Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mukojima

I

……Just after disembarking from the ferry, Tashiro was called out to by two young women accompanying each other. Without paying any mind to Ogura and Miura, he walked ahead toward Kototoi.

“What’s that?”

Ogura said to Tashiro, who had immediately caught up from behind.

“That was you…” Tashiro began to speak but then said, “Kei-chan, you know about it, right?” He turned his gaze toward Miura—who walked while stroking his chin as was his habit.

“Ain’t that Mrs. Chibisaburō?”

Abruptly and without hesitation, Miura answered.

“Chibisaburō?”

Ogura squinted his small eyes behind his glasses as he adjusted himself. “Chiyosaburō, you know.” Immediately, Tashiro took over. “The one from Narikomaya, that…”

“Ah, that female-role actor… The one who’s a bit short…?” “So it’s Chibisaburō.” Once again abruptly, Miura retorted. “Which one is it, though?” Ogura didn’t pursue that thread. “The Western-style one or the ginkgo-leaf hairstyle one?” “It’s the Western-style one.” “Then it ain’t such a big deal.” “Hey, come on—that’s just how it is!” Miura spat out, “But still—that… What’s with that pathetic look of hers? What’s with that soggy mess…?” “Why?”

“Isn’t that right? Why? You ask?” “Isn’t that just how an actor’s wife is?” “What’s this ‘how an actor’s wife is’?” “An actor’s.” “And what about us?” “And what about us being like that…?” “That’s why I’m saying it—because we’re all in the same boat. Not that I’m lookin’ down on ’em, but if you’re an actor’s wife, act like one! Quit puttin’ on airs like they don’t know a thing. At least toss out a ‘Oh, good day!’ or ‘My, where are you all off to?’—even if it’s a damn lie! But instead of even that, they just brush it off with some half-assed excuse—ain’t that right, Yō-chan? You’re headin’ there…?”

“But that’s…” “If she were some upstanding citizen or whatever—fine! But you’re a geisha yourself! Even if it’s all lies—ain’t you s’posed to be in the charm trade?”

“…………” Tashiro fell silent. “I never liked it from the start—you’re just too damn ignorant…”

Miura alone spewed such venom—the very reason he came to be called "Miura Kōbei" among his peers… Ogura walked alone, as if following the capricious wind, composing verses all the while—the withered winter, the desolate winter…

The needlessly vast, sprawling embankment of Mukojima. As for cherry trees—now only along the riverbank, and even those so-called “young trees” (if the term isn’t too generous)—the Mukojima embankment was planted with nothing but spindly, greasy, miserable things, their branches like wretched withered sticks. Beneath the deeply overcast sky of the season, the old-fashioned streetlamp—standing bleached and forsaken in the very center of the road—together with the dull gleam upon the water, rendered the entire scene all the more frost-scorched. Even buses bound for Tamanoi or Azuma Bridge continued to come and go along that road without pause…

II

“Huh?”

Suddenly, Tashiro stopped. “What the hell?” Startled by that abrupt cry, Miura too came to a halt. “The Ox Deity is gone.” “The Ox Deity?” Alongside Tashiro, Miura also looked down at the base of the embankment. Indeed, there stood only the large ginkgo tree—adorned with a sacred rope and towering robustly—while neither torii gate, tamagaki fence, shrine building… nor even a shadow or trace of Ushijima Shrine remained. The dry earth had spread out only as a barren expanse, chillingly cold……

“What the hell.” Miura said. —clicked his tongue. —as if half-speaking to himself…

“What’s going on here, though?… Did it move somewhere else?” Following that remark, Tashiro said: “That’s not wrong.—No matter what, the local tutelary deity couldn’t have just vanished into thin air.” “It burned down, right? Here.”

“When?” “No—during the Great Kanto Earthquake.” “That damned inferno’s to blame!” “The whole area here became a sea of flames back then.”

“Why’d it burn down even though it was right by the water?” “That water burned.” “Even the water we relied on burned and flowed away.” “So those who jumped into the river to save themselves ended up losing their lives instead.” “But that’s…?” “Someone who didn’t see it wouldn’t get it.” Abruptly snapping back, Miura said, “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 noticing it for the first time. On the water—dully uniform and coldly painted over—floated several boats. Through those boats floating hazily, detached from the mundane world, a steamer weaved its way, busily churning up white waves. ——It was a scene Tashiro had gazed upon daily in his youth, back when he was still not an actor as he is now—when he lived as the second son of an oil shop in Shōtenchō.——This marked the beginning of his downfall: sneaking out whenever there was a lull at the shop, crossing the ferry under the neighbors’ watchful eyes, deliberately commuting all the way to Suzakichō for Kiyomoto lessons.——Soon after, he eloped with his teacher’s adopted daughter.——Since this happened ten years ago, Tashiro would have been nineteen at the time……

“Now Azuma’s dead…”

Ogura suddenly glanced back over his shoulder. “Huh?” Flustered, Tashiro turned his eyes toward Ogura.

“No, no—Azuma died right here.” Ogura said with a pensive demeanor, “Chased by the flames, he fled here from Koumai. Thinking that reaching the embankment would save him—that was the end of that man’s luck.” “He… But he…” Tashiro said. “Why did he have to die like that? “When I heard about it in Osaka, I was shocked.—Everyone—no, when we first heard, none of us really believed it.”

“That’s right, I imagine.” “And that person…” “When we speak of that person… we all just assumed he was in Tanukiana, Azabu.” “There’s no way someone in Azabu could’ve met such a fate.” “—There’s a limit to making up such nonsense. By then—when the truth had finally started coming out—everyone backstage was whispering about it that way.”

III

“That’s right.” Ogura nodded as if to affirm his point. “If this were Miura instead of Azuma—even if he’d been living in Yotsuya rather than Azabu—would you be saying, ‘Oh really? So he got what was coming to him?’” “I never thought he was the type to die peacefully on a tatami mat… but that’s how it ended up after all, huh?” “Fate, after all…” “You’re joking.” Miura deliberately put on a displeased air as he spoke. “But if you say so, that’s just how it goes.” Ogura, with an utterly serious expression, said, “No one would’ve imagined a good person like Azuma meeting such an end. “When it comes to you—you talk about principles, make sarcastic remarks, go out of your way to annoy people.” “No matter who you ask, they don’t have anything decent to say.” “So out of human kindness—they say Miura did this and that—and they say he pitifully burned to death in Mukojima.” “…But even if you say that, there’s no one to defend you—serves you right! Good riddance! Everyone’s saying it’s all about character…”

“That’s why they say it’s a man’s daily conduct that defines him.”

Riding on that momentum, Tashiro also spoke.

“What’s there to gripe about?” Miura retorted, “If you ask me, it’s Azuma who had the rotten nature.—It’s precisely because of his nature that he ended up like that.” “That’s exactly it.” Tashiro promptly shot back, “Why his nature? “Why does he have a rotten nature?” “If that bastard had just stayed holed up quietly in Tanukiana, Azabu, it would’ve been better.” “There was no need for him to come crawling out to this damned Koume Sankai.” “If he hadn’t dragged himself out to this godforsaken place, none of this would’ve happened after all.”

“But that’s… —It couldn’t be helped, could it?” “Why couldn’t it be helped?” “But isn’t that right? —He moved here because commuting from Azabu every day to Asakusa… to the park theater was too much trouble, wasn’t it?” “You know a lot about this, huh?” “I heard about it.—Afterward, I found out everything, so I know.” “Then—do you know why Azuma ended up going to that park theater… and even joining a comedy troupe like that?”

“I don’t know about that.” “What—you don’t know that?” “I don’t know about that much.”

“Because it makes money.” “I’ll punch you—I mean it.” Tashiro abruptly stopped and raised his voice. “Why?” Miura deliberately put on an air of composure. “I’m no amateur—no amateur at all.”

“Who?” “Me, obviously.” “Ain’t that obvious?—You don’t need me to spell it out for you. Even if you showed him to some thieving scrap dealer—he still wouldn’t look respectable.” “Then act like it. Then treat me with a bit of that respect.” “What am I supposed to do?” “If you perform in the park, it’s obvious you’ll make money—these days, hey, even a three-year-old knows that.”

“But I said I didn’t know, didn’t I?” “That’s because the counterpart was *him*—Mr. Azuma, who wouldn’t fuss over money like that.—Or maybe not… What sort of behind-the-scenes arrangements—” “Let’s go down already, come on…”

Ogura, who had once again walked ahead at some point, turned around as he said this.—Just like that, the three descended the embankment toward Chomeiji Temple.

Four

A gate… if you could even call it that—just two pillars erected as mere markers on either side. Along both sides of the single continuous stone path, nothing remained to evoke the former Chomeiji Temple except monuments of various shapes crowded together like corpses, packed densely along the way. Even the old shop once famous for its sakura mochi had crumbled into a crude tin-roofed shack—utterly unrecognizable, its former elegance now reduced to stacked wooden boxes and eboshi-shaped baskets dangling from the ceiling. Only these remnants hinted at its past refinement, while the faded carpet still lay spread out as of old, waiting for customers who would never return—this very state rendering it all the more pitiful……

“It’s really deteriorated.” The three stood before the Ichi-kyū monument, known from the rakugo story *“Oseppu.”*

Tashiro said with an involuntary sigh.

“Even the main hall—it’s gone too; left burnt to a crisp.”

Ogura pointed with his chin toward the lone patch of open ground at the far end. “Ah, really.” Tashiro sighed again as if to say, “I’m shocked, but…” “Not a single bit of work’s been done over here yet.”

“I guess so… When you’re walking around Ginza, it still feels exactly like it used to, though…” “This is how all the famous spots end up bit by bit turning into nothing.”

Beside them, Miura declared his conclusion with finality.—The two or three cosmos flowers still clinging to bloom behind the sakura mochi shop, the shadow of a chicken cowering beneath them, even Ryuhoku’s chipped-nose face on his monument—all of it merged into the same wretched, hollow scenery around them, ravaged by frost. “...Still some cosmos clinging on.” Ogura tried saying that to himself under his breath. While devising the first line of a haiku to pair with that, he once again took the lead ahead of the two and began walking absentmindedly.

Climbing the stone steps—mere remnants of what must have once been a back gate—the three returned to the embankment.

“But still… that man.” Abruptly, Tashiro spoke again. “Why… why would that man…?” “………?” Silently, Miura looked toward Tashiro.

“It’s Mr. Azuma. “Given who Mr. Azuma was, I don’t think he’d go out of his way to promote himself like that… but…?” “If he’d been that kind of smooth operator, he wouldn’t have kept floundering around like some amateur all this time.” “But even so—being recruited. “But even so—the fact they kept coming to court him from the start.” “...What on earth did they see in him to target him like that from the beginning?” “Hmph?” Miura deliberately snorted through his nose. “His acting skills aside—even considering his type, that man. “No matter how you spin it, that man wasn’t cut out for comedy.—I’ve always thought he was the least qualified among us in Yanokura for that sort of work.”

“……” “He was that kind of man—a man with that level of skill.—So if he’d gone into comedy, he’d have done just as much there, no doubt.—Though done it he would have…” “—Though done it he would have…”

Five “He was no such actor.”

With that, Miura brusquely cut him off. “Such an actor?” “He was no such adaptable actor.”

Cutting in again, Miura said.

“But that’s…”

Tashiro made a disapproving face. “They were courting him.” “It wasn’t just you—everyone was courting that man.” “That man was never a good actor, nor was he a skilled one.” “But… but…” “Whether he could do comedy or not—that’s not even the issue here.—In the first place—he was never an actor with that kind of skill to begin with.”

“Th-that’s not right—that’s a lie!” Tashiro frantically retorted, “You can’t just say things like that!” “I’m saying it because it’s true.” Miura remained coldly insistent. “I’ve known him since the very start of his acting days—since he was still wandering from one backwater to another in Kyushu.” “A hack—such a hack that no troupe would take him seriously.” “Even if you say that, it’s not right.—Before… no matter how he was before… once he came to Yanokura—once he became a disciple of Yanokura and settled in Tokyo…”

“That wasn’t him shining on his own merit. He was made to shine by others—they were forced to make him shine. In fact, his lack of any real artistry ironically served that purpose.” “Even so... Even so… but…” “Cut it out—you’re making a scene.” Laughing, Ogura came to a stop. “Does it really matter either way, such things…” “But that’s too much—no matter how you look at it, you’re going too far with this holier-than-thou talk.” Tashiro heatedly retorted, “I liked him! He liked me!”

“I didn’t dislike him either.—He was a harmless, good man.”

Almost immediately, Miura spoke again.

“Then why?—If that’s the case, why?”

“I’ve known that man for a long time too.” Ogura calmly interposed. “That’s why I understand the circumstances so well.” “But putting it Miura’s way leaves nothing to the imagination.” “But there’s no denying it.—That man being praised as skilled or tasteful was ultimately because Yanokura’s leader knew how to use him. To put it plainly, he wasn’t special.—Hishikawa, Nishimaki—every old-timer from Yanokura is the same.”

“But in that regard, he was honest—he knew it well himself.” “Unlike Hishikawa and Nishimaki, he never thought himself that much of an actor.” “That’s… that’s why I’m saying it,” Miura pressed emphatically. “Out there, people think he was some full-fledged actor who made it on his own merit.” “That’s what makes it pitiable—for him…” “Then why did he go to the park?” Ogura interjected. “Why… why would he go to such a place…?”

Tashiro abruptly steered the conversation back again.

Six

“He was bought—splendidly poached.” “But,” Miura continued nonchalantly, “they didn’t buy him as an actor—they bought him as a front man.” “As a front man?” “That’s right—‘The enemy is at Honno-ji.’ They didn’t want that man at all—there was something else entirely different they needed first.” “……” “Don’tcha get it? In reality, they wanted Wakamiya.”

“Mr. Wakamiya?” “They targeted Azuma because they wanted Wakamiya.” “For Wakamiya, Azuma was his only uncle.” “In other words—he was bait.” “—That guy ended up becoming bait to snatch Wakamiya.”

“But that’s…”

“What?” “No—Mr. Wakamiya.” “Of all people… him.” “That’s… that’s outrageous…!” “That’s right. It’s reckless.—An utterly outrageous scheme.—But it’s a battle they forced through despite knowing full well.” “Rather than that, go after Mr. Wakamiya.” “……Just because Mr. Wakamiya is handsome, just because he has that much popularity—dragging him into it, there’s no way he could pull off comedy!”

“Who’d grab Wakamiya and make him do such a thing…”

Miura deliberately laughed out loud. "So in the end, it's still the front man?"

Tashiro said with intended sarcasm. “They’ll make them do *Shinpa*—*Shinpa*!” Miura ignored this and continued, “At first, they’ll slip in one or two acts between Rakuten Troupe’s comedies. Then, once the tide turns, they plan to set up something called the ‘Wakamiya Troupe.’ That’s their scheme.”

“Are those Rakuten Troupe bastards really doing such a thing?” “Why? Those Rakuten bastards aren’t ones you can handle with kid gloves.—If you dig into their guts, there’s no telling what bigger schemes they’re hatching.” “But as for Mr. Wakamiya.—Of course, Mr. Wakamiya wouldn’t have gone along with such a scheme, right?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself.—They’ve only just pulled in Azuma.”

“But…” “They’ve barely finished their warm-up.” “—They came clattering right into it.”

“Ah, an earthquake…” “Everything flourished thanks to that quake, I tell you.” “And Mr. Azuma…” “Which makes Azuma the biggest fool.—Like a raccoon dog crawling out of its den just to die.” “Truly.” “Well, not exactly… but—” Ogura abruptly cut in again. “In return, that man got his hands on two thousand and three thousand yen bundled together for the first time in his life.—Moved into a house with a gate and suddenly kept three servants plus a live-in student.” “He might as well have had his reasons.”

Passing by Ōkura’s villa, the three of them eventually found themselves walking before Nakano Watashi.

The water—swollen with abundance in that slight indentation of the inlet, likely at peak rising tide—bleakly reflected the shadows of two or three withered scrub trees and the crimson obi of a young woman inside the ferry that had yet to depart. “Hey, excuse us!” A cart laden with shimenawa ropes and wreaths hurriedly passed between them.—The fresh, crisp scent of new straw struck their nostrils violently.

“The market already…?”

Ogura muttered. Perhaps they hadn't heard. Neither Miura nor Tashiro said a word.

Seven

Before long, the three of them descended the embankment once again. That being their original purpose for coming to Mukojima—to visit Hyakkaen Garden—they turned left onto the road immediately after descending. There, small shops characteristic of Shinkaimachi stood lined up in a jumbled row. The fuzzy, napped hues of merino fabric displayed at the front of the small shop strained to brighten the sunken, lifeless air of the surroundings. "Things have changed around here too..." Tashiro looked around intently. "But I wonder—did this place escape the fire?"

“It didn’t burn down.” Ogura replied, “By a narrow margin, this area was spared.”

“Even so, it was all rice fields back then… though now…” But when they turned right again there, they encountered a large mud ditch—or rather, it was more akin to a stream—whose desolate waters flowed while soaking the shadows cast by each house along its path. The scene vividly recalled the days when this area had been rice paddies.—Pickled greens towered in mounds upon the road.—The crisp white freshness of those greens, which two or three women kept washing and laying out on wooden planks beside them, deepened that rustic air.

“Still not here yet?” Laughing at Miura’s remark, Ogura pointed ahead. “There it is.—You can already see it…” Before long, the three passed through a thatched gate flanked by two couplet plaques on its pillars—one reading “Flowers bloom unceasing through spring, summer, autumn, winter,” the other “Guests vie to come from east, west, south, and north.” ――At the entrance lay a boundary marked only by nameplates for bush clover, pampas grass, kudzu, maiden flower, thoroughwort… its desolate soil pointlessly preserved in that withered expanse.――Amidst it all gleamed the coldly incongruous luster of freshly replaced bamboo—glossy and unnaturally verdant. ――In all that parched bleakness stretched before them, not a shadow hinted at human presence.

“It’s so quiet…”

Tashiro said admiringly. “Of course it is.—Only a damn busybody or some idle fool would come out to a place like this in this freezing cold.” “Then what are we?—Which one are we?”

“We’re both, I tell you.”

“Both?”

“Ain’t that right? I tell ya.” “We ain’t just busybodies—it’s ’cause we’re idle, I tell ya.” “Ain’t we just idling ourselves to ruin by now?” “It’s fine once in a while.—Once in a while, we need to rest our bones…”

“You don’t even realize we’ll starve while you’re busy talking.” “Hmph—you’re joking.” “Well don’t fret—there won’t be plays for a good while now.”

“It’s fine—even if there aren’t any.” “Poor thing, sister—you don’t know a damn thing, I tell you.” ……Ahead of the three, uncut stands of withered pampas grass—bleakly clustered in dense, pale-as-water tufts—remained bundled just as they were.

Eight

Through the withered pampas grass, the three came out to the edge of the pond. There, cattails and rushes—ash-gray and clustered densely together—were withered. The dark water that mirrored a windless, cloudy sky lay dully, without a ripple in its depths. “How… it’s still…” Admiringly, Tashiro spoke again. “It’s exactly as it was before. “It hasn’t changed one bit here.”

“When did you come here?” “Whenever it was—it’s been ages. It was way back, before I went to Osaka… seven or eight years now.”

“Seven or eight years?” “And yet—and yet, not one bit…” Nostalgically, Tashiro looked around.

“Me? I came here right after the Russo-Japanese War and haven’t been back since.” Miura said without even laughing, “You remember, don’t you?—About that ghost story gathering held here back then?” “I don’t know.”

Ogura answered clearly. “That’s not how it is, is it?”

“Back during the Russo-Japanese War, I was still traveling around.” “So does that mean I arrived in Tokyo before you?”

“That should be the case.” “Even for me, though, it was right after I’d arrived.—At Kabukiza Theatre, Yanokura and the late Mr. Yanagida collaborated to stage this Meiji-era adaptation of *The Peony Lantern* called *Love’s Impermanence*—a kyōgen play.—And before that, what you’d call promotion nowadays—to drum up excitement, we held a ‘ghost story gathering’ right here.—Damn thing ended up being a real hit too.”

“Who came?”

