe disbanding… and forming a new troupe with Mr. Wakamiya as lead actor…”

Nine

“What did you say?” He instinctively looked at Omasu’s face. “The Yura Troupe disbanded?”

“Yes.” “So Wakamiya’s the troupe leader?” “Yes—they’ve made Mr. Wakamiya the troupe leader and formed a new troupe with all the remaining key members from Yura Troupe.” “Mr. Tsukushi’s name was listed properly, and Mr. Kamishiro’s too.” “Mr. Ogura’s name was there as well—and Mr. Miura’s, and Mr. Tashiro’s.”

“So… then mine.—My name too…?”

“No, you’re not listed.” “Ain’t I in it?” “Only three names aren’t there—Mr. Yura of Yanokura, Mr. Shiomi, and you.—So I...”

“Is Hishikawa included?”

“Yes, it was there—properly listed.” “…………” “If Mr. Hishikawa’s name weren’t there, then it’d just be you two remaining with Mr. Yura at Yanokura, as expected.” “—That’s what I think.” “But even with Mr. Hishikawa listed, only you…” “—and Mr. Shiomi being said to move to pictures…” “Is that written too?” “Yes, in another part…” “Th-that’s… such absurdity—” Suddenly he cut in as if to block her words. “What rag is this—nonsense!” “—You have that paper?”

“Yes, I have it.—I’ve kept it.” “Not showing.—Bring it here and not showing.”

Having said that, he took the sake warmer and peered into the sake cup. Then he hurriedly raised it to his lips. And then—at that moment—something like squid ink suddenly spread through his body— Nishizaki, who was still there, stood up and immediately brought it.

“Where did I put my glasses?” He rummaged through the hibachi’s drawer where he always kept them. “They should be there, shouldn’t they?” “Ain’t here.” “That can’t be right.” “……Found ’em.” Grumbling irritably again about the glasses—how disgraceful, how slovenly, how could he possibly stoop to such an embarrassing thing now—after stubbornly resisting for so long, he finally relented, took out the reading glasses he’d started wearing that winter, put them on, and hurriedly picked up the newspaper once more.

……That was exactly right. It was just as Omasu had said. At long last this time—Shinpa, having severed its long-standing ties and broken free from company control to become independent—had taken the opportunity to disband the traditional Yura Troupe, leading to the formation of a fresh new troupe with Wakamiya Ryūjo installed as its leader. ――To achieve this, they would eradicate at their roots various cancers long plaguing Shinpa—personal favoritism and outdated conventions—while abolishing the *onnagata* system and utilizing actresses instead.――Backed by a certain wealthy Wakamiya patron from Kansai, it had been decided that come spring, they would hastily hold a splendid inauguration at a major Tokyo theater.……The article had expounded on such matters at great length with grandiose detail.

He looked at the date. It was dated the seventeenth. The seventeenth... If it was the seventeenth, then that was the second day. It was the second day of his drinking binge......Unaware of such matters even in his dreams, he had been wallowing in utter disarray all that time.

Ten But even so—had Miura and Tashiro known about this? Did they know and keep quiet about it? …… Their ties with the company had been severed. Everyone had already been fired from the company. ……Now that I thought of it, on that first night, Miura had been going on about such things both at Kiku no Ie and later at the Western restaurant. How could such a thing happen—how could such an absurd thing happen?—Tashiro and I stubbornly fought back against it. Even during the day—no, back in Mukojima, when Ogura and Miura had said that to me, I had felt uneasy. ……Tashiro had said that.……What? Even Mr. Kimpei doesn’t know? Even someone like Mr. Kimpei is unaware of this? ―Then there’s nothing to worry about—if that’s how it is, then it’s settled. Making me fret over nothing with such nonsense.—Suddenly, Tashiro felt emboldened……

If that were the case... then Tashiro didn't know. He couldn't possibly know. He wasn't the sort who could know and keep up such an act.—Now that I think of it, neither was Miura.—True enough, he'd spout logic, argue principles, let fly with that hateful tongue of his—but Miura's core was spotless through and through. Not like Hishikawa's clumsy scheming.—If he'd known, he would've plainly said our ties with the company were cut—would've laid out everything beyond that too.—The fact he didn't say it... meant he didn't know...

Tashiro didn't know, Miura didn't know—even Ogura didn't know. ……The names of those three unaware ones were listed. —There they were printed so properly like it's all decided.—A lie.—Nonsense. ——Complete drivel…

He flung the newspaper down as if discarding it. He irritably removed his glasses and placed them on the hibachi’s metal tray. But even so—even if he told himself it was a lie, nonsense, absurdity—the squid-ink-like thing that had spread within him earlier refused to recede. ――The blue sky of his mind, which had been so brilliantly clear, had now become thickly overcast with clouds.――Himself from twelve hours prior—sauntering outside with a hand towel dangling, cheerfully replying to the eel restaurant’s delivery worker, stretching out his limbs in the yuzu bath… That carefree, clueless, pitiable figure of his own now struck him as wretched beyond measure when recalled anew——

“But Mr. Wakamiya…?” Omasu looked probingly at his face.

“…………” Silently, he picked up the chilled sake cup.

“With everyone gone from that side… What will you do, Master of Yanokura?”

“It ain’t something that’s been settled yet.—Ain’t no done deal.” Devoid of warmth, behind those words he’d spat out lay an irremediable frailty of heart, half-concealed. He picked up the flask and hurriedly filled the cup to the brim again. “But no matter who leaves… I’ll be here.” “Only I will remain by your side.” Immediately continuing as if half-speaking to himself, he said. ——Along with this, he felt the heat behind his eyelids swell.

“Hey—put it on… The rest…”

……The distant clang of the night watchman’s metal staff echoing through the frost.—A winter night that deepens all too swiftly.

Treachery.

I ……Earlier, at Kiku no Ie, when Ogura had suddenly demanded of him—“You—what do you think that money’s for?”—and startled Tashiro, he later abandoned Yura to join Wakamiya’s breakaway venture. ……In place of the Yura Troupe rose what would become the Wakamiya Troupe. ……Hearing how such designs—such treacherous machinations—had been steadily progressing left him even more stunned.—And when told he too was listed among Wakamiya’s roster—his name already printed there plain as day—the shock redoubled.—Less shocked than utterly dumbstruck.

“It’s a j-joke… It’s a joke…” Yet for all that, he could only repeat “It’s a joke” over and over.

“But there’s nothing to be done—they’ve already decided it on their end…” Ogura deliberately said coldly.

“It’s already appeared in the newspaper.” “Even in the newspaper?” To think even Nishimaki didn’t know—there was no way Tashiro could have known…

“Haven’t you seen it? That thing?” “I haven’t seen it.—I haven’t seen anything like that.” “You’re such a careless fool!” “But… But that’s… Even if it’s in the newspaper, that’s… Outrageous… That’s so outrageous…” “Why is that outrageous?” “Isn’t that right? Isn’t that outrageous? …To do such things without your consent—acting entirely on their own…” “How could I not know?—I’ve already agreed to it, haven’t I?”

“It’s a j-joke… If such a thing were true… If even a lie like that were true, I would’ve discussed it with you and Kei-chan.” “……I wouldn’t just silently do something so heartless.” “Saying such things—didn’t you even take an advance payment?” “Even the advance payment?” “Isn’t that right? —And what’s more, you took a hundred yen from the year-end funds…” “A hundred yen?”

