Pathway to Japanese Literature

Five Talented People Group

“Your group is quite something else.”

Anyone with eyes said so and paid their respects.

“You’ve got quite the collection of eccentrics here.”

It was said that the section chief had remarked.
We too considered ourselves distinct from that motley rabble.
Many of our colleagues would invariably bring up talk of X whenever they gathered.
They grumbled about their stagnant salaries.
They possessed no other talents.
Compared to them, we stood worlds apart.
True to the section chief’s words, we each boasted not one but two peculiarities.
Though only five in number, we formed an exceptional assembly.
To forestall inevitable questions, I resolved then to outline their credentials.

I should not speak of myself first.

The foremost mention should defer to Mr. Kidera, the amateur Western-style painter twice selected for the Nikakai Exhibition.
This man was the nephew of Count ○○ and took his wife from the Viscount ◎◎ family.
She went by Yae-san and was quite a beauty.
However, she was two or three years older than Kidera.
There was a rumor that she had married into a wealthy family’s prodigal son, divorced him, and received alimony along with it.

“Well, since the one who received her passed away, the turn came around to Mr. Kidera.”
“She may be a beauty, but she’s got history.”

Such was the rumor.
A man blessed with romantic fortune was invariably envied.
If it included alimony, he gained both romantic fortune and practical benefits at once.
Compared to his beautiful wife, Mr. Kidera was rather a homely man, making them an easy topic of conversation.
His performance at the company was nothing to speak of.
He shone with his wife in oil painting.

“Mr. Kidera’s paintings are richly childlike and rough-hewn, so we can’t comprehend them, but in any case, they seem to be increasingly diverging from professionalism.”

said his colleague Mr. Hirose.
This man was a master at disparaging things.
“Rich in childlike innocence and rough-hewn” precisely meant “immature.”

Next would have been me, but out of humility, I yielded and recommended Mr. Unno.
Mr. Unno practiced Noh chanting as his sideline.
During his student days, he rented a room in his Noh chanting teacher’s house, which became the catalyst for him devoting himself more to Noh chanting than his studies.
His natural talent must have been good as well.
Having trained seriously for over a decade, he differed from your run-of-the-mill folks.
Lately, he had been instructing colleagues with shared interests.
He was a highly principled teacher who never offered private lessons.
However, it seemed he made exceptions for executives.
Even if he tried to keep it hidden, it would come out because the executives would talk about it without restraint.

“Mr. Unno is truly remarkable—perhaps he should quit the company and devote himself fully to being a Noh instructor,” he remarked approvingly.

And then there was Mr. Tajima.
This man insisted that as a mountaineer, he was widely recognized among those in the field.
Once he went missing in the snow and was reported on the radio, so at least everyone at the company knew about it.
Fortunately, he returned safely.
The ones broadcasted at the company were likely only this man and the president.
The president’s car had collided with the Odakyu line and been smashed to pieces, but since he and the driver sustained only minor injuries, it was broadcast on the evening news as a miracle.
Mr. Tajima also went on hikes.
He would boast that he had discovered every course out there.
You’d think he’d blazed trails through the mountains, but no.
Walking on paths others had made yielded no discoveries.

“To begin with, this notion of ‘conquering mountains’ is fundamentally flawed.”
“Do you honestly believe scaling Mount Fuji means you’ve conquered it?”
“Your entire mindset is warped—that’s why errors keep occurring.”
“What you lot are doing amounts to mass-scale filial impiety!”

Mr. Hirose’s scathing critique at that moment carried a perversely satisfying edge.
Mr. Tajima’s mother had nearly lost her mind, convinced her only son lay dead in some mountain pass.

Next, Hirose himself had to be addressed.
Though possessing no particular talent himself, he had somehow infiltrated our group through his friendship with Tajima.
Ours was the Tengu Association.
While each member prided themselves on their distinguished hobbies, Hirose made it his mission to deflate these tengu noses.
He styled himself a sort of highbrow critic.
Denial itself seemed to be his chief delight.

“Hey.”
“Shouldn’t we expel Hirose?”

And so Mr. Kidera and Mr. Unno would occasionally lose their patience.

“There’s nothing we can do.”
“He insists on tagging along with me.”

