Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

What exactly was this 'sacredness' they kept harping on about?
She would always let out a bitter snort inwardly whenever she found herself in those situations.
Despite his penny-pinching ways toward geisha—whom he regarded as no better than stray cats—the mayor would assume a stony rigidity whenever official ceremonies demanded it, attending without fail to deliver some prepared speech.

Before each ceremony came the eastward bowing toward the Imperial Palace and the obligatory silence for fallen soldiers.
The same rigid script played out with grave solemnity every time.
Not a soul questioned its strangeness.
Whenever forced to endure these spectacles, Mitsue felt anger rise like bile in her throat—thick and suffocating.

Sacredness was cruelty itself, she thought.

War too had been called sacred.
But when every day felt like being driven onward through such an existence, what could possibly be sacred? She found herself wondering endlessly.
Young wives sent their husbands off to battlefields, and even when learning of those husbands' deaths in action, the daily newspapers extolled these heroic women who never shed a single tear.

Once they became sacred widows, shedding tears would only make people mock them.
War had always demanded this sacredness.

Mitsue worked as a geisha in S Town and, through habits formed since childhood, had never feared this counterfeit thing called sacredness—but she did fear its cruel consequences.
When an official decree declared that not even one person should enjoy warm clothes or full meals, arguments arose about imposing duties on geisha too. Mitsue began commuting to the town's factory alongside five or six peers, becoming a laborer scrubbing rust from aluminum plates—this being their so-called sacred duty.
The work involved scraping aluminum plates all day with metal brushes resembling hedgehog quills, their screeching never ceasing.
Many female students worked at the same factory.
They all labored earnestly.
Even when veteran workers slacked off, only those students kept working diligently without rest, flitting through the factory like swallows.

There were times when Mitsue would gaze at the female students with pitying eyes—these girls who seemed most inclined to revere sacredness.

“Hey now, don’t go swallowing every smooth line they feed you.”

“They paper the factory walls with posters screaming ‘Work with unshakable faith!’ ‘Rival our battlefield heroes!’ ‘Become human fireballs!’... But no matter how many they paste up, those bigwigs giving orders just keep carousing night after night—stuffing their faces, guzzling booze, all cool as you please...”

There were times when Mitsue would gaze vacantly at the female students in their uniforms working away, thinking how pitiable those pure-hearted, unknowing students were.

"In this war, right now, the only people called sacred are soldiers and female students."
"Hey, Maki, don't you think so?"
"Sacred things are wretched."
"First off, they're so damn earnest—made to run like draft horses—and yet the ones riding them don't even break a sweat..."

In the night banquet room, when Mitsue got drunk, she started poking Deputy Mayor Maki’s knee and teasing him.

“Yeah, Mitsue, if you weren’t drunk and spouting such arguments, I might even make you my mistress. But damn it, you’re just too headstrong for your own good.”

Deputy Mayor Maki, short-statured with a crescent-moon-shaped bald spot called the “lake-reflecting-falling-moon” pattern, gripped Mitsue’s hand with a good-natured smile.

From the age of sixteen, after enduring countless hardships in Tokyo, she had moved to this S Town in the spring of her twenty-second year. This year she was twenty-three—apparently the Year of the Rat.

Her eyes slightly squinted, and under her left eye was a tear mole. Therefore, Mitsue had resigned herself to the belief that this tear mole was the cause of her lifelong misfortune. Up until now, there had been two or three men she had liked, but with none of them had she ever formed a connection.

Fair-skinned and perhaps because of her small face, she looked childlike. When it came to blood relatives, there was only her grandfather repairing bat umbrellas. They lived in a room rented on the second floor of a souvenir shop in front of the station.

On March 9th during the air raid on the downtown area, their home in Matsuba-cho, Asakusa had been reduced to ashes. Literally escaping with their lives, the two came to this S Town in Shinano Province by relying on acquaintances.
Through an acquaintance’s help, under the pretext of being a hostess, they were taken in by a house called Yanagiya.