“It should still be there—half of it…”

“Wh-what’re you complaining about? That’s Choco Bank’s……” “That’s why you borrowed it, didn’tcha? —Ain’t that exactly what happened?” “Yeah… That’s right……” “But would Choco really lend stuff without any collateral?” “Collateral?” “Someone who can smoothly hand out money with no guarantees?”

“……” “That’s what I’m saying—you! What do you think that money’s for?” “But that’s…” “It’s Choco’s scheme. “This whole ‘job’ you’re talking about—it’s Hishikawa Nobuo’s plot from start to finish.” Ogura snapped back sharply.

II

But Tashiro abruptly refused to accept that. “But Choco? … That doesn’t make any sense.” “That’s absurd, isn’t it?”

“Why?” “That old man—he’s greedy, crafty through and through. Got some nerve too—always pulling underhanded tricks like tripping folks at the knees… But he wasn’t born a villain. No grand schemer who could pull off something that bold.” “Exactly—no grand schemer. Precisely why he’s so easily led by others. Get him riled up, and he’ll jump right into it.”

“But even if you say that, doesn’t that mean drawing your bow against Yanokura’s master?” “That’s right.” “How could you—how could you be so devoid of duty… How many years have you served at the master’s side?” “When your own life’s on the line, you’d even strike your lord’s head—that’s the way of things.” “What?!” “When it comes down to it, your own purse matters more than any master.” “But that… If it were someone like you or Kei-chan, then fine.” “Even if it’s not acceptable… I could still stomach it.” “They ain’t hereditary retainers.” “Meaning they’re outsiders…”

“You’re startin’ this crap again.” “No, truly.” “But Choco isn’t like that.” “Then Choco can’t accept that.” “If Nishimaki heard such things—how furious would he be? Even without that—that guy’s heartless, unfeeling—all ‘Master, Master’ bowing and scraping to his face, yet behind his back acting like thirty-some years under Yanokura and Yura meant nothing. A damned ingrate like that doesn’t exist. Nishimaki’s always saying it.”

“So even if you try dragging people along，Nishimaki won’t budge.” “Then who exactly are you trying to rope into this?” “Whose names—whose names are listed in the newspaper?”

“Everyone’s listed.” “Everyone?” “Everyone except Mr. Shiomi and Nishimaki is listed.” “Even Mr. Kamishiro?” “That man’ll go anywhere he can earn money.” “So—you and Kei-chan too?” “I’m no exception.” “If you say such a thing—then you—the Yura Troupe’s finished, isn’t it?” “That’s why Wakamiya Troupe’ll form in Yura Troupe’s place.” “—Haven’t they been saying that from the start?”

“Then what will the master do? —Who will the master of Yanokura perform with from now on?”

“There’s no one left to perform with.” “Th-that’s—that’s—that’s impossible!” “Even if you say that to me, there’s no use.” “I don’t want this.—This is just awful.” “Who would—”

“I don’t want it either.” “Then why did you agree?—Why would you agree to something you hate?—I don’t know.—I don’t know anything at all.—But don’t *you* know? Don’t *you* know exactly how things came to this?”

III “Who would agree to such a thing?” Ogura snapped again.

“You wouldn’t?”

“As if I would!”

“But you…” Tashiro, his opening gambit parried, said: “Why?”

“They decided that entirely on their own.” “Then isn’t it the same? Isn’t it the same for me?” “But I haven’t taken any advance payment like you have.” “If I return it, that’s fine, right? If I just return it…”

“Do you think Choco would accept it?” “Even if he won’t take it back, I’ll make him take it—I didn’t borrow it with that intention.” “That’s exactly their trap. They come to us personally—if we agree, they’ll cleanly sever ties with everyone they’ve exploited up to now. That’s their first proposal.” “...When those bastards come saying that, we counter with ‘Sorry, but we’ll handle this ourselves.’” “...The ones who bow their heads only to plunge into their own pockets.” “For Choco? It was nothing—he gleefully clung to their coattails…”

“D-did they come saying such things to your place?” “They didn’t stop at me—they’ve been making rounds using that approach to persuade everyone.” “Damn them! …Not even pretending to hesitate about such underhanded tactics.” “Naturally—if silence serves their purpose better, they’ll keep silent.” “Did they visit Kei-chan’s place too?” “Most likely. —But whether they actually made that pitch at Miura’s… can’t say for certain. —Might’ve offered to shoulder half the existing burdens instead.”

“That may be true, but… Would Choco really stake his entire being on this alone…?” “Of course he would. Choco’s single-minded about profit. The bastard’s trying to loot amidst the chaos. —That’s why the real backer’s still safely outside.”

“Who? —Who is it?” “They don’t outright say they want your agreement.” “They’re hiding it clumsily.” “It stinks enough that I’m certain—the papers claim some Kansai moneybags backing a ‘Wakamiya’ are propping it up, but none of that’s true anyway.” “Who could it be? —Where’s this scheme coming from?”

“I know.” “Who is it? …Who is it—hey?” “The bastard who shortened Azuma’s life.” “His life…?”

“Have you forgotten what we talked about while walking through Mukojima the other day?” “Mukojima? —Ah, you mean the park one?” “That’s right—Rakuten-dan’s Rakuten Bōzu.” “But that bastard…?” “The scheme that stalled after the earthquake has reignited here. —Last time, they tried circling around it cautiously and failed… And since the times have changed since then, this time they’re twisting it forcefully in one go. —Not bothering to wait for the tide to turn, they’re dead set on propping up this ‘Wakamiya Troupe’ from the start. —And if that plan clicks even once, they’ll use it as a stepping stone to charge headlong into Tokyo’s theater world—that’s the cunning guts of it all.”

“How do you know?” “You’re not some sheltered brat raised in comfort.” “But… again?”

IV

……Afterward, Ogura recounted how this Rakuten Bōzu had originally been a provincial touring actor of the old school—but one quick to seize opportunities. When "student plays" grew popular, he became a student actor; when "motion pictures" trended, he turned narrator; when comedy surged, he reinvented himself as a comic performer, shifting roles and locales incessantly. Though small in stature, his ambitions loomed large. Refusing to rot away as a lifelong itinerant, he set his sights early on Asakusa—back when it was still dismissed as mere "Okuyama" or "Rokku," its streets lined with sideshows: ball-balancing acts, girls' dances, reformed sword dances, and kappore comedies. Bravely plunging into that whirlpool, he raised the banner of his "Rakuten Troupe." ――At first, no one paid him any mind, and he was likely driven out countless times—yet he stubbornly persisted, gradually drawing audiences until, ten years later, he had become an undisputed star in Asakusa. ――That his success stemmed chiefly—and indeed entirely—from his producer-like acumen (of the sort Wakamiya once possessed).……Ogura explained all these matters in meticulous detail. ―Tashiro listened in silence.

But Tashiro completely deflated during that conversation. The initial vigor with which he had chattered away to the proprietor of Utamura vanished without a trace.—By the time their conversation reached a natural pause, he found himself vacantly crossing his arms and staring at the chilled cup of leftover sake—no longer calling for a fresh flask to replace the emptied one.—Of course, his drunkenness had long since faded.

After settling the bill and leaving Kiku no Ie, he insisted on taking Ogura through the snow that had accumulated in a short time to Miura’s house in Matsuba-chō. But Miura was not there. He had returned once earlier but left again immediately, it was said. Where had he gone? Which direction had he taken? Hadn’t he said anything before leaving? Relentlessly, Tashiro grilled the elderly, hard-of-hearing caretaker—who had once held her post for years in Senju (for Miura was a bachelor)—questioning her exhaustively down to the roots and leaves, but no answers came. In the end, having gained nothing useful, Tashiro wandered back outside in a daze.

