Pathway to Japanese Literature

By the dark water's edge, the light of a candle shone.
No sooner had the last evening glow been wiped away in the distance than the water hyacinths that had drifted all day upon the water must have quietly come to rest along some shore for tonight’s lodging...
It was a stillness in which the sound of oars from rowing boats could be heard with striking clarity.
The splash-splash of water seemed to seep into the very core of those listening and stirred an unbearable longing and loneliness.
Occasionally, the groaning trees around the house rustled and swayed.
Tamae lay naked on her stomach inside the white mosquito net.
With both feet resting on a long pillow-like Dutch wife that resembled a stretched-out frog, she had her body massaged by a Javanese masseuse.
The Javanese masseuse slathered coconut oil all over Tamae’s body while massaging her slick back with firm palms in loose, circular motions that resembled drawing the character ‘no.’
Pressing her face into the large towel, Tamae thought about the child she had let go.
She thought she had indeed come to a very distant place.
She was even beginning to feel that she might never be able to return to the home country as things were.
The heat was so oppressively muggy, and perhaps because the edible frogs were clamoring noisily, her thoughts refused to coalesce into anything that would rise clearly before her eyes.
I wonder if it was raining when we left the port of Hiroshima...
Now, four months later, the image of her own earnest journey could only be recalled as if it were someone else’s.
I wonder if it was evening when the ship entered the wide estuary of the Barito...

Along the embankment thick with mangroves, the ship glided gently over reddish-murky water.
From one waking moment to another, a season that was no true season spun like a top through Tamae's memories, tracing the same path day after day without purpose.

A full four months had passed since leaving the home country.
After arriving in this place called Banjarmasin in southern Borneo, the rain poured down relentlessly every single evening.
The rain fell thick as twisted twine, and in the sweltering heat, it came down with such steam-like ferocity that the surroundings were dyed a milky haze.

Most of the women who came to work in such places were thought to have arrived after enduring great hardships in the home country, but Tamae alone was the sort of woman who had ended up here on a whim, persuaded by someone.
Tamae had been a hairdresser.
Her eldest brother had been drafted when the war with China began and was killed during the landing at Wusong; her next brother, terrified of the war, had proactively secured a position at a munitions company and gone off to work at a factory in Mito.
Tamae had been a student at the time, but even then she had put her studies aside; once all students were made to commute daily from school to factories, she grew thoroughly sick of such a life and, with just one year left until graduation, quit school without telling her mother, finding work as a waitress at a diner in Ueno Station.
There, she became acquainted with Matsutani, who had been doing cook-like work, and as they repeatedly met at an inn near Ueno Station, Tamae finally became pregnant.
Tamae had not known she was pregnant until nearly six months had passed.
When Matsutani pointed out that something was wrong, it was only then that Tamae—still seventeen at the time—realized her body felt off, but even so, the abnormality of her own body didn’t particularly concern her.
It was only after running away and coming to live together with Matsutani at his boarding house that Tamae began to realize her fate was gradually deviating from normalcy, and she found herself filled with an ineffably melancholic feeling.
In the spring of her eighteenth year, Tamae gave birth to a girl at a small maternity clinic in Matsubacho.
When the child was born, Matsutani gave it away to Ōji without consulting Tamae while she still remained at the maternity clinic.
Tamae was still young, so she didn’t have much lingering affection for the child, but somehow giving it away to someone else filled her with unbearable pity.
Having run away from her parents’ home, Tamae—without rations—ended up relying on Matsutani to procure food for her survival.
While Matsutani was away at work, Tamae found it tedious to shut herself in the room all day idling about. So one day she sought out a nearby Keian and met a woman who claimed to be an Atami inn owner. This woman smoothly suggested that instead of toiling away in the stifling life back home, why not venture south to work? Tamae suddenly took to the idea and received 2,500 yen from the madam as preparation money.
After sending 1,000 yen to her mother and leaving the remaining 1,000 yen at Matsutani’s boarding house—without telling anyone—Tamae set out for Hiroshima with five other women much like herself.