Mr. Tajima was also finding him difficult to handle. Even when they fought, they couldn’t shake him off—being old acquaintances who had attended the same cram school during their student days.

“Even if we talk about expulsion, this isn’t an association with formal rules. Let’s take Mr. Hirose’s critiques as stones from another mountain and accept them. The other day, he made a strained pun like ‘I attend meetings without any hobbies out of excessive respect for you all,’ so he must know his place.”

And rather, I was on Mr. Hirose’s side.

If Mr. Hirose weren’t around, Mr. Kidera would start acting like a Bunten exhibition judge, Mr. Unno would carry on as if he were a Kanze school master, and Mr. Tajima would puff himself up as Japan’s greatest mountaineer—leaving me to deal with the fallout. However, there was something exceedingly scathing about Mr. Hirose’s highbrow critiques. It was only natural that the three found him insufferable. According to Mr. Hirose’s assessment, Kidera’s oil paintings were the work of someone who had unashamedly carried childish paintings through to completion. Shameless paintings. A person equipped with common sense would realize partway through that it’s poor and give up. Some works go beyond shameless paintings and make one imagine they were painted by heartless people. Had Mr. Kidera not grown indignant, he apparently wanted to go so far as to declare that many Nika paintings were works drawn by an anthropoid ape. Kidera also seemed irritated, but there was his noble lineage to consider. He couldn’t voice his thoughts.

“Mr. Hirose doesn’t understand the conventions of painting.”
“It would be better to study a bit more before offering critiques.”

Having retorted, he bit his lip.

“Mr. Unno, I recently conducted a physiological analysis of your Noh chanting.”

“Hmm? Whatever it is, it can’t be anything good.”

“Because you’ve been doing it so long, calluses have formed on your vocal cords.”
“In veterinary terms, they call them hoof blood spots.”
“When those calluses spasm and scream, that becomes your Noh chanting.”

With remarks like these, Mr. Unno wasn’t pleased either.
Being childhood friends with Tajima, Hirose showed even less restraint.

“The sort who lead in mountaineering and hiking are essentially self-proclaimed pioneers of new sensibilities—but let’s face it, unlike painters or musicians, they’re born clumsy. So they express themselves through their legs.”
“In other words, their legs do the talking.”
“That’s why they climb mountains.”
“What do you say?”
“Tajima.”
“Your shoulders must ache, no?”
“Normally I’d ask if this makes your ears burn, but your nerves don’t stretch that far.”

When Mr. Hirose said this, Mr. Tajima didn’t respond verbally but suddenly slapped Mr. Hirose’s cheek with a sharp smack. We hurriedly restrained Mr. Tajima.

“Just as I said, right? Instead of channeling your passion into art, you immediately resort to brute strength.”

And Mr. Hirose remained unrepentant.

“Idiot!”

“So you’re resorting to noise now?”

“Hirose, be silent!”

I intervened. Of course, it’s not always like this. Since I’d cited extreme cases, they usually got along well. When the Tengu’s noses grew too high, Mr. Hirose invariably couldn’t remain silent.

Now, bringing up the rear was I, with detective novels as my sideline. Writers alone do not constitute literary men. Those who savor literature are all men of letters. From that principle, I made reading my primary pursuit. Not that I never wrote. Since my creative works had been published in magazines three times, this meant I had just barely surpassed Mr. Kidera’s single Nika exhibition selection.

I want you to see my bookshelf. My collection of Japanese, English, American, and French detective novels and spy literature was voluminous enough to make oxen sweat and fill a mansion to the rafters. Half my bonus ended up going toward book expenses, so my wife complained. In return, I’d write a timeless masterpiece someday and recoup it all at once. Among modern detective novelists was an acquaintance I’d once lent some source materials. They say books aren’t meant to be lent out, but literary types seemed particularly stingy about returning them. When I recently ran into him in Ginza, I pressed him over tea,

“Is that so.”
“I don’t recall ever receiving such things.”
“Even the manuscripts?”
“Hmm, I wonder...”

He tilted his head quizzically.
Incidentally, I had handed over a manuscript saying something like “to whichever magazine,” but it seemed he had lost that one too.

Because I’m always reading, my knowledge of detective novels and spy literature is remarkable.
Swirling in my head.