“I’m going home…” When they reached Kappabashi, Ogura spoke harshly… or at least, so it seemed to Tashiro… he said.

“Going home?”

“Go home already—you’ve had enough too.” “—How long you gonna keep wandering around like that? Ain’t no point in it.”

“But…” “Try to see things from Omasu’s perspective for once.” When told that, he had no retort. Even without that, since earlier—as his drunkenness faded—a sense of moderation had begun to take root in his heart.—Not that this was anything new; staying up two or three nights was commonplace for him…… And besides, for an actor—or any entertainer—such things were par for the course; the more popular one became, the more one stayed out. ……Even if she was the daughter of a Kiyomoto teacher—and given that it was a respectable household, she remained utterly convinced of his honesty—whether he stayed out five days or ten mattered not at all. ――Yet, precisely because of that—because it was so soundless—the pity only deepened when the moment came.――For there was no other way: even ten years prior, when they had eloped and finally achieved their wish to be together, the foster mother who had stood between them all along, interfering at every turn… who had persisted in nothing but unreasonable, spiteful acts (to put it plainly, his trip to Osaka for about a year around the earthquake—with Yura’s permission—had been solely to earn enough to satisfy her)… even now, ten years after seeing her off in the spring of the year before last, there remained not the slightest clarity or shadow in how he felt about her……

“Well then…”

With his mind made up, Tashiro left. “He won’t come again even tomorrow.” Ogura quietly made his glasses gleam.

“Where to?” “To my place.” “Yeah.” “Hishikawa must’ve come by with some demand while we were away.” “I hate it—what a damn nuisance. No matter what they say, I refuse.” “Even if we refuse, bungling it will leave lingering complications. We’re dealing with who we’re dealing with.” “But that…” “No—if it’s Hishikawa, I don’t mind. But if that money you took came from Rakuten Bōzu himself? There’s no telling if they won’t start jamming wheels under our cart again. That monk acts all magnanimous, but corner him? Vindictive as a viper…”

“……”

“There’s no harm in being cautious.—Being cautious won’t be a mistake.—So…” “……” “Miura will surely come too.” “If they hear that we went as two samurai just now…”

Immediately, the streetcar arrived. Ogura boarded it. In the thickening snowfall of dusk-lighting time, the streetcar’s form vanished from sight in an instant…

Five

After that, Tashiro, holding the borrowed oil-paper umbrella from *Kiku no Ie*, trudged alone back into the park. Since he was returning to the area near Meiji Hospital in Daichi, under normal circumstances, it would have been natural to take that Kuramae-bound streetcar together with Ogura. But the reason he hadn’t was that he needed to buy the woman’s favorite famous-place pottery souvenirs at Nakamise for their meeting after four days apart. Upon entering the park, he walked straight along the edge of the pond toward the Niōmon. In the deep twilight, the thin snow-covered path—crushed underfoot and stretching narrowly onward—and the sound of snow sifting down from dark branches lining both sides relentlessly deepened his loneliness.

After buying the famous-place pottery, this time he wanted to return home as soon as possible. As soon as he exited Kaminarimon, he took a one-yen taxi straight to Kayabachō.

But even so, when he finally stood before his home, he felt anew how high the threshold was. For they must have closed half the shutters because of the falling snow... Whether it was due to this thought or not, the sight of the entrance—its lattice half-covered by shutters—made him keenly feel the loneliness of a house without its master. A sudden vulnerability, as though returning from a long journey, welled up in his chest.

“Hey…”

Deliberately, he placed his hands vigorously on the tightly shut lattice shutters. “Yes.”

A reply came as if answering the sound of movement.—Immediately, the sliding paper door between the entrance step and tearoom opened, letting lamplight spill into the darkness. She stepped down to the earthen floor and unlatched the door. “Welcome back.” He didn’t miss the pitifully stuck Edozakura plaster on one cheek as she spoke. “Did something happen?” “Huh?” “Your cheek.” “Oh… my tooth…” “Does it hurt?” “Yes.”

“Is it that bad?” “No, it’s just a little.—It’s healed already…” But even so, the unraveled strands of her gingko hairstyle—forced to maintain since yesterday’s styling—hung oppressively down over it. “Ah, cold…” Having said this unprompted, he handed her the umbrella and wrapped package of famous-place pottery, removed his gloves, and untied the laces of his sodden shoes.

“Did anyone come while I was away?” As soon as he entered the tatami room, he said.

“Yes, Mr. Miura came by a little while ago.”

“Miura?” “Yes, about two hours ago.” “Where could he have gone? He should’ve returned long ago, but…” “He kept saying that insistently.” “And what did he say when he left?”

“No, he just said he’d come again and left right away.” “Didn’t he say anything else?” “No, nothing.—He just had such a troubled look on his face, different from usual.” “A mess, a real mess has happened. That’s why everyone’s running around in a panic.”

“……” “Last night, the night before last—I haven’t slept a wink.” “……”

“Did anyone else come by?” “No, no one.”

“Didn’t someone from Hishikawa’s place come by yesterday or so?” “No.” “They didn’t come?” “No.” “That’s strange…” “Are they supposed to come?”

“They’re supposed to.” As he said this, he took out a paper wallet wrapped in a fukusa from the inner pocket of his jacket and placed it on top of the chest of drawers.

Inside it were fifty yen... The woman, knowing nothing, brought his everyday clothes from where the kotatsu stood.—He abruptly pulled her shoulder toward him. “You were lonely, weren’t you…?” With crushing force he embraced her.

Six

The following morning—though by then it was already past ten—Tashiro left home hurriedly for Ogura’s place in Mitsujimachi. The snow had stopped, but the sky remained dark and gloomy, lingeringly overcast in an ashen hue. ——The snow had piled up surprisingly fast for how briefly it fell… which meant it had come down all the harder, piled all the deeper—but last night’s beautiful silver world had already vanished. Everywhere he looked lay swamp-like patches of mud, churned and trampled into shamelessly rutted mire. Without any actorly posturing or pretense, he trudged bravely through it in his ungainly rubber boots.

On his way, he called Yanokura's master from a public telephone. The maid answered and said, "The master is away on a trip." When asked about the young lady, she replied curtly—"The young lady is accompanying him"—in a brusque tone. He felt a pang of loneliness. ……At the same time—well—it was for the best. ——For some reason, relief washed over him. The moment he saw Ogura's face, he spoke.

“Is he away on a trip?” Ogura furrowed his brows. “So where did they say he went?” “I didn’t ask that, but since he’s with his daughter, he’s probably gone to Shuzenji again—like he usually does.” “How many days did they say he’s gone for?” “Didn’t ask that either.” “That gets us nowhere, then.”

“But that new maid who just started…” “The whole thing’s completely unclear.—It’s all mashed into kinton (sweet potato paste), I tell you.”

“When you went there last time, was there any mention of this?” “There was no mention. That’s why I think he must have left suddenly—maybe even rushed off.” “Hmm… That might be true.”

“After all, with all this recent business coming to his ears… If he stays here, it’s just going to be a hassle, after all…” “Probably, I suppose.—But come to think of it, Wakamiya isn’t in Tokyo right now either.”