Tashiro interjected. “Who came? Everyone did—every last Shinpa actor in Tokyo gathered here.” “On top of that, just the clients from the riverbank and Kodemmacho, the reporters and writers, and the folks who came to help from Shinbashi, Yanagibashi, and Yoshi-cho—it was a damn spectacle. Anyway, it was right when *Yanokura* was being pushed hard.” “So what exactly did they do?” “Well see, the plan was to kick things off with a merchant telling a ghost story—then five or six guys who’d brought their own tales would come out and scare everyone proper.” “And then, just when it reached a suitably eerie hour, the idea was…for each person to go through this grass to the pavilion alone, write their name there, and come back. Since we’d only expected forty or fifty people to show up at most, we’d come up with that sort of plan.” “But when the day actually came, the number that showed up was roughly five times that…”

“And two hundred…” “No, that’s not it—the restaurant next door… though it’s not the one that’s there now… every single room was so packed with people you couldn’t move an inch.” “So this foul-mouthed guy said—‘This isn’t a ghost story gathering—it’s a damn ghost story festival!’” “He’s got a way with words…” While saying that, Ogura quietly walked along the pond. “Once it got to that point, there was no room for clever plans or even a bee’s brain’s worth of sense.” “Since it was early July—the peak of short nights—if they’d gone one by one to write their names, dawn would’ve broken before they finished.—But instead, they came in groups of two, three—hell, even five or ten at a time. Nothing impressive about that.” “The real trouble was the insect whistles.” “After all, they’d planned it out from the start—procured those insect whistles from the vendor with a thud and hidden them splendidly in the grass—that part was fine. But when the time came, all hell broke loose—startled, not a single one of these damn things would make a sound!”

Nine ……In their sudden panic over this failure, two or three members of the common room took advantage of the surrounding darkness to hide amidst the thickets of tall grass and blow real insect whistles.—Miura was one of those chosen for this task. “The wretchedness of newcomers is downright unbearable.” “That’s where it differs from today’s common room—back then, if someone dared say such a thing, they’d be called an impudent brat, a damn fool, and kicked out of the troupe they’d worked so hard to join.—With no other choice, while the others were getting merrily drunk, I grabbed my rickety lantern and crawled into the grass.”

“What did you do with that rickety lantern?”

“I stuck it on my rear.—And then, to make up for it, I spent the whole night blowing whistles while mosquitoes feasted on me.” “So, did that work?” “Whether it worked or not—hell, it didn’t matter. Most folks had already caught on and left snickering like they’d been tickled.” “And the ones who’d tricked people would stroll off with straight faces, saying loud enough for everyone to hear—‘Well, that was just like a play!’” “Then there’s no backing down, is there?”

“But at first, I thought even this was part of my duty and kept my guard up.—But as the night wore on bit by bit, I got sleepy, hungry, chilled right through.—If it was gonna be like this, I’d have been better off taking my lumps back in Hokkaido.” “—That’s what I felt right down to my bones then.” “Just a tall tale…” As Tashiro laughed dismissively—

“It ain’t a joke—it’s the honest truth.” Miura cut him off sharply: “That was the last time— “That was the last time I’ve been back.” Amidst grass and trees and water—twenty years gone like a dream—even Miura now wore this lonely look of someone sifting through time’s debris for any salvageable shard. In summer, beneath suffocating tangles of dead branches where layered rot pooled beneath your feet, even the soil’s breath hung damp and thick with darkness…

“Do you come here all the time?”

Turning toward Ogura, Tashiro said. “I don’t come all the time, but I do come about once every three months.” “What do you come here for?” “Still… for haiku?” “No, I just wander over here.—On rare days off from acting, there’s nothing as comforting as coming here to stroll around.” “It’s the counterpart to Miura’s fishing pond.” Tashiro alone nodded. “How about you? Have you gone yet?” “I haven’t gone.—I went for two or three days straight, but it wasn’t any fun, so I stopped.”

“Why?” “As Ogura just said, even my fishing pond only becomes enjoyable when I force myself to go during those rare one or two busy days off from acting.—But with a whole month off like this time—standing at a tide where I don’t even know if I’ll earn next month—fishing’s the last thing on my mind.—That’s just how human feelings are.—Right, Ogura?” “That’s right.” “But… but that’s…” Tashiro wore an unyielding expression. “You’ve both been saying such strange things this whole time… How… How can you possibly say that?”

Ten “Why can’t you grasp that?” Miura echoed mockingly, “From our side, he’s precisely the sort who’d say that.” “But I went to Yanokura yesterday too.—I went to Yanokura and met with the boss.—Not just the boss—right when I was there, the manager came by, and I ended up talking with him for a while too.” “But since the boss didn’t mention anything about it, the manager didn’t say anything either.”

“Do you honestly think they’d say that?” “I think they would.—In fact, I asked them straight out—‘Where’re we playing next month?’ That’s exactly how I put it.” “And what’d they say?” “‘The theater hut’s location… still undecided…’” “Nothing to it.” “Proof enough, ain’t it?” “First off—what day d’you reckon today is?” “December fifteenth.” “Treating this like usual? Usual?—Theater hut still up in the air this late, play undecided…” “And? Ever had such a case before now?”

“There hasn’t been any.” “In other words, the company’s cut ties with us.—We’ve all been fired.”

“Th-that’s absurd…” In Tashiro’s dismissive tone there flickered a faint hint of panic. Now that he mentioned it—now that he mentioned it, even yesterday… “Oh well.—You’ll find out soon enough anyway.” Miura coldly saw through him and said, “A dependent like you just needs to keep that clueless face until the critical moment.” “But… but however, if that’s how it is, then…”

“Cut it out—again.”

Ogura made a face as if to furrow his brows.

“But… you…” “It’s not like that’s been clearly decided yet.” Ogura said quietly, trying to placate him, “It’s just that we can sense that kind of atmosphere.” “It’s precisely because we’ve weathered more bitter oranges than you that we can sense all sorts of things—just like that—without even trying.” “—What we suspect usually turns out exactly that way and comes right before us.”

“So then… just as I thought…” “Even if it did come to that, wouldn’t it be fine? We have Yanokura on our side. We have Yanokura—a steadfast mentor—on our side. Even if our ties with the company are severed, there are plenty of paths left in this world.” “That is—that’s true, but…” “If we just stick with our mentor, that mentor would never abandon his troupe members to wander the streets. He’ll make sure we have enough to get by, no matter what.—It’s just that we’ll lose any chance to speak up, same as always.”

“…………”

The conversation ceased for a time—crossing the earthen bridge… beneath it lay thick stems of withered lotus helplessly submerged in water. …Passing before the O-nari zashiki with its closed shoji doors, the three eventually settled into one of the scattered azumaya pavilions—there, plum treetops strained upward… their branches casting faint shadows like invisible ink across the ground. “Oh—a crane! A crane?” Miura declared as if he’d discovered something miraculous. “They didn’t exist back then. “Back in the day, there weren’t any of those things around!”

While saying this, he immediately stood up and headed toward that enclosure.

“What’s wrong, hey, Tashiro?” Ogura poured tea from the teapot the maid had brought over and said, “What made you suddenly go quiet like that?” “All at once now… it’s like I’ve suddenly been reduced to nothing…” “Reduced to nothing?”

“It’s like… this lonely, miserable feeling came over me all of a sudden.” “You fool.”

Ogura laughed pityingly.

Three Crows

I

When Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro—the three of them—were wandering around Mukojima like that. To put it more precisely—at the very moment those three exited Chomeiji Temple’s grounds back onto the embankment, with Miura and Tashiro vigorously debating the late Azuma Ichirō as they walked, their fellow troupe member Nishimaki… Nishimaki Kinpei, their senior and a veteran comic actor, was walking alone along Yanokura’s riverbank toward Ryōgoku in solitude.

That day, Nishimaki visited his mentor’s place for the first time in a while—just as Tashiro had done the day before. Nishimaki wanted to subtly investigate the situation regarding the year-end greetings and their aftermath—that is, the Hongo play from November, which the company had initially planned to stage in the provinces but which the mentor had stubbornly insisted on forcing them to open locally instead; a play that had failed to draw decent crowds, thereby reigniting awkward tensions between the mentor and the company—rumors of which had been circulating vigorously in parts of the greenroom just before things settled down again…… Of course, even so, Nishimaki trusted the company and trusted his mentor. Even if such things had happened—for something so trivial at this late stage—what would become of our troupe because of it? Such things—the kind of miserable, joyless notions that Ogura and Miura might voice—never so much as crossed Nishimaki’s mind. The relationship between our mentor and the company wasn’t like that—the bond between our troupe and the company wasn’t so naively lenient. Both our mentor and our troupe had contributed considerably to the company’s benefit all this time. The company knew that full well. ……So their main concern was whether they could stage a play in Tokyo for New Year—having forced through November’s performance, there was a real chance that come spring, they might be packed off to Nagoya as backlash. Spring was fleeting, but the provinces were unwelcoming.—It was in holding such a crude, single-minded perspective that Nishimaki found common ground with Tashiro, who was over twenty years his junior.

This was because, ultimately, even though Nishimaki had become part of the same mentor’s group, his very upbringing… his very upbringing as an actor was fundamentally different from that of Ogura, Miura, or the late Azuma. The path he had walked was entirely different.

Ogura, Miura, and Azuma—to speak of them—had all become actors on their own whims, touring relentlessly, leading their own troupes across the land, scraping by with street performances when desperate, enduring every conceivable hardship until, like travelers resting beneath a great tree’s shade, they finally shed their worn-out straw sandals at their current mentor’s doorstep. Yet Nishimaki, older than any of them, had scarcely known such rough waves of the world upon himself. From the summer of his twenty-first year, when he first became an actor under his mentor’s guidance, Nishimaki of Yura’s troupe had spent over thirty long years shadowing his master like a silhouette—though to claim “every single day” would be false. Once, around twenty-five or six, when Yura fell ill and abruptly withdrew from the Wanoza troupe mid-performance, Nishimaki followed him down to Osaka. Afterward, they wandered the Kyushu circuit for about half a year before returning to Tokyo—only to find Yura staging a desolate play in Yokohama to empty seats. After that, the Wanoza troupe was scheduled to open grandly at the Kabukiza Theatre, but when Nishimaki heard this, he immediately severed ties with one faction and rushed to Yokohama. So except for that half-year when he hadn’t been by his side, from then on—no matter what happened—he never left his mentor’s side again.

II To put it in passing, Nishimaki had originally been a fishmonger shouldering his wares through the neighborhoods of Nihonbashi’s Ishimachi, Ginmachi, Denmachō… A habitual theater enthusiast, he could not rest until seeing any troupe’s performance by its third day; 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 would neglect his trade to entertain them with voice impersonations—all of which remained tolerable until it escalated into “I want to become an actor,” driving him to seek connections and beg apprenticeship from two or three veteran actors. At one mentor’s place, they rejected him outright for his fishmonger past; at another’s, they politely brushed him off with vague excuses; at yet another’s, despite his earnest pleas about his recklessness, they kindly admonished him. There came a time when he nearly resigned himself to abandoning hope, but proof that the clouds of obsession had not truly dispersed arrived one morning when—as usual—he went to the riverbank to procure goods and happened to pick up a newspaper at the wholesaler’s storefront. A certain article within instantly reignited his aspirations. It was an advertisement recruiting temporary hires needed for Wanoza Troupe’s play *Sino-Japanese War* at Asakusa-za.—He stuffed the newspaper into his belly band and shouldered his empty tray—for it was a day of foul weather, leaving no fish to sell.—Midway across a bridge, he suddenly hurled that tray, cutting board and all, into the river below.—It was a cloudy day at summer’s end; an autumn-like chill swept mournfully over the water, through the shade of willows that clustered thick and stifling at the bridge’s edge. Even that imitation of Tsuwkematsu… that preposterous mimicry of Tsuwkematsu—for him, meant first abandoning fishmongering to achieve his ambition this time by any means necessary. It was to etch that resolute determination even more sharply into himself—

That afternoon, he immediately prepared and visited the teahouse affiliated with Asakusa-za where Wano was based. His attire at the time consisted of a matching riverbank yukata, an eight-paneled three-shaku cloth tied at the waist, leg gaiters, and a sedge hat held in hand. They would gather all applicants and select from among them, so come back tomorrow—but that outfit wouldn’t do. —The young man acting as Wano’s proxy said this to him. He bowed his head politely and withdrew.

The next day, he stood at the teahouse gate in an outfit completely different from yesterday’s—a kasuri-patterned narrow-sleeved kimono and Indian-cotton heko obi… and of course, he had not forgotten to hang a grimy hand towel from it. He was added to the nearly hundred gathered applicants.—And what must his joy have been when he learned he had been chosen as one of the twenty-five selected from among them…

From that day on, he immediately began rehearsals. The role assigned to him was that of one of the many Chinese soldiers in the “War” scene. He hurried to the theater every day. He received a daily wage of sixteen sen.

III

The Wanoza Troupe’s performance was a massive hit. Not only was it a hit, but through that single performance, “student theater” established a clear presence in Tokyo’s theater world—taking unshakable root. Wano, who possessed more skill as a producer than as an actor, did not let the opportunity slip and immediately followed up with a second arrow. This time, he staged a detective play that was entirely different in style from before. At that time, from those twenty-five temporary hires, they further sifted through and promoted only five as trainees. —The foremost among them was he.

Solely, that was the fruit of his attentiveness. For example, he shaved his head completely to play the role of a Chinese soldier. During breaks between acts, he attended to every little thing, taking it upon himself to handle tasks for the senior actors. This was owing to his former trade—he handled everything with nimble efficiency, spoke decisively, and never faltered no matter the task—so everyone came to rely on “Bōzu,” as they called him. Guest member Yura particularly valued him for being a rare Edo native in the troupe… for most of its thirty or forty members, high and low alike, hailed from Kansai. From the very beginning, Wano himself hailed from Kyoto. …he was given special attention.—Yura, who was popular as both a possessor of beauty and a master of art that adhered to tradition without unpleasantness, was—needless to say—born and raised in Tokyo.

When he became a trainee, he resolved anew to take hold of Yura’s sandals himself. After that, he became an Otsube member again, then head of the large room, and it took him only three years to rise successfully to the rank of Kōbe member. Steadily he ascended.—No natural grace, no striking features—this climb despite lacking any actorly virtue sprang solely from his meticulousness, from an obsession… an obsession with roles… that alone defined him.—That alone was his lifeblood.—For even the most trivial walk-on parts—the more trivial they were, the more fiercely he labored to animate them.—Amidst peers who were slapdash and artless, he darted like a young ayu fish—vivid, electric.

After parting with Wano and returning to Yura’s side, his presence grew even more pronounced on the stage. He became an indispensable favorite in Yura’s troupe. When he appeared, the audience rejoiced without reason. Theater critics, eager to flaunt their discernment, invariably spent excessive ink on him with each performance—leaving him no choice but to swell with pride.

It was exactly around that time. They decided to stage a new Western-style play titled *The Dark World* at Ichimura-za. When he heard the script reading, there was a part where the protagonist hypnotist cast his spell on a man and manipulated him at will. Though he had listened in silence, he secretly smirked to himself—the man who would fall under Yura’s hypnotist’s spell was him. That’s how it should be, that’s how it had to be. Even if that weren’t the case, he was someone who persistently mocked Koya’s trivialities. …But when the roles were finally decided, that part did not come to him. The one to perform that role was elsewhere.…

IV

He was frustrated. He was so frustrated he couldn’t sleep a wink all night. At dawn, after dozing fitfully for thirty minutes, he dreamed of the monstrous cat played by the Fifth Generation in the “Old Temple” scene of *The Fifty-Three Stations with Fan Inns*—a Kabukiza production he’d once seen—toying freely with the role of Okura. He himself had become that Okura being manipulated. After all, he was sharing the stage with the Fifth Generation—if he botched this, he’d never act again… With that thought, he strained every fiber of his being, resolved to die if only this succeeded. Then—Hmm, splendid! You’ve got talent. Quit student acting and become my disciple…—the Fifth Generation told him. What bliss! The moment this thought came, he awoke. A basket lantern’s feeble glow lingered by his pillow. In despair, that night—unable to return home no matter what—he stumbled into the Asakusa teahouse that usually indulged him……

But even so, he was not yet an actor who could openly voice such complaints. He was merely well-regarded among the audience; even as a Kōbe member, his status backstage remained thoroughly unprosperous.—This stemmed from Yura’s rigidity: no matter how cherished a disciple might be, no matter how competently they performed, he would never extend such partiality to one who still lacked sufficient gravitas. With Tokyoite scrupulousness through and through, he drew clear distinctions between fundamentals and trivialities—elevating what deserved elevation and suppressing what demanded suppression. —It was precisely why Yura’s troupe maintained its cohesion, continuing thereafter in undisturbed tranquility…

What on earth would the bastard who stole that role even attempt? What clumsy farce would he botch to humiliate himself? Watching from the sidelines—serves him right, he’ll never manage it, would the master ever condone such nonsense?—muttering these venomous thoughts to soothe his own seething frustration was the sole indulgence Nishimaki permitted himself then. He threw himself into rehearsals solely to witness this downfall.—Yet cruelly, the only role assigned to him was that of a rickshaw driver—a part so threadbare it mocked all attempts at artistry.

As expected, that actor failed after just a single day of rehearsal. His body wouldn’t move as intended—that was what Yura disliked from the very start. Lightly—just lightly—that was Yura’s direction.—But it was too much; he couldn’t manage it… “If you can’t do it, there’s no helping that.…… I ain’t telling you to force what’s impossible.” “But then we can’t put on our play.”

……Yura was not one to usually use such rough language. Only when it came to matters of the stage did he rarely fly into such a rage and lash out. At the same time, when things reached that point, they had no idea how to steer the situation sideways.—Everyone could only stand by with folded arms, quieted, watching the storm clouds gather ominously.

“Call an acrobat! An acrobat!” “—An acrobat could manage it.” Thus the matter escalated to such a point. Yura dug in his heels that far—then, unable to endure any longer, he burst out—in desperation he pleaded before Yura to let him take the role. “Can you do it?” “I can.” “Certain?”

“Yeah, I’m certain.”

From that night onward, he did not return home. He stayed behind at the theater alone and practiced. He lit a candle and practiced single-mindedly on the third floor until dawn broke.

V

His single-minded practice bore fruit, and he succeeded splendidly. He performed a spectacle that even his fellow troupe members found astonishing. Especially the final Dolphin Leap—regarding the part where he leapt over three standing people at once, even Yura, upon seeing it on opening night, lavished praise on its brilliance. Indeed, that scene became the talk of the town, with daily crowds rushing to see it. In every respect, he had restored his honor. And then one day—a day of such bustling business that the theater was packed—after he had shown his usual “madness” in full measure, at the very last moment, whether due to some mishap or misjudgment, he failed his leap. He pitched forward, breaking his front teeth and driving a back tooth through one cheek. His Western-style costume was instantly dyed crimson.

In that state, he was carried to the dressing room and did not regain consciousness for a full day and night. It was an injury of that severity. However, the following day—a day after that—was one of significance for the riverside crowd. It was the day when the riverside wholesalers would come en masse to see their old acquaintance—him. The thought left him no peace to lie idly in bed. Of course, no one opposed it, but he forced himself up and took to the stage still bandaged. And he displayed even greater brilliance than usual—so full of vigor was he……

The broken front teeth could be restored to their former state through dentures. But the cheek wound did not fare as well. The cheek wound remained as a scar for a long time afterward.—But even so, through that, he gained a benefit that could not be exchanged for a mere wound of that degree. The riverside folks naturally began supporting him even more vigorously than before—which eventually led to curtains, banners, and such pouring in from bustling districts like Daikongashi and Machiya, all places that favored Yura—and at the same time, from then on, he came to be treated with great esteem as the tateshi of Yura’s troupe.

But even so, the surge in his own popularity was ultimately a reflection of Yura’s—of Yura’s troupe’s—rising fame day by day. The two or three years after splitting from Yamato had been a doomed venture from the very start—a period riddled with obstacles and hardships. Each production became its own ordeal, demanding they secure funding before they could even raise the curtain. Their only options were small theaters in Honjo, Fukagawa, or Asakusa—or else dilapidated shacks where no audience came no matter what they staged, left abandoned by all. Yura drifted between these wretched venues.—Meanwhile, Yamato achieved success multiple times on the cypress stage of Kabukiza, took his troupe abroad for leisure trips, and even built his own modest theater in central Tokyo—all while flaunting an era of unparalleled prosperity.