When professional writers saw my face, they would ask if I had any material.
I always provided them with ideas.
Because I was constantly thinking about themes for detective novels, my mind worked in a Sherlock Holmesian manner.
My wife too—

“You’re rather frightening, you know.”
“Because you immediately see right through me.”

—feigned fear.
Just the other day, when I went to the department store with my wife and children and passed by the handbag section, my wife’s pace suddenly slowed, so I told her outright, “You want a handbag, don’t you?”
When I told this story, Mr. Tajima—

“Hell, even I could figure that out!”
Tajima barked.
The mountaineer was oddly quick-tempered.

The Bachelor’s Cranky Theory

The regular members all had wives and children, but only the associate member, Mr. Hirose, was a bachelor.
This also did not sit well with everyone.
A bachelor’s perspective differed from that of a householder.
When it came to married life, Mr. Hirose’s critiques bordered on vitriol.

“Being the only single person among a crowd is no different from remaining sober while everyone else is seasick and puking their guts out.”
“Confidence builds up—that’s what keeps your wits sharp.”
“It’s only natural that sound judgments emerge.”

“Vomit,” it seemed, had been his metaphor for being mired in life’s drudgery. This sparked an uproar. The group unanimously declared that anyone still single at thirty-five was the real spiritual drunkard. Mr. Hirose found himself cornered. His outlandish claim that all of society was intoxicated gained no traction. Grudgingly withdrawing his argument,

“No—it was just a joke,”
“I’d marry too if I found the right person,”

he deflected. Yet despite this,

“Hey, let’s have the meeting.”

The one who did the urging was always Mr. Hirose. The bachelor must have been bored without someone to talk to. Perhaps to compensate for this, he would keep talking alone during meetings. Playing both opponent and protagonist, he never relinquished the spotlight. Moreover, his relentless barrage of sarcasm inevitably stirred controversy.

“Ours are just sidelines, so we can get by with this.”
“We can’t even hold a candle to professionals who’ve been at it since childhood.”
“When I listen to master practitioners, I feel like quitting Noh chanting altogether.”

One evening, Mr. Unno mused haltingly.

“That’s true.”
“My paintings are just a sideline, so they’re tolerated.”
“If I were to do it professionally, it’s not something you could make a living from at all.”

Mr. Kidera responded.
It seemed that even these two conceited men occasionally engaged in calm self-criticism.

“Master practitioners have been doing it since they were ten.”
“That too is because their inherent quality was recognized from the start.”
“When one begins in childhood, the art becomes woven into their very being and develops alongside their body.”
“As for me, since I only rented a room at my former master’s place and happened to develop an interest, it’s like grafting bamboo onto a tree.”
“I am studying, but I feel as though the day grows late and the road ahead seems long.”

“We’re in the same boat.”
“I sometimes think it would be easier not to have any sideline at all.”
“Noticing others’ skillful points and my own clumsy ones only leads to piling on distress.”

“It’s true.”
“Not doing anything is smarter.”
“If you don’t do it yourself, you can’t grasp the nuances—that’s why you can make bold critiques.”

“In that respect, Mr. Hirose has grasped the essence.”

“What did you say?”

retorted Mr. Hirose defiantly.
He had been itching to interject.

“Those without sidelines are the fortunate ones, I tell you.”

And Mr. Unno even explained the rationale.
Those who engaged in Noh chanting appeared antiquated in their mentality, yet seemed to have only now recognized the weight of their sideline.

“If you’d just stayed quiet and listened, what’s this now? Do you really think you have sidelines?”

“That’s harsh.”

“If vocal cord spasms count as a sideline, then chickens must be master artists. Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“Still the same sharp-tongued man.”

“If you insist on having sidelines, that implies you must have main pursuits, no? What exactly are your main pursuits?”

“……”

“Can’t muster a proper response, eh? People blithely wield such imprecise language. If you keep prattling on about ‘sidelines,’ shouldn’t you possess more distinguished main pursuits?”

“Our main pursuit is being company employees.”

Mr. Tajima could no longer restrain himself and interjected.
When Mr. Hirose started acting arrogantly, Mr. Tajima felt responsible.

“If the company’s your main pursuit, then what’s your sideline?”

“Mountain climbing.”