“Why?” “That makes no sense.” “Who told you that?” “Miura went and heard it last night.” “Miura did?”

“Yesterday after parting with Miura, Nishimaki, and you and returning home, I found a letter from Hishikawa.” “He’d come by two or three times but since I was never there, he sent this letter.” “When I went immediately as demanded, it turned out… A high-handed negotiation—saying since everyone already knew about it, there’d be no refusing.” “He declared that if we refused, he’d demand we repay every yen he’d lent us right then in full.” “But that man flipped it—he won’t make us forfeit what’s already lent, but separately said if we arrange fresh sums of five hundred and six hundred yen now, we could sell ourselves off.—No personal luxuries demanded, since he’d ‘add color’ somehow regardless.” “He said it’s our choice how to handle prior terms.” “We didn’t back down either—told him we’d match his high-handedness.”

“What a terrible man.” “But that’s different from the proposal you received, isn’t it?” “He tailors his methods to the person—that’s just how he operates.” “After arranging with Miura to meet again later, I left there and came straight to your place.” “But he still hadn’t returned.” “So I took the chance to extend my trip to Hamachō and went to Wakamiya’s residence.” “Yet there’s still something about Hishikawa’s story that doesn’t add up.” “I decided I needed to confront him directly—it was that man himself who’d suggested as much.” “He never misses an opening.”

“So, when you went?” “A student helper was keeping house alone, and the Master is not in Tokyo.”

Seven

Tashiro, however, couldn’t believe it. They were exploiting his absence—that was it. ……He couldn’t think of it any other way. But even so—given who they were dealing with. Miura wasn’t one to have his absence covertly exploited and simply say “Is that so?” before retreating without a sound. It was possible he was deliberately hiding somewhere until all arrangements were fully in place. If that was the case… no wonder——

“But that…” Ogura did not nod. “While the public hasn’t yet caught wind of this, for a man with nerves as strong as Wakamiya’s, it might’ve been necessary to do so. But now that it’s been splashed all over the papers like that, there’s no call for him to skulk around so cowardly. If he kept that up, the troupe’s stature wouldn’t hold.” “But if Choco and Rakuten Bōzu had taken full control…”

“Then isn’t that exactly the same as our current theater troupe?” “Leaving everything to the company and meekly accepting every unreasonable demand as proper—doesn’t that make it no different from how Yura Troupe has been operating all along?” “If that’s the case, Wakamiya...” “No—if it were such a trifling matter, why would that man have gotten involved from the start? ……And yet when pressed, he won’t budge an inch.”

“I do think so…”

“No matter what happens going forward, everything will undoubtedly be done as Wakamiya says for the first month or two.” “There’s no question such an arrangement has been made.” “So—is he finally planning to promote himself as a leading man… Wakamiya?” “That’s likely the case.” “Because using actresses has become another selling point.” “But if that’s true—where are there actresses who can actually keep up with Wakamiya?”

“They’re everywhere. Even just within the Rakuten Troupe alone, there are ten or twenty of them.” “Those… those things…” “Those who think that way are only people like you. The world doesn’t see it that way.—They’ve played it well.” “But, you…” “Anyway, as long as you’re part of Yanokura, you’re forced to remain a female impersonator indefinitely, whether you like it or not. No matter how much they might want to grow in that situation, they can’t. The very motive for this independence lies there. In reality, no matter how much they trained an actor like that themselves, there’s no way Yanokura could keep him under their wing forever. Even Hishikawa came to my place and kept saying that in detail, as if it were a serious matter.”

“No, that’s— That’s exactly right.— I believe someone like Wakamiya-kun—that sort of person—is what you’d call a true genius.” “That’s why I sympathize.” “That’s why—speaking for myself—even if he were to leave Yanokura’s fold, I’d never think him ungrateful or lacking in loyalty.” “Then why not go through with it while you’re at it?”

“No, I don’t want that.”

“Why?” “I can’t stand their whole approach from the start.” “The way they trick people—it’s just…” “First off, Wakamiya joining up with Choco’s crowd is wrong from the get-go.” “There’s no place for someone like that to show his face.” “What could that bastard possibly understand?” “Complaining about it won’t change anything.” “No—if this were a direct proposal from Wakamiya-kun, one we could properly bring before Yanokura, I’d gladly support it.” “Even if I had to take a year or two’s leave to go help properly…”

“Do you even think such a thing?” “I’m young too—I want to do something.” “Do you hate the idea of going down with Yanokura?” “To tell the truth, I dislike it.—I dislike going down with a Yanokura that’s become so timid, so overly cautious, so indecisive in its judgments.” “It wasn’t like that before.” “That’s why—that’s why I’m saying it, I am.—When it comes to both artistry and the scripts we perform, there was a time when he was considered more innovative than anyone.”

“Even someone like you would say that…” Ogura did not respond to that and remarked sullenly. “The time has finally come when even the Yura Troupe must do something about themselves.”

VIII

……And so Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro agreed that once Hishikawa approached them again with some proposal, they would clarify their mutual stance—deliberately deciding to wait in silence. But after two days passed, then three, no word came from Hishikawa. There was no word from him at all……

"What’s happened? — What does this mean?"

Having finally lost patience, Tashiro—restless and agitated—visited Ogura's place again that day. But Miura had arrived before him. The three of them came together once more that day.

“According to their initial plan—they’d gather everyone tomorrow and start rehearsals right away.—So they demanded an immediate reply.—Quite the forceful momentum they had…”

Ogura laughed. "He even told me they’d already settled on the play itself." Miura tacked on, “What’d they get so worked up about? Went exactly like I figured.” “What d’you mean ‘like you figured’?” Tashiro said.

“Ain’t that right? Puffing themselves up with all that drawn-out, highfalutin nonsense—in the end, it ain’t gonna hold together.—Today’s the 23rd, you know.”

“Yeah.” “How’re they gonna handle a play like *Spring Rushing In* with that half-assed approach?—First off, they ain’t even nailed down a proper theater yet, have they?”

“But where could this ‘certain major theater’ be?” “Who’d be fool enough to take that seriously? Every major theater for spring’s already booked up everywhere, ain’t they?” “So after all, would it be Asakusa?” “That’s right—an Asakusa performance. All that so-called populist stuff they’re cramming into lines these days.” Miura said coldly, “Such condescending, ridiculous, irritating words don’t exist.”

“What?” “No, that ‘populist’ nonsense.” “As long as it’s cheap, quick, and even vulgar—that’s all they care about.” “But beyond that—haven’t they given up?” Tashiro steered the conversation back.

“What?”

“No—us.” “They tried to drag us in, but something must’ve gone wrong there—don’t you think they suddenly called it off?” “If that’s how it is, then it’s perfect.—We’ll flip it around and pin them down with a grievance.” “Why?” “First off, they went and used our names without so much as asking.—Must’ve been great for their business, but we’ve been through hell because of it.—So go on—tell ’em to make it right with us.”

“You all may be fine with that, but I won’t go along.” “Why?” “Then I’ll have to repay what I owe.”

“What? You scared of somethin’ like that?” “I ain’t scared.” “Ain’t scared at all—but if I don’t pay up, who knows what kinda underhanded shit Choco Bank’ll pull next.” “So let ’em come barkin’—ain’t no skin off our nose. Just toss their yappin’ to the curb…”

“It’s not you—it won’t work like that.” “Impressive.—A proper man’s gotta be like that.” “You don’t have to flatter me.” “I ain’t flattering you.—But if you’re that resolved… or rather, if you’re feeling that generous, the money’s already been spent anyway.” “There must still be some left—at least a little.” “Ain’t ya gonna take ’em somewhere—the two of ’em?” “Just take ’em to Kiku no Ie then.” “Hey… Ogura…?”