Mitsue missed Tokyo desperately.
Though Mitsue lived and slept in a low-ceilinged second floor with other women, when she opened the window she could see the high mountains of Togakushi, Kurohime, and Takashina—and even around May, those peaks crowned in pure white snow left her unbearably lonely.
The mountains gleamed white with snow, yet along the highway cherry blossoms resembling hairpins bloomed, and wheat fields lay bathed in brilliant sunlight. Seeing this, Mitsue felt keenly she had become a country dweller. Leaning against the window, she gazed vacantly at the scene.
Somehow, she thought, the scenery felt mismatched.
Yet summers grew hotter than Tokyo’s, and when winter came even half-drunk tea left by her pillow would freeze—a cold so paralyzing she couldn’t move a muscle.
Had a year passed? A month? Her sense of time had unraveled until each day became nothing but faces before her eyes and scenery slipping smoothly away like flowing water.

On August 15th, having listened to the radio broadcast about the war's end and choked back sobs at His Majesty's voice, Mitsue found herself suddenly pierced by relief that the war was over.
That the war had ended felt like a miracle.

In S Town, as soon as the war ended, parents with daughters—believing they had to hide them deeper in the mountains before the American soldiers arrived—secretly took their girls into the hills.
And yet, toward women of Mitsue’s class, they showed no qualms about demanding "service," with some even blatantly planning to establish such comfort stations.

Mitsue was filled with disgust.

The cunning of the town's influential people, who endlessly exploited the vulnerable, became unbearable. Those who had once watched others like spies now began declaring themselves born-and-bred liberals, suddenly badmouthing military men—even going so far as to show harshness toward bereaved families of officers killed in action.

Night banquets grew brazenly open; men who until now had worn work pants to banquet rooms—stashing them in shopping baskets upon arrival—suddenly started playing sophisticates, putting on airs of knowing geisha ought to appear with trailing hems, all under the guise that this was now an era of freedom.

The mayor and deputy mayor had ostensibly resigned according to form, keeping up appearances, but before long, they manufactured a convenient public opinion and returned to their original posts. Laughing raucously all the while, they now roughly dismantled the Shinto altar in the town office, feigning ignorance.

Even Mitsue, who had resented the formal Shinto altar, now found herself unexpectedly moved by the pitiable sight of that very altar being roughly dismantled.

When the war ended, Mitsue had no desire to remain forever in this rural backwater, yet she found herself unable to return to Tokyo—swayed by the town officials’ sudden about-face, their honeyed words now lavishing promises of future prosperity as though flipping the palm of their hand.

Two

New Year's had passed, and once again the memorable March arrived.
One day, on a gloomy morning with light snow flurries, Mitsue had gotten her hands on some roasted rice crackers, so she went to her grandfather’s place to deliver them and check on him.

When she went up to the second floor, there was an unfamiliar man warming himself at the kotatsu.

“Oh!”

Mitsue, appearing flustered, lingered at the entrance, and the man—
“Grandfather will be back soon,” he said.
Mitsue took off her shawl and entered the room, whereupon the man who had risen from the kotatsu sat up properly—
“Last night, when I arrived at this station and was struggling to find lodging, this elderly gentleman kindly took me in… It was an immense help.”
he bowed politely.
“Oh my, well, is that so?”
“It must have been cold without even a futon, I imagine?”
“In such a filthy place…”

“Ah, it was an immense help.”
“Since there were no more buses to F, I searched quite hard for an inn… but with nowhere to stay and at my wit’s end, this elderly gentleman here came to my rescue…”

“So you’re that demobilized soldier after all?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”

“My, you’ve had quite the ordeal.”
“Where exactly were you stationed?”

“I was in Northern China…”

“Well, is that so?”
“But it’s a relief you’re unharmed.”
“Is your home in F Village?”

“No, it’s Tokyo.”
“We had a house in Kashiwagi, but since we evacuated here…”

“Well then, is this your first time in F Village?”

“Yes, it’s my first time.”
“It’s my sister’s friend’s house or something, so I’m in a place I don’t know at all…”

“I see. But please, do take your time here. Oh, um—have you had breakfast?”

“Oh, I’ve already had some.”
“I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done…”

“Well then, I’ll make some tea.
“I’ve brought rice crackers…”

“Yes, but I hear the bus will leave soon…”

“Even so, F Village only takes forty minutes to reach.”
“Please have some hot tea at least…”

When Mitsue transferred embers from the kotatsu to the veranda brazier, Grandfather returned.

“Grandpa?”

“Ah, Mitsu?”

“Yes, I just got here…”

Sliding open the door, Grandfather entered carrying a hand basket.
White eyebrows hung long to the corners of his eyes, and at first glance, his face resembled that of a Zen monk.
Evidently fond of drink, his face was flushed and glossy.