“Disrespect to parents isn’t an art, is it?”

Mr. Hirose used mountaineering and disrespect to parents as synonyms.
Unlike painting or Noh chanting, he meant that mountaineering wasn’t an art form.

“To equate mountain climbing with disrespect to parents is going too far.”
“Such a biased argument won’t hold water.”

“But your mother’s eyes were swollen from crying.”
“‘Tsunekichi won’t come back,’ she said.”

“Even good things come with mistakes.”
“You could get hit by a traffic accident just walking through downtown Tokyo.”

“That’s a statistically unavoidable nuisance.”
“It’s not the same as deliberately vanishing on some snowy mountain.”

“Mountain climbing’s a type of physical education.”
“The training you get there—you can’t find that on flat ground. It’s essential.”

“Physical education’s meant to strengthen your body.”
“It shouldn’t leave you stranded in mountains worrying about freezing to death.”

“No—if you use poor methods, mishaps can occasionally happen.”
“Even radio calisthenics might give someone pleurisy if done improperly.”

“Don’t be absurd!”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t. Are there any actual cases where it has happened?”

“Depending on how it’s done, anything would have its drawbacks.”
“Then what about baseball?”
“What about baseball?”
“People do die in baseball, but you can’t say that makes baseball bad, can you?”

“Mistakes in baseball are extremely rare.”
“However, mountaineering claims victims year-round.”
“What kind of times do you think these are?”
“Can promising young men afford to throw away their lives climbing mountains?”
“The authorities should really prohibit mountaineering during the current conflict.”

“Even if there are some sacrifices, it’s fine as long as the general public’s physical strength improves.”
“They’re not such narrow-minded authorities.”

“You all lack sufficient awareness of the current situation.
That’s why you’re squandering precious time on eccentric sidelines.
Is this really the time to be chanting Noh or dabbing at childish paintings?”

“Oh ho! So the attack’s coming my way now?”
“But Mr. Hirose, isn’t that rather extreme?”

The Noh-chanting Mr. Unno took up the challenge.

"That's extreme."

The oil-painting Mr. Kidera followed suit.

“Why is it extreme?”
“Kidera.”

Hirose called on him.
I knew this—whenever Hirose singled someone out by name, his rhetorical arsenal was fully stocked with conviction.
The opponent would almost invariably be routed.

"That’s extreme."

“Why?”

“If you put it that way, anything unrelated to the current conflict becomes impermissible.”
“That’s too narrow-minded.”
“Even amid war, maintaining composure is the mark of a great nation’s people.”
“The current conflict is temporary.”
“Of course we must exert our full efforts through national mobilization to overcome this, but art too holds vital importance.”
“Because it’s work that becomes the measure of culture, we cannot neglect it even for a single day.”

“Childish paintings too?”

“The Nikakai isn’t an exhibition for childish paintings.”

“Even when I feel like pissing in the street, I firmly hold it in until I get home.”

“What do you mean? That’s—”

“I commend your artistic passion, but I’d like you to consider your mode of expression more carefully.”

“I’ve considered it fully.”
“Expression constitutes nearly the entirety of an artist’s labor.”

“When I feel like pissing in the street, I go home to express it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Lately we’ve had mountains of flowers where pissing serves no purpose.”
“I won’t have you painting things that damage the world’s aesthetic beauty.”
“From my critic’s perspective, most painters’ works amount to nothing but public urination on those floral peaks.”

“…………”

Mr. Kidera fell silent.
It was infuriating, but being a nobleman, he couldn’t bring himself to use crude language.
The child of court nobles who adorn themselves with flowers possesses profound reserve.

“Enough already!”

With that, Mr. Tajima jabbed Mr. Hirose’s shoulder.
He felt righteous indignation on behalf of the mild-mannered Mr. Kidera.
Mr. Hirose, who had been sitting, toppled backward.
I grabbed Mr. Tajima to prevent further roughness.

Confession of Romance

Before we knew it, our gatherings had begun to take on an unpleasant tendency.
Mr. Hirose would turn Tajima, Unno, and Kidera into his opponents and argue with them.
It resembled a debate more than a friendly discussion.
As the moderator, I had to shoulder the burden of mediation every time.
No matter whose side I took, I’d earn resentment.
And so recently,

“Hey, why don’t we have a Tengu meeting?”

when Mr. Hirose casually proposed a meeting,

“If it’s another quarrel meeting, I’m putting a stop to it now. I had already declared an indefinite postponement of debate meetings beforehand.”