But once Yura had gained popularity, it was nothing for him to rival their peak. Before long, Yura formed an alliance with the theater manager in Nihonbashi Nakasu and established it as his permanent theater. By that time, not only had the number of troupe members grown to three or four times what it was at the troupe’s founding, but first-rate actors—the likes of Chikushi, Shima, and Shirakawa—skilled actors, beautiful actors, capable and reliable actors—had all come to be by Yura’s side, supporting him. Even the original troupe members had improved so remarkably under their harsh, exacting master’s strict training that they became unrecognizable. Moreover, even those in the communal quarters were earnest and diligent.—But what was most striking was the beautiful unity on stage…

VI

It was around that time that he began to be called one of Yura’s “Sanbagarasu” (Three Crows) alongside two others.—The other two were Hishikawa, known for his antagonist roles, and another actor like himself specializing in comic relief. That said, compared to him, Washio had a slightly broader artistic range and could even skillfully handle realistic old man roles when called upon. Both had undoubtedly been old, long-standing members since Yokohama, but Hishikawa alone had previously been in Yamato’s troupe and held a status not so different from Yura’s. As a regular member, he was quite highly valued. …a good piece of evidence for this was when he [Hishikawa] and Nishimaki first saw the advertisement for temporary hires and visited Yamato at the Asakusa-za teahouse—a young man came out as Yamato’s proxy. Then he commented on the attire he had prepared for the occasion.—That young man was Hishikawa…

But Hishikawa, in a different sense from him, was no less shrewd. When Hishikawa left Yamato and joined Yura’s troupe, he had of course addressed him as Mr. Yura—using the honorific -kun—but as Yura gradually gained prominence over time, this became Mr. Yura, then manager, and by the period when they were establishing roots at the Nakasu theater, he was already consistently calling him master, master… even to his face.—Yura had long forbidden his disciples from using sensei, insisting they always call him master instead…

Thus, anyone unaware of these origins would never consider Hishikawa to be the same kind of old retainer as him or Washio.—They had regarded him as one with a particularly deep connection among the many disciples.—Thinking so, they arbitrarily made him one of the “Sanbagarasu.”—Hishikawa, rather pleased by this, from then on spread his wings even wider than before, flitting freely between Yura’s favored patrons—Kabutocho brokers, Kiba lumberyards, construction magnates—as he pleased.

He found it disagreeable. It wasn’t just disagreeable—it festered into bitter resentment. It festered even deeper into discontent. Whenever the opportunity arose, he would grab whomever he could and tell them of this unjust matter. However, upon hearing this, more people clapped their hands and rejoiced, “That’s how it’s done!” than those who genuinely furrowed their brows. “This age.—That’s this age for you.” “It’s those who nimbly wheel and deal like that who’ll come out on top in today’s world.”

That was indeed the case. Even if called shrewd, someone as plain and honest as a radish like him… This was precisely why it had been said of Hishikawa, “in a different sense from him”… he was always outdone by Hishikawa. Each time, Hishikawa preempted him. Even if they were invited together to a guest’s parlor, it was Hishikawa who would drink, sing, dance, single-handedly take charge of the occasion, and sweep the scene away by himself. The rumor that before becoming an actor, Hishikawa had spent some time as a rakugo storyteller in Osaka held true—indeed, he was a man of many talents. And he had a particular genius for all such matters as “hosting parlors.” In such situations, the very fact that his stage role was that of an antagonist stood out, which instead became a charming trait.

To avoid suffering such miserable consequences—to avoid being outpaced—he had no choice but to drown himself in drink. He simply had no choice but to act recklessly. He had no choice—otherwise, he couldn’t have maintained appearances……

“Cut it out, hey—don’t force yourself to drink like that.” Washio, nicknamed “The Hermit”…… The other member of the Sanbagarasu constantly worried about such behavior. Yet society eventually transformed even someone like him into a gilded drunkard.

VII

And then twenty years passed. ――For him, those subsequent twenty years were empty, dreamlike days. To put it another way, the Nakasu era marked the summit of his acting career—the peak he had scaled. In the twenty years that followed, he gradually began descending from that height he had painstakingly climbed over the preceding decade. ……Yet he himself had never intended this—he had never thought it so. Precisely for this reason, those twenty subsequent years of empty, dreamlike days held not a single instance of that vivid decisiveness—no defiant tray-tossing from bridges, no abandoning the ascendant Yamato troupe to join Yura’s desolate company, no botched dolphin leaps leaving lifelong injuries. As lead actor, comic relief, charmer, veteran, busybody, one of the Sanbagarasu, drunkard—he remained among Yura’s ever-growing troupe now transformed from its former self. Yet regrettably, his renown never kept pace with Yura’s swelling fame or that of the troupe itself.

……And so it was that Yura’s—Yura Troupe’s—boundlessly growing fame, over those twenty years, finally propelled them from Nakasu into the heart of Tokyo. They performed at every major venue—Kabukiza, Shintomiza, Tokyo-za, and others—until they had gathered unto themselves all the adoration of the capital. In the wake of the Russo-Japanese War, public prosperity had surged inexplicably—partly because Yamato, having overexerted his prowess as a producer to ruinous ends, had fallen from power, and partly because the kabuki world, stripped of its core after the deaths of Danjūrō and Kikugorō, had descended into utter chaos—a stroke of fortune for Yura no doubt. Yet even beyond this, it was Yura’s artistry—unpretentiously fervent, deeply considered, free of affectation from his origins—and the troupe’s beautifully unified performances that captivated even those who had once disdained such “student plays” and never deigned to watch them. Moreover, the traditional flower and willow world—the relentless, ferocious backing of their regular patrons from those entertainment quarters—also played a formidable role in propelling it.

Afterward, they formed a contract with a major entertainment company established around that time and became its exclusive members, performing for a while alongside pillars of the former Yamato Troupe—Yanagida, Fujikawa, and Misono—but soon Yanagida died, Fujikawa withdrew from the stage after contracting an incurable illness, and Misono returned to his hometown of Osaka before long. And thus, the realm completely became Yura’s.

In Tokyo, terms like “Shinpa”…“student plays” or “new theater” had already become a bygone dream—one now exclusively associated with Yura’s troupe. Yet by that time, nearly all the veteran members who had supported Yura since the troupe’s founding—Shima, Shirakawa, and others—had either died or vanished. And so, those who remained were truly just three: Chikushi, Hishikawa, and him.—Washio had long before quit acting, declaring he had matters to attend to, and with someone who had become a respectable citizen without a trace of lingering attachment, he had drifted away to the countryside of Okayama.

VIII

But Yura’s conscientiousness—raising what needed to be raised and restraining what needed to be restrained—remained entirely unchanged from before. Therefore, though Hishikawa and he could not match the status or salaries of a rising star like Wakamiya, they were still far above newcomers such as Azuma and Ogura. So even if Hishikawa’s “antagonist role”—relying solely on his booming, exaggerated voice—was deemed “old-fashioned” and unsophisticated, and even if the choreographed fight sequences he devised no longer captivated audiences as they once had, and even if his painstakingly crafted set pieces had become ill-suited to the times—mere relics of a bygone era—when Yura’s reign began in earnest, Hishikawa nonetheless amassed a small fortune through sheer vocal force. And despite his reputation as a “reckless Edoite” who supposedly never kept a coin past nightfall, he still maintained a stylish, compact townhouse with latticework in Hatchōbori. But even so, what remained unchanged was the relationship between Hishikawa and him. Once strained, the bond between the two remained irreparably tangled no matter how far they went.

But to him, it was of no consequence. For him, it was rather preferable that they could not reconcile. It was his resolve that he would never tolerate being lumped together with those who hoarded money even at the expense of their obligations, those who believed money was all that mattered… Was he not an actor? A performer? An artist? Yet here was this actor—this performer, this artist—Hishikawa—playing at being a moneylender, lending money with promissory notes extracted under false pretenses… Whenever asked, he’d readily provide thirty yen, fifty yen, a hundred yen—even up to three hundred yen depending on the situation—taking whatever he could get in return. “As long as you handle things properly—since I’m just idling around anyway—I’m always happy to oblige. We’re all in the same boat when it comes to hardship,” went his usual spiel. It was his firm conviction—how could he possibly tolerate being lumped together with such a man and such a petty-minded fool?

But even so, the reality was that everyone backstage had been saved beyond measure thanks to Hishikawa’s side job. Even if the interest was high, it was a relief that within their circle, matters could be settled swiftly from right to left. Thus nearly everyone in the dressing room—aside from him and three or four others—owed their relief to him. Even someone like Azuma—his best customer—had half his monthly earnings taken untouched to Hishikawa each month until he was finally driven to sell himself in the park. After Azuma vanished, Miura took his place.—Hence, in the dressing room, they called Hishikawa “Chokogin” for that reason. The “Choko” came from how his large, stocky body—suited for antagonist roles—constantly fidgeted about, while “gin” simply meant “bank.”

But for him, while that arrangement sufficed in his dealings with Hishikawa, it would not do in his relationship with Yura. He couldn’t simply brush it off. That state of affairs had made it increasingly difficult year by year to get along with Master. Even if matters hadn’t reached such a point, he had begun sensing something amiss between them—like a hoop loosening its grip or a tenon slipping from its mortise. He felt something had arisen between them—an inability to harmonize their interactions as they once had ten or twenty years prior. After the earthquake disaster, this became particularly clear…

IX

Back in the Nakasu days, even when he said as much, he still often failed. Whether he drank too much and botched performances, got into fights that injured others, or caused unnecessary scandals through his carousing—through all such things, he kept failing Yura. No matter how profusely he apologized, they would never listen, and there were not merely two or three occasions when he had to beg patrons to intercede on his behalf. Yet in those days, no matter how spectacularly he failed or how disastrously things turned out, there was never any resulting disruption to ticket sales. If anything, the more he failed—the worse the outcomes—the more profoundly personal care seemed to intensify each time. Yet gradually this dynamic shifted: partly due to his advancing age—for seeing his children grown meant he could no longer play the fool or indulge in reckless antics as before—but even so, the former days of being summoned without ceremony for stern lectures, of being set straight from the outset… such things had entirely ceased. At the same time, even regarding stagecraft matters, Master no longer delivered harsh criticisms as he once had. Withholding criticism meant withholding praise too. Even when approached for guidance, he never gave clear answers. Yet despite this reticence, once they had advanced into central Tokyo’s theater scene, Yura began directing other troupe members more fervently than ever before—more strictly than ever before—overseeing every detail with meticulous precision. The only ones exempt from these directives were three: Chikushi, Hishikawa, and him—treated as a separate category. …he had become such an aloof, impersonal master—excessively sentimental yet distant…

Naturally, under such circumstances, it stood to reason that they would no longer meet face-to-face outside of theater matters. As opportunities to meet—whether through shrine visits, banquets, or social obligations—grew increasingly scarce, he had long since ceased visiting Yura’s old main residence in Imado… That house, Yura’s longtime dwelling since his Yokohama flag-raising days, was where he had once lived alongside Washio for over a year, assisting the still-unmarried Yura with everything from cooking to every domestic task imaginable… Yet even visits there gradually grew more infrequent. Except for seasonal milestones like the Bon festival, year-end, and New Year, he rarely showed his face unless there was some specific reason. When he did appear, he felt somehow ill at ease in Yura’s presence and never lingered long, instead retreating to the back to pass time peacefully before Madam and the young lady.—Madam and the young lady were his favorites.

But after Madam too passed away, even the house in Imado—so deeply steeped in memories—vanished without a trace in the earthquake disaster.—Since then, Yura had abandoned Imado and moved to his current residence in Yanokura. Since Hatchōbori and Yanokura were now so close compared to the former Imado, they could practically be called next-door neighbors. In the past, he would surely have been there practically every day, overjoyed to stay glued to their side. But now that Madam was gone, the only refuge he had left was the young lady. His visits had grown even more infrequent than before.

Thus, today’s 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, and perhaps even indulge in venting his long-pent-up grievances… With these thoughts, he stood before Yanokura’s semi-Western-style entrance—ill-conceived in layout and unwelcoming in design. And so, he energetically rang the doorbell first. But the one who came out was a maid he didn’t recognize, who stated without hesitation, “Master is not at home…”

“Then what about the young lady?” “The young lady is also not at home.” “Where has she gone?”

“The young lady has gone on a temple visit today.” “So Ms. Okita isn’t here either?” “No, she isn’t here either.” Okita was an old maid who had served the young lady for many years. If she were present, no matter who else was absent, she would have come out immediately with a “Why, Mr. Nishimaki…” and smoothed things over. Even if she weren’t—no, surely there must be someone who understood, whether a student lodger or one of the male servants. But meeting such people would be pointless. Better to leave without a word. Suddenly, he felt this impulse.

“I’m Nishimaki. “...Please give them my regards.” With those words, he set down the Odawara-ya pickle barrel—his year-end greetings had always been that—and immediately walked out through the gate, leaving the unfriendly maid behind. And so, he walked alone along the Yanokura riverbank toward Ryōgoku.

X

“Oh?”

Suddenly, he came to a halt—just as Tashiro had done not long before in Mukojima, before Ushijima Shrine. For until that moment, the river scene that had been spreading out before him… the bright scene over the river… had abruptly vanished from his sight.

There, from the riverbank, a boat restaurant connected by a pier.—A large boat that stood desolately empty no matter when one looked—all the more starkly so in the cold season—listlessly blocking the water’s surface alongside a clumsily constructed gate that jutted forlornly into place: this was a scene unchanged from days of old. Yet beyond that point, from there to Ryōgoku’s one-sen steamer dock vicinity, there had once been nothing to obstruct the river’s vista. Rather, scenes of ships bustling with lonely vigor, steamers churning up waves in hurried passage, blue waters spilling over banks, flocks of white gulls skimming water’s surface… all these sights struck his eyes with vivid clarity. But at some point, there now stood a large dingy shack of Tokyo Tsuusen Corporation—needlessly blocking the view—cobbled together from old corrugated iron as warehouses, offices, wharves. And all around it lay heaped piles of crude haphazard objects exuding desolation—oil drums, beer crates, coal sacks, large flat bamboo baskets like chicken coops—stacked high. The group of four or five laborers huddled around a bonfire on paths strewn with frayed ropes and cabbage scraps; the massive Odaiba-bound steamship signboard rising beyond them—none seen before the earthquake—and beneath it movie posters hanging limp: all conspired to render that overcast sky—that cloud-choked December sky—darker still, drearier still, more bone-piercing still.

“It’s gotten so bad…”

He muttered with a sigh to himself—just as Tashiro had declared while standing on the stone pavement of Chomeiji Temple’s precincts. Yet in Tashiro’s case, those words weren’t uniquely his; they could have just as well come from Ogura’s lips or Miura’s. But here, this sentiment belonged solely to him—for that stretch from Hamacho Riverbank to Yanokura Riverbank had truly been his cherished “nest” during his Nakasu days. Not a single night had passed without him dispatching rickshaws along those banks. From Yoshichō to Yanagibashi and back again—the moment his role ended, he’d leave the theater and, whether summoned by fish market patrons, stock exchange regulars, or lumberyard bosses, would inevitably find himself drawn to the neighborhood’s renowned teahouses… Okada, Fukui, Kamesei, Ryūkōtei, Fukagawa-tei…

He shifted his gaze to the tram street. There, on the wide road, automobiles and bicycles bustled frantically among the trams. Threading through the gaps between them, trucks ceaselessly sent up a deafening rumble. But where now were those shadows of rickshaws that once darted like arrows through these streets? Where now were those nostalgic, deeply familiar shadows of rickshaws…? “It’s changed…”

Soon he began to walk.—Aimlessly, alone and desolate, he walked toward Ryōgoku…

Sleet.

I

“And so, after debating ‘Where should we go?’ and ‘Let’s go here,’ we ended up in Mukojima…” “Well now, that’s a terribly twisted way to put it…” “Well, no—the place we went to visit the sick person was Yoshinocho. “Since it’s right by Bishamonten, on our way back we found ourselves wandering along Sanya-bori, and then—how about it—Mr. Ogura suggested we go check out Hyakkaen Garden.” “...Mr. Ogura was the one who suggested it…” “So—you, Mr. Ogura, and then Mr. Miura…?”

“That’s all.” “Just the three of us.” “Anyway, Mr. Ogura here’s exactly the refined soul you know—he’d rather have quiet spots than cluttered bustle.” “But Hyakkaen Garden... in this season...?”

“There was nothing to see.” “True winter desolation—nothing but withered miscanthus standing dry.” “That’s why not a soul had come in.” “Well, people had stopped calling it Hyakkaen Garden much these days.” “They’re right not to.—With nowhere else to go outside, there’d be any fool visiting such a dull, inconvenient place.—Beyond quiet—lonely, desolate… In the end, it put us in a strange mood.” “We stayed thirty minutes before rushing out.” “Boarding the steamer from Komatsushima was fine enough—but this one too had passengers you could count on your fingers.” “Desolately empty.” “When I looked outside the window—chillingly… even as I say ‘chillingly,’ that cold water was flowing.”

“……” “Those who’d grown increasingly uneasy—everyone was so overwhelmed by the dreary atmosphere that they fell silent.” “Even you, Mr. Miura, didn’t utter a word.” “—When we reached Azuma Bridge, I truly thought, ‘Ah, finally!’—‘One drink, just one drink,’ we said, and the moment we disembarked from the steamship, half-dazed, we rushed straight here.—Then, with a hearty… a clattering swing, we threw open the door—and there was Mr. Kinpei… right there, all alone, Mr. Kinpei was just sitting blankly, fiddling with some tiny thing.”

“So then—was Mr. Nishimaki with you from the start…?” “He wasn’t [with us] from the start.—We just happened to bump into him here.” “Ah, so…” “We both went, ‘Oh?’” “So that’s how it went.—Exactly, right where you’re sitting now, Mr. Kinpei was there, and the three of us took our places in front of him.” “And so, well, the four of us started drinking then.”

“And by the time you three arrived, Mr. Nishimaki had already made his way there first?” “Two or three bottles were already lined up.” “But he still wasn’t drunk in the slightest.” “Not only wasn’t he drunk—he wore this strangely gloomy, lifeless expression.” “Huh?” “That—that is—no, it’s odd—but it’s such a perfectly Mr. Kinpei-like reason…”

As he said this, one of them—as if suddenly noticing—picked up his sake cup that had been left unattended while engrossed in the flowing conversation. —Needless to say, that one person was Tashiro Yōjirō. —The other attentive listener was the proprietor of an establishment called ‘Uramura’ in Nihonbashi…

II

“That day, Mr. Nishimaki Kinpei was someone who had gone to Master Yanokura’s place to deliver a year-end gift.”

Tashiro spoke up again immediately. “Well, as luck would have it, both Master and his daughter were out, so he turned back right at the entrance and wandered aimlessly along the riverbank toward Ryogoku. That’s when it struck him—how completely transformed everything around there has become lately.—Even someone like me feels it deeply every time I pass through—how much has changed—so I imagine it must’ve hit him even harder.—To put it plainly: the ferry to First Crossing vanished, the sign for express boats to Fourth Crossing’s peony garden disappeared, and not a single soul idly fishes like they used to.—And that avenue—once so quiet you’d think it strange even a streetcar passed through—now sees cars and bicycles racing nonstop, no matter what you say.” “As if he were seeing it for the first time, Mr. Kinpei—it seems that’s why he was so taken aback…”

“Well, even someone like me has moments like that.” “Even a scene you’ve always known can, with time’s passage, suddenly make you go ‘Huh?’ as if noticing it anew.” “Thinking this, there are times I fluster and rub my eyes.” “Among those things—no, another that startled Mr. Kinpei was the absence of rickshaws.” “Amidst all these cars and bicycles rushing past, not a single rickshaw passes by—not even one empty.”

“I see.” “Rickshaws—they’ve vanished. Slipped away from Tokyo’s streets without anyone noticing. No one pays them any mind now.” “...It was as if he’d been shown irrefutable proof of it—this indescribably lonely, unpleasant feeling, he said…” “That’s so like Mr. Nishimaki.” “He says he crossed the tramway street just like that and headed into Yanagibashi.—Out of obligation, he couldn’t board the tram right away, couldn’t just go straight home… In that dejected state of mind, he thought, *If this were Daichi, given the locale, at least one [rickshaw] might pass by.* …That’s what he said he thought.” But whether due to the in-between hour or fate’s design, not a single one passed by.—And among those he passed—geisha or box bearers—not a single familiar face, not a soul who’d spare a thought for the once-renowned Nishimaki Kinpei.—They all walked right past him without a glance. “Have I really fallen this far out of demand?” “He says he unconsciously stopped in his tracks and let out a sigh.”

“Back then, I never could’ve just walked through unnoticed.”