“It’s the soldier guest, you see.”
“After a long time, we had a lively talk about Tokyo last night—truly, I was allowed to enjoy myself by our guest here.”

“Well, isn’t that just lovely…”
“I thought I’d make some tea, and I’ve just started the fire.”
“I brought some roasted rice crackers for you, Grandpa.”

The young man remained seated, looking ill at ease as he sat stiffly formal.

His lusterless hair reaching behind his ears and ashen skin bore the wretchedly compressed shape typical of someone demobilized after long years of war—yet his eyes alone emitted a beautiful light that set him apart from ordinary people.
Mitsue thought they were the eyes of a learned person.
He had clear-cut eyes unlike those of country youths.

“This here’s a student from Imperial University, see. His father went abroad, I hear—quite a distinguished man.”

Grandfather explained.

“Oh no, I’m not distinguished in the slightest.”
“This is rather awkward… If you say such things…”

“No, rather—when you speak of Imperial University, isn’t that a school that costs a great deal of money?”
“Whenever I walked down that Hongo-dori street, I tell ya, I always thought—what a splendid school that was.”
“America’s mighty impressive too.”
“They made sure to keep that school properly preserved, you see.”
“Ah well, ain’t no loss if humble folks’ houses like ours get blown away, but splendid schools like that—they oughta keep ’em preserved proper for all eternity, don’t you think?”
“……As for me, come autumn, I’ve always been fond of those Imperial University ginkgo trees when they turn yellow—their thick clusters lining the avenue.”
“After all, those kinds of places are refreshing—good for the soul, I tell ya.”
“Back in the old days, there used to be chrysanthemum dolls at Dangozaka—and the chrysanthemum soba there was delicious.”
“Then there was that Echikatsu butcher shop in the third block—they’d holler ‘One order of roast ahori!’ and had loads of pretty girls workin’ there back then.”
“I often visited Nezu Gongen-sama too, but I doubt you’d know about things like Russian bread from the night stalls at Aiso Bridge…”
“After all, those days were good, I tell ya.”
“Even if you went to Daiichi Liquor Store, you could get a glass of sake with dried sardines for about ten sen…”
“It wasn’t much of a living, but I—well, being a theater lover—used to go see plays every single night.”
“I used to take my late mother along, you see.”
“I was fond of an onnagata named Kikujirō…”
“Ah… I do wish I could see such plays again.”
“What a shame—Hanzaemon too passed away just recently at this hot spring resort called Yudanaka a bit further in. Actors like him ain’t never gonna be born again…”

“I do think everything comes down to luck… There’s times I want to gripe about being born into such a dreary world, but last night, meeting you—well, I realized there ain’t nobody luckier than me. —A young fella like you, gone off to war for five whole years… What a damn shame…”

“Grandpa, the tea’s ready.”
“It’s always ‘the good old days’ with you, isn’t it…”

Mitsue was making tea while laughing.

The snow turned into a heavy fall, and powdery, crunching snow piled up.

“It’s freezing cold, ain’t it… Even though they say it’s March already, what a frigid place this is! Mitsu, why can’t you ever spare a thought for your old grandpa’s favorite things?”

“Sake, I suppose?”

“Mmm…”

“I’ll have someone bring some tonight…”

The kotatsu had been stoked with plenty of fire, making it warmly cozy.
All three had their knees thrust into the kotatsu and were drinking hot tea.

“Oh damn—old folks like me are hopeless like this…”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Grandpa?”

“No—see, I went to Mr. Saku’s place and begged like I was about to cry to get five apples or so, thinkin’ I’d let the guest have one… and I’d gone and forgotten all about it.”

Grandfather took the apples out from the basket and lined them up on the kotatsu’s board.

Three

From that day on, the snowy days continued for another two or three days.
Amidst the dull, thickly falling snow, the mountains loomed hazily.

Mitsue pulled the shamisen close and plucked its strings with her plectrum.
When I tried to woo a snowman, it melted away without saying a word...
This world feels so fleeting somehow.
And yet, beneath that very fleetingness, some nameless joy seems to glimmer.
Something ungraspable by hand was settling into young Mitsue’s heart.
The surroundings faded and grew dim as she huddled at the second-floor kotatsu, lost in thought until twilight.
On the walls here and there were pasted Meiji-era kimono store advertisements with color illustrations depicting horse-drawn railway carriages.
A shamisen inserted into a navy blue velvet bag hung from the wall.
The geishas’ underrobes and kimonos dangled sloppily.
Koito, a fellow worker, read an old women’s magazine while sucking on a piece of dried kelp.