I asserted firmly.

“This time it’s my confession meeting.”
“Please hold it with that understanding.”
“I will confess love.”

“Romance?”

“Hmm.”

“Do even you have such experiences?”

“How rude of you to say that!”

Mr. Hirose now struck a mantis-like posture.

However, his confession turned out unexpectedly humble.
Though a cynic by nature, his refined appearance made it impossible to dismiss outright that women might take an interest in him.
Driven by curiosity about what nonsense that bastard would spout this time, we reconvened the meeting.
Since this was a confession, he’d insisted on holding it somewhere suitably solemn.
Judging Fucha cuisine’s monastic ambiance appropriate for such theatrics, I—as moderator—made the arrangements.

“It’s not like I’m staying single out of choice.
“I’m well aware of the warmth of family life.
“I know a woman’s affection.
“Even though I look like this, I’m not some inveterate tough guy by nature.”

Mr. Hirose prefaced.

“Impressive, impressive!”
“Now this is a story!”

This time, I became involved.
Matters of the heart fall within a novelist’s purview…

“During my high school days, I fell in love with the eldest daughter of our neighbors.
“I was twenty-one; she was twenty-three.
“We’d known each other since childhood.
“When I failed my entrance exam, she encouraged me like an elder sister—‘Makoto-san, you mustn’t lose heart over one failure.’
“The turning point came during my second-year summer break back home. One evening while firefly hunting together—picture us saying ‘Makoto-san, I’ll never forget you,’ ‘Nor I,’ then walking back hand in hand.”

“Of course I did.”

“Firefly hunting. Ever since that scene from *The Morning Glory Diary: Inn Chapter*, whenever I hear the line ‘At Uji’s firefly hunting in the first year, with the lover I began to yearn for,’ tears flood my eyes.”

“A beauty, eh? And she was?”

“About on par with your wives.”

“How modest.”

“Finally reached average looks.”

“Well, well.”

“But isn’t it strange? Since then, I’ve found it impossible to see any woman but her as beautiful. There’s a Western proverb—a person can only fall in love once. They say love’s like measles too. Sure, some fools catch it over and over, but I’m in the camp that gets just one shot. Instead, she loved me utterly. I gave myself utterly too.”

“I’m surprised,”
“This is the first time you’ve shown such earnestness.”

“After returning to school, we corresponded about twice a month.”
“It was secret.”
“Too frequent and we risked discovery.”
“When summer vacation came again, we delighted in meeting opportunities.”
“Though always properly decorous.”
“Her sister and my sister were classmates at the girls’ school.”
“Through that connection, we used the sisters to arrange meetings.”
“But there were always third parties nearby—agonizing.”

“I’ll grant you it was pure.”

“She had already turned twenty-four, and marriage arrangements were being settled.”
“Ours was a case where even mutual affection was thwarted by worldly obligations.”
“If we hadn’t both developed reason, we might have ended up in a lovers’ suicide commotion.”
“My family and the neighbors—our fathers never got along well.”
“They would compete in every city council election, and both would end up losing.”
“Moreover, since the neighbor’s daughter was two years older, my mother naturally didn’t consider it an option.”
“I was a third-year high school student, with one more year remaining plus three years of university.”
“If I were to ask her to wait until graduation, she’d turn twenty-eight.”

“It was inherently impossible from the start, wasn’t it?”

“Hmm.”
“She had written that in her letters too.”
“She said that even when I subtly tried to curry your mother’s favor, she wouldn’t take notice at all.”
“I had also clearly stated to my parents that there was no prospect of success if I were to confess.”
“There was no choice but to part ways there.”
“But that’s what’s painful.”

“That figures.”
“A tragic love affair, huh.”
“From the start.”

“Once, in our conversations, I jokingly called her ‘old lady.’”
“Then Mitsuko-san burst into tears.”

“So her name is Mitsuko-san?”
“I’ll make a note of that.”

And I made an entry in my journal.