The five women each had their own different personal stories.
After leaving Hiroshima on a voyage of nearly three weeks, Tamae had to listen to the same stories from the five women over and over again every day.
Among the five, Tamae was the youngest, with some elders being women slightly over thirty.
The group consisted of eight people: Madam Fukui; five women including Tamae; and a man named Sakata from Borneo who wore black-framed glasses.—The sea grew increasingly hotter, and the women found their monotonous daily life aboard unbearable. Gradually they succumbed to something akin to travel melancholy.
Since the ship was ostensibly designated a hospital vessel, Tamae and the others had to remain quietly in the hold alongside many soldiers during daylight hours.
When visiting the deck toilet, they had to drape soiled white garments caked with grime over their shoulders.
At night, Red Cross illuminations glowed on the ship’s flank.
Both women and soldiers idled in the ship’s hold all day.
Tamae lay on a grimy blanket reading magazines borrowed from soldiers.
When bored of this, she took snacks from her bag to munch.
When even that grew tiresome, she closed her eyes to ponder her relinquished child and Matsutani.
When imagining Matsutani searching for her, tears suddenly surged up.
I want to return to Tokyo again too.
Though Borneo was meant as a two-year commitment—if I went back after those years and sought Matsutani—how would he receive me…?
He did nothing but fret about imminent conscription, vowing to desert if sent to battlefronts—yet whenever rations came up, Matsutani would smile bitterly and mutter: “Truly, people like us have no place in this world.”

The events of the past four months had grown hazy, and Tamae could only think of the home country as if it were a distant dream from long ago.

Upon arriving in Borneo, Tamae felt unbearable self-reproach for the first two or three days.
The promises made in Tokyo were nothing like anything she had imagined - here it meant sacrificing her body.
In every room lay crude tatami mats with roughly lacquered low tables placed about.
For officers arriving from foreign lands, rooms with tokonoma alcoves had also been prepared.
A Mount Fuji scroll hung in each alcove alongside strange ornaments resembling Chinese lions.
The malformed imitation of Japanese-style rooms appeared all the more meager in this tropical land.

When the Javanese masseuse left, Tamae got up, went to the mandi area, and poured dipper after dipper of water over herself.
In the house where morning and night seemed indistinguishable, officers, soldiers, and military affiliates perpetually crowded.
The manservant came calling for Tamae time and again.
Though seething at enduring two years of this work, Tamae nevertheless sat before the mirror and began applying makeup.
The woman called Sumiko who shared her room had lain bedridden for a week now, abstaining from work.
Pleading bodily discomfort, she kept herself shut away without emerging to the guest quarters.
Sumiko had been languidly swatting mosquitoes with a coconut-frond fan on the dim veranda when Tamae settled at the mirror—only then did she finally enter and propose: “Why don’t we ride a tambangan boat to cool off?”
The Barito tributary shaped Banjarmasin into a delta where the Martapura River coursed through town.
Boats perpetually moored at the riverside like bygone era’s rickshaws, ready to ferry passengers along the waterway at any hour.
“A river breeze might freshen us up.”
“But we’ll catch scoldings again.”
“They say we can’t act freely in a warzone.”
“Why mind their hypocrisy?”
“Those very scolders do as they please themselves…”
Sumiko wore a sarong wrapped about her hips and a starched blouse.
Her lips sat swollen and discolored, sallow complexion accentuated by dim lamplight.
Eyes glistened wet-bright beneath defined brows.
Tamae sat cross-legged on a straw mat wearing nothing but a chemise and lit a cigarette.
Her made-up face betrayed a buoyant inner liveliness.
Though Tamae had recently taken a lover, her mastery of cosmetic arts and womanly poise—honed through observing seasoned companions—made her appear a year or two older than her age.