“The exact opposite—perhaps it’s not quite so extreme…” “In the past—no, there was a gentleman named Mr. Fukui from Kiba.—Even someone like myself received his patronage, but he was such a formidable patron that if you mentioned Mr. Fukui back then, there wasn’t a soul in the flower and willow world who didn’t know him.” “He was especially fond of Yanagibashi and frequented that area constantly.—Mr. Nishimaki was his particular favorite.—Given how he was always at his side, if you didn’t know Mr. Nishimaki in Yanagibashi back then, you’d be considered a fraud.” “He was truly a man of tremendous prestige.”

“But even coming from the man himself… it’s not entirely baseless boasting…?” “No, that’s not it.—Back then, even those who didn’t know him would come bowing their heads.”

……Today—barely a day after the year-end market—even without that marker, the area felt settled into a lull, its usual hollow desolation now layered with rain that had begun mixing with sleet the night before and still fell without respite. Even Kiku no Ie—usually thriving—had no customers beyond those two…

III

“However, in reality…” Immediately resuming his words, the proprietor of Uramura said: “Someday it would come to that… We too believed the time for that would arrive. “But for it to happen this quickly, so abruptly… To us, it feels less like a curiosity and more like something frightening.”

“……” Tashiro turned his eyes—which had been about to serve tofu from the sea bream hot pot—toward the other man. “No, rickshaws.—Human beings hauling other human beings.” “...It wasn’t proper—no, not a proper arrangement at all—but in our youth, we had nothing else to depend on.—There were railway horse-drawn carriages and Entarō carriages, but unlike today’s electric trams, they didn’t extend to every nook and cranny.” “When we needed to travel any distance, when venturing into unfamiliar areas... in such cases, whether we disliked it or not, we simply had to use them.” “In short—we were born during their golden age. That very fact makes us feel their impermanence all the more keenly.” “Mr. Nishimaki’s no different in that regard.—Though from the perspective of young people like yourselves, you might consider it all rather inconsequential...”

The proprietor of Uramura laughed and wiped his sake cup. “No, even for us, that’s… After all, we used to delight in seeing geisha in formal white-collared attire riding through in springtime—finding it so lovely, so beautiful.” “Even that these days—in places like Shinbashi—if there are three or four together, they take those one-yen taxis.—They say it’s quicker that way and more economical too.” “Naturally—that way they only need tip the rickshaw puller.—Though I wouldn’t say it’s entirely bad—it’s just that young geisha nowadays don’t seem eager to ride rickshaws anymore.” “Even in spring, you see—dressed in their finest—they don’t ride uncovered like before.” “They all insist on having the canopies properly fastened.”

“One reason is that it’s cold…” “No, you’re quite right…” Lightly setting that aside, the proprietor of Uramura dipped his chopsticks into the pot—an anglerfish hot pot, this one.—As the conversation lapsed, the hushed patter of sleet whispered softly against the oil-paper doors out front. Tashiro flipped his chopsticks around and prodded at the brazier’s fire. “But no—this isn’t just about rickshaws.” With another laugh, the proprietor of Uramura broached a new subject. “Countless things thrived before the earthquake disaster only to collapse these past five or six years.” “Among them lie pitiful trades—ones people barely notice—that’ve lost their very foothold.” “…Do you follow?”

“What line of work do you mean?” “No, it’s not entirely unrelated to your own sphere either…” “And that would be?” “That’s how it was truly meant to be… how that trade had no choice but to become…” “Oh?”

IV

“It’s theater teahouses.” “……?” “The trade we were engaged in before…” The proprietor of “Uramura” laughed again. “As for rickshaws—well, here in Tokyo, they’ve fallen out of favor entirely.” “If you go just a step outside Tokyo, they’re still barely clinging to their meager existence.” “But for this one, there’s no such escape route anywhere.” “Once flattened, that’s the end—no way to prop it back up anywhere else.”

“I see.” “We always believed it would happen someday—that the time would inevitably come. But for it to arrive this quickly, so abruptly… When I think of it, it all feels like a dream.” “Even someone like me remembers those flower-patterned curtains hung across the fronts of the teahouses as if it were yesterday.—Nibancho, Hisamatsucho, Shintomicho… Those who loved theater would tingle with excitement just passing by the playhouses…”

“It was in Meiji 41 that Mr. Takashimaya—after returning from the West—tried to reform theater customs.” “…He attempted to abolish all teahouses and their attendants in one stroke but failed spectacularly.” “When they built The Imperial Theater, they introduced a Western-style ticket system without teahouses or attendants in Meiji 44.” “…It was also then they first began opening in evenings like other theaters, not during daylight hours.” “When Mr. Muromata of Nibancho—that veteran authority in entertainment—heard this, he said ‘Splendid! Improvements too.’” “But even so, today’s theater still can’t sustain itself.” “The one who said that—the theater’s most vital patrons being the flower and willow world… Evening shows inconvenience those very patrons.” “Even he admitted that… And from that time, it’s only been fifteen years for you.”

“Fifteen years…” Tashiro shook his head as if impressed. “It has changed.” “Indeed—this world above all has changed.” The proprietor of “Uramura” quietly lifted the sake flask. “But now—if someone were to call the flower and willow world our theater’s foremost patrons…”

“You’ll suffer terribly—that’s why you’re falling behind the times.” “You’ll get ignored.” “...They’ll scold you till your eyes bulge out.” “There... That’s exactly—” “Speaking of which—you know Enshūya, right?” “Yes—the one good at Kiyomoto?” “Well now—for an amateur... That guy still thinks there’s no actor like the fifth generation among our lot, hangs around Kuya’s nenbutsu chanters, grins when geishas call him ‘brother’—thoroughly old-school through and through.” “After the quake, when the rest of us had written it off and were scheming to switch trades one by one, only Enshūya kept stubbornly insisting—‘Can’t let Tokyo end up without a single theater teahouse! Disgraceful otherwise!’—campaigning all over the place.” “Poured a decent sum into it too—all for nothing.” “Then one day he went to Nibancho Theater on that errand and tried heading straight for the accounts office... no, scratch that—these days they’re all just ‘offices’... When he marched right toward it, someone called out—‘Excuse me! Where do you think you’re going?’” “Didn’t some clerk block him right at the entrance?”

V “But why…?” “Well… no, it’s an absurd story.” “But that man just calmly—er—heads straight to the office.” “—And who might you be, sir?” “Who?” “I’m Enshūya, you see.” “If I said that, even a new clerk should understand… Or at least bring someone who does. But that assumption was a huge mistake—‘Enshūya-san? Which Enshūya might you be referring to?’”

“A jest…” “Bitterly,” Enshūya later grumbled. “It was so pathetic I couldn’t even cry. I’ve made up my mind—I’ll follow your example. Even if they beg me, I won’t start some teahouse now.” “That’s right.—It’s only natural for Enshūya-san to say that.… Even someone as ignorant as they come these days—someone working in Nibancho, no less—should know Enshūya-san… Such absurdity… Not knowing…”

“And even we think so.” “But if you take a step back and consider it—that’s actually closer to the truth. I feel what’s unknown remains truer.” “In other words—Mr. Nishimaki’s recent account of Yanagibashi… I believe it follows precisely the same reasoning.” “To resign oneself entirely like Master… Even someone like me—though I might think ‘Ah, this is how things are now,’ or ‘The world has truly changed’—when pressed, that stubborn pride still surfaces.”

“Well, you’re still young, so…” “No, but… When it comes to other matters, I don’t have such pride…” With a slightly sheepish laugh, Tashiro turned toward the kitchen. “Please pass the sake flask.” “While you’re at it, pour one here too…” The proprietor of Uramura added, “This conversation’s so engaging I’ll join you today after all.” “How thoughtful—though you were drinking alone here…”

“Not at all—I was actually hoping for some company myself.” “On the contrary, you must have been terribly inconvenienced…”

“No, I’m quite all right… But since this seems a good moment to lay it all out—there’s something I’d like to ask you, Master.” “But what might that be?”

“No—if it’s Master…” “…I think if it’s you, Master, you’d tell me plainly.” “I couldn’t possibly manage such a difficult matter…” “No, it’s a simple question.—What do you think will become of the New School Theater from here on?” “………?” “And what will become of female impersonators from here on?” “…………”

After some time, the proprietor of Uramura opened his mouth. “Well…” “Here you are.” At that moment, the young maid clumsily carried a hot sake flask to Tashiro and the proprietor of Uramura.

VI

“I—no, as you know—am a carefree sort.—Never once have I thought about such things, nor do I care what anyone says around me. That’s why Mr. Ogura and Mr. Miura often tell me things like ‘You’re too complacent’ or ‘You’ve never known hardship, growing up sheltered.’—But no matter how much they say it, the New School Theater will always be the New School Theater wherever it goes, and Yura’s troupe will always be Yura’s troupe.” “However much these new plays or sword dramas flourish—they have their place, we have ours—I don’t believe the New School Theater’s foundations could possibly shift now.” “Even I’ve reached dead ends—there’s no endless prosperity—and if you listen to all the pretentious talk out there, even our audiences... well, sometimes they don’t come in half the numbers they once did.” “Why is that? These past four or five years, there have been more times than I can count when I’ve thought, ‘This wasn’t how it was meant to be.’” “But you see—the rise and fall of trends exists in all things.” “If you ask me, it’s precisely that ebb and flow that keeps theater moving forward.”

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

“If something has that much value, there’s no reason it would just end there.” “Someday—again—the season will surely come around.” “Otherwise, you…” “Indeed it must be.—Therefore,” “Therefore—I, with that pride I mentioned before—my own master first: Chikushi-san, Shiomi-san, and another—Mr. Wakamiya…” “I’m not just flattering you—in truth, they’re all such steadfast people.”

“New plays, sword dramas… Sword dramas were never an issue to begin with—but when it comes to true artistry, how many actors could even approach these four?” “How many have truly trained to that extent? Even among the Old School actors—I doubt ten could stand shoulder to shoulder with them.” “Th-that’s already…”

The proprietor of Uramura nodded repeatedly in agreement. “Especially Mr. Wakamiya.” “Though he’s young—that one.” “A female impersonator of that caliber would be rare even in the Old School… No—no, among today’s Old School female impersonators, there’s simply no one like him.” “Would you truly say that?” “Well, you see—I’m Mr. Wakamiya’s staunchest supporter. With that face of his—so striking, yet refined, alluring, with an indescribable subtle allure—and when it comes to skill, actresses these days… the actresses we have now can’t even hold a candle to him. A genius among female impersonators. As long as someone like him exists, female impersonators… there’s no way talk of ‘what’s to become of female impersonators’ could ever come to that.”

“That’s—that’s, well…” Suddenly Tashiro cut in: “Mr. Wakamiya himself has been saying he hates being a female impersonator lately…” “Hate being a female impersonator?” “He wants to quit because he resents it so much…”

“Th-that’s… again…?” Tashiro cut in. “Therefore—” “Therefore—I…”

VII

…And then, the entrance opened quietly. “What are you doing, huh?” As soon as he saw him, Tashiro demanded sharply. “How many hours do you think it takes to get here from Mitsujimachi?” “I’m not some layabout like you.” Ogura Takeo entered sullenly, yet managed a polite nod toward Uramura’s proprietor before moving to Tashiro’s table.

“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 loud—there’s no need to make someone trudge through the rain to your place over and over.” After handing the dripping umbrella to one of the maids, Ogura wedged his large frame beside Tashiro and immediately pulled the dish of river snails—placed in the shadow of the hand warmer—closer to himself. “Hey, let me introduce you—the proprietor of Uramura in Nihonbashi… or rather, the former one from Nitenchō…”

“I know.” Cutting off Tashiro’s remark, Ogura said, “I won’t stand on formalities, but we’ve often crossed paths.—Ogura.”

Ogura bowed his head with outright curtness. “No, I too have often seen you on stage… ever since the days when you were still at the Tokiwa-za.” In response, the proprietor of Uramura nodded politely with a congenial air. “Just as he is on stage—no difference between his stage presence and everyday self—a good-natured, utterly unrefined…” Ogura cut in as he began to speak again from beside Tashiro: “Shut up, you’re being loud. Are you drunk already?”

“He’s drunk—just got a little tipsy now.” “Disgraceful. If you’re drunk, you shouldn’t have come. I only came out because you said it was urgent.” “Now, now, how about one…” Tashiro ignored this. “So what if I’m drunk? That’s not—” “Even drunk, I’m clear-headed—what’ll become of the New School Theater? What future do female impersonators have?” “The master and I are researching that very matter right now.”

“Hmph.” Ogura ignored this and called to the maid: “Miss—hey—give me crab.”

“Therefore… Therefore, I…” Tashiro brought the conversation back without missing a beat. “I thought about it. “I thought about it—I…” “But that—?” “But why on earth would Mr. Wakamiya do such a thing?” The proprietor of Uramura studied Tashiro’s face with care. “Female impersonators are crippled things—it’s only right that people say so. No matter what—the era is coming where actresses… women’s roles must be played by women.”

"But even if you say that, if all those actresses are bad... then what..." "It won't lead to a fight—that's why I said so too." "That's just what today's audiences—those who've watched theater since the old days—are saying." "The audiences of tomorrow—the ones gradually emerging—will never see it that way. Even if they're terrible, that's what will feel real to future audiences." "No matter how skilled they are, female impersonators are lies." "And at the same time—how can you claim no actresses will ever emerge? That none will appear who astonish the world with their skill?"

“I see…”

While meticulously picking apart the legs of the crab that had been served, Ogura did not join in, quietly stacking up his sake cups alone.

VIII “However… However, the other day…” The proprietor of Uramura, still refusing to concede, continued: “The young geisha in that recent play in Hongō—the one struggling because of her wretched relatives…” “As for that role… I thought it was deeply skillful.” “What remarkable depth he possesses—I found myself marveling anew.” “I shouldn’t say this, but even to our eyes, it was quite a poor script—hollow, inconsistent. Why would Mr. Yura stage something so outdated in this day and age? …Dare I say, that’s what I thought. Yet amid all that, Mr. Wakamiya’s geisha role alone transcended the script—utterly plausible, effortless… particularly in that final descent into madness. To think he could demonstrate such meticulous, heartfelt artistry…” “…Truly, I thought so with such profound depth that tears spilled forth.”

“No, that role was Mr. Wakamiya’s recent hit—everyone backstage said so too. That it didn’t gain acclaim despite that was entirely due to the play being poor… I think it’s a shame.” “If I may speak plainly—without any pretense—it’s this year’s standout performance blending old and new. To such an extent that… well, I nearly felt moved to champion it myself.” “If you’ll go so far as to say that, even we can hold our heads high.” “But even while performing that role, Mr. Wakamiya himself took no joy in it at all. Whenever someone nearby tried to mention it, he’d tell them to stop—begging ‘Please don’t say such things’… He’s utterly sick to death of it all.” “What cursed fate makes him parade this disgrace… Why he humiliates himself without even needing to… I simply don’t understand.” “Having said that, you…”

“…………”

“I was actually told that too.—When I went around to the *agemaku* curtain to take a look, he suddenly came in and said, ‘What’s this, Yō-chan? What are you looking at?’” “So I said, ‘Because my old man insisted I should watch, that’s why I’m watching.’—When I said that, he made a disgusted face and snapped, ‘You’re saying that on purpose! You’re only saying that because I’ve already given up on it!’—‘Watching the performer himself do such dull stuff can’t possibly be interesting. There’s no point in watching that—stop it! Stop it, I said!…’”

“…………” “If this were about bad reviews or waning popularity, I could understand losing heart.” “But when it’s not like that, it’s a problem.” “We’re all in the same boat.” “Well, no—no matter how easygoing you are, this…”

“How old are you, Wakamiya-san?”

Abruptly, the proprietor of Uramura said. “Since I’m three years older than you—thirty-two…” “So—thirty-three next year…?” “That’s correct.” “So—is there somewhere you’re unwell… or is that not the case at all?” “Ah—though I’m slender—I’m rather sturdy… It’s just that sometimes… I can’t sleep… At night—I often lie awake… Though I suppose—I’ve been taking medicine for that…”

“You’re thinking about things too intensely…” “That’s right.—I think too deeply about things.—I get too meticulous with my worries.—My master is always concerned about that too.”

"For actors, it's better to be carefree." Then, as if struck by the thought, Ogura interjected. "Carefree?" "That's right—just like you."

Ogura slowly wiped his fingers, soiled by crab.

IX

“Oh dear, I’ve gone on talking so much...” Having said this as if suddenly remembering, the proprietor of Uramura stood up shortly afterward.

“Are you leaving?”

Tashiro spoke with lingering reluctance. “But it’s already four o’clock.” The proprietor of Uramura took out his pocket watch again and said, “Actually, I left home before noon today—after visiting a landowner in Tamachi about the land readjustment. On my way back, it struck me to stop by Yoshiwara… You know her, don’t you? Madame Onae?” “Yes, I know her well.” “She often visits the master’s people.”

“Ah, that’s right.” “That old woman has been Mr. Yura’s loyal patron since long ago.”

“That’s correct.”

“It’s been so long since I last saw her, and I wondered how she was doing, so I stopped by the gate to say hello.” “Well, as it happened, she’d been laid up with a cold for two or three days, but she insisted—‘Come on up, have a drink before you go’—and that turned into about an hour.” “Even if her health was poor, she was full of vigor—getting furious about a ‘For Sale’ sign neatly pasted on the sliding door of a teahouse in Nakanocho, resenting how a taxi driver from Kabukiza Theater said ‘Yoyogi?’ when she told him ‘Sanya’—and since she was starved for company, it was unbearable! She just kept chattering on and on like that, never letting me get a word in.” “I barely managed to escape, but that old woman might just be another casualty set to vanish alongside rickshaws and theater teahouses.”

“In Yoshiwara, however, that sort of person will always…” “You say that because you’re an Edo native yourself.” “—Today’s Yoshiwara isn’t such a land.”

“……” “Well, now…” The proprietor of Uramura said cheerfully with a laugh, “Well then, I’ll be going ahead…” “I must apologize for my rudeness.” “Well, another time.—Once spring arrives, I’ll make sure to arrange an opportunity to meet all of you properly.” “Thank you very much.” “Please give my regards to Mr. Yura.—Well then, Mr. Ogura, I must take my leave…”

“……”

Ogura silently bowed his head. Upon receiving the black-patterned umbrella that the young maid had spread out for him, the proprietor of "Uramura" immediately stepped outside. “Does that proprietor come here often?”

After ordering a replacement sake bottle, Ogura said. “Yeah, he seems to come by now and then.” Tashiro nodded and said, “It’s reassuring for us folks to have that kind of audience coming in such numbers, but…” “It’s not like that.” Ogura furrowed his brows and said, “It’s precisely because we rely on patrons like that that things keep getting worse.” “Cut it out with that talk.” “Just leave those spiteful remarks to Kei-chan.” Tashiro took the sake bottle and said, “Come on, let’s have one while we wait for the hot dishes to arrive.”

“Never mind that—what’s this urgent matter you mentioned?” “I’ll tell you now.—I will, so… let’s… let’s order something else to eat, okay?” “You’re being awfully generous with your money, aren’t you?” “It’s fine, I tell you.—Since I’ve got it covered… today…”

“Quite the show you’re putting on.” “It’s a show, all right—I’ve got gold coins aplenty, I’ll have you know.” Tashiro, carried away by his own theatrics, called out to the maid: “Miss! Bring us something hot— “And tell the master to send over whatever’s tasty—anything’ll do—”

X Ogura silently watched Tashiro’s face for a while, “He still hasn’t come back, has he?” he suddenly spat out. “What?” Tashiro turned around with a bewildered look.

“No way—he hasn’t come back since earlier, right?”

“……” Suddenly, Tashiro let out a loud laugh. “Right? Isn’t that so?”

“Here it comes—something hot…” Without responding to her, Tashiro took the sake bottle the young maid had brought from the copper pot and poured into both Ogura’s cup and his own. “That was the 15th, so…16th, 17th, 18th, 19th—four days now, isn’t it? As of today?” “Together? Even Miura?” Ogura said with something like pity. “We’re all in on it.”

“Everyone’s in on it? And Nishimaki too?” “Kinpei-san was the one who took charge—Kei-chan and I never had any such notion from the start.” “What happened, then?” Ogura pressed, still uncomprehending. “I’d assumed at Azuma Bridge—right there—you’d put Nishimaki straight into a car.” “That’s what we meant to do. That’s exactly what we meant to do.—But Kinpei-san wouldn’t have it. He kept saying we should go somewhere else for another drink.”