“That’s fine too,” Ogura added.

“A j-joke… right?” Tashiro hurriedly pressed a hand to his chest— for on that uncharacteristic day, he wore a boldly striped silk kimono befitting a female impersonator, complete with a dashing though slightly narrow dark-blue figured obi… “Stubborn till the end.—I’ll clean up your messes for you both.” With this declaration, Miura stood without awaiting response. “C’mon now—let’s get moving already.”

……It was precisely around the same time on the winter solstice day that Nishimaki, on his way to the bathhouse, had been chatting amiably with an eel restaurant’s deliveryman. The time was right, the weather was right—in any case, once three people had gathered, there was no way they’d part without settling things… As for Tashiro, being Tokyo-bred and lacking restraint, he had anticipated things would turn out that way from the start. As Miura said, the money was already spent anyway; it was insufficient, but if push came to shove, they’d manage somehow.—He made light of the amount without any intention of bundling it up…

“You shouldn’t keep bad friends around.” Deliberately, reluctantly, Tashiro said this as he stood up. —And then, at that moment, the front lattice door suddenly opened.

“Excuse me…”

Nine

……It was a voice he recognized. Inadvertently, Tashiro looked at the two men’s faces.

“Who is it?” Instead of Ogura, Miura responded with abrupt bluntness.

“Ah, it’s me.—Yoshizawa here…” “Yoshizawa here…”

“Yoshizawa?”

Speaking of... the men of Yanokura. —they were retainers of Yura who had been with him since his Nakasu days.

“Oh, it’s you. I thought it was someone else.” Tashiro slid open the *shoji* and said with a deflated air.

“Ah… Actually, I’ve just come to your house, so…” The other party amiably bent at the waist.

“My place?” “Yes.” “Do you have… some business?” “Ah, that… —We would like to request your presence at Yanokura for a moment, if you could.” “Has Master returned?” “Yes.” “What day?” “Today—quite abruptly.” “Suddenly?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” “But more importantly—where had Master been all this time?” “Ah—to Shuzenji.” “I thought so.—I was sure of it.” “But why would he…” “Why on earth so suddenly…?” “No—well… I’m not entirely certain myself… but it seems there’s something requiring everyone’s attendance…” “So I’m not the only one?”

“Ah, Mr. Ogura as well.” “…I will also be calling on Mr. Miura’s residence next.” “He’s here, you know—Mr. Miura too. As expected, he’s right here with us.” “Ah—Mr. Miura is already present?” “That’s quite unexpected—”

“Hey, Kei-chan…” Tashiro turned around and called out to Miura. Before long, Yoshizawa hurriedly left, saying he had another place to go—the head’s house. Miura and Tashiro—having returned to the tatami room as they were—along with Ogura, the three of them suddenly exchanged tense looks.

“What could it be?” For now, Tashiro said. “I thought it’d be something like that.” Miura slowly stroked his chin. “No matter how you look at it, I thought things had been far too silent.” “What?” “The boss, you know.”

“Could he not have known? When he suddenly realized it, was he so shocked he immediately…?” “There’s no such fool.” “I do think so, but…” “If that’s the case, then the head must come.” Ogura quietly opened his mouth. “That Yoshizawa came as a messenger… This must be something else entirely.” “Do you think so?” “Regardless, since he says to come immediately, we must go. —Let’s be off.”

“Somehow… this feels unsettling.”

“Why?” “Why? Well…” “What’re you griping about? You were saved by the ‘Kiku no Ie,’ and yet…”

With that, Miura immediately stood up again.

―――――――――――――――――――

…When they went and saw, they were shocked.

In the glow of bright lamplight, Yura, Chikushi, and Shiomi sat rigidly, each with eyes lowered and brows clouded.

Silently, Yura placed a letter before the three. The three hesitantly opened it—it was Wakamiya Ryūjo’s suicide note, sent to Yura from a remote village in Shinshu. An hour later, Ogura and Tashiro boarded a train from Ueno with Shiomi to rush to the site of Wakamiya’s suicide. Miura, together with Head Iwane who had arrived afterward, went around informing the troupe’s prominent members of the matter.

Sunset clouds

I

...In the sky, January passed like a dream.

In the midst of settling Wakamiya’s affairs, the year drew to a tumultuous close. (The funeral—conducted by Yura himself as a strictly private farewell ceremony in accordance with the suicide note’s explicit instructions to “avoid all ceremonial or ritualistic observances if possible”—inevitably drew mixed reactions. Given that the deceased had been a young, beautiful star of exquisite delicacy at his commercial peak… and given how spectacularly unconventional his final act had been in the public eye… there were those who interjected sympathy, pity, meddlesome opinions, and various criticisms. Yet Yura, stubbornly defying his usual “Yanokura” demeanor, refused to entertain any of it.) Thus he obstinately enforced his will. For one thing, these were the remains retrieved by Shiomi, Ogura, and Tashiro. ...Clutching the bones they had solemnly brought back, Yura adamantly refused to relinquish them to Wakamiya’s parents. ...And even then, citing the suicide note as his authority, he absolutely rejected their demands.)—When spring arrived, Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro each received separate backstage assignments through the former Yura Troupe’s connections… not as a trio but individually placed. Still, this allowed them to scrape through New Year’s without idleness.—Behind this arrangement, one could clearly discern Yura’s extraordinary efforts.—Needless to say, the “Wakamiya Troupe” vanished without trace following Wakamiya’s disappearance, dissolving like smoke into oblivion.

By the time January passed the twentieth, they all returned from their respective outposts. Even Ogura, Miura, Tashiro...or the four or five others below Tashiro—had they wished to stay as they were...had they even wished to work harder as they were, they could have kept working there indefinitely. Yet when it came down to it, everyone hurried back, longing for Tokyo and bound only by the promised deadline.—Even if that place was no longer what it once was—even if it had become a wretched nest where rain leaked through and wind blew in miserably—to them, it remained their long-accustomed, irreplaceable, dear old home.—No matter how warmly they were treated on the road, no matter how many extra rewards they grasped, no matter how grandly they might act (and indeed, when traveling among those who constantly wandered such rural areas, those who always performed in Tokyo—and at grand venues at that—could clearly perceive the luster clinging to themselves without even realizing it). What was formidable was their upbringing, and also the preciousness of their training. If even someone like Tashiro—still green behind the ears—felt this way, how much more so for those like Ogura and Miura, seasoned veterans who had spent years navigating such ranks. Thus, to them, such matters meant nothing at all.—Far more than that, they yearned to return as soon as possible to the side of their devoted, kind Master who cherished his disciples.

II

And upon returning, everyone immediately went to pay their respects at Yanokura. Tashiro... Truthfully, he could have returned much earlier due to the other party's schedule, but having previously told his wife a later date—and finding himself with a two- or three-day window where this deception was possible—he seized the chance, cutting his journey short to disembark midway and visit a longtime patron in Nagoya for respite. But in the end—well, one more day wouldn't hurt. Just until tomorrow. ...While being persuaded to stay, he grew careless and complacent, drinking himself into a stupor until he'd extended his stay by three extra days. —Then realizing his mistake, he panicked, boarded the evening train, arrived at Tokyo Station the next morning, hurried home, tore off the Western clothes he'd worn almost exclusively for a month, and without even bathing rushed straight to Yanokura.—Why did he do this? What necessity drove him to such lengths? ...He couldn't understand himself. ...A cover for his shame—a cover for his shame toward his wife. That was all it amounted to...