When Tamae adorned her hair with white Bungasumpin flowers—fragrant blooms she had the maid buy at the market—and put on her black boiled garment, she began feeling as though she’d become a woman of some standing and peered into the mirror.
“Hey, why don’t we go down to the river while we have time?”
“It’s dark out—you can’t see anything anyway.”
“Hmm, what should I do...”
“Ma-chan does come around, but…”
“Wait for me.”
“I get lonely alone—keep me company for a bit.”
“If we die, wouldn’t we have journeyed together...”
“Yes yes, I understand.”
The two hurriedly slipped into leather sandals and descended from the veranda to the lawn.
Against the dark sky, black traveler’s palms towered upward, giving a true sense of having come to a distant land.
When they reached the riverbank, it was already high tide, muddy water surging onto the road.
They walked through slightly elevated thickets of grass.
“Tambangan...”
Sumiko called for the boat.
From beneath a black tree jutting over the bank came a boatman’s dull “Ah” in reply, followed by oar sounds as he brought the boat near their feet.
When they jumped aboard, the roofed narrow vessel swayed side to side like a hammock.
A hushed night air pressed over the water’s surface as dark banks receded hazily into distant night mist.
Sumiko suddenly said, “Ah—I want to return to the home country.”
“I’ve come to want to return now,” she repeated.

The suddenness left Tamae speechless, yet she somehow sensed Sumiko’s emotions bearing down on her.
When the boat reached mid-river, the boatman knowingly stilled his oar and let the current take them.
Along both banks, coconut-oil lamps flickered in harmony with firefly lights above the water.
Tamae lay sprawled across the straw mat.
The scent of white sumpin flowers rode soft breezes, sweetening the air.
“Hey, sing me a poem.”
When Tamae teased the boatman with this request, he chuckled shyly before launching into a quatrain with unexpectedly youthful vigor.
His voice echoed across the water’s surface—a lonely beauty ringing through the night:
“Return empty-handed if I must—still I’d go back home.
Once there I’d pine for Borneo anew,
But just once more—oh Tokyo—to see you.”
Though Tamae mouthed these words, her heart held no true longing.
“I’m different—I’d swim back if needed.”
“I keep wondering why I ever came here.”
“They say Manabe’s got neurasthenia—but that’s nonsense.”
“Even bedridden with dengue fever I thought—I won’t die in this place.
Without this war I’d be home by now.”
“You’re just crushed because he died—admit it.”
Sumiko had favored one soldier among their clients until his death a month prior—injured at Moronpudak’s inland oil fields.—The boatman’s song had faded unnoticed.
Once more came the rhythmic dip of oars.
Tamae yearned to spend the night aboard this cool vessel.
To stretch out undisturbed—sleep claiming her completely.

It was probably around nine o'clock when the two returned to the room.
When Tamae went out to the parlor, as usual, several groups of people disheveled by alcohol were singing military songs and arguing.
Sumiko did not come out to such rooms.
After being made to drink two or three glasses of strong brandy, Tamae had already regained her usual cheerful disposition.
There was nothing to think about.
A brilliant golden substance was seeping from her body like ether.
And she could sit down in any place without fear, pouring all the passion she could muster into the act.
Her four-month history was disappearing as if in a fleeting moment.
Naturally, once she could feel relieved that everything about herself had shattered, she could sit down calmly anywhere.
The feeling of shame had disappeared.
Every man would kneel before her—of this she was confident.
There was no reason Tamae's current life wouldn't be interesting to her.
Late at night, Manabe came by automobile from the Marutapura diamond mining area to meet.

When they were alone in the narrow room, Tamae stood before the electric fan wearing nothing but a chemise. Like a child spreading both hands, she drunkenly chattered. Manabe took off his summer uniform on the table and slid into the mosquito net. In the hallway, as usual, filthy words flew as women vied for attention. Tamae remained standing before the underpowered electric fan. With childish gestures that deliberately showcased her fair, plump figure, she hummed an aimless tune softly.