“Nishimaki had already been drinking quite a bit, hadn’t he?” “There’s no way he could drink any more than that.” “But even when we told him that, he wouldn’t listen.” “Since it was too much trouble, we figured, ‘Just go anywhere and get it over with—as long as we went somewhere, he’d be satisfied.’” “So we ended up going all the way back to Nakamise—that was our mistake.” “……” “Thinking it’d be quick, we dashed into a Western-style restaurant.—There, carelessly, we downed another five or six bottles.—Then, this time, Kei-chan suddenly collapsed.—By the time I thought, ‘Oh, this is bad,’ my own vision was already getting blurry.”

“……” “Well, Kinpei-san was overjoyed.—All that initial energy vanished into thin air.—‘Let’s go somewhere else—it’s not like we can meet up properly here. Let’s go somewhere else.—Just go along with whatever I say.’” “—Just go along with whatever I say.—‘You never know when something like this might happen,’ he said, pulling out a thick wad of bills from his belly band—he’d been keeping emergency funds ready all along.” “……”

“So we went to the teahouse behind Miyatoza.” “With all that ‘Oh Master, it’s been ages… How have you been… What’ve you been up to since…’ fuss—they treated Kinpei-san like royalty.” “And just when they were practically bowing and scraping, giving him the full red-carpet treatment—guess who shows up?” “Mrs. Chiyosaburō—the one we met in Mukojima this afternoon. I nearly dropped my cup! Turns out that woman was with Kinpei-san before she married Chiyosaburō.”

“……” “He’d drink again—this time like a Shōjō.” “—Finally until three in the morning.” “When we awoke the next day, the lamp was still lit.” “Kinpei-san lay there like an invalid—couldn’t even lift his head.” “What’s the point dragging ourselves back now? Let’s drink one more night—just one more.” “Then when morning came… agony—he couldn’t move at all……” “……” “And so we ended up frittering away four whole days like that…”

“Weren’t you scared at all?”

Ogura snapped.

“What?” “Your finances.” “I was scared.—No matter how you look at it, between Kei-chan and me, our combined fortune was three yen and fifty sen.” “I already know that.” “No matter how prepared Kinpei-san is, this…” “So what happened?”

“It couldn’t be helped—under the pretense of visiting a shrine, I went out and rushed to Choko-gin.” “To Choko-gin?” “He’s an unpleasant guy, but he’s reliable in times like that.”

“What happened then?” “That—that was the strange part.” Tashiro lowered his voice. “He just kept urging me on briskly and deftly.” “—Even when I said that, he didn’t hesitate…” “Did he give it to you?” “He didn’t exactly hand it over… Well, he didn’t go so far as to say, ‘Take as much as you want if you’re in such high spirits coming here,’ but…”

“So, how much did you borrow?”

“A hundred yen.” “……”

“And I’ve still got exactly half left.—If you want in, I’ll lend it.” “Who’d borrow money like that?” “Why?” “What do you think that money really is?” “What do you mean?” “Exactly.” “……?”

Suddenly, Tashiro looked at Ogura's face—because in those words of Ogura's, he had sensed something extraordinary.

The sound of Benten Mountain’s bell echoed as if cascading down—and outside, the sleet-mingled rain had turned to snow……

Winter Solstice

I When he parted ways with Miura and Tashiro and returned home, Nishimaki promptly fell ill. He remained bedridden from then on—while it was undoubtedly due to overdrinking, the toll of days of heavy indulgence, there was also the matter that, had he not done so, his family would have struggled to maintain any semblance of dignity. In truth, Nishimaki had no idea how to explain his indiscretions to his wife. Frankly speaking, he had no face to show his wife and children. Associating with friends… Even so, four days was too long…

"What the hell was I…"

He was filled with regret. The more I thought about it, the clearer my own slovenliness became. I’d start to call it quits, then linger a little longer. …Deftly pouring myself another drink… Whether I went home now or tomorrow, the bitterness of returning would taste just the same. Regrettably, I could have left early—but the one who ended up postponing it by a day was neither Miura nor Tashiro. Everyone was me… I was the oldest among them.

"What’s so fun about drinking anyway?"

He said to himself with a sigh. In reality, it was true—he couldn’t grasp sake’s supposed virtue. For thirty years, when people spoke of sake, it was Nishimaki; when they spoke of drinking, it was Kinpei-san. If others would acknowledge me as a legendary drinker—if I myself had believed that all this time… If I’d kept guzzling blindly on that belief—did this person called me even truly like alcohol? There were moments when I’d pose that question to my own heart and find no answer. But in the past—at least until five years ago—hadn’t it been straightforward? Didn’t I drink simply because I enjoyed it? That much seemed obvious… I could dismiss such doubts effortlessly. To demonstrate through deeds rather than arguments—I could compel myself to drain another cup just to dispel these affected, worthless suspicions.—To put it bluntly: even recently, watching Tashiro—still a child in my eyes—earnestly, delightedly, almost blissfully bringing each delicate sip of his sake cup to his lips, I realized anew my own wretchedness—how I’d mechanically empty any cup placed before me, as if consumption itself were the sole purpose.—And ultimately, it was I who crumbled first……

“Stop it, hey—don’t force yourself to drink like that.” In the old days, Washio often told me that. That “hermit” would say those words and look after me. That man might have known all along—even back then—that I wasn’t truly a drinker at heart… “But even so… I’ve really grown weak.”

With a sigh, he once again said to himself...

II He got drunk when he drank. Getting drunk—even in the past, he’d gotten drunk quickly. In fact, he’d gotten even more excessively drunk in days long past than he did now. But no matter how drunk he became—no matter how far gone—he never lost his bearings. However thoroughly plastered he got, he always reached his destination without fail.—However worn out he grew, he could pull himself together when needed.—The clearest proof was that no matter how deeply he drank or how prolonged his benders became, he never suffered the physical toll others did. That never happened. Even when he occasionally wondered, “Did I push it this time?”, soaking in scalding water first thing upon waking and then throwing back a hot drink would leave him perfectly recovered—strangely, miraculously fine. And then he could keep going endlessly—such was his unflinching resolve…

“You’re really something, Kinpei-san…”

Most people were impressed just by seeing that. “So I’m ‘indestructible,’ huh? —That’s what I am, then.” In response to that, he would always stroke his chin whenever he said that. And so he did that… but no one truly believed it. But from around the time he approached forty, that indestructibility gradually began to prove unreliable. And when the voices saying “fifty” were increasingly heard around him, he had already developed the habit of falling asleep as soon as he drank. He had literally developed the habit of losing all sense of time and place. He had developed a habit where even a single day’s drinking would leave him hungover, dragging the misery clear into the next. Of course, once it came to that, neither hot baths nor hot liquor did anything but sharpen his suffering—they never brought the dependable relief they once had. And from around that time onward, his stamina vanished, his digestion worsened, his spirit lost all its vigor… and his physical decline came rushing in. When those around him badgered him into seeing a doctor, he was told there was a problem with his kidneys. He had to recuperate now. Needless to say, this meant he had been advised to abstain from alcohol.

But he refused. Stubbornly, he insisted it was all nonsense.—Yet around that time, a man from the communal quarters—considered the second heaviest drinker in the troupe after him—suddenly vomited blood and collapsed one day. It was a stomach ulcer caused by alcohol.—When he secretly learned this was an incurable disease’s doing, he shuddered.—That very day, he followed the doctor’s advice. “But listen—it ain’t ’cause I’m scared of some damn illness that I quit drinkin’. I don’t give a rat’s ass about sickness.—It’s just Shōtarō—Shōtarō’s why I stopped. How long can a father… how long can a father keep wallowin’ in booze when his boy’s ’bout to start middle school? “It’s ’cause I thought of that that I quit.”

He made his stubborn excuse with a straight face.

But that abstinence didn’t last three months. The screw had unwittingly returned to its original position.—At the very least, when Shōtarō triumphantly passed his middle school entrance exam, he—ecstatic—called over a crowd of companions that very night and proceeded to drink himself senseless until dawn; this much was certain…

III

“If only I’d quit cleanly back then?” From time to time, he would brood over those years of futile regret—like tallying the age of a dead child. “In the end… In the end, I was roped into it by that bastard Choko.—He played me perfectly.”

Every time he recalled it, he resented Hishikawa. If only that bastard hadn’t spouted his nonsense—he seethed with frustration. He’d quit so well. He’d quit so resolutely—everyone in the dressing room praised him, saying, “That’s our Kinpei-san for you!”… Even Chikushi, who rarely spoke carelessly of right and wrong, admitted, “It’s sad to lose our local legend, but this is better for your health—impressive you found the resolve.” Yet amid all this, only Hishikawa dismissed him with a contemptuous snort.

“A Nishimaki who doesn’t drink is just a deflated balloon.” “Useless—there’s nothing as damn worthless as this.” When he heard they had laughed derisively behind his back, he flared up. How dare you, you bastard, he bit his lip. Even without that provocation, he was withering away… Day by day, his spirit bent under the strain, his resolve frayed, and the world grew duller—until he began glimpsing his own desolation. For him—it was precisely there, at his most vulnerable point, that they had prodded…

But if those words had come from Chikushi or someone like that, he might not have taken them that way. He might have even welcomed them as a kind remark. “A deflated balloon…” It was exactly the sort of phrase that should have pleased him. But coming from Hishikawa… Coming from that Hishikawa he loathed most in all the world—those words might as well have been stamped in gold or iron… If he drank, fine. If he drank, no wonder… In the end, he couldn’t help but sulk like this……

“That bastard… Just how far will he take this exploitation…” Now, as if only just realizing it, he cursed himself for having begun drinking so sloppily… cursed himself for having learned to drown himself in liquor. Unless he did so, he found himself bitterly recalling those days twenty years prior in the guest chambers, when he’d endured Hishikawa’s relentless discipline from start to finish. And those memories now intertwined with their recent warped dynamic during the stage performance in Hongō just a month earlier. This summoned yet more of that unpleasantness—the kind where, across twenty-two days, not once had their rhythms aligned.

That was a good role he had secured after a long time. Though practically a walk-on part, it was one that stood out. It was a role that could prove quite lucrative depending on how one played it. He threw himself eagerly into rehearsals. With a vigor he hadn’t felt in years, he immersed himself completely. But Hishikawa—his counterpart in the play—had discarded from the outset the required approach; for instance, if his role as Saizō in a New Year’s manzai routine demanded Hishikawa perform in the complementary Tayū style, he abandoned it entirely. No matter how ingeniously he adjusted his delivery, Hishikawa never reciprocated.—Worse still—he wouldn’t even properly receive the lines passed to him.—However anxiously this side fretted, the other remained utterly indifferent.

And the result was disastrous. What should have naturally been well-received wasn't accepted at all. Not only did it fail to land—it was downright panned. Even the theater critics who usually held sympathy for him threw in the towel, declaring splendidly: "Hishikawa and Nishimaki—both lack even a trace of their former vigor. How desolate." "Damn him... That Hishikawa bastard..."

He shed bitter tears upon reading the theater review, without any pretense or attempt to hide it.

IV

……And in those five or so days, he wasted away as if by some cruel twist. Even to himself, he felt as hollow as if he had just recovered from a long illness. To such an extent had he tormented both body and soul even in his sleep. For no reason, he felt lonely and empty. He felt as desolate as if he had fallen to the bottom of an abyss. No matter where he turned, there was only darkness—no glimmer of light, a void without purchase—a life he had never once considered clever… The precious, irreplaceable life of that person… Such things now seemed to be recalled with futile resignation.

“What a fool I am…”

He forced himself to speak.—He tried to muster the courage to laugh. But it was futile.—He couldn't laugh.—Instead, tears of unknowable origin rose in his eyes……

"It's my age.—In other words, it's my age..." When this thought came, amidst his tears, the figures of his wife and children—his beloved wife and children who relied on him alone—floated before his eyes. "But what if something happened? "—If something happened to me now?" Suddenly he was seized from behind in a grapple.—He hurriedly tried to shake it off. But unlike the stage combat techniques he'd perfected himself, it didn't go smoothly. He was dragged back miserably, slipping helplessly. He was dragged on endlessly...

“I’ll stop.—This time—I’ll stop for sure.” He vowed deeply. “No matter what anyone says—no matter what anyone says, this time I’ll stop…” ...but suddenly—so suddenly—the reason he had utterly lost heart, the reason his vigor had completely drained away, lay partly in his wife’s unexpected response to his latest indiscretions. It was because his wife’s treatment of her husband, who had left home without a word for three or even four days, defied all expectations. Even so, he had been received kindly and in good spirits.—Even so, he had been able to cross his own threshold easily, safely, and peacefully. A sternly pallid face, words cold as ice, a mediation laced with spiteful sharp needles. ...With a warrior’s ferocity… he never felt the lash that should have bitten into his flesh.

When he spoke, he felt deflated. ...he curtly ordered someone to prepare bedding. In brusque tones, he told them to bring medicine—undoing his obi and collapsing into bed still wearing his Yoshiwara-striped habutae silk underrobe. “Are you in pain?” “Yeah.” “Shall I call the doctor?” “Yeah.”

The woman hurriedly rose from his bedside and left.

“Sorry… I shouldn’t have…” Listening to her footsteps fade down the stairs, he whispered these words from beneath the quilt.—The image of her from her days working in Yanagibashi returned vividly to him.—They were companions who had weathered hardships together…

At that very moment when Tashiro started drinking with a tai chirinabe pot prepared at Kikunoya. Over Hatchōbori, rain was falling as well. ……The sleet-mixed rain chilled his ears with its cold sound……

V But compared to that day’s sodden dreariness, what absurdly fine weather this was. A vividly blue sky, sunlight filtering through in gentle patches. ……Thanks to this, his thoughts felt crisp and unclouded. —He rose from the futon and stood by the window. Without particular intent, he gazed at the scene outside—an endless sprawl of barracks roofs tangled with radio antennas—yet this was the view over towns deeply familiar from his twenty-odd years of dwelling here. Being a new road slightly removed from the main thoroughfare, neither streetcar clatter nor automobile rumble reached this place. ……Beneath that serene blue sky, the lonely throb of Ichimonjishi drums drifted faintly from afar.

He closed the window and returned to his futon. He hurriedly clapped his hands—when no response came, he called out again in a loud voice, “Anyone there? Anyone there…” “Do you need something?”

It was the student Nishizaki who slid open the karakami door and peered out. “Is there no one here?” “She has just gone out shopping.” “Where’s Shō-chan?” “Earlier, he said he was going to visit a school friend and has gone out.” “So there’s no one downstairs either?” “Yes.”

“What time is it now?”

“It struck three a short while ago.” “Three o’clock?” “Yes.”

"I'm going to the bathhouse—get it ready now." He abruptly said this and retightened the sash of his sleepwear—the underrobe he'd removed right after the doctor's visit that night—once more. "Huh?"

Nishizaki asked again, as if doubting his own ears. "I’m going to the bathhouse—get the soap and everything ready downstairs." "But…?"

“Hurry up, hurry…”

As if to cut off whatever Nishizaki was about to say, he stood up. He took the padded silk tanzen from his bedside and draped it over his sleepwear.—Seeing this, Nishizaki panicked and hurried downstairs… He hung a hand towel and went outside. He looked up again at that deep blue—no, blue and cold as water, yet still beautifully clear—sky. At once, he realized that everything around him had already been busily adorned for the year’s end—even the people passing through the streets seemed oddly restless. Along the main avenue, bamboo decorations awaiting spring already lined the way.

“Are you going to the bathhouse, Master?”

He was called from behind. “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—swamped?” “You can’t come here anymore.” “Can’t? Quit puttin’ on airs.” “I’m not putting on airs—it’s true.” “Right, perfect timing.” Abruptly, as if struck by inspiration, he said, “Three servings from the leaner cuts—one bowl. Send it over to the house later.”

“Not too fatty cuts for three servings in one bowl?” “That’s right.” “Understood.” Shortly after parting with the delivery person, he soon stood before the bathhouse.

“Today: Yuzu Bath”—oh right, today’s the winter solstice? He muttered to himself and opened the entrance door.

VI At the brief day’s zenith—suddenly, in an instant—the sunlight dimmed, and the sky’s hue shed its brilliance. There he lingered, uncharacteristically composed, soaking leisurely in the yuzu bath until he emerged revitalized… yet with a posture slightly sapped of vigor. By the time he stepped outside, lamplight already suffused the surroundings—thick and hushed, conspicuously present—even as the sky retained a crystalline clarity… deepening into twilight. Savoring the cooling air against his flushed cheeks, he ambled as languidly as he could manage.

“Well, you…” No sooner had he opened the lattice door and entered the house than Omasu abruptly confronted him. “Wasn’t I just about to send Nishizaki to fetch you?”

“Why?” “What do you mean ‘why’? Isn’t it obvious?—Slipping off to the bathhouse while I was away…” “But even if you say that, there was no telling when you’d come back.” “If I’d kept dithering, it would’ve gotten dark.” “Even if I hadn’t—look—it’d still be like this even if I’d left then.” “There was no need to rush off like that… If you had to go, you should’ve asked the doctor first—only gone if he said it was alright… That’s how it should’ve been.—No—not just ‘should’ve,’ you had to do it that way.” “Don’t you realize we still can’t tell if you’ve truly recovered?”

“I’ve gotten better.—Completely better now. That’s why I went to the bathhouse.” “You decided that all on your own.—What if you act so rashly again and have a relapse?”

“Relapse? Don’t be ridiculous.” “It’s not that serious—I’m not that sick.” “If that’s how it is, then—no, that’s exactly why it’s wrong, you. What do you think the doctor would say?” “The doctor?” “Don’t you care even a little about your own health anymore? “You’re not young forever, you know……” “I’m ending my convalescence—ending it for good.” He involuntarily felt a chill but glossed it over by saying that. “I just told the Izuya delivery person that, so the eel will be coming.” “So get the meal tray ready—right away.”

Just like that, he handed the hand towel and soap to Nishizaki and entered the tea room. He clasped his hands briefly before the Golden Deity, then immediately sat down on the large Yuzen-patterned quilt in front of the long hibachi. The scent of Binchōtan charcoal—poured with a crisp, generous clatter—wafted through the bright lamplight. He poured the boiling water from the iron kettle into a teacup and took a relishing sip…… “Right away…”

Just then, Shōtarō came in from outside. “Ah, are you up, Father?” “Yeah.” “Have you recovered already?” “I’ve recovered.” “Are you really okay? Truly?” “I’m fine, really.”

He averted his eyes from Shōtarō, who stood there with a look of concern as he removed his mantle. Unseen by others, a tear glistened in those averted eyes of his in that moment…

VII

Before long, a chabudai was spread out beside the long hibachi; Omasu had Nishizaki assist her and brought over the dinner dishes arranged on a wide lid. He too clattered open the tea cabinet to take out the chopstick box, lowered the iron kettle, and prepared to roast tea. “Ah, that thing.—It doesn’t go in… That thing…” As usual, Omasu sat herself before the hibachi at last and tried to gently submerge the tin sake warmer—sent long ago by a patron from Osaka—into the copper pot. Seeing this, he panicked—hurriedly he restrained…

“………?” Suddenly addressed like that, Omasu looked at his face. “Why is that?” “I ain’t drinkin’… I ain’t drinkin’, me…” “You don’t want to drink anymore?” “That’s not it—I ain’t drinkin’.” “………?”

“I quit.—Quit for good.” “All of a sudden again…” Omasu laughed heedlessly and submerged the sake warmer. “No use saying that—won’t work…”

“Why… Why?” “You can’t quit now—not after all this time. It’s pointless to even say such things…”

“Why? “Why’s it pointless? “Even you—just now—didn’t give a damn ’bout your health. “……Y’said that y’self, didn’t ya?”

“I said so.” “But that—I wasn’t talking about the sake.” “Then what were you talking about?” “It’s not any one particular thing—it’s all sorts.” “You’re the type who gets carried away at the slightest nudge—that’s the problem.” “It’s that recklessness of yours—charging headlong into things—that’s no good. Even with sake—if you set a clear limit at home, one bottle or two, and drink properly, I wouldn’t fuss over it at all.” “Call it medicine if you like—there’s no way it could ever be poison.”