“Reading in the dark like this will ruin your eyes.”

“Mmm…”

“Another night at Ms. Konami’s banquet… I’m getting sick of this…”

Koito, absorbed in her magazine, did not look up.
Like a serving girl, she had a large, stout and stocky build.
Mitsue had suddenly recalled the face of a man named Shukugorō.

I wonder if he made it back safely to F Village…
Things from just two or three days ago had already passed and become matters of memory.

He had returned happily, saying he would surely be invited again.
And that was the end of it.
After all, it was but a fleeting firework of chance.
It flared up and that was all there was.
Gazing at that fleeting firework of chance, Mitsue found herself longing for this human fate that creates both joys and worries.

Mitsue opened the shoji screen a crack and gazed at the snowy scenery.
It wasn’t particularly novel.
Yielding to the swell of her growing loneliness, she became entranced by the snow falling through the thicket...

“Mitsue-chan”

“Huh?”

“There’s a live performance at Kōrakuza tonight.”

“Oh? Who’s performing?”

“They say a period drama film actor has come.”
“Want to go?”

“What about Ms. Konami’s banquet?”

“It’s a long banquet anyway—we can just catch the show first and still make it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Let’s go.”
“They’re doin’ ‘The Life of Matsu the Untamed’ or whatever it’s called.”

Mitsue said, “I guess so,” while gazing at the falling snow.

That night.

Mitsue did not go to the play and brought sake to her grandfather’s place.

“Grandfather, it’s sake.”

“Ah, Mitsue? You’re a godsend. I finished dinner early and had nothin’ to do—was just readin’ some kodan storytelling books. But tonight I got all restless-like, really wantin’ to go back to Tokyo. Just now, I was sittin’ here thinkin’ all sorts of useless thoughts.”
“Can’t keep lazin’ around forever without work, y’know—got to thinkin’ things over and feelin’ right lonesome… Then hearin’ ’bout sake? Well now, that cheers a man right up!”
“You headin’ to the banquet?”

“Yeah, just came by to kill time.”
“I was bored all day too—what with the snow falling and feeling so cooped up, Grandfather…”

“I’ll heat up some sake—how ’bout the two of us have a drink?”

“I can’t really stay long… but I’ll keep you company for a cup.”

Grandfather took the furoshiki-wrapped bundle from Mitsue and took out the sake bottle.

“Well now, this comes with snacks! Thick dried squid here—ain’t that a rare find.”
“There’s plenty of sake too.”
“Ah, this makes me so happy, Mitsue…”

“It’s because you’re so pleased that I end up wanting to bring it, you know.”
“Well, that’s how it goes…”

Before long, having heated the sake, the two of them began drinking across from each other at the kotatsu.

“Hey—about that soldier from before—any word?”

“Ah, got a proper letter.”
“Said to send his regards to you...”

“Seems decent enough.”

“Yeah. ’Bout how old d’you think he is?”

“Let me see—demobilized soldiers look older ’cause they’ve been through hell, but well… he’s probably around twenty-five or twenty-six, don’t you think?”

The old man took out the letter from the man named Shukugorō from his handicraft box.

“He says he’ll come visit in two or three days…”

“I see. He must’ve been really happy.”

“Do you think so?”

Mitsue drank a cup, and all at once her whole body grew hot.

Even Mitsue—who until now had lived like floating duckweed, making no promises to anyone and desiring nothing—had lately begun finding her current way of life unbearably unsettling, perhaps from this endless country living.

“Mitsue, can’t you make up your mind about goin’ to Tokyo?”

Suddenly, Grandfather asked.

“Well, ’course I want to go back too.”
“But right now, I can’t get transferred, and there’s still debt left, so… Grandfather, just wait until it gets warmer.”
“When it gets warmer, I’ll do whatever it takes, okay?...”

“Yeah… can’t get transferred yet…”

Grandfather was sniffling from the cold while chewing dried squid in the back of his dentures.