When he arrived, Ogura and Miura had already come earlier, as if by prior arrangement. They were seated in the room next to the study with a brazier kept nearby, their expressions unperturbed.—It seemed both Ogura and Miura had returned around the day before.

“We were just talking about you.”

From in front of the large desk in the study, Yura said. “When did you get back?” “Uh, this morning…” “This morning?”

“Uh, well… I just stopped by Nagoya on my way back…”

Carelessly saying this, Tashiro immediately realized he stood right beside Miura. He knew he’d miscalculated. If they’d been talking about him with Miura involved, nothing good could have come of it… “What’d you go for?” “Uh… just…” “Drinking?” “N-no…” “Good. Drink more—make a proper fool of yourself. That’s what youth’s for.” “……” Before he knew it, Tashiro’s gaze shot up to Yura’s face—this man who’d never spoken such words before, who after gambling matters would rail against alcohol: Don’t drink. Never drink. If you want to be a real actor, never drink—a man who’d never uttered anything else, even to himself…

“If Wakamiya… If he’d drunk even half as much as you, he wouldn’t have done such a thing. …He might’ve found another path to consider.” “…That’s what I think… I do…”

Immediately, Yura resumed speaking. With that, he deliberately laughed—brightly, cheerfully. The three exchanged quiet, desolate glances.

III

“Certainly, but…” Ogura said nonchalantly. “Today would be… the thirty-fifth day…?” “Yes, that’s how it falls.” Yura immediately took over. “That’s why I’m thinking of going to visit the grave now.” “He must be pleased, but…” Tashiro matched his tone to that. “Who?” “No—Mr. Wakamiya…” “What a pitiable man.”

Yura did not respond to that and spoke as if half to himself. “As the days pass, it weighs on me more and more…”

“Hmm.”

“Are you going somewhere now?” Yura suddenly looked up. “Would that be me?”

Flustered, Tashiro said. “No—Ogura and Miura too…?” “Not particularly, no…” With that, Ogura turned to Miura.—“Here I am.” …Miura gave a slight jerk of his chin in response.

“If you’re free, how about coming along with me?” “Oh, thank you very much.” Tashiro bowed his head. “This isn’t about your thanks—*I’m* asking if you’ll come along. Go if you want.” “Well—no—I was already planning to go…” “How about you?” “No, we… We’ll accompany you too…”

In place of Ogura, Miura answered.

“Then let’s go right now. Let’s grab a bite and head out.”

Yura impatiently clapped his hands and called the maid. After ordering preparations for lunch, he commanded a car to be readied as well. That very tendency was the Edoites’ ill.

“Visiting graves is better done with a crowd—if it’s just one or two people, their thoughts get all tangled up and it doesn’t go well.”

After that, Yura laughed again—this time with deliberate cheerfulness. And soon, the party of five—Yura and those three, now joined by Yoshizawa—... ...They got out of the car in front of the five-storied pagoda of Tennō-ji Temple in Yanaka. It was a windless afternoon with a brightly clear sky, the sunlight’s hue gently softened. A stretch of low, desolate fence made from yōki and masaki wood. ...Along that deserted, narrow stone path—its color a pale, sunken white—the tangled shadows of five figures, master and disciples holding shikimi branches and smoldering incense, fell quietly and darkly.

“The weather doesn’t lie—here and there, it’s already taken on the feel of spring.”

Yura, who had been walking ahead, abruptly turned back and said.

“That is correct.—When we visited on the 21st-day memorial before, there was still…” In response to this, Yura spoke again over Yoshizawa’s words.

“Everything was frozen solid—even at this hour, the frost pillars still hadn’t melted.”

IV Surrounded by new wooden stupas exuding pungent timber scent and beautiful offerings from devoted patrons—or rather, buried beneath early-blooming plums and narcissus flowers whose lonely serenity only accentuated the gloom—the old, small grave... It stood as too wretchedly pitiful a sight to summon Wakamiya’s living countenance. ……Before it eventually came to stand five figures. Yura passed his hat and coat to Yoshizawa, stepped forward, and quietly pressed his forehead low for a time. Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro—as if struck anew by belated realization—could only helplessly recall that night’s events…the vacant numbness they had felt upon learning through his suicide note that Wakamiya no longer dwelled among them. Simultaneously—why had he died? ……That knotted enigma…the shadow of doubt that had deepened daily now gripped their chests afresh with this delayed awakening.

“Apologies for the wait…” With that, Yura stepped away from the front of the grave. He threw his coat over a nearby yōki-wood fence, then Ogura immediately stepped forward to take his place. “……An admirable man.” Half-muttering to himself, Yura accepted only his hat from Yoshizawa. “Huh?” Tashiro said. “No—Nishimaki.” “……?” “He’s already come early today to pay his respects.” “The old-timer’s still dutiful as ever.”

Tashiro and Miura both turned their eyes in the direction Yura pointed. Amidst the plum blossoms and narcissus, it was Kimpei-san's thoughtful care that had composed the winter camellias—their sorrowful yet tender crimson hue.

“Even so… this.” Immediately, Yura spoke again. “We can’t keep him lodged in this grave forever.” “Thinking so, I am hurrying.” “Therefore, by the 100th-day memorial, a proper grave solely for Wakamiya can be completed.” “Ah, that…” Tashiro responded to that. “Once it’s ready, I plan to hold a lively memorial service there.” “Because his resolve was so heartrending… and because his reasoning was so sound, we’ve persisted in our stubbornness until now.” “We persisted in our unyielding stubbornness.” “But it should be fine now.—By the time we reach the 100th-day memorial, it should be fine.”

“Oh.” Even so—though he had said that—Tashiro still couldn’t grasp why Wakamiya had insisted on avoiding all ceremonial formalities and memorial rites… Why had he gone out of his way to write those things in his suicide note? Why did he dislike having those things done for him? However hard he tried, he couldn’t understand the reason. And that being the case—why did the Master attach such importance to it, to that will, even to that extent? Why had he persisted in such obstinacy? Why had he clung so stubbornly to his position? What was even more perplexing was how Shiomi, Ogura, and he himself had refused at all costs to hand over the ashes they’d brought back to his parents… how they had stubbornly withheld them. ……The reason for this utterly eluded Tashiro.—In fact, even back in Nagoya, when patrons had pressed him relentlessly about it, he had been unable to answer and found himself thoroughly at a loss……

…………

Silently, Ogura left the front of the grave. In turn, Miura stepped forward before it.

“But… I never once thought to worry about Wakamiya’s grave either.” Yura laughed bleakly.—Somewhere, smoke from burning fallen leaves drifted quietly through the thin spring air, faintly lingering about them.

V

……The five turned back as far as the base of the Five-Story Pagoda.

There, Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro tactfully parted ways with Yura. Yura took Yoshizawa with him and boarded the automobile that had been kept waiting. Just like that, the three continued walking through the wide cemetery in the opposite direction of Ueno.

“Is it really all right for us to be here?”

Suddenly, Tashiro stopped and looked around. "It's fine—we're walking."