“What cruel fate made me be born older than you?” she said.
“I apologized.”
“I told her even two years’ seniority wouldn’t matter if we had love, but Mitsuko-san wouldn’t accept it.”
“The tax office chief lived in her family’s rental house—there, the wife being older than her husband meant endless jealousy quarrels.”
“‘Even if you cherish me now,’ she said, ‘in fifteen or twenty years I’d grow bitter like that wife. So I’ll give up now.’”
“Truthfully, we’d earlier resolved to fight together—but after I jokingly called her ‘granny,’ that became impossible.”
“From the start, it was a romance our parents forbade.”
“Our fathers belonged to rival parties—Seiyukai and Kenseikai—battling tooth and nail, making it hopeless.”
“Mitsuko-san demanded I return every letter she’d sent me.”
“Since the letters themselves insisted on this, I’d retrieved them all.”
“When I handed them over and asked for mine back, she refused—‘I can’t bear to return yours.’”
“She wanted to tie both sets with a red ribbon and keep them as lifelong mementos.”
“Wouldn’t the groom be the one truly plagued by this?”

“Hmm.”

“When I asked what she would do if the groom found out, she said it would be safe because she’d put them in the secret box.”
“To backtrack a bit—when I returned the letters, Mitsuko-san clung to me and burst into tears.”
“I cried too.”
“And so I vowed.”
“I will remain single my whole life as atonement for wounding your heart.”

“Hmm.”

“Mitsuko-san said, ‘Please do that,’ indeed.”
“My heart will always remain tied to you.”
“So only my body will be going into this marriage,” she said.

“The groom’s the pitiable one here.”

“The letters from both of us remain bundled with a red ribbon and should still be in Mitsuko-san’s secret box.”
“Stormy winds and sorrowful rains—counting on my fingers, thirteen years have passed. An immeasurable depth of emotion remains.”

“Did you meet her after that?”

“No—since we parted ways agreeing to consider each other dead, we don’t plan on meeting again. Moreover, she moved to a village far from the city, so things have simply stayed that way.”

“You’ll hear the rumors, won’t you?”

“Her family seems to be quite wealthy. I hear she has four children. She’s living happily. Since her sisters keep in touch with each other, it naturally comes to my ears.”

“A bachelor life with quite the backstory, huh.”
“This isn’t something to brush aside.”

“Hmm.”
“I’d misjudged this matter.”

Unno let out a sigh.

“Truly, there are things that don’t suit one’s nature,” he said. “I’ve gone all sentimental.”

Tajima too was deeply moved.

“He’s unexpectedly dutiful.”
“No—that was inexcusably rude of me.”

And that must have been Kidera’s genuine sentiment, leaving things as they were.

“You’ve all got it made. How enviable.”

Hirose was uncharacteristically calm.

“Coming from you, that gives me the creeps.”

And I became his interlocutor once more.

“However, I also find some consolation in this situation.”
“I think staying single like this is more reassuring.”

“Why?”

“Judging from Mitsuko-san’s case, I’ve realized women all seem to have secrets.”
“Even if I married now, it’d be disastrous if I picked some woman hoarding letters tied with red ribbons.”

“Someone like Mitsuko-san’s an exception.”

“No—it appears all women have secrets.”

“If they’re proper young ladies from respectable families—those sheltered beauties—then there’s no need for such worries.”
“You should scrutinize those types and marry one quickly.”
“Even Mitsuko-san would agree, I’m sure.”

“Mitsuko-san herself was actually a young lady from a good family—a sheltered beauty.”
“Since her family’s father defeated my family’s father in the city council election, theirs is a wealthy household with the means to buy influence.”

“It’s getting more and more sarcastic, I must say.”

“If even Mitsuko-san is like that, then I think all other women must be the same.”

“That’s going too far.”

“No—even your wives might not have necessarily married you because they liked you.”
“They might very well have brought Secret Boxes into their chests of drawers.”

“There’s absolutely no need for such concern.”

“But I tell you, it’s only the husbands who remain in the dark.”

The confessing Hirose started pestering them again.
When I suddenly noticed, Kidera was resting both elbows on the table, covering his face as if to hide it.
Even if she was a viscount’s daughter and a sheltered beauty, since he had married someone who had been married once, this kind of talk was unpleasant.