"Why aren't you coming here?"
"It's hot."
"You'll feel hotter after standing at the fan."
"Come here..."

Tamae obediently turned the fan toward the mosquito net and approached Manabe's bed. As if by habit, she pressed her head against his chest and bit his right finger. Though they'd slept entwined like this many times, their bodies had never crossed that final threshold. Even through these fierce struggles, Manabe simply held Tamae close until dawn broke, when they'd gaze at each other with inexplicably refreshed expressions.

"You don't love me—that's what I think. You've no human heart at all."
"That's not true."
"I come because I like you."
"You might find it strange, but meeting you here feels like fate itself."
"If people weren't watching...if there were no war...I'd want to marry you. But it's impossible."
"Just wait—some pretext will separate us and get us expelled from here."

"Why don't we just have a proper wedding ceremony?"
"Yeah, but this is a battlefield—there's military here."
"Even if I weren't attached to the army, it'd be simple... but there's nothing to be done..."
"Oh? Oh yes—that's how it is then."
"You've got a wife and kids already, Ma-chan... since they say adultery's wrong..."
Manabe stayed silent.
Soon pulling something like a small medicine packet from his pocket, he said, "It's a diamond I dug up. If you ever go back home, have it made into your ring."
He placed a single raw diamond glowing yellowish onto Tamae's sweaty palm.
The diamond shone like wet stone.
Through the bright window, the traveler's palms on the lawn seemed to lie down—to Manabe they spread across his vision like some vivid mural.

The morning air of the wetlands felt as though everything was drenched and clammy with night dew.
Tamae held the diamond in her hand and gazed in fascination at its glow for a while.
Diamonds turned out to look surprisingly unimpressive.
“Borneo diamonds aren’t of good quality, but they’d be just right for your ring.”
“How much can this be sold for?”—Had someone stood at the entrance of a nearby factory back home, they would have seen many ordinary faces like Tamae’s.
In her otherwise unremarkable face—nowhere particularly noteworthy in its flatness—it was her small lips and gentle single-lidded eyes that somehow stood out.
It was a face one had seen before—so familiar that anyone would think they’d seen it before.
Tamae, ever pragmatic in every situation, asked how much the diamond could be sold for. When questioned like this, Manabe felt slightly disheartened and said, “Well… I suppose it could sell for five or six thousand yen,” intending to surprise her.
“Oh! This stone is that expensive? How surprising! Then this’ll be a fortune for me.”
“Does it really go for that much?”
Tamae was gazing even more intently at the diamond.
As Manabe gazed out the window as if in a daze, Tamae clung to his neck and kissed his sweat-dampened cheek over and over.
Manabe—who had graduated from the Imperial University’s Department of Mining and Metallurgy, been dispatched by N Corporation to South Borneo upon its occupation as a military-affiliated engineer, and lived in a small government residence in Marutapura for nearly two years—first met Tamae at a Civil Administration Department banquet.
Tamae quickly grew fond of Manabe, and one day even disguised herself as an Indonesian woman and walked four kilometers to visit his government residence.
Manabe had initially thought her an eccentric woman but found himself increasingly drawn to Tamae’s fierce passion.
Yet Manabe found himself troubled by a fastidiousness he couldn’t fully abandon when it came to the final step.
To make Tamae’s body a comfort for the night meant—in Zen terms—the ultimate equality of thought and non-thought; once the momentary flame of passion had swiftly passed, tomorrow’s peaceful world could once again leave Manabe composed and at ease.
When one first becomes deluded by a single thought and thereby becomes an ordinary being, the passions of the three poisons and five desires arise—killing, stealing, sexual misconduct; greed, abusive speech, duplicity, frivolous talk, falsehood; anger, resentment, foolishness, arrogance; covetousness, stinginess, envy, jealousy...
Manabe had engraved in his heart the dying admonitions of Musō Kokushi’s third-rank disciple—teachings he had read during his student days.
Those who fiercely abandon all worldly attachments and single-mindedly investigate their own true matter are deemed superior; those whose practice is impure yet delight in mixed studies are deemed middling; those who obscure their own spirit’s radiance while relishing patriarchs’ dregs are deemed inferior.

