Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One, Chapter One

“Is this real? Is it really okay for us to be like this?” Osan said. That was when they first became intimate. “And if this is real, I could die tomorrow content,” she added. Put into words, it might sound trite and belated, but at that moment Osan trembled pitifully throughout her entire body, her teeth clattering audibly. Even though it was something commonplace in the world, those were sincere, unadulterated words that a person utters for the first and only time in their life. I was an utterly ordinary man. Among craftsmen, they called him a “tokonoma carpenter,” his work being intricate carvings for alcove pillars, transoms, signboards and decorative panels—Santa of Ōmori prided himself on being a fairly well-known name. His conduct offered nothing to boast about—amateur girls, another man’s wife; he had regulars in Shin-Yoshiwara and knew Shinagawa’s quarters; he’d even slept with someone like Kekoro when drunk. His sole redeeming feature, if it could be called one, was having never truly loved anyone. He was twenty-four—a time when his work was becoming interesting—so women and such were of little concern. Osan worked as a middle-duty worker at Ōmori’s accounting office. It seemed to be what the young men of Yoshiwara called her, but it essentially meant “middle-duty worker”—someone who juggled tasks between back rooms and craftsmen, carrying tea and handling meals—but they weren’t particularly close. When I later heard about it, Osan had apparently liked me from the start and made various sincere efforts to convey her feelings. Even when told this, I couldn’t recall anything. I might have thought her somewhat pretty, but I’d had absolutely no inkling of being liked. It was on the evening of October tenth that it happened through some impulsive recklessness.

That night there was a celebration at the master’s house. Twelve years after the master and his wife had married, a son was born, and for the seventh-night celebration they invited relatives, guildmates, local patrons, and master carpenters from Ōmori. Though our master hated extravagance, he must have been overjoyed—even us lower-ranked workers got Yaheiza meals and sake. Among my peers I was a strong drinker, so I kept guzzling until I blacked out drunk. When I came to, Osan lay beside me. When I reached out, her body fell onto me without resistance. Then it happened—as I held her tight, not meaning to go further, a sound came from deep within Osan’s body. Maybe not even a sound—that gulping noise your throat makes drinking water, something between vibration and sound—but through my gripping hands I felt it clear as day. That’s what hooked me. Her body was shockingly supple and soft—this innocent form bending to my will—yet at its core lay something reacting so fiercely; that’s what must’ve hooked me. Then before I could even think it ended, Osan spoke. “Is this real? Is it truly alright for us to become like this?” Trembling head to toe, clinging with all her strength...

Part Two, Chapter One

The paper lantern flickered. Probably because the oil was running low, the paper lantern flickered like a living creature—flaring and dimming—while the sound of oil burning in its dish echoed. Santa was watching the gold coins and small coins arranged on the wrapping paper, but noticing the smell of burning oil, he turned around and reached out to pull the paper lantern closer. When he adjusted the wick and replenished the oil, the paper lantern brightened as if waking from sleep. "Twenty-three ryō." He turned around and looked at the money there. "Twenty-three ryō, three bu, and two shu?"

Footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs. Santa folded one side of the wrapping paper and hid the lined-up coins. The footsteps that had come up approached along the corridor toward him but passed straight by. Santa took the money belt, leather wallet, and drawstring pouch; he placed twenty ryō into the money belt and rolled it up, three ryō and two bu into the wallet, and the remainder into the pouch. Then, after putting away the money belt under the pillow, the wallet inside its carrying case, and the drawstring pouch by his bedside, he sighed and tried to take the iron kettle from the brazier. The iron kettle was cold. He touched the iron kettle, then took the fire tongs and checked the fire. The fire had gone out, leaving only charcoal covered in white ash.

“I want some tea,” he muttered, releasing his grip on the fire tongs. “—Is she coming or not? If she’s going to stand me up, maybe I should get some tea now while I can.” Footsteps returned down the corridor and stopped. “Stay awake,” whispered the woman outside the shoji. “I’ll be there soon—wait for me.”

“I want tea.”

“Oh,” she said, opening the shoji screen and peering in. “It’s right there, isn’t it?” “The water’s gone cold—the fire’s out.” “I’ll bring it,” the woman said with an ingratiating smile. “Don’t fall asleep.” Santa shifted his hands slightly on his knees. The woman closed the shoji and left.

After hesitating briefly, he took out a sheet of folded paper, spread it open, removed one small coin from the drawstring pouch, and wrapped it up. He slipped it under the futon mattress, turned back the quilt, and lay down. After realizing the brazier’s fire had gone out, he noticed how cold the night air had become. Pulling the bedding up to his chin, Santa stared at the ceiling. On the soot-stained ceiling marked by water leaks, the paper lantern’s light softly illuminated a portion of it—from a tatami room a few doors away, laughter could be heard. They were the guests who had arrived in the evening with four or five companions. They were locals—said to be remnants from some gathering—but they were all drunk, taking turns singing in foolish voices. For about an hour now, it had been quiet—just when one thought they had left, occasional laughter would drift over. Santa immediately intuited they were at it. It was likely just friends playing penny-ante games—after all, he himself frequented gambling dens—but when it came to others’ affairs, even something as trivial as a penny game would leave him seized by an uneasy, restless mood, as if a chill wind had slipped down his spine.

Santa closed his eyes. The tatami room across fell silent again, and Osan's figure floated up behind his eyelids. Though he couldn't recall her face no matter how hard he tried, her overall form—the occasional gestures, the sobs and cries, the pleading words—all came back to him with vivid clarity, as if from just yesterday. He startled and opened his eyes. Stealthily sliding open the shoji screen, the woman entered. She wore a brightly colored nightgown with her sash tied at the front and her hair let down.

“It’s freezing!” The woman approached the brazier barefoot, holding a charcoal shovel. “The landlady here’s being strict—I think she’s caught on about last night.” “Don’t push yourself.”

“Was it wrong for me to come?” “I’m telling you not to push yourself.” “I know I’m pushing my luck.” The woman transferred the fire to the brazier, added charcoal, and hung the iron kettle. “I can’t stay in a place like this,” she said. “I’m getting out of here tomorrow, you know.”

“Just as I thought.” “What?” Santa looked at the woman.

“It’s that you’re leaving.” The woman untied her sash, extinguished the paper lantern, came over, and slid in beside Santa. “—Sorry I’m cold. Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask.” “Just so you know, I’m a married man.” “You’re not asking me to be your wife, are you?” the woman said with a knowing laugh. “—Let me stay just a little while. I’ll warm up quick—my body’s plenty warm, you know.”

1-2

"I don't want you to make me your wife," Osan said. It was I who first proposed we become husband and wife—though I only learned later that Osan had a man promised to her by her parents, with whom she had been supposed to hold their wedding ceremony once the new year arrived. Because I hadn't known, I persuaded Osan and—having obtained my master’s permission—started a household.

Kihei’s shop in Ushigome Sakanamachi—though situated deep in an alley—was a standalone house with its rear adjoining the earthen wall of a small temple called Enpōji. I was still young, and for an itinerant craftsman like myself, renting a standalone house seemed extravagant—yet I’d felt instinctively it was necessary, and within twenty days, I knew my intuition had been correct. To be precise, I’d understood this from the very beginning—no, from the first time I held Osan. The body that had captivated me would, when we joined together, intoxicate me with such depth and violence it felt unearthly. "Does everyone become like this? It’s shameful. Why does this happen? Being a woman is horrible," Osan said. "You noticed it yourself—not everyone’s this way. Your body was simply born like this," I told her. "Most don’t feel things so intensely. Bodies like yours are rare—you should be grateful to the parents who made you this way." "I hate it. It’s humiliating—I’ve grown to despise myself," Osan said.