Brusquely saying that, Miura strode briskly ahead. “Where are you going, though?” “To the station.” “Which one?” “Nippori, I said.”

“Nippori?”

“You alright, hey?” But from beside him, Ogura also spoke. “Just follow along quietly—there’s nothing to say.” “There’s nothing to say.” They turned right and left along the narrow path that stretched coldly onward, lined with graves and stupas as far as the eye could see. But eventually, after exiting that cemetery, they emerged onto an old thoroughfare—quiet and pallid in feeling—where small latticework houses stood in rows, and among them they discovered unexpected groves of trees and temple gates. There, beyond the rare pedestrians, not even the sound of cars—nor indeed the ringing of bicycle bells—could be heard anywhere.

“He was in good spirits, though…”

As if he had suddenly remembered something, Tashiro said. "What?" Miura turned around. "No, old man—I haven't seen you with such a clear expression lately."

“It was always like that before.” “No—I mean lately.” “I know you were always like that before.—Because I know, that’s why I’m saying this.”

“Take us anywhere.—If you’ve got that resolve, then fine.” “Even if it’s a lie—as long as you can make yourself believe it—that’s good enough.” Ogura said this while nodding to himself.

“What was that about? He didn’t want to part ways yet… Maybe he intended to take us somewhere else after all.” “I can’t stand being driven any further into destitution!”

Miura said as if spitting it out. “It’s strange, really strange.” Tashiro suddenly laughed and said, “When you’re in front of the old man, even Kei-chan mysteriously can’t move a muscle—it’s so strange.” “Don’t mess around.”

“Isn’t that right? Isn’t that true?—You’d vanish without a sound, just like a cat.”

“If you say anything, it’ll just be annoying.” “Oh, come on…” “For the past two or three years, wherever I went, I was always alone.” Ogura returned to the earlier topic. “Even if someone had been right there in front of him, he’d stopped saying to come along together.— Why did he become so withdrawn?— Why would someone who loved being surrounded by people become so withdrawn?— I was concerned about it…” “It was after that started—how he began constantly furrowing his brow into deep creases.” Miura said. “Strangely, today, those creases forming an ‘eight’ hadn’t appeared from the very beginning.”

“Alright then—drink up! Make a real fool of yourself while you’re young—that’s better…… I was shocked.—In all these years, I’ve never had the old man say something so blunt to me.” “Yeah, that surprised me a bit too.—I wondered what he’d come out with next.” “But what followed was no good.—If Wakamiya had even half your capacity for drink, he wouldn’t have done something like that—he’d have found another way out.—That guy was too fragile.”

Laughing, Ogura said.

Six “But—” Tashiro cut in, “Does the old man know?” “Does he realize…?” “What?”

Immediately again, Miura said. “The reason Wakamiya died—why he died...” “He got sick of it.—Sick of living.” “I know that. “He died ’cause he got sick of living—any fool knows that. What I’m askin’ is why—why’d he get sick?” “Why’d living turn so sour for him?” “...That’s what I’m askin’, me.”

“You haven’t seen the paper?”

“I do see it every morning.” “And not like you—bowing each time to borrow from the landlord’s place—I see it properly at my own home, with my own subscription.” “Shut your mouth—none of your damn business. Either way, they all taste the same when you read ’em.” “No matter how much you say there’s no difference…” “Shouldn’t that be plain if you’d just look?” “Only seventy-five days since—no wonder they’re still scribbling whatever they please about it, ain’t that right?”

“Meaning?” “That he was dumped by the woman he loved; that he was drowning in debt; or that trying to stage a rebellion against his master didn’t go well—or something like that.” “The most pitiful reason is that his mind had gone strange—or even if not that, his condition had been off for a long time, so they cautiously sent him away for a change of scenery.” “—and then he’d sneakily avoided his wife’s gaze and pulled out the pistol he’d prepared beforehand…”

“You... You, Kei-chan...” Tashiro said hurriedly. “Are you really going to believe such things? Do you really think that? Such nonsense—irresponsible, baseless...” “...Wouldn’t think that,” Miura snapped. “Thought you were spouting crap—but no, actually, maybe it’s not so far off. Depending on how you look at it, this bastard...” “You’re saying such things, you—” Tashiro cut in again. “Then you... No, where was there ever a woman Wakamiya loved? Where was there debt so crushing he couldn’t manage? Even this ‘Wakamiya Troupe’ talk—now that I think about it, wasn’t that just Choco and Rakuten Bōzu scheming on their own? At this point, who even knows if Wakamiya truly intended any of it? Blaming madness is just the easiest excuse... The most convenient one. That’s why everyone who already resented him jumps to that conclusion. But could someone unhinged write that suicide note, you? Could someone who’d made such a resolute decision write that? What’s more absurd is the pistol—why let someone showing suspicious signs carry something so dangerous? Even more ridiculous—this supposed wife who accompanied him. Did Wakamiya even have a wife? Did anyone resembling a wife exist? I don’t know—never heard of Wakamiya having such a thing. The Wakamiya I knew was single. Of course he went to Shinshu alone too. Until his death, Wakamiya remained single.”

“Then what do you think? —What do you think, you?”

Coldly, Miura said.

“I don’t know.—I don’t know—not at all.—That’s why I’m asking.”

Impatiently, Tashiro said.

Seven

“Serves you right,” Miura said with deliberate malice. “Want me to tell you?” “What’s there to get upset about?” Tashiro interjected midway, “Mr. Ogura, do you understand?”

“Miura knows.” “I heard it from this man too.” Ogura turned to Miura. “This isn’t outsiders’ business—just tell him already.” “You know about Wakamiya’s household situation, don’t you?”

Without responding to that, Miura said nonchalantly. “Wakamiya-kun’s place?” “What kind of state they’re in—I’m talking about what sort of people Wakamiya’s so-called father and mother really are.”

“I know that.—His dad and mom are thoughtful, amiable people.” “So their home was always lively.” “That’s exactly why misunderstandings happen when you talk like that.” “Why?” “Isn’t Wakamiya-kun precisely the filial son everyone admires?” “If that’s how it is, anyone might act out of natural affection—but even so, his father and mother cherished Wakamiya-kun too.—When it came to him, they were both completely devoted.—I mean, considering they’d nurtured him with their own hands since his prodigy days as a child actor and made him into such an accomplished performer... both those who raised him and he who was raised should’ve been content.—There’s no reason their relationship shouldn’t have been harmonious, right?”

“If things were going so smoothly, then why’d they end up splitting apart later?”

“Not really?” “Afterward, didn’t Wakamiya split from father and mother and set up his own household alone?”

“He did.—He had one, but that…” “Then another thing—why didn’t they let their precious son marry all this time?”

“That was Wakamiya-kun—Wakamiya-kun acting of his own will…”

“You—don’t know about that geisha Osono from Yoshiwara who was around years back?” “I know—I know all about her…” “Then you know how madly that woman loved Wakamiya—how he loved her back?” “But she—she abandoned Wakamiya-kun and ran off to Osaka…” “Wrong—they were torn apart like green wood split by force… His old man and woman forced them apart.”

“Wh-why would they do that?”

“It’s not like Kanpei-san, but a young actor—or rather, entertainer—nearing thirty taking a wife would only hurt his hard-won popularity.” “Th-that’s…” “Doesn’t matter if there’s nothing unclear—it’s too late now.—The rot started at the root.—The way Wakamiya’s old man and woman ‘cherished’ him was no different than a monkey trainer pampering their ape… same as you people coddling your tools of the trade.”