Even if this was a battlefield, for the fastidious Manabe, he could not bring himself to go so far as to use money to make Tamae his.
However, if Manabe were to seriously question whether his current amusements were right, he would find that this too was no different from obscuring the radiance of his own spirit.
Somehow, there was a sense of constraint in this being a battlefield.
Countless Japanese eyes were terrifying.
Moreover, for Manabe—a government scholar—the future 'honor' also dangled before his eyes.
Yet during those lonely nights in a foreign land, how comforting must those sweet, tender words whispered to him alone by a woman have been for Manabe.
Among the men living in the same government residence, there was one who wrote letters as meticulous as a diary to his new wife every day. Yet Manabe found himself envying even such a young man's pure melancholy of travel.
The military, until it occupied a territory, had charged ahead bravely without a moment to think, but once it occupied and settled into a place, the discipline of this honorable army grew timid toward peaceful matters and became restless.
The more peaceful the surroundings became, the more the military's discipline began to break down.
It grew turbid.
In Manabe's case, it was the same.
While he had been risking his life to develop and rush about the occupied mining district, once results gradually began to appear, Manabe was now tormented by an unbearably bored feeling.
He would sometimes find himself staring vacantly at the walking figure of a Babu servant from the Dayak tribe—who closely resembled the Japanese—or blush at his own baseness in somehow seeking out beautiful forms among the Malay and Javanese women washing sand in the mining district.
Though mining diamonds to the military's exacting demands had kept him in ceaseless busyness—as if mornings and evenings no longer existed—the luster of the diamond "stone" itself invariably made him imagine soft women's skin.
Rather than the utility of diamonds used in various machines, the association with beautiful women's adornments had been far more pleasurable to Manabe.
Yellow, violet, purple, cobalt, pink—diamonds of every hue had emerged bit by bit from the sand like stars in the sky, extracted through the toil of tens of thousands of laborers.
The diamonds, emerging little by little, were helplessly consumed by military factories in the home country. The romantic luster inherent in the "stones"—their beauty—vanished like mist the moment they departed the mining district, as though meteors had turned to mere rocks, leaving only transient dew on the battlefield. Manabe had sent his wife a large, most splendid cobalt diamond.
His wife had contributed the diamond he sent to the government within days.
And a misguided letter arrived from her, saying that she had somehow become patriotic and asking him to praise her for not dismissing his feelings.
It had been such a masterpiece—one he thought could never be found again in his mining district—that Manabe grew furious and resentful at his wife's insensitivity.

Her perception of gemstones—which could only be thought of as countless pieces of printing type to be fed into a press—was pitiable.
Japanese women do not know the true beauty of precious stones or their global value.
To fingers of women worn ragged by ceaselessly busy days, a diamond’s beauty too exquisite might be terrifying.
A land won through bloodshed being oppressed by ignorant invaders who scorned the people as a mob while remaining blind to their misrule—this folly seemed to resonate with Japanese women’s hearts that knew nothing of a diamond’s worth, and in these days of stagnant military governance, Manabe felt this kinship acutely.
That Tamae had bluntly asked how much it could fetch now felt, paradoxically, rather pleasing to Manabe.