Their married life settled into a semblance of stability, and a sense of ease began to take root in their hearts. Strangely, after she began habitually saying “It’s embarrassing,” it instead grew more intense. Throughout Osan’s body lurked a network of exquisitely fine nerves. The mesh of that net was minutely fine and abnormally sensitive. No matter which part of her body—even the very tip of a finger—was touched with such intent, it would instantly spread throughout her entire being, causing ripples and spasms in the minutely fine nerve network that would manifest strongly in her eye color, breathing, muscle contractions, and the flexing of her limbs and spine. It was something she remained completely unaware of, and once it began, even Osan herself could not stop it.

January came and went, and February arrived. I truly thought it was good that I had rented a standalone house. If the neighboring house had been just a single wall away, we would have struggled with morning and evening greetings. Fortunately, the back faced the temple’s earthen wall, and it was six or seven ken away from the row houses. I managed to avoid being noticed by the neighbors, but Tatsuzo was a sharp guy—and a libertine to boot, so he’d developed an eye for women—and one day at the construction site, he blurted out something crude. It was after lunch. Around them were quite a few craftsmen, and upon hearing what Tatsuzo said, they laughed. It was a laugh that didn’t fully grasp the meaning, but I snapped and punched Tatsuzo. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t anger at the words that had been said—it was jealousy that Tatsuzo had detected the secret of Osan’s body, which only I myself had known. "It was just a joke—if I offended you, I’m sorry,” Tatsuzo immediately apologized. “Don’t go prying into another man’s wife’s business,” I snapped at him, but I couldn’t conceal my shame at having been struck right on the mark. Tatsuzo apologized again, but his eyes were laughing.

2-2

“The water’s boiled,” the woman said. “I’ll make some tea.” Santa stayed silent and let go. “Ugh, this sweat.” Sitting up while adjusting her collar, the woman opened it wider and stroked between her small yet firmly taut breasts. “Look,” she said, “like this.” “You’ll catch cold,” Santa said.

The woman slipped out from under the bedding, tightened her sash, and went toward the brazier. The paper lantern remained extinguished, but with the corridor light right nearby, there was no difficulty in preparing tea. "You’re lying about having a wife," the woman said while moving her hands. “I have a wife,” Santa replied. “Liar. You can tell right away if someone’s single or married—I’ve been watching you properly since yesterday. When you washed your face, ate your meals, drank tea, even when you slept. Married men leave things half-done and try to make others do everything, but you take care of everything yourself so neatly—your routines are smooth. That’s proof you’re used to handling your own affairs,” the woman said. Santa retorted in a sleepy voice while yawning. When someone’s at home versus when they’re traveling—anyone would act differently. The woman brought the tea set over, placed it beside the pillow, and sat atop the bedding to brew tea.

“Why do you keep pretending to have a wife?” the woman said. “—Here’s your tea.”

Santa listlessly lay down on his stomach, received the teacup from the woman’s hand, and slowly sipped the tea.

“Did some woman scorch you that bad?” “Quit sweet-talkin’,” Santa said. “Ain’t like I’m cut out to be popular.” “Back then—I knew this fella called Kin-san—” she started, then shook her head hard. “Dumb—why’m I blabberin’ this? —Listen, got a request.” “Told ya I’m spoken for.” “Not that—want you to take me along to Edo.”

Santa turned around and looked at the woman. "I won't be any trouble," the woman said. "I'll pay my own expenses and plan to part ways once we reach Edo. Please—just let me tag along as your wife for the journey." "We only met yesterday." "Why bring up last night?" The woman flashed a coquettish look. "No matter how long I worked as an inn maid here, I'm not the sort to obey just anyone's orders. Or did I seem that way to you?"

“I didn’t see you as just any woman—I simply thought I’d never regret it.” “I made sure not to let you, didn’t I?” “I’ll have another cup,” Santa said, passing the teacup to the woman. “—Why are you going to Edo?” “I got tired of the countryside.” “Do you have a home to return to?” “I have a friend near Ryōgoku—she works at a restaurant,” the woman said. “If she’s still alive, that is.” “Even if she were alive, women’s circumstances change easily.”

“But they never go hungry.” As she brewed the tea and passed it to Santa, the woman said, “It’s settled then—you’ll take me with you, won’t you?” “We’re getting an early start tomorrow.” “I’ve already got everything ready.” The woman said.

Santa looked at the woman with disenchanted eyes. “—So I must’ve seemed like a real sweet guy to you.” “I thought you looked reliable,” the woman said. “When I came in with tea and sweets and saw your face for the first time, I thought, ‘What a dependable man.’” “That’s a line I’ve heard somewhere before.” “It happens all the time, right? I bet any woman would think the same.” The woman gently leaned against him. “It’s good… Now I can relax.”

Santa placed the teacup on the tray and lay down. The woman adjusted the quilt, slid her body closer, and clung to Santa while uttering a low laugh from her throat.

And then after a moment—Santa watched the woman’s face. She frowned and kept her eyes tightly shut. The strain made wrinkles form on her upper eyelids. The creases between her drawn-together eyebrows ran deep, carving sharp lines where sweat had pooled. The corners of her half-open mouth curved up toward her ears, flickering between sudden tension and release. "Still," Santa thought.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s your name?”

The woman’s intense breathing stopped, and from her eyes—which had been tightly shut with effort—the tension drained away like a sigh. The wrinkles on her upper eyelids smoothed out, the space between her eyebrows widened, and the woman opened her eyes as if dazzled.

“Say something.” “That’s what I just said.” Santa injected a spiteful edge into his voice. “You didn’t hear me?” “Wasn’t that you asking my name?” “You did hear me.” “Ofusa,” she said, writhing. “No—asking my name at a time like this… What’s gotten into you?” Santa said, “That’s a good name.”

Part 1-3

“The first time I brought you tea, the moment I saw your face, I fell in love,” Osan said. She said it was when I had gone out for work, met with my master, returned, and was talking at the shop that she brought the tea. I had no idea at all. It wasn’t that I lacked female companionship—rather, my mind was entirely consumed by work. Even among those of the same age, there were some among friends who would talk of nothing but such matters whenever they had free time, and others who remained utterly indifferent to romantic affairs. As long as there are men and women in this world, it’s only natural that men think of women and women think of men. But humans cannot live on that alone; to live, there is first work, and one cannot live satisfactorily by doing ordinary things. If one wants to live even a marginally decent life, they must create things like work that others cannot imitate, ingenuity that no one notices, and new methods. It’s never an easy thing—even the slightest bit of ingenuity could leave one dripping with greasy sweat, suffering enough to shrivel one’s core, and such struggles were far from rare. That was precisely why the joy of perfecting a single stroke of ingenuity must have been so profound. For a man, the joy experienced in those moments runs deeper and greater than seducing a woman he’s fallen for. Would it be wrong to say that sexual relations with women are like meals? When people get hungry, they want to eat, but once they’ve eaten, they don’t think about the food anymore. I was relatively late to such things, but even so, before becoming Osan’s husband, I had known a considerable number of women. It wasn’t what you’d call romantic love—it was more like eating a meal when you’re hungry. Afterward, I’d make a clean break, and most of them I didn’t even remember by face or name. There was a woman among them I’d been involved with for two years, but I think it was only for the comfort of familiarity we’d developed. Given that, Osan hadn’t even caught my eye, but after becoming husband and wife, that changed to an astonishing degree. Marital intimacy was not something that sated hunger—it was entirely different from such things. It was not merely the union of man and woman, but the mutual binding of husband and wife who would share a lifetime of joys and sorrows.