When seven o'clock came around, Mitsue finished getting ready and went outside.
The snow had stopped, but a biting cold mountain wind whipped through, cutting like a knife.

“Hey, Mitsue!”

A man had come out from under the bright eaves light of the dentist’s.
Peering through while—
“Well, well, if it isn’t Deputy Mayor Maki…”
“Ah—you—what’s the matter?”
“At this hour…”

“I went to see Grandfather, you know.”

“Hmph—so it’s a young Grandfather you’re visiting?”

“That’s right—the someone without a balding head.”

“Idiot!”
“Perfect timing—you’re Konami too?”

“Yeah, well—that’s how it goes.”

“Then come with me…”

“Oh holy one—don’t go burning with jealousy now.”

“I’ll let ’em burn once in a while…”

“Ugh—you’re revolting.”

Once, sewing machines that stitched parachutes had lined Koito’s great hall in abundance, but since the war’s end, those many machines had vanished, and now a counterfeit large scroll of Ryōkan hung in the alcove. Beside the alcove stood a potted five-needle pine, while rows of gaudy Genroku-era floor cushions lined the room—already, the seating had begun to fall into disarray. What kind of banquet it was, Mitsue didn’t even bother to ask. The moment she entered the banquet hall, Kanei from the credit union grabbed Mitsue’s hand,

“Here we have a Tokyo-made beauty,” he said, making a crass introduction as he led her to the man before the alcove.

The guest facing front was a mole-like man whose occupation remained unclear.
To put it plainly, the construction boss.
He was smoking foreign cigarettes with great flourish, using a hand adorned with rings.

“Well, this’s a beauty.”
“A face like a smaller version of Yamada Isuzu’s, I say.—So you’re her patron, Mr. Kanei? Hmm?”

“Heh heh… Well, if that’s how it is, then the two of us wouldn’t be showing up here tonight…”

“How strange, leaving her unattended... In a town teeming with warriors like this, surely there’s no way such a beauty remains unclaimed...”

Mitsue recalled the word “sacred” without any particular thought.
Such men had swaggered about during the war deceiving honest people, she thought.

This disordered thing called Japan’s freedom—as if it were something shipped over by American vessels—had been utterly misconceived and mistaken from start to finish, letting those who smoked exotic cigarettes while quietly angling for profit shares thrive undisturbed……

There wasn’t a shred of human passion.
Merely shrinking their activities conceptually did nothing to cleanse the sullied human soul—that’s how it went.

“Ah, getting cold feet…”

“I can’t handle alcohol, you know.”

“A geisha who can’t drink? That can’t be…”

“Well, that’s exactly why I can’t, you know…”

“Just one…”
“Not even a single one.”
“If it’s ice cream, then I would like some.”

“Ice cream?”

Even Mogura seemed surprised,

“If you can’t drink, then there’s nothing to be done.
But a geisha like this is rare, I must say.”

“Well, when you get to the countryside around here, there are oddities—like me…”

“Oh, I’ve sorely misjudged you, I must say.”

Mogura, wiping his face smoothly with a large hemp handkerchief, had Koito pour him drinks and gulped down two or three cups in quick succession.
An out-of-tune shamisen twanged.

Mitsue had grown nostalgic for words and forms like “sacred”—things she had once spat out with such vehemence.
Without endurance, she couldn’t have managed.
As if daily life were an obstacle race—amidst the war, there had been a certain earnestness…
Mitsue was recalling that desperate earnestness of wishing to somehow survive without starving.
For the sake of wanting to live with her grandfather…
When she moved to S Town, she had to take on unpleasant clients too.
In such a world, there were none who spoke of justice or sacredness.
That had become the most human place—the backstage…
Mitsue had always thought that what was called this world was like being caught in a whirlpool of contradictions.
She had concluded that within those contradictions, not a single thing could be genuine—yet toward the man named Shukugorō, she could not help feeling something slightly different.

While she alone remained sober, watching the increasingly disorderly ways of those growing drunk was amusing.
The blue flames of glowing charcoal in numerous hibachi were effective in hastening drunkenness from the alcohol.
Mogura was the first to get drunk, his speech growing increasingly slurred.