Tamae had the maid buy about twenty grilled chickens with mustard from the market, and she and Manabe ate them inside the mosquito net.
It was hot again today.
The clear, cobalt sky characteristic of southern climes appeared dazzlingly bright, as though fine needles were piercing into one’s eyes.
The dry town of Banjarmasin—where common transportation meant only automobiles or bicycles—remained hushed and still from dawn till dusk. Yet just one step into the riverside district revealed a muddy river surface bustling with small boats like an overturned toy box, their commotion filling the air.
A large, bowl-shaped hat—under which only a glimpse of hands rowing an oar could be seen—drifted along the water as though scattering flowers.
Through the bustling small boats, an enormous swarm of water hyacinths creaked and jostled as they were pushed up the river channel by the tide.
The flow of water plants so thick one couldn’t see the water—if one stared at it for a while—would seize them with the illusion of gliding along rails.
Here, it felt as though the Earth itself were moving.
The houses on both banks faced the water with their shops open.
Even before fabric stores, one could moor a boat and shop.
Rice shops and general stores too conducted business at the water’s edge.
Some small boats themselves sold coffee, while others displayed tobacco and gently rowed about.
A completely naked child swam through parted roots of water hyacinths.
Humans and nature played together along this river channel alone—frolicking like puppies heedless of war—creating an utterly endearing natural realm.
For Borneo’s people, nothing could be more burdensome than this war.

Since they relied on rainwater here, everyone found brushing their teeth a bothersome task.
Manabe too had teeth stained yellow by tobacco.
“Hey, Sumiko says she wants to swim back to Tokyo... What about you?”
“And what about you?”
“Do you want to see your mother?”
“Oh, well, not exactly. I do dream about it sometimes, but now that I’ve come this far, there’s nothing to be done...”
“Sumiko... I think you’re going mad.”
“It’s just strange—ever since that soldier died, she’s completely fallen apart. Who knew she could fixate on something like that...?”
“I think it’s because of Banjarmasin’s climate.”
“It’s so hot, and I don’t even have time to cool my head, you know...”
Tamae leaned her legs impolitely on Manabe’s torso and smoked a cigarette in an acrobatic posture, her head about to slip off the bed.
The electric fan that had been left running all night rotated sluggishly with a dragging-can noise, perhaps due to its weak motor.
“That person looks a bit haggard.”
“She’s started looking rather lonely somehow.”
“I suppose so.”
“But somehow she’s grown sharper and prettier lately.”
“She’s twenty-seven, you know...”
“Is she really that old?”
“Oh yes—born in Kobe, worked as a cafe hostess and geisha... Well! They say she’s done all sorts of things.”
“Huh, she doesn’t look like that at all.”

“You know, last night we rode a tambangan together.”
“Sumiko cried saying she wants to go back home...”
Hearing that Sumiko had wept, Manabe felt pity.
Anyone would be helpless in such sweltering heat.
After all, it was unbearably hot.
Manabe resolutely pushed Tamae’s body aside and emerged from the mosquito net.
When he looked in the mirror, stubble had grown overnight.
His greasy face had turned a muddy brown.
He put on his sticky summer uniform and said, “Well then, I’ll come again.
Take care.”
With those words, he kissed Tamae’s forehead through the white netting.
The sour scent of perfume lingered.
Tamae remained lying down as she watched Manabe leave.
Soon after, the sound of an aged engine echoed from afar, and the automobile drove off blaring its horn.

Tamae took out the diamond parcel from under her pillow and gazed intently at the stone once more in the bright light. Suddenly, without any connection, the face of the child she had parted with floated before her eyes. The yellowish stone gleamed coldly. Holding a diamond—an experience entirely new to her—left Tamae with conflicted feelings. When she pressed it against her finger, its color looked lonely against her dimpled, stubby digit.

In her heart she thought: I really would've preferred a red ruby.

Is this stone truly so valuable? For all its supposed worth, it lacks charm—though Mr. Manabe often stopped jewelers to appraise diamonds. Maybe I should just sell it back to him...

"Miss Tamae! Something terrible's happened!"

Masaki's face appeared flustered at the window.

"You know—Sumiko-san finally did it!"

"What?"

"What did she do?"