It was within that bond that they would affirm each other.

When I realized that, the very body of Osan that had so overwhelmed me began pulling Osan away from me. When that intense ecstasy—which even Osan herself couldn’t control—began, she would vanish from there. In a complete state of delirium, only that sensation remained alive. The moans and sobs weren’t Osan’s own, and the fragmented calls and pleas held no meaning whatsoever. It bore no resemblance to any woman I had known. Sexual intimacy should be about mutually recognizing pleasure within each other—wasn’t it the joy of giving and receiving? But Osan wasn’t like that. At first she had been, but as days passed, that ceased to be true. As the pleasure began, both of us would disappear, leaving nothing but that sensation in existence. At the moment when a man becomes most manly and a woman most womanly in their union, that single point of connection alone would awaken like a living creature and begin throbbing, pushing aside all else. This wasn’t ecstasy—rather, each time it felt as though something was being lost. Then eventually, in that delirious state, Osan began calling out men’s names. The first time I heard it, the feeling was excruciating. In what seemed like a faint, she had clearly called out a man’s name—just once. I felt as though an auger had been driven into my chest—there must be another man, I thought. Even now I can’t forget that feeling—other situations might be different, but this happened in the midst of such intimacy. If she’d lost self-control, wouldn’t hidden truths naturally slip out? That’s what anyone would think. I became convinced Osan had taken a lover. There was no need to dwell on lesser emotions. I grabbed Osan’s shoulders and shook her awake, demanding to know who the man was and where he came from.

It always took time for Osan to fully regain consciousness; I was furious, so I dragged her up and slapped her cheek. “I’m sorry, please forgive me,” Osan apologized, still dazed. I slapped her a few more times, and Osan, appearing frightened, finally came to her senses. “What’s wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” Osan asked in return. I seethed with murderous intent. I had even truly wanted to kill her. Osan stared in blank astonishment, her gaze fixed on my face as though questioning whether I had lost my mind. Then she smiled stiffly, relaxed the tension in her tightly drawn shoulders, and said while letting out a deep breath: “Oh, that startled me!” “I thought something was wrong! This isn’t like you at all. Even if I were killed, I’m not the kind of woman who could do such a thing—you know that perfectly well, don’t you?” “No, I didn’t know—when that time comes, I can’t understand anything at all,” Osan said. “I can’t see anything, can’t hear anything either, and don’t even know what’s happening to myself.” “Hmm, I don’t recall that name. Yes, my late father’s name was like that—but would I really call out Father’s name in such a moment?” And Osan shrugged her shoulders while letting out a throaty laugh. There was no sense that she was hiding anything or trying to deceive. “I’m so happy—that you’d get jealous over me. Nothing could make me happier.” Osan said this and clung to me.

二の三

He left the inn while it was still dark. Though it had just entered September, the proximity of the mountains kept the temperature low, and a thick fog had rolled in, obscuring even the peaks that should have been right before them. Though the flow of the Hayakawa River lay directly before them, the white-crashing waves were only dimly visible, and the roar of the rapids—muffled by fog—made it impossible to discern whether they echoed from near or far. Passing by merchants climbing with loads of fish and vegetables on their backs, Santa came to Sanmaibashi Bridge and stopped. The woman named Ofusa had said she would wait for him there.

Santa didn’t ask about any of the circumstances. That they would travel together to Edo, and that they would part immediately upon arriving there. That was the extent of their agreement. The woman named Ofusa had a reliable quality about her and seemed accustomed to worldly matters. Of course she would handle travel procedures, and it seemed there was no worry she would do anything that would burden him. As for Santa himself, he harbored not the slightest sentiment beyond that of a traveling companion.

With a balanced load and a bundle of work tools on his shoulder, Santa stopped at the base of the bridge when a voice called out “Uncle” from behind. When he looked, there stood a child of about nine, hands tucked into his sleeves, half poised to flee yet offering an ingratiating smile.

“Hey,” Santa said. “What’s up, kid? Still here?” “Uncle, you stayed at Noriya, right?”

“Weren’t you supposed to go to Fujisawa?” The child cast a probing gaze and answered in a low voice, “I’m starving.” “Are you still hungry?”

The child nodded and glanced around with sharp eyes.

“There’s nothing we can do here—let’s go together,” Santa said. “If there’s a teahouse somewhere, we’ll get something to eat.”

The child nodded distractedly. He wants money, Santa thought. He had met that child in Numazu. As Santa walked along the road, the boy had come up from behind and called out, "Uncle, I'm starving."

His clothes were tattered rags that barely reached his waist; his face and limbs were deeply sunburned to a pitch black, caked with grime; his hair stood wildly disheveled; of course he was barefoot, with a rope tied around his waist as a belt. He had given him coins then, but at the Hakone inn, he was called to stop again. When he said he was hungry again, Santa thought to have him eat some steamed buns at a teahouse, but he answered that he had to hurry to Fujisawa and didn’t try to enter the teahouse. There too, Santa had secretly given him some coins, but three days having passed, now at the outskirts of this Yunomoto Inn, he was called out to in the same way: “I’m starving.” Moreover, if he knew Santa had stayed at Noriya, he might have followed him here. If he puts on a pitiful act and gets coins from me right away—did he take me for an easy mark? Santa surmised that there was probably a parent keeping watch behind him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ofusa said as she trotted over. “My apologies for making you wait—I had to go back for something I forgot.” “Find what you needed?” “It’s been ages since I walked properly—ah, how refreshing,” Ofusa remarked, glancing toward the child. “Oh—you’re still lurking around here?” The child shuffled backward. “You know that boy?” “Don’t trail after us. Scram.” Ofusa began walking as she addressed him, “For three years now he’s been skulking along this highway begging from travelers. At first I thought him some beggar’s brat, but that doesn’t seem right. Whether he’s got no home or ran off himself, who can say? Seems he just enjoys drifting about like this.”

“He’s still about eight or nine years old, I suppose.”

“Since he was about that age three years ago, he must be eleven or twelve by now. Even if someone tries to hire him as a babysitter or errand runner, he never sticks around. What a burden it must be to be born with such a temperament.”

Santa looked back as he walked, but the child’s figure remained hidden by the fog. Ofusa wore hand guards and leg gaiters, her kimono hem tucked up with a dust cloak draped over it all. Her luggage amounted to just one small furoshiki bundle, her head wrapped in a hand towel like an older sister might—the very picture of someone seasoned to travel light. “How’ll they handle the guest register?” Santa asked. “Pose as siblings?” “The fog’s lifting,” Ofusa said, tilting her face up to his. “It’ll be fine weather today—isn’t it settled already? I’m your wife.”

“What about the travel passes?” “I’ve taken care of my part, so it’s fine. I told you I wouldn’t cause any trouble.” He started to say something like a word of thanks but closed his mouth. He had only known this woman for three days now, yet somehow his tongue kept loosening against his will. At Ōmori’s accounting office in Edo, he had maintained a reputation for brusque taciturnity; even after spending two and a half years in Osaka, people spoke of him in the same terms there too—he’d never managed to form anything resembling friendship with anyone. Yet that first night at Noriya Inn, he’d naturally ended up intimate with Ofusa, and now found himself spouting careless remarks to the point of self-disgust.