"But......" "But there's no damn gourd* worth arguing—those people aren't Wakamiya's real father or mother.—His true parents exist outside.—Wakamiya was someone they took in from atop straw without parental knowledge—that's what he was." *Note: "へちま" literally means "loofah gourd" but functions as a nihilistic metaphor here. Retained as "gourd" following Rule B's allowance for culturally specific metaphors when intelligible through context.

“In other words—that geisha from the November play.” Suddenly, Ogura interjected. “That role of the young geisha you kept admiring—the one suffering under her wretched family’s burden.” “Wakamiya—whether on stage—was staging his own life’s drama.”

“…………” “That geisha eventually lost her mind.” “But Wakamiya—precisely because he was that weak-willed, gentle man—died before losing his mind.” “…………” “Even this recent ‘Wakamiya Troupe’ business—Wakamiya knew nothing about it.—It was all his father and mother acting on their own.—They just got carried away by Choco and Rakuten Bouzu, running around indulging their whims.”

VIII

...Old cherry trees stood lined inside a corrugated iron fence, their branches spreading out above the street. When they looked, it was an elementary school.—At the fence's edge, beyond three or four small shops—a hardware store here, a tobacco shop there—a large stone torii gate stood quietly in their path, bathed fully in sunlight.

“Oh?” Miura abruptly stopped. “This ain’t right.” “What is it?” Ogura halted too. “This is already Suwa Shrine.” “That’s right.” “Coming here… Nippori Station’s way further ahead—” “No way—man.” “But I told you—”

As Tashiro began to speak, Miura cut him off, “Quit yer whinin’. If we passed Nippori ’n’ came this far, we’ll just take one more breath ’n’ head out t’Tabata.”

“Tabata?” “No need to act surprised—pass through here and the cliff’s edge is just a step away.”

The sunlit shrine gate and sacred fence bore the lonely shadows of withered trees’ tangled branches upon their surfaces.—Crossing the cold white stretch of stone steps slanting upward, they entered the broad precincts. Among the zelkova and ginkgo trees, their barren treetops clawing at the sky, a single hand towel hung motionless where no breeze stirred. The kagura hall stood with its doors closed in futility, while along the cliffside lookout—once lined with tea stalls from days past—only their forlorn remains now lay exposed. In all directions—front, back, left, right—everything was utterly still. Nowhere around them but those three was there a trace of human presence.

“Back then, you wouldn’t know about how we used to come here to make some pocket money, would you?” As he said this, Miura looked around.

“Like I’d know something like that.” “We came to shoot movies, movies.” “Whether it was *Konjiki Yasha* or *Hototogisu*, back then, everyone filmed them here… here at Hanamidera, Dōkanyama, places like that.” “Who else was involved?” “There weren’t any special groups—back then, all us rank-and-file actors earned our keep on the sly.” “Then there were those bastards who wormed their way in as middlemen to skim their cut.”

“Who is that?” “Choco was the pioneer of all that.” Having said that, he glanced back at Ogura. “Choco—that guy—don’t you think he’d built up a decent sum by those days? Ever since then, he’s been making his petty little moves…” “That might well be.” Having said that, Ogura turned toward Tashiro again. “Now that you mention it—what became of that money from before?” “It remains exactly as it was.”

“Return it quickly.—Otherwise, Hishikawa—that man might die.” “He might die? —Why?”

“About half a month ago, he suddenly collapsed while out and has been lying at home ever since, they say.” “Why…? “Why… again…?” “It’s a cerebral hemorrhage.” “Cerebral hemor…?”

IX Tashiro began to say but immediately cut himself off. “Who did you hear that from?”

“I heard it from Yoshizawa earlier.” “From Yoshizawa?—Why Yoshizawa…?”

“I went and asked Nishimaki.”

“Why? —Why Mr. Kimpei? That doesn’t make any sense…” “There’s nothing strange about it—when Nishimaki heard about it somewhere, he went to visit him together.” “To visit him?” “No matter how much like dogs and monkeys they’ve been, when it comes down to it, they’re old associates—thirty years of deep acquaintance. … Whatever Hishikawa’s side may be, as for Nishimaki—that’s the kind of man he is—he must still feel somewhat uneasy deep down.”

“I haven’t seen it, but if anything were to happen to Choco, Kimpei’d be the first to shed tears…”

Out of nowhere, Miura said from beside him. Before long, the three of them emerged from among the desolate trees of the precincts onto the continuation of the path they had come by. Turning past the small painted Western-style building standing solitary there, they came upon a slope that sloped downward.—On one side ran a high stone wall; along this sunless, dark, hushed path, the last remnants of winter’s fallen leaves lay piled among the gravel.

“But that…” After a moment, Tashiro spoke again. “Could it really be a cerebral hemorrhage?” “Why?” “Don’t you think… perhaps it’s somewhat connected to Mr. Wakamiya preying on his nerves?” “What—he got so shocked his eyes rolled back?” Miura immediately deflected with a smirk. “This ain’t about some *Natsu-kosode* ashtray…” “No… No, I mean—” “Wouldn’t Choco have one hell of a rude awakening?”

“He’s not that kind of man.” Without hesitation, Ogura added. “No, even if he isn’t that kind of man…” “If anyone’s to shoulder it, it’s Rakuten Bōzu.” Miura picked up the thread. “We’ve lost Azuma, lost Wakamiya—if Choco dies too, even someone as thick-skulled as him… Thick-skulled as they are, they’ve got their fragile spots.” “——He’d be thoroughly disheartened.” “If they learn their lesson and stop harboring excessive hopes, that would be better for society.”

“Quit messin’ around. Even if he keels over once or twice, he ain’t the type to just lie there quiet and stay down for good. Once that bastard gets his teeth into somethin’, he’ll never let go.” “But still…?” “Geisha or actress—once he’s marked ’em, there’s no wrigglin’ free. Chase ’em till they’re run ragged, then corner ’em proper—that’s his stock-in-trade.”

“There’s no standing up to such pushy types,” Ogura said. “As long as it gets done… As long as things get settled… that’s all that matters,” Miura continued. “Just that… Just that… No room for shame or reputation.” “Is that so…?” Tashiro said admiringly.

……The slope came to an end. But before them now spread an even broader, dustier slope.—When they climbed to its crest, the three stood atop Dōkanyama’s grass-withered cliff overlooking Tabata, the ceaseless clatter of national railway trains crossing beneath their feet.—A boundless expanse of roofs stretched hazily from Mikawa-shima to Ogu.—Amid them rose smokestacks like ship masts, a bold scene proclaiming the advance of a “new Tokyo”… “Things have changed,” Miura murmured with a sigh. “How would you know? —Until just recently, this whole area here was nothing but rice fields all the way to the edge of the Arakawa.”

“There’s not a single one left.” Tashiro gazed into the distance. “Back in March and April when the rapeseed flowers were at their peak—there was nothing like it.” “No rapeseed flowers.” The vast sky spread over that scene.—Sunset clouds trailed shadows across its water-clear expanse. ……Ogura saw this and remained silent. ——Loneliness—moldering, distant spring clouds—he quietly pondered such a verse.

――――――――――――――――――― ……After boarding a train from Tabata and alighting at Ueno, the three of them then took the underground railway to Asakusa. —Just as they had once returned from Mukojima, the three once again set out for the "Kiku no Ie." ("Osaka Asahi Shimbun" January 5–April 4, 1928)