“If you keep saying such things, there’ll be no end to it.
Men have their secrets too.
Let’s all speak our truths openly.
Your wives will grab you by the collar!
Hey, Unno, Tajima.”

With that, I called the attention of the two men. I felt sorry for Kidera and didn’t want Hirose to speak any further.

“I have no such intentions.”

Unno said dismissively.

“I’d be in trouble if I were lumped in with you. I might crack jokes, but I’d never deceive my wife.”

Tajima, too, became extremely formal and glared at me. I had tried to be considerate for Kidera’s sake, but since they didn’t understand, there was nothing to be done. Hirose started talking again.

“You two who can declare that so confidently are fortunate.”
“However, should I ever marry, I would inevitably deceive my wife.”
“I couldn’t possibly claim Mitsuko-san and I were... involved in such a way.”
“While I find deceiving women disagreeable, being deceived by them would be far worse—hence I shall persist in bachelorhood henceforth.”
“That concludes my confession.”
“This contains no suggestion that you ought to search for Secret Boxes your wives likely possess.”
“On that matter, I beg your forbearance... et cetera.”

Their respective investigations

The meeting had been on Saturday evening.

After Sunday had passed, on Monday noon, when they met at the company cafeteria,

“So how’d it go?”

Hirose asked me.

“What?”

“Your wife’s Secret Box.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I was confident in my wife’s love, so I dismissed Hirose’s joke with a single retort.

“I thought yours was the only safe one, but look at Mr. Kidera.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there.”
“He’s next to Unno.”
“He looks a bit pale, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.”

“He’s worried about his wife’s Secret Box.”
“However, given the circumstances you know so well, that man alone can’t be mocked.”
“I later realized I’d gone too far with my words.”

“I felt so sorry for him I didn’t know what to do.”
“But I’m surprised you’re the type to have such a romantic past.”

“That was all a lie.”

“What?”
“A confession.”
“Everything was my creation.”

“Hmm.”

“Since you took that seriously and even wrote notes, your novels really lack bite.”

“Did you deceive us?”
“You’re despicable, you brute!”

I was now thoroughly vexed.
It occurred to me there was good reason Mr. Tajima occasionally resorted to physical force.
To be deceived and then have my novels belittled on top of it was unbearable.

“Actually, I thought I’d stir up some commotion in your households.”
“At least Mr. Unno’s seems to have worked.”

“You’re rotten through and through.”

“I’m teaching you about life, you know.
“It’s because you lot go around puffing yourselves up with talk of ‘art’ and such without understanding a thing.”

And Hirose was reveling in triumph.

I later tried confronting Mr. Unno.
When I wasn’t the one caught in it, the damage suffered by other people seemed as absurd as a fool’s measuring tape.

“So how’d it go? Did your wife have a Secret Box?”
“My wife isn’t the type for that sort of thing.”
“With three children already, there’s hardly room for a Secret Box now, is there?”

“Actually, I did ask her, but she got so indignant about my doubting her single-hearted devotion that she burst into tears.”
“Even though we have three children, how can you even joke about such a thing?”

“Hmm.”

“Thinking this might happen, I waited until the children were asleep and asked her, but the oldest one woke up and started making a fuss, shouting that Mom and Dad were fighting.”

“Ha ha ha!”

“Even the maid woke up and came out—I was thoroughly embarrassed.”

“Mr. Hirose, you must be delighted.”

“But that man has some unexpectedly commendable qualities, doesn’t he?”

“What? It’s all a lie.”

“A lie?”

“Hmm.”
“He fabricated that confession with the scheme to stir up trouble in everyone’s households.”
“Those who got taken in and are impressed must be terribly naive.”

“Damn you!”

“Thoroughly calculated.”

“I suppose I’ll have to ask Mr. Tajima to administer some sanctions.”

Next was Mr. Tajima.
Mr. Unno, having been thoroughly taken in, now harbored an even deeper interest,

“You see—because of Mr. Hirose’s so-called Secret Box—I ended up making my wife cry.”

and he confessed his own blunder to test the waters.

“Is that so?”
“At my place, I made a major discovery.”

“Was there one?”