“Hey, tell me the truth,” Ofusa said. “You’re single, aren’t you?” “Quit nagging. If you want to meet her so bad, I’ll take you to my wife.” “Do you think I’m trying to force myself on you as your wife?”

“Move aside—a horse is coming,” Santa said.

Part 1-4

When I said I had come because there was work in Kamigata, Osan answered, "Please go ahead." When I asked, "Will you wait?" she nodded and said, "Yes, I will wait." The excuse about work in Kamigata seemed to make her intuit that we might separate as husband and wife like this. "When will you leave?" she asked. "They need it done quickly on their end—I plan to depart on the twenty-fifth," I replied. "So only three days left then," she said while averting her eyes. She showed no change in her demeanor whatsoever. Because she remained utterly unchanged, I grew unsettled instead, my heart aching. On the night before my scheduled departure, Osan finally broke down and pleaded through tears. "You mean to leave me—there's no use hiding it! I know—you're planning to leave me!" she cried. I could only stay silent. "Why? What's wrong with me? Tell me—what don't you like? Surely it's not about that morning glory?" she pressed, staring at me with tear-filled eyes.

Morning glory—or what they call the rain-bringing morning glory—that trifling flower. When she mentioned it, I remembered—it must have been near summer’s end when I found that flower atop the tea cabinet. Resembling a morning glory yet smaller, a pale pink bloom of no consequence stood arranged in an old face-powder jar. Since childhood I’d heard that plucking those flowers made rain fall. Superstition without doubt, yet common knowledge among us—craftsmen being ever mindful of ill omens. “Rain’s ruinous for our work,” I’d told her. “Stop this.” But Osan wouldn’t quit—time and again I’d glimpse those flowers placed anew. Scold her, and she’d hide them where my eyes wouldn’t catch—behind sliding doors or beneath shelves. “What’s your game here?” I finally confronted her.

“I’m sorry,” Osan said. “I just can’t bear how pitiful this flower is.” “Other flowers are cherished, but this one catches no one’s eye. If it blooms on the ground, people carelessly trample it. Because that’s so pitiful, I end up wanting to pick it and arrange it.” I never scolded her about it again. Osan seemed to think that might have been the reason. I mumbled evasively. I neither confirmed nor denied it. I wish I could have told her the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. During those nights, every time I was with Osan—how could I possibly explain this reality where the two of us would be thrust aside from that place, where I would always feel something within myself being lost? When Osan fell into those fainting spells again and again, I had no words to express how wretched it felt to interrogate her each time about the names that slipped from her lips—and yet how I still couldn’t bring myself to let them pass unremarked—knowing the futility (for when I asked her about it afterward, the names were usually those of childhood friends or her father’s acquaintances or the intimidating superintendent from the tenement where she lived as a girl—and it had already become clear that there were no men she had hidden from me). “I’ll come back once the work’s done,” I repeated. “I’ll definitely wait for you, you know,” Osan said, and immediately began crying again. “If you leave me, I’ll fall apart right away—I’ll be completely ruined,” Osan said. Let’s try being apart for a year or two, I said to Osan in my heart. In that time, circumstances might change—maybe Osan’s habits would improve, or perhaps I myself would grow more mature and become able to adapt to her ways. I did not voice it aloud but said it in my heart. Because I had sincerely believed that. I entrusted Osan to the landlord Kihei, deposited some money for emergencies, and departed Edo. Then, before even fifty days had passed, through a letter from Kihei, I learned that Osan was taking in a man. The man was Tatsuzo.

Part 2-4

“Is the sea rough?” Ofusa said. “That’s the sound of waves, isn’t it?” “There’s no sake left, is there?” “You just said so yourself—let me have a sip too.” “What’s this? You shook your head when I offered it before.” Santa shook the sake flask, then handed it to Ofusa. “Do it yourself,” he said. “Oh, how cold of you.” “I’m no good at pouring.” “I want to drink from that sake cup.” “It’s right there.”

“I want to drink from that sake cup,” said Ofusa, then hastily raised a finger. “Ah, don’t worry—you have a wife. I know.”

Santa gave her his own cup. Even though the sea didn’t seem close at all, the sound of the waves carried quite loudly. Soon, an unamiable-looking maid of about thirty-four or thirty-five appeared with sweet simmered dishes and sake.

Unlike Hakone, the inn at Ōiso was warmer; a single yukata sufficed against skin still flushed from the bath. After waiting for the inn maid to leave, Ofusa fetched a new cup for Santa and poured the sake. “Then what happened?” “About six months or so,” Ofusa answered. “I ended up breaking up with that man too.” “You’re fickle.” “I can’t say you’re wrong,” she said. “I was serious every time—truly meant to share a lifetime of hardship with them—but every man becomes predictable so quickly. It’s boring… unbearably boring… I just can’t take it anymore.”

“Not a shred of longing left?” “There wasn’t a single one like that.” Ofusa quietly sipped her sake. “—Rather than being fickle… I think I was born with a man-like disposition. I often reflect on this myself—it seems I lack that feminine tenderness. I don’t care for women’s work either, and I just can’t bring myself to devote myself to a man or fuss over him in detail.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.” “Why?” said Ofusa, pressing one hand to her cheek as she looked at Santa, the area around her eyes suddenly flushing crimson. “No—you’re different. This is my first time. Stop it.” “What’re you...?”

“You’re so affected!” Ofusa sipped her sake, the redness around her eyes intensifying. “Instead of that, tell me about yourself. Your wife—she’s such a beauty. How many children do you have?” “There’s nothing to talk about—we don’t have children, and as for my wife…”

“What’s she like?” Ofusa said with a teasing look. “Are you saying she isn’t pretty?” “They say you shouldn’t talk about temples in a house where someone’s ill.” “What temple talk?” “It’s nothing. Let’s eat.” “Did I upset you? If I crossed a line, I’m sorry—forgive me.” Ofusa dipped her head slightly. “I must be going mad—I despise being pushy myself, yet here I am spouting nothing but pushy nonsense. I can’t understand what’s come over me.”

“Must be the sake talking. Shall we eat?” Ofusa planted her right hand on the tatami. Only her right hand—the one that had been resting on her lap—slid forward to press against the matting as she bowed her head into silence. Perhaps overcome abruptly by intoxication—just as Santa moved to speak—Ofusa sprang up, slid open the corridor door to shut it behind her, and vanished with quick pattering steps that faded down the hallway.

――Santa stared blankly at the vacant meal tray across from him with eyes that seemed drained of spirit. The paper lantern’s light flickered, and the shadows of the dishes on the meal tray shifted. The sound of the waves grew markedly louder, resounding as if trembling the hushed air of the now solitary tatami room. “There are women and there are men.” Santa slowly sipped the sake he had poured himself and muttered, “—What a sad thing.”

He thought of his parents.

His father Yaheibei had been a master carpenter—stingy by nature yet kind-hearted, always ending up on the losing side. Every time he undertook construction contracts, he either suffered losses or, whenever he thought he had made a profit, would be cleverly deceived into lending money, only for the other party to flee. He hardly drank alcohol and never engaged in womanizing. When Santa was five and then eight years old, his father had twice run off with a geisha from Fukagawa. The exact circumstances were unclear, but judging from his mother’s complaints, it seemed he had been deceived by the courtesans both times. In both cases, despite spending a considerable amount of money, his father had returned home in around thirty days. The showy episodes were limited to those two occasions; thereafter, he lived a miserly lifestyle utterly divorced from the station of a master carpenter—hardly drinking socially, even scowling at buying a single pair of geta sandals. While his mother would complain in private, she had never once opposed her husband or spoken to him in a presumptuous manner. She enjoyed preparing side dishes for meals and could make astonishingly delicious things without spending money. Her kind nature resembled her husband’s; when asked for something, she could never refuse. Even without being asked, when she saw someone in trouble, she would bring them money or goods. Santa well remembered his father’s sullen face when he noticed that.