“That’s not… That’s not it.” He firmly insisted, “No matter how you twist it, it ain’t medicine.—It’s poison.—It’s seeped into my bones, that truth—it’s poison.” “If I take one sip—just one… Right away, I can’t even handle that much—it’s too much.… That’s how immediate it is.” “But for someone like you… someone like you who’s been steeped in drink all this time—they say suddenly quitting like that would actually do more harm than good. And not just that—they say a body accustomed to heavy drinking won’t respond to medicine once the alcohol wears off, no matter what ailment strikes.”

“That’s… That’s absurd.” He laughed uproariously. “No, that’s what they say.” “The doctor said so.—Right, Shō-chan?” Omasu turned back to Shōtarō unflinchingly. “He did say that, didn’t he? The other day, Mr. Yamaji…”

“He said so.” Shōtarō nodded firmly and said, “You should keep drinking.” “If you don’t drink, you won’t have any energy these days.” “Energy?” He looked at Shōtarō, who had spoken those words. “That’s right, truly.” Following that remark, Omasu pressed on in a slightly insistent tone. “If you don’t drink, you’ve been making such an oddly gloomy face lately.” “It’s a problem starting right now…”

Eight

“Th-that’s not true.”

He said hurriedly. But at the same time, he was gripped by a loneliness he had no means to dispel. It was like Yawata’s Impenetrable Thicket… In the very heart of that thicket, every path was blocked no matter which way one turned. There was nothing to do but stand there dazedly, frozen in place…

“It’s time to celebrate.—A recovery celebration.—So, well, just for tonight’s special.” He immediately picked up his sake cup and said, “Starting tomorrow—starting tomorrow, I’ll quit for sure.” Omasu took the sake warmer out of the copper pot.

“The sake’s warmed and ready…” Without responding, she placed her hand on the bottom of the warmer to gauge its heat, then poured just the first cup over the brazier.

“Come on, eat up, Shō-chan.” Still holding the sake cup to his lips, he turned toward Shōtarō. “I thought I’d take you to Maekawa or somewhere since it’s been so long, but then I got laid up and couldn’t go.” “Once spring comes, I’ll take you—anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you there.” “So… just let me off the hook this year, alright?” “Alright.”

Having answered thus, Shōtarō immediately opened the lid of the grilled eel and portioned it onto a plate.

“Omasu, you eat too—with Shō-chan.” “Eat it quick—before it gets cold.”

“Yes, I’ll eat.” “Nishizaki, I’ve caused you worry this time too.—So I’ll treat you as well.… Take that bowl over there and eat as you like.”

“Oh…” “Ah… Feels like I’ve got my own body back after so long.” “But wherever I go—there’s no place like home.” He set the sake cup down, gave his collar a sharp tug, and put on his cheeriest face. “That just proves how old you’ve gotten after all.” Omasu deliberately spoke coldly.

“That’s right.—Absolutely right.” He nodded immediately. “When I’m alone, I don’t feel it much. But being with someone like Tashiro—it seeps into me.” “So goddamn stupid—watching what those idiots do makes me sick. It’s the truth.” “But when you think about it—back when you were Mr. Tashiro’s age…” “That ain’t it—quit talkin’ like that.” He cut her off brusquely. “What I mean is—I’ve aged too. Can’t keep foolin’ around with petty nonsense like before.” “If I’m gonna say that much, I gotta bring that same weight to the stage… That’s what it comes down to.” “Told Tashiro and Miura the same.” “They both agreed straight out.” “So they said—if we get just one callback, we oughta try sellin’ Nishimaki Kinpei here again.”

“So… after all…?”

Suddenly, Omasu interjected. “Huh?” He raised his face as he tried to take the sake warmer. “Is it really true after all—that newspaper article?”

“Newspaper?” He made a puzzled face. “Yes, the other day’s…” “Is there something about it in the paper?” “About this situation, you…”

“This situation? “What—do you mean by ‘this situation’?” “No—this time Yura’s troupe has disbanded… and they’ve formed a new one with Mr. Wakamiya as leader…”

Nine “What did you say?” He instinctively looked at Omasu’s face. “Yura’s troupe has disbanded?” “Yes.” “So Wakamiya’s the troupe leader?” “Yes—they’ve formed a new troupe with Mr. Wakamiya as leader, filled out with all the prominent members from Yura’s troupe up till now.” “And if they properly listed Mr. Tsukushi’s name, then Mr. Kamishiro’s would be there too.” “Mr. Ogura’s name was listed as well—and Mr. Miura’s and Mr. Tashiro’s.” “So… then… my… name too…?”

“No, you aren’t listed.” “Not in there?” “Only Master Yanokura, Mr. Shiomi, and you—those three names are missing from it.—So I…” “Is Hishikawa included?” “Yes—he’s properly listed.”

“…………” “If Mr. Hishikawa’s name weren’t there, then you and one other would certainly remain with Master Yanokura at ‘Yanokura’.” “That’s what I think.” “But even with Mr. Hishikawa’s name listed, yours alone...” “...and they say Mr. Shiomi is moving into pictures…” “Does it really mention such things?” “Yes, in another part…” “Th-that’s preposterous...” He abruptly cut her off. “What sort of newspaper is this?!” “—Do you have that paper?”

“I have it.—I have kept it.”

“Show me.—Bring it here and show me.” With that, he took the sake warmer and peered into the sake cup. Then he hurriedly brought it to his mouth. And then—at that moment, a squid-ink darkness suddenly spread through him… Nishizaki, who was still there, stood up and immediately brought it over.

“Where did you put my glasses?” He rummaged through the drawer of the hibachi where he always kept them.

“They should be in there, shouldn’t they?”

“They’re not here.” “That can’t be right.” “……There they were.” Irritably muttering this, he fumbled for his glasses… *Disgraceful*, he berated himself, *no discipline at all—how could I sink to such shameful behavior now?* After stubbornly resisting for what felt like ages, he finally capitulated, pulled out the reading glasses he’d reluctantly begun using that winter, perched them on his nose, and hastily grabbed up the newspaper again.

……That’s exactly right. It was exactly as Omasu had said. Finally, this time, the New School Theater—having severed its long-standing ties and become independent from the company—took this opportunity to disband the traditional Yura troupe and proceeded to organize a fresh new troupe with Wakamiya Ryūjo as its leader. ――To achieve this, they would eradicate at their root the various forms of personal favoritism and entrenched conventions long deemed cancerous to the New School Theater, while also abolishing the *onnagata* system and utilizing actresses instead.――Backed by a Wakamiya-supporting financier from Kansai, it had been decided that come next spring, they would make a splendid debut at a major Tokyo theater.……Such was the grandiose special article that laid out these matters at length.

He checked the date. It was listed as the seventeenth. The seventeenth... come to think of it, the seventeenth was the second day. It had been the second day of his drinking binge.…… Oblivious to such matters even in his dreams, he had been wallowing wantonly in his dissipation.

10

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 cut. Everyone had already been fired from the company. ……Now that he thought of it, that first evening—at both Kikunoya and later at the Western-style restaurant—Miura had kept saying such things. “There’s no way such a thing could happen—no way such nonsense could be true!” he and Tashiro had stubbornly retorted. Even during the day—no, when Ogura and Miura had said that to him in Mukojima—he had felt uneasy. …Tashiro had said that…What? Even Kinpei-san didn’t know? Was it something even Kinpei-san didn’t know? “In that case, we’re safe—it’s all settled then! Spouting nonsense and making us worry for nothing—” Suddenly, Tashiro felt emboldened…

If that was the case… then Tashiro hadn’t known. He must not have known at all. He wasn’t the kind of man to keep up such an act if he did know.—Come to think of it, neither was Miura.—Sure, he spouted logic, argued principles, made cutting remarks—but Miura had a clean heart through and through. They weren’t clumsy schemers like Hishikawa.—If they’d known, they would’ve outright said the ties with the company were severed—hell, they’d have spelled out the rest too.—Not saying it… not saying it meant they didn’t know…

Tashiro didn’t know, Miura didn’t know—not even Ogura knew. ……The names of those three who didn’t know were listed. ――Their names were printed with such finality, as if they’d fully endorsed it.――A lie.――A fabrication. ――Utter nonsense… He flung the newspaper down. Irritably, he removed his glasses and set them on the hibachi’s metal plate. But even as he insisted—*A lie… a fabrication… utter nonsense*—the squid-ink gloom that had seeped through him earlier refused to retreat. ――The once cloudless sky of his mind had now thickened with darkness.――Twelve hours prior: himself stepping outside with a hand towel slung carelessly over his shoulder; himself exchanging cheerful banter with the eel delivery boy; himself stretching languidly in the yuzu bath……All those blissfully ignorant moments—his own pitiable complacency—now rose before him in wretched clarity……

“But Mr. Wakamiya…?” Omasu peered searchingly at his face.

“……”

Silently, he picked up the chilled sake cup. “With everyone gone from that side… what will you do, Master Yanokura?” “That ain’t nothin’ settled yet.—Ain’t no decided matter.”

Brusquely, behind his words—blurted out as if spat—lay an irretrievable frailty of spirit, half-concealed. He took up the sake flask and hurriedly refilled the cup to the brim.

“……But no matter who leaves, I’m here. “―I’ll be the only one by your side.”

He continued immediately, half-muttering as if speaking to himself. At once, he felt heat prickle behind his eyelids. “Hey—stoke it up. Keep it going…”

……The distant clang of the fire watchman’s iron staff resonated through the frost-laden air.—A winter night deepening swiftly.

Rebellion.

I

Earlier at Kikunoya, when Ogura had suddenly demanded of him, “What do you think that money was for?” Tashiro had been stunned; afterward, he abandoned Yura to join Wakamiya’s independent venture……In place of the Yura troupe, a Wakamiya troupe was being formed……Hearing that such schemes—such rebellious plots—were steadily progressing left him even more astonished.—And then, upon being told that he too was included in the Wakamiya troupe’s lineup, that his name had already been properly added to their roster, his astonishment only grew.—Dumbfounded, more than merely surprised.

“A j-joke…—It’s a joke…” Yet despite this, he could only repeat that same “j-joke” over and over. “But it can’t be helped—they’ve already decided it on their end…” Ogura said with deliberate coldness. “It’s already been in the papers.” “In the newspapers?” 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 any such thing.”

“You’re such a careless fool.” “But…—but that’s…—Even if it was in the papers, that’s…—Outrageous…—Such an outrageous…”

“Why outrageous?” “Isn’t it? Isn’t it outrageous?…Making such decisions without one’s consent…They decide everything unilaterally…” “They must know.—You’ve already consented, haven’t you?” “A j-joke…—Had such a thing existed…had even a falsehood of it existed, I’d have consulted you—and Kei-chan too.” “……I wouldn’t commit such heartlessness without a word.”

“Saying all that—you even took a deposit, didn’t you?” “Even a deposit?” “Ain’t that right?—And you took a hundred yen from the year-end money…” “A hundred yen?” “There should still be half left…” “Wh-what’re you yammerin’ about? That was Chokogin who…” “That’s why you borrowed it, ain’t that right?—You did borrow it, didn’t you?” “Yeah… That’s right…”

“But would Chokogin really lend something with no prospect of repayment like that?”

“Prospects?” “Would someone slickly fork over money with no guarantee of repayment like that?”

“…………” “That’s what I’m saying—you, what do you think that money was for?” “But…” “It’s Chokogin’s scheme.” “This current job of theirs—it’s Hishikawa Nobuo’s plot.”

Ogura snapped back.

II

But Tashiro abruptly refused to accept it. “But Chokogin?—That’s absurd, isn’t it?” “Why?” “That old man—he’s greedy, sure, but he ain’t thoroughly crooked. Shameless as they come, gets under your skin—always tripping folks up at the heel, but deep down he ain’t no villain.—He’s no mastermind who could pull off such grand schemes.”

“Exactly—he’s no mastermind. …It’s precisely because he’s not that he gets swindled so easily.” “If prodded, he’s quick to take the bait.”

“But even if you say that, wouldn’t that be drawing a bow against the Master of Yanokura?”

“That’s right.” “Such—such disregard for loyalty… How many years have you been at the Master’s side?” “When your life hangs by a thread, you’d even strike your master’s head—that’s the way of things.” “What?!”

“When push comes to shove, they’ll find their own pockets more dear than the Master.” “However, that… If it were the likes of you and Kei-chan, it’d be fine. “…Even if it’s not acceptable, I could still put up with it.” “Because you’re not a sworn retainer.” “In other words… because you’re an outsider…” “You’re starting that again.” “No, really. “But Choko isn’t like that.” “In that case, Choko wouldn’t stand for it.” “If Nishimaki-san heard such things, how furious would he be? Even if he didn’t—that guy’s heartless, inhuman! All ‘Master, Master,’ groveling to his face, yet behind his back acting like those thirty-some years under Yanokura and Mr. Yura’s care meant nothing. A fat sinner like that doesn’t exist—Nishimaki-san’s always saying that.”

“So even if you drag him into this, Nishimaki won’t budge.” “So who exactly are you trying to drag into this?—Whose names are in the newspaper?” “Everyone’s listed.”

“Everyone?” “After excluding Mr. Shiomi and Nishimaki, everyone else is listed.” “Mr. Kamiya too?” “That man would go anywhere as long as he can earn money.”

“So—you and Kei-chan too?” “We’re no exception.” “If you say such a thing... Then doesn’t that mean Yura’s troupe is finished?” “That’s why Wakamiya’s troupe will take Yura’s place.” “Haven’t I been saying that from the start?” “Then what will the Master do? —Who will the Master of Yanokura perform with now?” “There’s no one left for him to perform with.” “Th-that’s—that can’t be true!”

“Even if you tell me that, there’s nothing I can do.” “I don’t want to.—This is awful.” “—Who would do such a…”

“I don’t like it either.” “Then why did you agree?—Why’d you agree to something you hate?—I don’t know.—I don’t know anything.—But you know, don’t you? You know every damn detail, don’t you?”

III “Who on earth would agree to such a thing?” Ogura spoke again with a heavy thud. “Would I?” “As if I would!” “But you see…” Tashiro, his opening move parried, said: “Why?” “They’ve decided that entirely on their own.” “Then it’s no different, is it? “Then isn’t it the same for me?” “But I haven’t taken any advance money like you have.” “I can just return it, return it…”

“Do you think Choko would take it back?” “Even if they won’t take it back, I’ll make them take it—we didn’t borrow it with that intention.” “That’s exactly what they’re banking on. If they come to us saying yes, they’ll cleanly cut off all the support they’ve given so far—that’s their opening move.” “…and when those bastards come with that line, we hit back with a ‘Sorry, not interested.’” “…the one who bowed his head and crawled right back into their pockets.” “With Choko—no surprise there—he latched on gleefully and followed along…”

“D-did they come to your place and say such things?”

“It wasn’t just my place—they went around using that same tactic to sweet-talk everyone.” “Damn it! …They wouldn’t even flinch at pulling something like this.” “Naturally—if they can avoid spelling it out, keeping quiet’s the shrewder play.”

“Did they go to Kei-chan’s place too?”

“They probably did. —But whether they went to Miura’s place and actually said the same thing—who knows? —For all we know, they might’ve offered to take on half of what’s been given up to now.”

“Even so… But would Choko really stake his entire livelihood on this himself…?” “Not a chance! “Choko’s got dollar signs for eyes.” “He’s looking to profit from the chaos—like looting during a fire.” “—Which means there’s definitely someone else bankrolling this.” “Who? —Who is it then?” “They won’t say even if we agree.” “They’ve buried it deep.” “I can smell the rot from here. —The papers claim some Kansai moneybags are propping up Wakamiya, but that’s pure fiction.”

“Who could it be? —Where did this scheme come from?”

“I know.”

“Who?” “Who… who is it, hey?” “The one who cut Azuma’s life short.” “Azuma’s life?” “Have you forgotten what we talked about while walking through Mukōjima the other day?”

“Mukōjima? —Ah, the park one?” “That’s right—Rakuten-bōzu of the Rakuten Troupe.” “That bastard, though...?” “The scheme derailed by the earthquake has regained its edge here. —Last time they tried circling cautiously from afar and failed… But now the times have changed, so this time they’re pushing through single-mindedly. —No waiting for favorable tides—they’re determined to thrust Wakamiya’s troupe into prominence from the outset. —And if that lands cleanly, they’ll use it as a foothold to storm Tokyo’s theater world—that’s the crafty plot they’ve brewed up.”

“How do you know?” “I’m not some coddled lapchild like you.” “But that’s… again…”

IV

...Afterward, Ogura explained how this Rakuten-bōzu had originally been a provincial touring actor—a man keenly attuned to trends. When “student theater” grew popular, he became a student actor; when “moving pictures” surged, he turned benshi; when comedies began thriving, he reinvented himself as a comic performer—drifting constantly, shifting his base with each new wave. Though small in stature, his ambitions loomed large. Refusing to rot away as a lifelong itinerant, he had long eyed Asakusa—a district then still dismissed as mere “Okuyama” or “Rokku,” its streets lined with jugglers, maiden dancers, modernized sword dances, and kappore troupes. Bravely plunging into this fray during that era, he raised the banner of his “Rakuten Troupe.” At first, no one would give him the time of day—countless times he found himself unable to remain there—yet he stubbornly persisted, gradually began attracting audiences, and ten years later became Asakusa’s undeniable star. The success was due chiefly—and indeed entirely—to his managerial acumen (like that which Yamato once possessed). ...Ogura recounted these matters down to the finest detail. Tashiro listened silently.

But Tashiro utterly withered away in the course of that conversation. The initial vigor with which he had been chattering away to the owner of Utamura vanished without a trace.—By the time their conversation reached a natural pause, he found himself absentmindedly crossing his arms and staring at the ice-cold sake cup left undrunk, with no thought to order a replacement flask.—Of course, the drunkenness had long since faded.

After settling the bill and leaving Kiku no Ie, he insistently took Ogura through the briefly accumulated snow to Miura’s house in Matsuba-chō. But Miura wasn’t there. He had returned once earlier but left again immediately, they said. “Where did he go? Which direction? Didn’t he say anything before leaving?” Relentlessly, Tashiro cornered the hard-of-hearing old caretaker—who had steadfastly held her post for several years back in Senju (Miura being a bachelor)—and grilled her down to the roots and leaves but learned nothing. In the end, having gotten nowhere, Tashiro absently stepped outside again.

“I’m going home…” When they reached Kappabashi, Ogura abruptly—or at least, so it seemed to Tashiro—turned back. “Going home?”

“Go home already, you too. That’s enough.” “How long do you plan to keep wandering around like some vagrant?” “But…” “Try seeing things from my wife’s perspective for once.”

At those words, he had no retort. Even without that, since earlier, along with the fading of his drunkenness, a sense of resignation had been settling in. Even now, staying up two or three nights was nothing unusual—and besides, for actors' excuses—or performers', if you will—such things were only natural; the more popular they became, the more they'd let loose. Even though she was the daughter of a Kiyomoto master, given her respectable upbringing, she remained steadfast in her honest belief in him—so whether he stayed out five days or ten made no difference at all. Yet precisely because of this—because she remained so uncomplaining—his pity for her only deepened when matters came to a head. For there had been no choice but to elope ten years prior, and even after their wish was granted to live together, the foster mother who had stood between them all along, interfering at every turn... who had persisted in nothing but unreasonable, spiteful acts (indeed, his year-long stay in Osaka around the time of the earthquake, permitted by Yura, had been solely to earn enough to satisfy her demands) had been laid to rest in the spring two years ago—and even now, a decade later, not a shadow of clarity or cloudiness existed in how he felt about her...

“Well, then…” Having made up his mind, Tashiro left. “Even tomorrow, they still won’t show up.” Ogura’s glasses glinted quietly. “Where to?”

“To my place.” “Yeah.” “No doubt Hishikawa came by to say something while I was out.” “I hate this.—What a mess.” “No matter what they’ve come to say—I refuse.” “Even if we refuse, a clumsy approach will leave troublesome loose ends.” “Given who we’re dealing with.” “But that’s…” “No, I don’t mind Hishikawa.” “But if that money you took came from Rakuten-bōzu, there’s no telling whether they won’t start jostling the cart sideways again.” “That monk—puts on a magnanimous front, but when cornered, he’s a vindictive viper of a man…”

“……” “There’s no harm in caution—no mistake in staying cautious—so…” “……” “Miura will probably come too—if they hear that we went as two samurai now…”

Soon, the train arrived. Ogura boarded it. In snow falling thick and fast at lamp-lighting time, the train’s form vanished instantly……

Five

After that, Tashiro borrowed an oil-paper umbrella from *Kiku no Ie* and, holding it aloft, trudged alone back into the park. Since he was returning to the area near Daichi’s Meiji Hospital, it would have been natural for him to ride that Kuramae-bound train together with Ogura. But he hadn’t done so because he needed to buy her favorite local specialty pastry at Nakamise as a gift for their meeting after four days apart. When he entered the park, he walked straight along the edge of the pond toward Nio Gate. In the pitch-black darkness that had already fallen completely, the sight of a single narrow path of trampled snow continuing on and the sound of snow quietly slipping from the dark treetops of the groves on either side made him unbearably lonely.