Tamae immediately grabbed the diamond parcel and slid down from the bed.
“Here.”
Masaki stuck out his tongue and let both hands drop limply.
“Well, when was it?
When on earth did it happen?”
Still in her nightclothes, she hurriedly slipped into her sandals and ran with Masaki to their room.
A military doctor and two or three naval landing force soldiers had come.
Tamae entered the room and gazed for a while at the wretched figure.
Gazing at the corpse brought a seething sensation of life—hot and electric—tingling through bare shoulders, arms, and calves.
“Early this morning, they say.”
“At Manday Market, they say she did it.” The other women too were clamoring noisily around Mr. Manabe.
When the military doctor and soldiers left, Sakata directed the servant to wrap Sumiko’s pitifully shrunken corpse in a sheet and place it in the corner of the room.
Her bare feet appeared grotesquely flattened and large.
Sakata tried to cross the deceased’s hands over her chest, but they would no longer move freely.
At the bedside, Sumiko’s yukata was hanging.
“It’s just as it was last night.”
Sumiko’s figure—wearing a starched white blouse and wrapped in a sarasa-patterned sarong, her thin eyes open and tongue lolling out—was unbearable to look at directly.
Suddenly, Tamae and the others were granted a day’s leave.
The women had bento prepared for them and went for a drive to Taxon’s beachside.
The automobile was one borrowed from the Civil Administration Department, and even came with a Malay driver.

If the driver hadn’t smoked that foul coconut tobacco, it would have been a truly pleasant drive.

Tamae felt weighed down.
Until their final parting last night, she had been unable to comprehend the depth of Sumiko’s mortal anguish; now, the shallowness of her own understanding now tormented her.
Even with Sumiko dead, there was no one particularly distraught or weeping.
Strangely enough, only the supposedly profit-driven Mr. Manabe was crying a little, pressing a handkerchief to his eyes.
“The Madam was crying…”
Masaki said as if recalling something inside the automobile.
“It’s just a whim…”
The large-framed, dark-skinned Shizuko—nicknamed “Blackie”—uttered something callous.
They arrived at Pasanggrahan—a government-run inn on a small hill overlooking Taxon’s beachside—around noon.
Even if it was a reddish-brown muddy color, when faced with the expansive sea view, everyone became boisterous and began chatting away freely.
To the eyes of the women who had believed seas were blue things, the red hue of this Taxon sea did nothing but deepen their sense of desolation.

Tamae peeled and ate a boiled egg.
Sumiko’s tragic expression floated up.
Am I a bad woman…? Tamae gazed in dismay at her recent emotions, which seemed to cast everything into the void of oblivion.
In a weathered bungalow-style hall with wooden flooring that looked ready to collapse at any moment, the women opened their bento boxes.
The caretaker, a man of the Dusun tribe, brought lukewarm coffee.
“It’s so quiet—you’d think the war was somewhere else entirely.”

Middle-aged Masaki—who still wore her kimono and looked like the proprietress of a small eatery in Asakusa—was gazing at the sea while taking a smoke break.
“Sumiko-san really wanted to return to the home country.”
“Last night we rode the tambangan together—that was the end of it. She didn’t have to go and die like that.”
“Well now, Ms. Tamae—you’re just a child so you wouldn’t know—do you even understand why the soldier Sumiko liked got sent to Moronpudak?”
“What do they call it—court-martialed? That’s what he got into. We all did it for Sumiko’s sake. She was desperate enough to think about disguising herself as a native and running off with him! If things had gone wrong, that soldier would’ve been executed—see? And now the desperate one’s dead. Sumiko herself said it—‘This journey’s no fun anymore, but if I just imagine I’m still somewhere I can walk back from…’ Plus her chest had been worsening for ages. That’s just how her fate turned out—Sumiko was always bound to end up like this.” Shizuko explained.

A heavy wind laden with impending rain began to pound down.
Far below in the shade of tropical trees, the automobile took shelter from the wind.
Village children running across sandy soil to gawk at the automobile appeared small in the distance.
Struggling against the wind, their scrambling movements resembled shrimp darting through water.