——By what twist of fate had the two of them become husband and wife? Had they been satisfied with each other? Santa carefully thought back. His mother had died when he was seventeen, and his father had passed away two years later. There had been instances of Father’s elopements, but their daily life remained stable and unchanging. Santa still remembered this clearly: in the year before her death, Mother had been speaking with the wife of a plasterer who frequented their home—he believed the plasterer’s wife had been lamenting how her husband’s constant indulgences were causing her distress. In response, Mother had said—‘If a man’s just rigid like mine, there’s no spark. Even I’d like to feel jealous once in a while too.’ While she may have intended to console the plasterer’s wife, Santa, now sixteen, was utterly shocked to recognize the genuine feelings underlying his mother’s words.

“They might have been just the right match as husband and wife.” Santa muttered,“Most couples in the world are probably alike,living out similar lives.Cases like Osan and I must be extremely rare.”

Ofusa returned. Holding two warmed sake flasks, she sat back down in her original seat, saying, “I got these.” Santa said, avoiding looking at the woman’s face, “I’ve had enough.” “Don’t say that—cheer up and have a drink,” Ofusa said. “I’m not angry at all—you’re a strange one,” Santa said with a wry smile. “Fine, let’s have just one more bottle. I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Thank you,” Ofusa smiled. “I’ll light it now, okay?”

1-5

After receiving notice from the landlord, nearly half a year had passed when a letter arrived from Osan. Osan couldn't write—she must have asked someone else. Written in a woman's hand using only kana characters, the letter contained many passages that remained incomprehensible even when attempting to decipher them. This likely stemmed from Osan herself struggling to articulate her feelings. To summarize its over-three-foot length: "I tried consorting with various men to forget you—yet no matter what I did, I couldn't forget you and it tormented me. I've become someone who can never meet you again. Still, I have no regrets—had I been your wife for just three days, I would have died content." It concluded with: "Should you return to Edo, please don't search for me." I tore up that letter and threw it away. Don't feed me that line about trying to forget me—your body wouldn't allow it, would it? You had to find yourself a man because you couldn't last a single night without that business—I see right through you—or so I told myself. This settled everything—no need to search even if I return to Edo—so rest assured.

And before long, a second letter arrived from the landlord Kihei. The letter stated that because Osan kept bringing men into the house one after another, causing the wives in the tenement to complain, the house had been vacated, and that the remaining rent was being held. The men weren’t just Tatsuzo. Osan’s letter hadn’t provided a clear account, but it gave the impression that there had been more than just two or three men. "This guy can’t go back to Ushigome," I thought. I couldn’t face the tenement residents, let alone the landlord. To hell with it—I’ll live in Kamigata for now, I steeled my resolve. I hated Osan. I was wrong to make a move, but if Osan had refused, none of this would have happened. Later, I heard that Osan had someone she was formally engaged to, and I wasn’t particularly serious about it either. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing after getting dead drunk. When I woke up and she was beside me, I casually reached out. I didn’t have the slightest intention of courting her. There’s no way she couldn’t have understood—knowing full well, Osan yielded herself. She said she’d liked me all along. She even said that with this, she could die anytime and be content. If that feeling wasn’t a lie, there wouldn’t be any reason she couldn’t wait a year or two. It was after that that I started frequenting gambling dens. Until then, I had never even touched hanafuda cards or dice, both because I hated my old man and because I knew several people who had ruined themselves through gambling.

I never forgot that. When work was done and wages came in, I would divide them into three parts: one for living expenses, one for miscellaneous costs, and gamble only what remained. If I lost, that was it—I absolutely wouldn’t touch the other two portions, and even when on a winning streak, I’d stop once it doubled. No matter what gambling den I entered, I stuck to that rule. Whether it was the influence of my deceased parents’ temperament, I never harbored greater greed than that, nor did I ever suffer losses. Surprisingly, my work was also going well. Tokonoma work originated in Kamigata—where there’s no shortage of skilled craftsmen—but perhaps because they only stuck to conventional methods, my Edo-style finishes gained considerable acclaim. As rumored, the women were lovely, the sake excellent, and the food delicious. I had even considered putting down roots in Kamigata as things were, but around the second year, I grew restless. The fish and vegetables were indeed delicious, and the cooking methods were refined yet understated. But I found myself longing more for sardines and salt-grilled Pacific saury than sea bream sashimi. Even sake—the light, crisp varieties from Edo suited my palate better. And as for the women who’d seemed gentle at first, once I grew accustomed to them, they felt clingy—no match for the smooth texture of Edo women’s skin. On top of that, negotiating work terms was such a hassle. Even a single decorative panel would be haggled down to the last penny. While paying the bill was straightforward enough, the endless back-and-forth until finalizing an order left me utterly drained. Since this happened every time negotiations came around, I gradually began to feel repelled.

At that moment, a letter arrived from Sōshichi. Sōshichi was my junior; he was twenty-one and still living at Ōmori. The letter carried news of Ōmori’s downfall. At year’s end, the shop had burned down in a fire, and everyone fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The landlady and child had nearly died, but the master seemed to have been profoundly frightened by the incident. It was said he declared he would never expose their hard-won child to such peril again, and withdrew to his hometown in Hachiōji.

"I am staying at Ōhira in Asakusa Komagata," it stated toward the end, followed by details about Osan. When there was a construction site in Kyōbashi 2-chōme and I was commuting there for work, I spotted Osan; following her, I saw her enter a back tenement in Sumiyagashi. When I inquired discreetly in the neighborhood, I learned she was with a man named Sakuji. The man had a wife and children in nearby Ōgimachi and was said to be a chef at some restaurant, though his life didn't appear easy. This may be unnecessary to mention, but I believe you're aware of what happened with Tatsuzo. She apparently parted with Tatsuzo quickly and then took several men in succession afterward. I don't know what happened after she left the house in Sakanamachi, but this man Sakuji probably won't last long either. It was written that Santa had parted ways at a fortunate time—or so the letter stated. My feelings began to waver. I felt no lingering attachment, but Osan began to seem pitiable to me. The reason I had come to Kamigata was akin to escaping misfortune, and in exchange, I began to feel as though Osan had shouldered that misfortune alone. My longing for Edo and my desire to do something for Osan ultimately ended up making me return like this.

They say that people from Kanto don’t get along with the water in Kamigata—and that’s certainly true.

I probably won't return to Kamigata—I don't know what circumstances Osan's in now, but if possible I could take her in and try again. Not out of pity or sympathy—but like reaching out to someone wounded and ill. Can I do it? Can I really do it? Can I really take back a woman who's been passed from man to man and make her my wife again? Because we're far apart now, pity comes first. What if I actually saw her face and remembered she's a woman touched by so many men? The fact that Osan was held by so many men would haunt us our whole lives. Even so—could we live on as husband and wife? Don't rush. Don't let temporary pity defeat you. Even if I reconcile with her meaning well—if I eventually can't bear it and we separate again—this time there'd be no undoing it. Alright—calm down. Don't get rattled. I'm twenty-six now. I might sound full of myself saying this—but I think I'm somewhat different from two years ago. Osan—this reckoning's between you and me to settle—got it? I'll definitely find you—just wait and see.