And when he bought the local specialty pastry, this time he wanted to return home as soon as possible. As soon as he exited Kaminarimon, he took a one-yen taxi to Kayamachi. But even so, when he finally stood before his home, he felt the height of the threshold as if for the first time. For they must have closed the storm shutters against the falling snow… The sight of the entrance—its lattice half-shuttered—made him keenly feel the loneliness of a house left masterless, perhaps because he viewed it through that lens. A sudden frailty of heart, like that of returning from a long journey, surged up from deep within his chest.

“Hey…”

Deliberately, he placed his hand forcefully on the tightly closed lattice.

“Yes.” A reply came as if answering the sound’s echo—the sliding paper door between the raised entryway and tearoom opened at once, spilling lamplight into the gloom. His wife stepped down to the earthen-floored entryway and unlatched the bolt. “Welcome home.” He didn’t overlook the Edo-zakura plaster clinging pitifully to one cheek as she spoke.

“What’s wrong?” “Yes?” “No, your cheek.” “Oh, it’s my tooth…” “Does it hurt?” “Yes.” “Is it that bad?” “No, it’s just a little… It’s healed already…” But even so, the undone strands of her ginkgo-leaf twist hairstyle—which she had strained to maintain from yesterday’s elaborate styling—hung oppressively over it. “Ah, it’s cold…” With that, he said as if speaking unprompted, handed her the umbrella and the wrapped local pastry, removed his gloves, and undid the laces of his wet shoes.

“Did anyone come while I was out?”

Upon entering the sitting 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 by now…” “He kept saying that repeatedly.” “And did he say anything when he left?” “No, he just said he’d come again and left immediately.” “Didn’t he say anything else?”

“No, nothing at all. But he did have a rather stern look on his face—different from usual.”

“There’s been a mess of trouble—a real mess. That’s why everyone’s running around helter-skelter.” “…………”

“Even last night—even the night before last—I haven’t slept a wink.” “…………” “Didn’t anyone come by?” “No, no one.” “Didn’t anyone come from Hishikawa’s yesterday or thereabouts?”

“No.” “Didn’t anyone come?” “Yes.” “That’s strange.” “Are they supposed to come?” “They’re supposed to.”

As he said this, he took out a wallet wrapped in a fukusa cloth from the inner pocket of his coat and placed it on top of the dresser.

Inside it, fifty yen...

The woman, oblivious to everything, brought his everyday clothes from the direction of the kotatsu.—Suddenly, he pulled her close by the shoulder.

“You were lonely, weren’t you…?” He crushed her against himself in an embrace.

Six

The next morning, upon waking—though to say that, it was already past ten o’clock by then—Tashiro hurriedly left home for Ogura’s place in Mitsujimachi.

The snow had stopped, but the sky remained dark and gloomy, clouded over in a gray that clung stubbornly like unresolved regret. Given how rapidly it had accumulated—meaning it must have fallen all the more intensely and piled all the higher—last night’s beautiful silver world had already disappeared. Everywhere he looked now lay swamp-like mires and mud that had been shamelessly churned up and trampled underfoot. Through this terrain, he walked resolutely in clumsy rubber boots, devoid of any theatrical posturing or ornamentation befitting a young actor.

On the way, he used a public telephone to call Master at "Yanokura." The maid answered and said, “Master is away on a trip.” When asked about the young lady, she dismissed him curtly with a brusque “The young lady is accompanying him.” He felt lonely. ……Yet at the same time, well—it was a relief. For some reason, that thought brought him ease. The moment he saw Ogura’s face, he said it.

“He’s away on a trip?” Ogura furrowed his brow. “So where did they say he went?” “I didn’t ask that part—but since they mentioned he’s with the young lady, he must’ve gone to Shuzenji again. Like always.” “How many days did they say?” “Didn’t ask that either.” “This isn’t getting us anywhere!” “But that new maid—the one who came recently? She doesn’t grasp a thing.” “Not a single word gets through—she’s been kneaded smooth as arrowhead paste.”

“Was there no mention of that when you went there before?” “There was no mention of it. “So I think he must’ve left abruptly.” “Hmm… That might be true.” “He must’ve heard all sorts of things about this latest affair… Staying here would only bring trouble.” “Probably so.—Come to think of it, Wakamiya isn’t in Tokyo now either.” “Why? “—That makes no sense, does it? “—Who told you that?”

“Last night, Miura went and asked about it.” “Miura did?” “Yesterday, after I parted ways with Miura, Nishimaki, and you and returned home, there was a letter from Hishikawa.” “He came by two or three times, but since I was never there, he sent this letter.” “Since he’d told me to come right away, when I went to see him… it turned out to be this high-handed talk—‘Everyone already knows about this anyway, so you can’t possibly refuse.’” “In that case, if they refuse, he said he wants all the money he’s loaned cleared here and now.” “But that guy—he flipped it around. He’s not saying we should abandon what’s been done so far; let’s set that aside. If we can arrange another lump sum of five hundred and six hundred here and now, he says he’s willing to sell himself off.—In exchange, he won’t ask for any personal luxuries—since they’ll probably work something out for him anyway.” “Since that’s just how things turned out before.” “We didn’t care either—he said he’d come at us high-handed.”

“What a terrible guy.—But that’s different from what came to your place, isn’t it?” “He tailors his sermons to the person, you see. So Miura—after we agreed to meet again later and left that place—he immediately headed straight to your place. But he hasn’t come back yet. Then, while he was at it, he went all the way to Hamachō to see Wakamiya. But even so, there’s still something about Hishikawa’s story that doesn’t sit right. He decided to confront the person directly once and for all.—It was that man who had thought so. Even he wasn’t quick enough.”

“So, when he went there?” “A live-in student was keeping watch alone, and Master wasn’t in Tokyo.”

Seven

However, Tashiro couldn’t believe it. They were using his absence—that was what it was. ……He couldn’t think of it any other way. But even so—and given that the other party was who they were—they exploited his absence underhandedly, but Miura wasn’t one to simply say, “Is that so?” and retreat without a sound. It was possible that this—until all the arrangements were in place—was a deliberate act of hiding somewhere. —If that was the case… it was no surprise.

“But that…” Ogura did not nod. “If the public hadn’t caught wind of this yet, then for a man with nerves as strong as Wakamiya’s, that might’ve been necessary.” “But now that it’s been splashed all over the newspapers like that, there’s no reason for him to hide so cowardly.” “If we keep this up, the troupe won’t hold together.” “However, if Choco and Rakutenbouzu had taken full control…”

“Then isn’t this just the same as our troupe’s plays up until now? Isn’t this exactly like Yura’s troupe up till now—leaving everything to the company and accepting every unreasonable demand as justified? In that case, Wakamiya… No, that’s not it—if it were just some trifling matter, why would that man have gotten involved in such talk from the start? But mark my words—when push comes to shove, he won’t budge an inch, even with a lever.”

“I do think that… but—”

“No matter how things proceed from here, for the first month or two, everything will undoubtedly be done exactly as Wakamiya says.” “Undoubtedly, at least that kind of agreement must have been made.” “So—you’re finally aiming to sell yourself as a leading actor now, Wakamiya?” “That’s probably how it is—most likely.” “Since using actresses has become another gimmick.” “But if you say that—where are there any actresses capable of keeping up with Wakamiya?”

“They’re everywhere.” “Even just within the *Rakuten Troupe* alone, there are ten or twenty of them.” “Those—those things…” “Only guys like you think that way.” “The world doesn’t see it that way.—It’s all well arranged.”

“But you…” “Anyway—as long as you were part of Yanokura’s troupe—you’d have no choice but to keep playing female impersonators forever, no matter how much you hated it.” “No matter how much they try to grow under those conditions—they can’t.” “The very motivation for this independence lies there.” “In reality—no matter how much Yanokura may have trained such a fine actor themselves—they can’t keep him tied down forever.” “Even Hishikawa—when he came to my place—kept saying all that like it was some grand affair.”

“No—that’s… —That’s exactly right.—I think someone like Wakamiya is precisely what you’d call a genius.” “—That’s why I sympathize.” “Therefore, even if he were to leave Yanokura of his own accord, I would never think him ungrateful or lacking in loyalty.” “In that case, why not go ahead and do it while you’re at it?” “No—I don’t want that. I hate it.”

“Why?” “The whole approach rubs me the wrong way.” “That sort of… tricking people.” “First off, it’s wrong for him to be tangled up with someone like Choco.” “There’s no place here for that guy to show his face.” “What could he possibly understand—a man like that?” “Even if you say that, it won’t change anything.” “No—if this were truly Wakamiya’s own plan, something we could present openly even to Yanokura, then I’d gladly support it.” “Even if it meant taking a year or two off properly to go help…”

“Do you even think that way?”

"I'm young too—I want to do something myself." "You hate the idea of going down with Yanokura?" "To be honest, yes.—I refuse to sink with a Yanokura that's become this timid, this obsessed with self-preservation, this wishy-washy in its principles." "But it wasn't always like that." "That's precisely why I'm saying this.—The artistry itself—even the scripts we perform—people used to call him more innovative than anyone back in the day."

“Even you ended up saying that…” Ogura did not respond and said disgruntledly, “The time has finally come when Yura’s troupe must do something about itself.”

Eight And so, Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro agreed that once Hishikawa approached them again with some proposal, they would clarify their respective stances—and with that resolve, they deliberately waited in silent stillness. But two days passed, then three—still Hishikawa never came. There was no word at all…… “What’s happening? —What’s even supposed to be happening?”

In a display of sheer impatience, Tashiro, restless as ever, visited Ogura’s place again that day. And Miura had arrived before him. The three of them came together again that day.

“In the initial plan, they were going to assemble everyone tomorrow and launch rehearsals immediately.—So they told us to give an answer right away.—It was quite a forceful push, but…”

Ogura laughed. “He even told me they’d already finalized the roles.” Miura followed up with a scoff. “I wondered what he was so reluctant about—turns out it was just as expected.” “What’s this ‘as expected’ business?” Tashiro pressed. “Ain’t that right? Even if he swaggers around spouting all that half-baked grand talk, when it comes down to it, it still ain’t gonna work out.—Today’s the 23rd, you know.” “That’s right.” “How do they expect to put on a play in such a slapdash way at the start of spring?—First of all, they ain’t even settled on a theater yet, have they?”

“Where could it be then—this ‘certain major theater’ they keep mentioning?” “Who’d be fool enough to believe that? Every decent venue’s been booked solid for spring since last year.” “Then it must be Asakusa after all?” “Exactly—an Asakusa run. Those ‘populist’ lines they’re hawking these days.” Miura added coldly, “There’s no such thing as those condescending, frivolous, irritating remarks.”

“What?” “No—the whole ‘popular’ shtick.” “As long as it’s dirt cheap, slapped together quick, and looks just shady enough—that’s all they’re after.”

“But instead of that—don’t you think they’ve given up?” Tashiro steered the conversation back.

“What?” “No—us.” “They tried to pull us in, but something must’ve gone wrong there, so they suddenly stopped—don’t you think?” “If that’s how it is—perfect. We’ll flip it around and squeeze them dry with a good pretext.” “Why?” “First, they went and used our names without permission or any warning.—Things might’ve worked out great for them, but who knows how much trouble it’s caused us over here.—I’m telling you—they better make up for that somehow.”

“Even if that works for you, I can’t go along with it.” “Why?” “If that happens, I’ll have to repay what I borrowed.” “What? You’re scared of that?” “I ain’t scared.” “I ain’t scared—but if I don’t do that, who knows what kind of underhanded schemes Choko’s lot might come up with next.”

“Let ’em come and say whatever they want.—Just ignore it, that kinda thing…” “It’s not you—that won’t work.” “Impressive.—A real operator’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—that money’s already been spent anyway.” “There’s probably still some left—a little, at least.” “Let me take you two somewhere.” “Let me take you to Kiku no Ie—that’ll do.” “So… Ogura…?”

“Sure, that too,” Ogura also said. “A j-joke, right?” Tashiro hurriedly clutched his pocket. The reason for this was that he—unusually for him that day—wore a striped silk crepe kimono typical of a female impersonator, paired with a dashing, slightly narrow navy-blue figured satin obi. “You’re being stubborn about letting go.—I’ll pick up the pieces for you two.”

With that, Miura immediately stood up without waiting for consent. "C'mon, you—let's get moving already."

……It was precisely around that time—on the day of the winter solstice—when Nishimaki, on his way to the bathhouse, had been cheerfully chatting with an eel restaurant deliveryman. The timing was right, the weather was right—once three people had gathered, there was no way they’d part without some sort of formality. …Even Tashiro, a carefree Tokyo native, had likely foreseen that things would turn out this way. As Miura said, the money was already spent anyway—it wasn’t enough to begin with, and if push came to shove, they’d manage somehow again.—He brushed it off without any intention of worrying…

“Bad friends aren’t worth keeping.”

Deliberately, reluctantly, Tashiro also stood up while saying so.

—And then, suddenly, the front lattice slid open.

“Excuse me…”

Nine

……It was a familiar voice. Involuntarily, Tashiro looked at the two men’s faces.

“Who’s there?” Instead of Ogura, Miura answered brusquely.

“Oh—it’s me.” “It’s Yoshizawa…” “Yoshizawa?” Speaking of… the male staff of Yanokura. —they were Yura’s male staff who had been serving since the Nakasu period.

“What? You.—I thought it was someone else.”

Tashiro said in a deflated manner as he opened the shoji. “Oh.—Actually, I just came to your house, so…” The other person amiably bent at the waist.

“To my house?” “Yes.” “Do you have... business with me?” “Well, about that matter…” “I was hoping you might come to Yanokura for a moment.” “Has Master returned?” “Yes.” “When did he come back?” “Today—quite suddenly.” “Suddenly?” “Yes.” “Why?— “But more importantly—where had Master been?” “He went to Shuzenji.” “I thought as much.—I was certain of it.” “But why so abruptly?— “Why in heaven’s name so suddenly…?”

"No, well... I'm not entirely sure myself, but... It seems they're asking everyone to come regarding that matter..." "So it's not just me?" "Oh—Mr. Ogura as well." "...and I'll next be visiting Mr. Miura's residence." "He's here too—Mr. Miura. Right here with us." "Ah—is Mr. Sayo present?" "That's quite..." "Hey, Kei-chan..." Tashiro turned around and called to Miura.

Before long, Yoshizawa, saying he had another place to visit—the troupe leader’s residence—hurriedly took his leave.

Miura and Tashiro, having returned to the tatami room as they were—along with Ogura, the three of them suddenly exchanged tense glances.

“What could it be?”

For the time being, Tashiro said. “I thought it might be something like that.” Miura slowly stroked his chin. “Still, I thought it was all too quiet.” “What do you mean?” “No—the chief.” “Could it be he didn’t know? So he suddenly realized it and was so shocked he immediately…?” “There’s no such fool.” “That’s what I think, but…” “In that case, though, the troupe leader has to come.” Ogura quietly opened his mouth. “The fact that Yoshizawa came to summon us… this must not be about that matter but something else entirely.”

“Do you really think so?” “Regardless—since he insists we come at once, we’ve no choice but to go. Let’s be off.” “Still… this leaves a bad taste.” “Why?” “Why? Well…” “What’s there to grumble about? You were saved by Kikunoya yourself, weren’t you?”

With that, Miura immediately stood up again.

———————————————————————

…When they went to see, 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 in front of the three. The three timidly opened it.—It was a suicide note from Wakamiya Ryūjo, sent to Yura from a rural part of Shinshū.

……An hour later, Ogura and Tashiro boarded a train from Ueno with Shiomi to rush to where Wakamiya had taken his own life. Miura, together with troupe leader Iwanaga who had arrived afterward, went around notifying the troupe’s prominent members of what had happened.

Sunset clouds.

I

……In the sky, January had passed like a dream. And so, amidst the flurry of settling Wakamiya’s affairs, that year hurriedly drew to a close. (The funeral—guided by the suicide note’s explicit plea to avoid all elaborate rituals or memorial services—had been conducted by Yura himself as a mere formality, limited to close associates. Of course, given that the deceased was a young, beautiful, and exceedingly delicate star at the peak of his marketable fame… and given that his end had so starkly captured public attention, there were mixed voices: some offering sympathy or pity, others meddlesome criticisms and objections. But Yura, stubbornly unlike his usual “Yanokura” self, refused to heed any of it.) And so, stubbornly, he pushed through with his wishes to the very end. For one thing—that was the remains retrieved by Shiomi, Ogura, and Tashiro. …and though they had returned somberly carrying his remains—reduced to bones—Yura kept them firmly in his own hands, refusing to relinquish them to Wakamiya’s parents no matter how much they pressed. ……And this too—Yura stubbornly refused the parents’ demands, citing the suicide note as justification.)—Then, when spring arrived, Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro were each given separate assignments through the backstage staff of Yura’s troupe—not all three together, but divided into individual postings—so that they could at least scrape by without idling through New Year’s. Of course, behind this lay Yura’s extraordinary efforts, plainly visible to anyone who looked.—Needless to say, the “Wakamiya Troupe” vanished like smoke, leaving neither shadow nor form behind, dissolving into obscurity the moment Wakamiya was gone.

By the time January 20th had passed, they had all returned from their respective postings. Whether Ogura, Miura, Tashiro, or even the four or five others below Tashiro’s rank—had they wished to remain as they were, had they even desired to work harder there indefinitely, they could have done so without restraint. Yet when it came down to it, everyone hurried back—drawn by their longing for Tokyo and bound by the promised deadline. Even if their old nest was no longer what it once had been—a shabby place where rain leaked through and wind blew in wretchedly—to them, it remained their cherished home of many years, irreplaceable by anything else. And even if they were treated lavishly on tour, even if they secured extra rewards, even if they put on grand airs (indeed, when traveling among those who spent their days wandering rural backwaters, those who always performed at Tokyo’s grand venues could clearly perceive the luster clinging to themselves without realizing it)—none of it mattered to them. What was truly fearsome was their upbringing—and moreover, the preciousness of their training. Even someone like Tashiro—with his precarious circumstances—felt this way; all the more so for those like Ogura and Miura, who had spent years amidst the tumult of countless struggles. Thus, to them, such things meant nothing at all.—Instead, what they desired more than anything was to return as soon as possible to the side of their devoted, kind master who cherished his disciples.

II

And upon returning, they all immediately paid a visit to “Yanokura” to report their return. Tashiro… In truth, he could have returned much earlier due to the other party’s scheduling, but exploiting a two- or three-day buffer he’d secured from the date previously arranged with his wife, he cut his trip short, disembarked the train midway, and stopped by a longtime patron in Nagoya for respite. But in the end—well, one more day wouldn’t hurt. Until tomorrow. ……Detained as he was, he grew complacent in his absentmindedness, and in his drunken stupor ended up lingering three extra days before finally departing. —And so, realizing his mistake, he panicked, boarded a train that evening, arrived at Tokyo Station the next morning, hurried home, tore off the Western-style clothes he’d worn almost exclusively for the past month, and without even bathing rushed straight to “Yanokura.”—Why had he done this? What necessity had driven him to such extremes? ……He himself didn’t understand. ...a pretense... a pretense for his wife’s sake.—In the end, that was all it had been...

When he arrived, Ogura and Miura had already come ahead of him, as if by prior arrangement. Yura was seated in the next room over from the study, a brazier at hand, with a composed expression.—Ogura and Miura too had apparently 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?” “Oh, this morning…”

“This morning?” “Oh, no—I just stopped by Nagoya on the way back…” Blurting this out carelessly, Tashiro suddenly noticed Miura beside him. He realized his mistake. If they’d been discussing him earlier—and with Miura involved—the conversation couldn’t have been flattering… “What for?” “Just… some business…” “Drinking business?” “No, not at all…”

“Fine, go ahead and drink. Drink yourself senseless. When you’re young, that’s how it should be.” …………

Tashiro involuntarily looked up at Yura’s face.—This was a man who had never spoken such words before; a man who, after matters of gambling, most strictly admonished others about drink—*Don’t drink. Never drink. If you wish to become a proper actor, never drink*—a man who had always maintained this stance, even toward himself… “If Wakamiya had drunk even half of what you did… he wouldn’t have done such a thing. …He would’ve found more options to consider.” “…That’s what I think…”

At once, Yura resumed speaking. With that, Yura deliberately laughed—brightly, in good spirits.