Kanei, Maki, and the rest of the ten or so men had all lost their senses entirely—each waving their hands about, those singing, those arguing, those chewing apples whole with the skin and spitting them out in bits…

Mitsue quietly slipped away from the gathering and went outside.
Whispering snow fell softly, steadily, again over the narrow mountain town.
Suddenly, she recalled the snow of Asakusa nights.—From when she first became aware of the world, there had always been war, so she never knew the vibrant Asakusa scenery her grandfather described. Yet Asakusa itself held an unpretentious, working-class charm.
Mitsue felt nostalgic for Asakusa before it burned down.
The people there had all blended into Asakusa in daily life, with none of the slyness typical of country folk.
There were no instances of favors being forced upon anyone.

When she thought how Asakusa’s form had already burned to ash, and being so far removed from it, Mitsue felt it grow even more dear and nostalgic.

Mitsue did not know her father’s face.
All she knew was that he had died young; she couldn’t even discern what kind of person he had been by lineage.
Her mother and grandfather had been her only supports, but her mother too had died when Mitsue was nineteen that summer.
Since then, Grandfather had been walking through towns working as a traditional folding umbrella repairman.

In those days, life was harsher than now, but the city air provided some solace to the poor.
——The countryside had no such dreams.
Everyone was ideological, everyone putting on airs like lords of their own castles…
The more these stingy officials and soldiers—reluctant to bestow anything upon others yet eager to be lavishly worshipped—poured into the countryside using the war as their main pretext, the more distinctly S Town forged its peculiar formalities.

Mitsue walked through the snow-covered town, muttering irritably to herself, yet her feet naturally carried her toward her grandfather’s place.

“Grandpa!”

As Mitsue went up to the second floor, Grandfather was dozing off while leaning against the kotatsu.

“Grandpa…”

He was fast asleep, deeply and comfortably.
The whisper of snow rustled against the shoji screens.
In the soot-stained, dilapidated room with its low ceiling, surrounded by Grandfather’s scant business tools and cooking utensils, he slept soundly, still leaning against the kotatsu.
As she gazed at his gaunt, withered figure, Mitsue couldn’t shake the premonition that Grandfather would likely never see that beloved Tokyo again.

“Grandpa… you’re really sound asleep, aren’t you?”

“Ahh, ahh—feels good... I was dreaming of going to see a play with Sayoyo...”

“Hmph, the same old Genji Theater bit again?”

“Nah, tonight was Akaneya Hanshichi—Ganjirō’s Hanshichi was downright masterful, and get this—Baikō’s Osono…”

Mitsue had never seen them, so even when told of the actors’ dream, she couldn’t conjure any memory of it.
I can’t follow a dream I don’t know.

“Grandpa, is there any sake left?”

“Ah… there should still be a little…”

Mitsue held the bottle up to the light.
About two gou still remained.
She poured it into the bowl and gulped it down.
Like lemon water, it coolly seeped into the depths of her chest.

“Ugh, I’m thoroughly sick of this endless snow… When will it get warm... When it warms up and the bush warblers start chirping ‘chitsu-chitsu’ in the bamboo grass—when will those peaceful days ever come? When the plums bloom—I want to crack a freshly laid egg, still warm, into miso soup so hot it could split your lips, plop it in, and slurp it all up...”

The drunkenness came swirling in.
A chaos no different from the people at the earlier banquet came clawing and swirling through her chest.
Mr. Shukugorō was not some traveler passing through... An impromptu song sprang to her lips.

“You’re in quite a good mood…”

“Yeah, I just got drunk now.”
“I feel best when I’m at Grandpa’s place…”
“Grandpa with your white eyebrows…”

“What’s that now?”

“Let’s go back to Tokyo soon, okay?”

“Well, that’s how it is…”

“Until then, stay healthy and live on, okay…”

“You’re being silly. I’m only seventy-five—still got twenty-five years left…”

“Grandpa, you greedy old thing!”

“Ah ha ha... When the time comes to die, I'll die.
“Well, I’ll have regrets if I don’t see Tokyo again, you know…”

In the season of budding, that view of Hongo’s university—adorned with young ginkgo leaves, vividly dyed green—flashed abruptly into Mitsue’s mind.

That night, Mitsue crawled into her grandfather’s kotatsu and fell asleep.
The slight intoxication from just a little sake—combined with her longing for Tokyo and thoughts of someone—perhaps sank profoundly into young Mitsue’s heart…
Grandfather took the dirty blanket he had been using as a lap cover and draped it over Mitsue’s delicate shoulders.