2-5

“It’s getting light outside,” Ofusa said as she entered. “Were you sleeping?”

Santa turned around on his pillow. Ofusa rolled up the quilt, slid her body next to him, and nuzzled her cheek against his before pulling her face away.

“I saw the morning glory bloom.” Ofusa pulled Santa’s hand beneath the futon. “There was something tangled by the sleeve fence near the washbasin—I thought it moved, so I glanced over, and there it was—the morning glory bud was just about to bloom.” “Does a morning glory bloom in September?” “A small one, about this big.” Ofusa extended one hand, indicating the size with her thumb and forefinger. “It was as if it were alive—no, it *was* alive.” Ofusa giggled. “It goes *twirl-twirl*—unfurling like this—the coiled bud spins open, then a split forms at the tip, like a frayed kimono hem. Just when you think it’s split, *snap-snap* it unravels and—*poof!*—blooms! What’s so funny?”

“First *twirl-twirl*, then *snap-snap*, and finally *poof*—ah, never mind.” “It was so sad,” Ofusa sighed. “A September morning glory—out of season, so no one will see it. The flowers are small, and they might not even bear fruit. Yet even as a bud, it still has to bloom. When I thought that, I felt so unbearably sorry for it.”

Santa remained silent for two breaths. "Humans are far more—" he started to say before turning over to face away from Ofusa. "Hey..." After a while came Ofusa's voice: "Turn this way." "Let's get some sleep."

Ofusa clung to his back and pressed her entire body against him. “But today’s when we part ways.” “We made a promise at that inn in Kanagawa—I have a wife in Edo, and tonight’s the last night.” “In a land where your wife awaits, you can’t have affairs—yes, that’s the promise we made,” Ofusa whispered. “If your wife is truly waiting for you there, that is.”

Santa remained still. “You don’t dislike me, right?” “What did you just say?” “You don’t dislike me, right?” “Before that,” Santa cut in—“do you know something?” “Who, me—” Ofusa lifted her face from his shoulder. “What do you mean by ‘know’?” “It’s about my wife. You said something strange—‘if she’s really waiting’ or whatever.”

“What’s so strange about that, you mean thing?” Ofusa chuckled knowingly, “What’s wrong with asking whether she’s really waiting? I like you, you know.”

“Don’t go on.” Santa cut her off again sharply. “I told you from the start I’m a married man—that we’d travel together only as far as Edo, and once we arrived, we’d part immediately. I said it myself, clear as day.” “I’m the type who remembers well.”

“This is Shiba Tsukimachi.” “This inn is Iidaya—you remember well, don’t you?” Ofusa said. “You’re the one who should remember! Didn’t I say today’s when we part ways?”

Santa remained silent. “To tell the truth, I’ve always hated men.” Ofusa gently pulled away from Santa’s body as she said, “All those stories about setting up households with men were lies—after being married off at sixteen, I ran away within six months. You’re the first man I’ve ever been with.”

Santa said nothing. “Rather than me having to say it out loud, I thought you’d have sensed it yourself,” Ofusa continued. “You’ve known so many women—that’s why I figured no matter what stories I spun, you’d see through the lies by my body.” Santa paused before asking, “Why bring this up now?”

“I wanted you to hear the truth—since we’re parting for good, I wanted you to know the real me.” “Was the part about having no siblings a lie too?” “I have an older brother. He’s a farmer in a place called Chōfu.” “So you’re going back there.” “I ran away from the house I was married into. Did you think I could just meekly return to that place? No way—I’d rather die than do such a thing!”

Santa fell silent.

The inn staff must have woken up; the sound of the front opening echoed, and voices began to be heard near what seemed to be the kitchen. “Do you remember when we stayed in Oiso?” Ofusa whispered. “When I said it was my first time... you got angry. I felt so sad I went out to the hallway to cry—how embarrassing. I’m such a fool. I swore I’d never mention this, but here I am... Oh, this is mortifying.” Then, pressing her face into Santa’s back, she said, “Please pretend you didn’t hear any of this. Forget what I just said—please.”

“ ‘Remember this,’ ‘Forget that’—you keep saying such complicated things,” Santa said softly. “It’s your fault.” Because she spoke from under the bedding, Ofusa’s voice sounded muffled, “I never did things like this before meeting you—truly, I’d never shown anyone such slovenly parts of myself.” “Make sure to find yourself a good partner soon.” Without turning around, Santa said, “You’ll make a good wife.”

“You’re hopeless, aren’t you?”

“I’ll say it again.” “You’re a married man,” Ofusa said. “—I may look like this, but there’s steel in my core.” “Take care of yourself,” Santa said. “I’m going to catch another wink of sleep.”

2-6

When he came out from the tenement called Kosuke Store at Sumiya Riverbank, a child came running up and called out, “Uncle!” When he turned around, the child grinned slyly and, adopting a fleeing stance, said, “I’m starvin’.”

“Hey, what’s up?” Santa said. “You were here?”

It was the child he had met at Sannoh Bridge after descending from Tōnosawa. He wore the same tattered clothes as before, barefoot with a rope belt—less a beggar than a bear cub that had strayed from the mountains.

“That woman’s not with you, huh?” “You said you were starvin’.”

The child shook his head. “Not really.” “You said the same thing back in Hakone.”

“It’s not like I do this for just anyone,” the child said, looking up at Santa. “Uncle, looks like the person you were looking for wasn’t there.” “There was no one—you knew I came here looking for someone?” “I heard you asking about it. Are you heading back to Daikokuchō again?” “You’re quite the troublemaker. Have you been tailing me since Daikokuchō?” “The whole time from Numazu. Didn’t you notice, Uncle?”

Santa stared at the child’s face. “Even in Oiso? Fujisawa too?”

“You stayed at Kashiwaya in Kanagawa, right?” “I’m surprised. Why didn’t you call out to me?”

There had been a woman present. “Do you hate women?” Santa asked. “I hate ’em,” the child said. “Women all nag and scold, plus they treat you like a kid. That’s why I steer clear of women.”

Sakuji vacated the tenement. It was said that this past March when Osan took up with another man, Sakuji turned to heavy drinking and Osan vanished. Sakuji searched for Osan like a madman, but whether he found her or not, he too ended up fleeing the tenement. He seemed to be working as a porter at Nihonbashi’s fish market; people often saw him collapsed drunk around there. The tenement residents had told him this—he first went to Daikokuchō, but Sakuji’s wife said nothing. Her place was also a single-room tenement with no furnishings worth mentioning; in that desolate dimness, Sakuji’s wife sat making sandal thongs. She must have once had delicate features—her eyes, nose, and facial structure were well-proportioned—but now she was pitifully emaciated, her neck and hands as thin as dried firewood. “He’s at Kosuke Store in Sumiya Riverbank”—that was all she said before refusing to answer anything else. There were two girls around seven and five years old, plus a toddling boy. They were likely siblings playing with bamboo scraps about three inches long, their movements furtive as if hiding from someone, their whispers barely audible. Neither the wife nor her three children ever looked Santa’s way until he left.

“East—well, Mito’s east, right?” the child said as they walked. “But from Edo, maybe it’s north? Uncle, is it east or north?”

“What?” Santa turned around as if coming to his senses. “Yeah, Mito… That’s right—Tohoku, maybe.” “That way I only got as far as Mito—out west I made it to this place called Suma—but this time I’m thinking of trying to reach Sendai.” “Where are your parents?” “Didn’t I just tell ya? Weren’t you listenin’?” The child clicked his tongue. “Must’ve all died in the Ox Year flood. I was seven—got put in the town’s custody, but it sucked, so me ’n’ Kippei ran off together.”