The three exchanged glances quietly and forlornly.

III

“If I recall… but…” Ogura remarked offhandedly. “Today would mark the thirty-fifth day…?”

"Yes, that's precisely how it stands." Yura cut in immediately: "That's why I intend to visit his grave now." "He must be gratified, though..." Tashiro added his voice in agreement.

“Who?” “No, Mr. Wakamiya…” “Poor man.” Yura did not respond to that, instead murmuring as if to himself: “As the days pass… it weighs on me more and more…”

“Oh.” “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 look at Miura.—“He’s here.” …Miura responded by subtly jerking his chin. “If you’re free, how about coming along with me?”

“Oh, thank you very much.” Tashiro bowed his head. “Don’t thank me—I’m asking if you’ll come along. Go if you want.” “Well—no—I was planning to go anyway…” “How about you?” “No—we… We’ll accompany you as well…”

Miura responded in Ogura’s stead. “Well then, right away. Let’s grab a bite and head out.”

Yura impatiently clapped his hands and called the maid. After ordering preparations for lunch, he also commanded that the automobile be readied. That—that very thing—is the fatal flaw of Edo natives.

“Visiting graves is better done with a crowd—if it’s just one or two people, their thoughts get all tangled up.”

After that, Yura laughed resolutely again in good spirits.

Then soon the group of five... Yura and those three, with Yoshizawa now joining them. ……They alighted from the automobile before Tennōji’s five-storied pagoda in Yanaka. It was an afternoon of thinly clear sky, windless, the sun’s color gently softened. A low desolate fence of yōki and masaki wood continued onward. ……Along that deserted stretch of narrow path—its stones pallid and sunken in hue—the five entangled shadows of the disciple-master group, holding shikimi branches and smoldering incense sticks, fell thickly and quietly.

“The weather never lies—it’s already showing hints of spring in the subtlest ways.” Yura, who had been walking ahead, abruptly turned around to say this. “That’s true.—When we came for the twenty-first-day memorial, it was still…” Before Yoshizawa could finish, Yura spoke over him again.

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

Four

Surrounded by new wooden stupas thick with the scent of timber—meant to be beautiful with heartfelt offerings from devoted patrons—or rather, buried beneath the shadows of forlorn, somber flowers: early-blooming plums and narcissus… It was an old, small grave… Too wretchedly pitiful to evoke Wakamiya’s former visage.

……Eventually, the five of them stood before it. Yura handed his hat and coat to Yoshizawa, stepped forward before it, and quietly lowered his forehead for a moment. Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro—as if only now fully realizing it—helplessly recalled that night… The night they had learned through the suicide note that Wakamiya was already gone from this world… Their dazed, hollowed-out state of mind from that evening. At the same time—why had he died? ……The mystery that remained tangled and unsolved……the shadow of doubt that had grown increasingly darker with each passing day now seized the chests of the three once more, as if it were only just dawning on them.

“Apologies for keeping you...”

With that, Yura stepped away from the front of it. —He threw his coat over the nearby yōki fence, and then Ogura immediately took his place before it. “...An admirable man.”

Muttering half to himself, Yura accepted only the hat from Yoshizawa. “Huh?” Tashiro said. “No, now, Nishimaki.” “……?”

“Nishimaki’s already come to pay his respects as early as today.” “Folks from the old days—still as dutiful as ever.” Tashiro and Miura too turned their gaze where Yura pointed. Amidst the plums and narcissus, it was the winter camellia—its sorrowful yet tender crimson hue—that Kinpei-san had arranged with such care…

“Even so… look at this.” Immediately, Yura spoke again. “We can’t keep him as a lodger in this grave forever.” “I’ve been hurrying with that in mind.” “So by the hundredth-day memorial, a proper one just for Wakamiya can be prepared.”

“Ah, that…”

Tashiro responded to that. “If possible, I intend to hold a proper memorial service for him there.” “Because his resolve was so pitiable… Because his position was so justified, I’ve stubbornly maintained this stance until now.” “I held firm without yielding.” “But it should suffice now.—Once we reach the hundredth day… it should suffice.” “I see.” Yet despite saying this, Tashiro couldn’t fathom why Wakamiya had insisted on rejecting all ceremonial rites and memorial offerings… Why had he deliberately written such demands in his final note? Why did he despise having those observances performed? Ultimately, he couldn’t grasp the reason. And furthermore—why had Master clung so obstinately to that will? Why attach such importance to it? Why persist in that stubbornness? Why dig in his heels so unyieldingly? What proved even more baffling was how Master—through Shiomi, Ogura, and himself—had retrieved the remains yet refused by any means to relinquish them to the parents… How he had adamantly withheld them to the last. ……Try as he might, Tashiro couldn’t comprehend the logic.—Back in Nagoya, when patrons had pressed him relentlessly about it, he’d repeatedly floundered for answers……

……

Silently, Ogura stepped away from the grave. Then, taking his turn, Miura stepped forward before it.

“But… I never even considered worrying about Wakamiya’s grave.” After a moment, Yura laughed hollowly once more.—Somewhere, smoke from burning dead leaves drifted quietly through the wan spring air, thinning faintly as it wavered about them.

Five

…The five of them turned back as far as the base of the five-story pagoda. There, Ogura, Miura, and Tashiro tactfully parted ways with Yura.

—Yura, accompanied by Yoshizawa, got into the automobile that had been kept waiting. As they were, the three continued walking through the vast cemetery—in the direction opposite to Ueno. “Is it really okay for us to come to such a place?”

Abruptly, Tashiro stopped and looked around.

“Just keep walking.”

Brusquely saying that, Miura marched briskly ahead. “But where are we headed, anyway?” “We’re going to the station.” “Which one?” “Nippori’s.”

“Nippori?” “Is this really okay, hey?” Yet from right beside them, Ogura spoke again.

“Just keep quiet and follow along.—There’s nothing to say.”

As far as the eye could see, they wound their way along the narrow path that stretched coldly onward between graves and wooden stupas, veering right and left. However, before long they emerged from the cemetery and came out onto an old thoroughfare—quiet, bleak in feel—where rows of small latticework houses stood interspersed with unexpected groves of trees and temple gates. Apart from the rare pedestrian, even the sound of vehicles—indeed, not even the ringing of bicycle bells—could be heard anywhere there.

"He was in good spirits, though…" Abruptly, as though he had just remembered, Tashiro said.

“What?” Miura turned around. “No way, old man.—I’ve never seen you look so clear-headed lately.” “I always looked like that before.” “So no—I’m talking about these past few years, aren’t I?” “I know you used to be like that.—Because I know, that’s why I’m saying this.” “He’ll take us anywhere.—If he’s made up his mind to do it, then fine.” “Even if it’s a lie—as long as he can convince himself of it, that’s enough.” Ogura murmured as if agreeing with himself.

“What was that all about? “…He didn’t want to part ways yet, I tell you. …Might’ve been planning to take us somewhere else entirely.” “Like hell I’ll let them squeeze me drier than this.” Miura spat out the words.”

“It’s funny, really funny.” Tashiro suddenly laughed. “It’s funny—even you freeze up completely in front of the old man, Kei.” “Don’t mess around.” “Isn’t that right? Isn’t it true?—You just go quiet as a cat, don’t you?” “You’d just start yammerin’ if I said anythin’.” “Oh come on… Not this again.” “For the past two or three years, wherever he went, he was always alone.” Ogura returned to the earlier topic. “Even if someone was right there before him, he never told them to come along anymore.” “Why did he withdraw like that?” “Why would someone who loved crowds so much become so reclusive?” “I’d been worried about it…”

“It was after that began—how he started constantly forming those figure-eight creases on his forehead,” Miura said. “Strangely, today, those figure-eight lines hadn’t appeared from the very start.” “Enough now—drink, make a real fool of yourself, that’s what’s best when you’re young… I was shocked.—In all these years, the old man has never said something so blunt to me.”

“Yeah, that surprised me a bit too.—I wondered what he’d say next.” “But what came after wasn’t good.—If Wakamiya had drunk even half of what you did, he wouldn’t have done something like that. He’d have found another way.—That guy was a bit painful.”

Laughing, Ogura said.

Six

“But…” “Does the old man know?” Tashiro cut in as if interrupting. “Does the old man even realize?”

“What?”

Immediately, Miura spoke again. "The reason Wakamiya-kun died... why Wakamiya-kun died."

“He grew disgusted.—Disgusted with living itself, that’s why.”

“I know that.” “Anyone knows people die when they get sick of living—what I’m asking is why? Why did he get sick of living that way?” “Why did living like that make him sick of it?” “…That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

“Haven’t you been reading the newspaper, you?”

“I’ve been reading it every morning.” “And not like you—I don’t go bowing my head to borrow it from the landlord’s place every single time. I’ve got my own copy delivered daily, and I read it properly.” “Shut your trap—mighty big favor you’re doing me.—Tastes the same either way you read it.” “But even if there’s no difference…”

“Shouldn’t it be obvious just from looking? It hasn’t even been seventy-five days yet—no wonder they’re still scribbling whatever wild stories they please.” “What do you mean?” “That he was left by some woman he was pining for, or that his debts strangled him, or that his scheme to betray his master and start his own troupe went belly-up.… The most pathetic one claims he went mad—or even if he didn’t, they say he’d been acting strange for ages, so they packed him off to the countryside for ‘rest.’ …Then—so the story goes—he sneaked a glance at this supposed wife who tagged along, pulled out a pistol he’d stashed away beforehand…”

“You… You—Kei—” Tashiro said hurriedly. “Are you really going to do such a thing? “Do you really believe that?—You…” “Such nonsense—irresponsible, baseless…” “…I don’t think that way.” Miura snapped. “Thought you were spouting crap, but hell—might be true after all. Depends how you look at it, this bastard…” “Saying such things, you…” Tashiro cut in again. “Then you… No—where was there ever some woman Wakamiya-kun pined for? Where was there debt so crushing Wakamiya-kun couldn’t handle it? This ‘Wakamiya Troupe’ talk—now I think on it—wasn’t it just Choco and that Optimist Monk scheming on their own? Can’t even tell if Wakamiya-kun ever meant it. Saying he ‘went mad’—easiest excuse… suits those who never liked him. But could someone unhinged write that suicide note? Could someone so resolute write that note—you? Stranger still—the pistol. Why let someone showing instability carry such danger? More ridiculous—this ‘wife’ who supposedly accompanied him. Did Wakamiya-kun even have a wife? Someone wife-like? I never heard of it. The Wakamiya-kun I knew stayed single. Went to Shinshu alone too. Died a bachelor.”

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

Coldly, Miura said. "I don't know.—I don't know—*I* don't.—That's why I'm asking." Tashiro said impatiently.

Seven

“Serves you right.” After deliberately speaking in that spiteful tone, Miura said. “Want me to enlighten you?” “What’s there to get so worked up about?” Tashiro, mid-outburst, said, “Mr. Ogura—do you get it? Do *you*?” “He knows—Miura does.” “I did ask this man.” Ogura turned toward Miura. “It’s not some outsider’s business—just tell him, hey.” “You know about Wakamiya’s household situation, don’t you?”

Without responding to that, Miura said with a nonchalant air. “Wakamiya-kun’s place?” “What their situation’s really like—what kind of people Wakamiya’s old man and old lady actually are.” “I know that.—His dad and mom are smooth-talkers, real sociable types.” “That’s why their house is always packed with visitors.” “That’s exactly why you’re making mistakes.”

“Why?” “Isn’t Wakamiya-kun exactly as he appears—a dutiful son renowned even in society?” “Well, if you put it that way—of course anyone would act out of human feeling—but even so, his father and mother did treasure Wakamiya-kun. When it came to Wakamiya-kun, they were both completely devoted. I mean, considering they’d raised him with such care ever since he was a child actor hailed as a prodigy, turning him into such a splendid actor… both those who did the raising and those who were raised must have been gratified. There’s no reason they wouldn’t get along, right?”

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

“Separated?” “Later on, didn’t Wakamiya separate from his old man and old lady and set up his own household alone?”

“He did have one.—He did have one, but that…” “Then another thing—if they cherished their son so much, why on earth didn’t they let him take a wife all this time?” “That was Wakamiya-kun—Wakamiya-kun did it of his own will…” “You—then—don’t you know about that geisha named Osono from Hanamachi who was around long ago?” “Of course I know—I know all too well…” “How much that woman was in love with Wakamiya, and how much Wakamiya was in love with her—you know that too, don’t you?”

“But that woman—that woman abandoned Wakamiya-kun and went to Osaka…” “That’s not how it was—they tore them apart like green wood split by force. …It was his old man and old lady who forced those two to separate.” “Wh-why?” “It’s not like Kanpei-san, but a young actor—no, entertainer—on the cusp of thirty having a wife would only hinder his hard-earned popularity.” “Th-that’s…” “Even if there’s nothing left to figure out, it’s too late now.—They’ve been wrong from the very root.—The way Wakamiya’s old man and old lady ‘treasured’ him was no different than a monkey handler valuing his monkey… treating him like a damn tool of their trade.”

“But…” “But hell—those people aren’t Wakamiya’s real father or mother.—Wakamiya’s true parents are somewhere out there.—He was a child taken from the straw by strangers.” “In other words—that geisha from the November play.” Suddenly at that moment, Ogura interjected. “That young geisha role you kept admiring—the one who suffers because of her wretched parents and siblings.” “In other words—even on stage, Wakamiya was performing his own story.”

“…” “That geisha ended up losing her mind. “But Wakamiya—being the soft-hearted, gentle man he was—took his own life before madness could claim him.” “……” “Even this ‘Wakamiya Troupe’ business was done without his knowledge.—His parents schemed it up themselves.—They just let Choko and that starry-eyed monk fill their heads with hot air, running around making grand plans.”

VIII

...Within the corrugated iron fence stood rows of old, large cherry trees, their branches spreading out over the street above. —When they looked, it was an elementary school.—At the edge of its fence, after three or four small shops—hardware stores and tobacco shops—had lined up one after another, a large stone torii gate stood quietly in the trio’s path, bathed fully in sunlight.

“Oh?” Suddenly, Miura came to a halt. “This ain’t good.” “What?” Ogura, too, came to a halt. “This is already Suwa Shrine.”

“That’s right.” “We’ve ended up in a place like this… Nippori Station is way back there, this—” “Hell no, man.—So that’s why I—”

As Tashiro began to say that, Miura cut him off, “Quit your whining.—If we passed Nippori and came all the way here, we’ll just take one more breath and head out to Tabata.”

“Tabata?” “There’s nothing to be surprised about—if we go through here, it’s just a short walk to the cliff edge.” The sunlit torii gate and sacred fence cast the tangled shadows of withered branches mournfully upon their surfaces.—They crossed the cold white slope of slanting stone steps and entered the broad shrine precincts. Among zelkova and ginkgo trees—their parched crowns clawing at the sky—the purification hand towel hung utterly still. The kagura hall stood with its doors needlessly closed, while along the cliffside vista where tea stalls once clustered, only their skeletal frames now lay exposed to the air. All around—ahead, behind, left and right—reigned absolute silence; beyond the three of them, not a single human shadow remained.

“Back in the day, we were always coming here to earn pocket money—not that a guy like you’d know anything about that.”

As he said this, Miura looked around. “How the hell should I know something like that?” “We came to shoot moving pictures—moving pictures. Whether it was *Konjiki Yasha* or *Hototogisu*, back then they filmed ’em all here… here at Suwa Shrine, Hanamidera, Dōkanyama—shot ’em all at those places.”

“What kind of people were out there?” “There weren’t any particular crowds or groups—back then, everyone in the greenroom was earning money under the table.” “—And there were even guys who’d wedge themselves into the middle of that and take their cut.” “Who’s that?” “Choko was the ringleader in all that.” Having said that, he glanced toward Ogura. “Choko, that bastard—I’d say he’d already lined his pockets plenty back then, don’t you think?” “After all, that’s when that bastard started creeping around…”

“Maybe so.” With that, Ogura turned toward Tashiro. “Speaking of which—you, what happened to that money from before?” “It’s still the same as ever.” “Return it quickly.—If you don’t, Hishikawa—that man might end up dead too.”

“He might die?—Why?” “About half a month ago, he suddenly collapsed at the worksite and has been bedridden at home ever since, I hear.” “Why?—Why… again…?” “It’s a cerebral hemorrhage.” “A cerebral hemorr…?”

Nine Tashiro started to say that but immediately cut himself off. “Who told you that?”

“I heard it from Yoshizawa just now.”

“From Yoshizawa? “Why on earth Yoshizawa…?” “I went and asked Nishimaki.”

“Why?—Why Mr. Kinpei? That doesn’t make sense…” “Not strange at all. When Nishimaki heard about it from somewhere, he went to visit him together with others.” “To visit him?” “No matter how much they’re like dogs and monkeys, when push comes to shove, they’re old comrades—thirty years of deep history.… Whatever Hishikawa’s side may think, for Nishimaki—being that sort of man—he must still feel uneasy deep down.”

“I don’t see it—if anything were to happen to Choko, Kinpei’d be the first to shed tears over him…”

Abruptly, Miura interjected from beside them.

Before long, the three of them emerged from the quiet space between the trees in the shrine precincts onto the continuation of the path they had come from. Rounding the small painted Western-style house that stood alone there, they came upon a slope that sloped gently downward.—On one side was a dark, still path beside a high stone wall where no sunlight reached; winter’s lingering leaves lay piled among the gravel. “But that…”

After a while, Tashiro spoke again. “Could it really be a cerebral hemorrhage?” “Why?” “After all, could it be that he’s been a bit… let’s say, preoccupied with Mr. Wakamiya’s situation?” “Did he faint from shock?” Miura immediately joked, “It’s not like an ash-blowing pipe from *Summer Kimono*…” “No… No, that’s not it.” “For Choko, waking up must be quite unpleasant, don’t you think?”

“He’s not that kind of man.”

Without hesitation, Ogura also said.

“No—even if he isn’t that sort of man…” “If we’re talkin’ about wishful thinkers, it’s that deluded monk.” Miura picked up the thread: “First Azuma dies on us, then Wakamiya—if Choko kicks it too now, even the thickest-skulled bastards… Sure, they’re thick-skulled alright, but there’s always a weak spot somewhere.” “—might finally lose their nerve.” “If this teaches them to quit reaching beyond their station, all the better for society.” “Quit jokin’ around. “These types don’t just roll over and die quiet after fallin’ once or twice. “Once they fix their sights on somethin’, they’ll chase it to hell and back.”

“But even that much…?” “Whether it’s a geisha or an actress—once that guy sets his sights on ’em, they’ve got no chance.—No matter how much they run, he’ll hunt ’em down in the end.—Forcin’ his way after ’em even when they try to flee—that’s his damn forte.” “I can’t handle pushy guys,” Ogura said. “If they can manage it, fine. If they just settle things, fine.” Miura responded to that. “Just that… Just that.… There’s no room for shame or reputation.”

“Is that so…”

Tashiro said admiringly. ……That slope came to an end. But before them now spread an even wider, dustier slope.—When they reached its crest, they stood atop the withered-grass cliff of Dōkan-yama, which led to Tabata, with the ceaseless clamor of the government railway trains clashing beneath their feet.—Before them stretched an endless sea of roofs, hazy and unbroken from Mikawashima to Oku.—Amidst it rose a forest of chimneys like masts—a vigorous tableau that proclaimed the advance of the “new Tokyo”… “It’s changed…” Miura said with a sigh. “What do you know?—Not so long ago, this whole area here was nothing but rice fields all the way to the edge of the Arakawa.”

“No more whole fields…” Far off, Tashiro gazed into the distance. “There was nothing like the rapeseed blossoms at their peak from March to April.” “No more rapeseed blossoms.” The vast sky spread over that scene.—Sunset clouds cast shadows across its water-clear expanse. ……Ogura saw this and remained silent. —Loneliness hovering in distant spring clouds—he quietly pondered such a verse.

―――――――――――――――――――

…The three who had boarded the train from Tabata and alighted at Ueno then took the underground railway to Asakusa. —Just as they had on that return from Mukōjima sometime before, the three once again set their course for Kiku no Ie. (*Osaka Asahi Shimbun* (January 5–April 4, 1928))