“Now, do wait a moment.
Taking advantage of Sunday morning yesterday, I sent my wife off to her parents’ place with the children in tow.
The plan was to search through the chest of drawers afterward.
I’d intended to do it stealthily, but not knowing how to fold kimonos made things difficult.
Thinking ‘Oh well,’ I recklessly rummaged through everything.
I finally discovered it in the small chest drawer.”

“A Secret Box?”

“Hmm.”
“You know that parquetry craft souvenir from the hot spring?”
“The sort you can’t figure out where to even begin opening.”

“Ah, yes…”
“I see.”

“I found it, but no matter what I did, it just wouldn’t open. Having no other choice, I planned to smash it open with a hammer, but couldn’t find one anywhere. While I was tearing through every corner looking for it, my wife came home—she’d forgotten her purse and couldn’t take the train.”

“I see.”

“She caught me red-handed with the Secret Box. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ my wife asked in a panic. With no way out, I demanded imperiously: ‘What’s this box?’ ‘Nothing important.’ ‘What’s inside?’ ‘Nothing at all.’ ‘Open it.’ ‘This isn’t meant for your eyes—have some decency!’ This tug-of-war went on endlessly. ‘It’s getting more suspicious by the minute,’ I pressed. ‘Fine—I’ll open it myself!’ I declared, jabbing at it with a firehook until she finally relented and opened it.”

“A bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon?”

“I thought the same and was terrified, but no—it turned out to be a bankbook. That wife of mine had squirreled away over 260 yen in her secret stash.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s apparently a precaution in case I lose my job. It was under our eldest daughter’s name. She said she intended to show it once it reached 1,000 yen. What a clever wife I have! I had to bow my head in respect!”

“Had to listen to marital boasting in the strangest place.”

And Mr. Unno abruptly fled.

When I heard about the secret box from the hot spring souvenir, I remembered.
My wife also had one of those.
Thinking she might have put a bankbook inside too, that evening when I got home, I immediately,

“Hey. You had that strange box—bring it out,” I ordered.

“What could it be? That ‘strange box’ you mentioned?”

“The secret box from the hot spring souvenir.”

“What would you do with such a thing?”
“I want to see inside.”

“My! Why?”

My wife seemed surprised.

“I don’t care why.”

“That’s something I bought during my girls’ school days when we went on a field trip to Hakone.”
“I thought it was just right, so I’ve kept some nostalgic mementos inside.”

“What’s this?”
“What on earth?”

“It’s something I don’t want you to see.”

“I’ll smack you!”

And I demonstratively clenched my fist.
I thought I had been too brazen.

With three small children, getting them to bed at night became a task in itself.
After everyone had quieted down, my wife brought the small box in question from the chest drawer.
When I opened it and looked, there was one matchbox inside.

“What’s this? This thing?”

“Please take a look inside.”

Inside the matchbox were over a dozen matches and one gold-tipped cigarette butt.

“What’s this?”
“This…”

“It’s my lover’s cigarette butt.”

“Huh?!”

“While that person was smoking this cigarette, he said something like a marriage proposal to me.”
“When I accepted, he got so flustered he stubbed this cigarette into the ashtray and took my hand, you know.”

“Don’t mock me!”

“Oh my!
“You!”
“Isn’t it you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re awful, making such a scary face.”

“I was so overjoyed… After you returned home, thinking to keep it as a lifelong memento, I put this cigarette butt into the matchbox that was there and carefully preserved it.”

“Ah, right. I remember now.”

“Ugh. Had you forgotten about that time?”

“No—it’s not that I’d forgotten, but since you were being so oddly secretive about it, I couldn’t help suspecting you might’ve had another lover before me.”

“That’s cruel of you!”

“But why don’t you want to show it?”

“You’re too sharp with your strategies, you see. If you realized I treasured even these little things, you’d find my weak spot and start making unreasonable demands, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s not true. I can only thank you.”

And I took my wife’s hand as I had in the old days.
When I thought about it, before marriage I used to smoke MCC gold-tipped cigarettes.
After starting a household, my cigarette quality plummeted and settled on Bat.
Cheap cigarettes have become so ingrained in me that when I see my own shadow smoking gold-tipped ones, I barely recognize it—I can’t help but feel contemptible even to myself.

(October 1939; Present Day)