“Have you been living like that ever since?” “It’s pretty fun,” the child continued. “If I wanna sleep, I can crash wherever I like. If I wanna go somewhere, I can head anywhere I please. No worries ’bout gettin’ nagged at or bein’ sent on errands neither.” “You’re always hungry, aren’t you?” “That’s just a scam. When I pick someone who looks good for it, I pull that act. My belly ain’t empty—only do it when I want cash.” The child heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Kippei ain’t got no grit. Three years in, he got all worn out—started whinin’ ’bout missin’ tatami mats ’n’ futons. Ditched me in Suruga no Fuchū or whatever that place’s called. Hmph—bet he’s collectin’ barrels or babysittin’ somewhere now. Me? I’m better off alone—less hassle.”

“Aren’t you worried about getting caught by the officials doing that?”

“Even though I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong?” The child shrugged his small shoulders and snorted. “Most officials already know me by sight. At Hakone Checkpoint, they’re the ones who greet me first.” “Quite the impressive influence you’ve got there.” “I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m like a daimyo.” The child stuck out his tongue but suddenly stopped. “Uncle, are you going back to Iidaya?”

“I’ve got luggage stored there.” “There’s a woman waiting for you, right?” “No, there isn’t. I parted ways with her this morning when we set out together.” “Really?” “It’s true.” “You’ll end up together again, right?” “Why?” Santa asked. “Just got that feelin’. That woman clings on and won’t let go,” the child said.

“Does that bother you?” “Didn’t I tell you I hate women?” “So what?”

The child walked in silence for a while. Then, in a tone suggesting careful deliberation, he said bashfully.

"Me too, y'know... if it came down to it..."

But Santa was no longer listening. If Osan had left Sakuji’s place, he thought, there would be no leads to find her. But that was not the case—it was said Sakuji had gone mad searching for the two of them. Then he stopped working and drowned himself in drink, eventually ceasing to return even to the tenement—it was said he was doing something like porter work at the fish market. Perhaps Sakuji knew Osan’s whereabouts. That’s right—it made more sense to assume he had tracked them down. He had located their whereabouts, but there had been no hope of bringing Osan back. Because of that, he had completely gone to the bad. It was probably something like that—in any case, he should try confronting Sakuji, Santa thought.

“What’s your name, anyway?” “You mean mine?” The child shook his head with an exasperated look. “You ain’t been listenin’ to nothin’, have ya? Just told ya a second ago! I’m Isan—Isaburō, I said!” “My bad. Oh right—it was Isan, was it?” “Didn’t ya forget the other part too?”

“What are you talking about?” “That’s it—I knew something felt off with all that coddling talk. You thought I was just a kid and looked down on me, didn’t you?”

“Don’t get angry—I was thinkin’,” said Santa, stopping. “How ’bout you do somethin’ for me?” “You’re all wrapped up in yourself, huh?” “I’ll hear you out too. Go on—say it again.”

“My turn’s later,” Isaburo waved one hand with a cocky little gesture. “Since I’m lettin’ you go first, just tell me what you need.”

Two-Seven

Past ten o’clock that night—Santa was drinking at an izakaya called “Kichibee” on the outskirts of the fish market. The previous year, strict time restrictions had been imposed on eateries by edict, and while there were undoubtedly backdoor dealings, this fish market seemed to operate under entirely different rules—doors left open, eaves lanterns still hung, customers laughing, singing, and making merry in unrestrained voices. “What’s the plan?” Isaburo, sitting beside him, whispered. “What’re you waiting for?”

Santa gently restrained Isaburo’s arm with his left hand. Isaburo fell silent.

Sakuji still appeared sober. Isaburo had spent half a day asking around and uncovered that he appeared at this “Kichibee” every night without fail, drinking himself into a stupor. Santa had come here around eight o’clock and ordered sake, while Isaburo ate his meal and then dashed out. It seemed he was keeping watch for Sakuji’s arrival, and he appeared to feel both great responsibility and pride in the task he’d been entrusted with. Santa was not much of a drinker, but in this lively, spacious izakaya, his cautious sipping did not stand out so conspicuously. Just as he finally brought the second bottle to his lips, Isaburo returned and reported that Sakuji had appeared.

“I’ll wait outside,” Isaburo said. “Places like this ain’t good for me—everyone’s starin’, y’know? That’s fine, right?” Santa nodded, and Isaburo left. Sakuji sat alone at the end of the low dining tables lined against the wall, two small appetizer dishes placed before him, drinking with deliberate motions. He was thirty-six or thirty-seven, his face—gray and drained of vitality—with sunken eyes and cheeks. He wore a worn-out happi coat with a crest, workman’s leggings, and straw sandals with loosened cords on his bare feet. ――There were no women in this shop. Six boys ranging from twelve or thirteen to fourteen or fifteen were taking orders in robust voices and nimbly carrying sake and side dishes. Sakuji did not seem to be a favored customer; observing him, the boys would not approach unless called multiple times, and even when taking orders, they seemed to put him off until last.

Seeing Sakuji shake the warming sake decanter upside down and drain the last drops, Santa stood up. When he called a nearby boy and said he wanted to move tables, the boy shook his head. He answered that per store policy, they refused drink exchanges between unacquainted customers. "No—that man's an acquaintance. We're having a drink after ages—please. This is for your trouble," he said, pressing coins into the boy's hand. Then he ordered more sake and dishes, went to Sakuji's side, and called out to him.

“That’s right,” answered Sakuji, raising his eyes. “Name’s Sakuji. What d’you want?” “There’s something I want to ask,” Santa said calmly. “Let’s talk over drinks. “Mind if I sit here?” Sakuji jerked his chin. Santa sat down, and the boy brought his sake and side dishes. Sakuji stared blankly ahead with an expressionless face, but when the new sake arrived and Santa poured it for him, he drank four or five cups in rapid succession like a starving man. Then, as if only now registering the sake he had just drunk, he looked at Santa’s face and spoke.

“I’m flat broke, y’know?” “It’s nothing serious,” Santa said while pouring him a drink. “If it ain’t too low for ya, help yourself—I’ve got a little set aside.”

“This place stays open till dawn.” “Yeah, that’s right. I ain’t much of a drinker, but I’ll keep up with you long as you want.” “Your pourin’s sloppy,” said Sakuji. “Leave the tokkuri here—I’ll handle it myself.” “Then let’s each do our own.”

Perhaps the tip had worked its magic—the boy brought two dishes each and four bottles of sake. The instant he saw this, Sakuji’s eyes took on a vivid gleam, and even his sunken cheeks seemed to flush with color. “Is this okay, Boss?” Sakuji said. “This here’s some high-grade liquor, I tell ya.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it—just drink as much as you want,” Santa replied. “It’s been ages since I’ve done this—no, I don’t need any side dishes. The only thing worth eating here’s the salted guts. This place’s bonito salted guts are something special, but they don’t go with this liquor. The pickles alone are plenty.” Sakuji continued drinking only the sake with evident relish, not even touching the pickles as he spoke of such things—he seemed to have forgotten that Santa had broached the matter of having something to ask. Until they emptied four two-gō sake decanters, Sakuji rambled nonstop about things Santa couldn’t comprehend, providing his own responses alone. And when he brought the fifth bottle to his lips, as if remembering for the first time, he pointed at Santa with the hand holding his cup.

“You said earlier you had somethin’ to ask, didn’t ya?” “It’s nothing serious—about Osan,” Santa said, then urged him to drink as if negating his own words. “C’mon, let’s have another. Let me pour for you just this once.”

“Where’d I meet you again, Boss... Yanagibashi?” “Quit callin’ me ‘Boss’,” Santa said. “Age-wise, you’re the older one here. How ’bout I call you Brother Saku?” “Don’t go on about age.” Sakuji propped his cheek on his left hand, face twisting. “Osan, huh?” he murmured, eyes chasing some distant shadow.

“There ain’t another woman like her in this world. She was adorable—from the crown of her head down to her toenails, every inch of her brimmed with charm. I’m tellin’ ya, you won’t find another dame like that anywhere. Meet a woman like Osan just once in your life, and you can kick the bucket without regrets—swear on my soul.”

Santa recognized that memories of Osan were reviving through every sense of Sakuji's being. Perhaps made emotionally fragile by nearly two quarts of sake, tears suddenly spilled from Sakuji's sunken eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He began recounting his first meeting with Osan. On a snowy day halfway up Kudanzaka slope, Osan had found herself stranded when the thong of her geta sandal snapped. Sakuji tore his own hand towel to fashion a replacement thong, then shared a meal with her at a bird shop in Awajichō. Though barely an hour had passed by the time they left the shop, the two were already burning with infatuation for each other.

“Make me yours,” Osan said on that first night. With the hand that had been propping his cheek, Sakuji tightly grabbed his chin. “‘Take all of me—body and soul—and never let me go,’ she begged, clinging to me so tightly I could hear my bones creak.”

Sakuji closed his eyes. Santa remained silent. Sakuji sank completely into his reminiscences, appearing utterly unaware that Santa was listening. The surrounding customers kept changing. Only two or three groups sat drinking steadily; the others downed their drinks quickly and left immediately. Voices echoed with phrases like “Let’s head inside” or “Time to cross the river.” The coming-and-going patrons mostly followed this pattern—drinking as prelude to nighttime revelries.

“I abandoned my wife and child, and Osan left the man she’d been living with till then,” Sakuji continued. “No denyin’ I was serious ’bout her, and Osan seemed to truly care for me—but when it came to that moment—right at the critical point—Osan’d start callin’ out some man’s name in a frenzy. A name I didn’t know. Hearin’ that, I’d feel my whole body freeze over in an instant.”

New sake arrived. When Santa placed it before Sakuji, he took a soup bowl, emptied its contents completely onto the earthen floor, and poured sake into the bowl to gulp it down. “Is there anything more painful for a man? I snapped in anger, shook Osan awake and lashed out at her—the scoundrel,” Sakuji groaned, clutching his hair with his left hand. “This scoundrel here hit Osan, knocked her down, kicked her—poor thing, she just kept apologizing, saying she didn’t know anything herself, didn’t know that man’s name, that she’d just gotten carried away and lost herself—that there was no man she cared for besides you—begging for forgiveness.”

"So it was true after all," muttered Santa inwardly.

That flickering moment’s every detail came vividly back to mind. The abnormal ecstasy manifesting in Osan’s body, her intense breathing and cries, felt as vividly present as if they were materializing before him. This too was what Sakuji had tasted—his hands and skin had caressed and tightly embraced Osan’s flesh, doing with her as he pleased. As he thought this, no hatred or jealousy arose within Santa. Osan was pitiable and Sakuji was pitiable. In particular—since Sakuji was a fellow man—Santa understood all too well the unbearable agony of a deeply wounded heart; so acutely that he even felt an impulse to grasp his hand and offer comfort if he could.

“I didn’t know when or how it had come to this.” Sakuji kept talking: “One day when I came home, Osan was gone. In less than a hundred days of living together, she’d made two or three kimonos and two obi sashes. Of course, there were other miscellaneous things too, but she hadn’t taken a single one—left everything as it was. But I knew right away she’d run off. Being a cook, I usually came home late, but that day it was before eight in the evening. I went into the pitch-dark house, lit the paper lantern, and the moment I looked around that tidy, empty room—I thought, ‘Ah, she’s left.’”

Having spoken that far, Sakuji suddenly looked at Santa. With a look as though he’d just awoken, he gazed at the soup bowl in his hands, then looked at Santa’s face. “Who’re you again?” Sakuji asked.

“I’m Osan’s brother,” Santa answered. “Didn’t I just say I’m lookin’ for her?” “I see...” Sakuji hung his head, then shook it from side to side. “If it’s Osan you’re after, she’s at the Natsume Shop in Sanya. The man’s name is Iwakichi—a drifter they call Viper.” “How did you find her?” “I forgot.” Sakuji drank from the soup bowl’s sake, but it spilled from the corner of his mouth and soaked the knees of his work pants. “I forgot—but any man who’s known a woman like Osan’s skin would damn well have to search for her. Hell—yeah, hell—even at Sumiyagashi tenements, another man came lookin’. Some guy who’d lived with her in Koishikawa—looked like a total idiot—but still tracked her down somehow. That’s the kinda woman Osan is.”

“So, Brother—you didn’t take her back with you?” “Ah,” Sakuji said, closing his eyes in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, “I gave up when I saw the look in Osan’s eyes. If some man had tried to stop me, I’d have beaten him to death and taken her back—I’d even hidden a blade in my pocket—but—her eyes were those of a stranger. Not that she’d forgotten me—she remembered—but she looked at me like I meant nothing to her. After thirty or forty days together, she’d sometimes get that look—staring hard at my face like she was wondering who I was, like my very presence there didn’t make sense. But in Sanya—it was even colder. The way you’d look at some stranger on the street. They say even callousness has its place in human feeling, but I couldn’t sense a shred of that. So I just... came back.”

Santa poured him a drink, then said in a quiet voice.

“You should go back home to Daikuchō.”

Sakuji slowly looked at Santa. “What about Daikuchō?” “Your wife and children are waiting. Now that things are settled here, you ought to go home already.” “Do corpses have homes?” Sakuji said. “I’m a dead man—this me right here,” he grabbed his own chest with his right hand. “This me’s no different from a corpse. You get that?” “Anyway, everyone in Daikuchō’s waiting.”

“What’s your damn name?” Sakuji’s eyes flashed suddenly: “What was that name you said earlier?” “I’m her brother.”

Sakuji stared at Santa’s face with piercing eyes, then bared his teeth in a sneer. “You’re repeating yourself,” Sakuji hissed through clenched teeth. “—Which number man are you for Osan?”

Santa poured sake into his own cup. "Which number man are you for Osan?" Sakuji hissed in a low voice. "Hey, you deaf?"

“I’m listening. The sake’s spilling, you know.” Sakuji looked at the soup bowl, grasped it with trembling hands, then gulped down the sake that filled it about seventy percent in one breath. Santa, thinking it was the right moment, called the server and ordered the bill.

Sakuji muttered something under his breath, then suddenly stood up and staggered toward the back of the earthen-floored area. After settling the bill, Santa handed over some coins, saying that if Sakuji wanted to drink more, they should let him. “That man won’t budge until morning,” said the server. “But can you really go home at this hour, Master?” “Money talks,” Santa said. “Take care of that man.”

Santa went outside. If I go as far as Komachō, there’s a boat inn I know—I thought I could either stay there or take a boat around to return to Iidaya. Exiting Yoshibee, Santa walked just seven or eight meters when Sakuji came chasing from behind and called out.

“Hey, wait a second—there’s something I gotta talk to you about.”

Santa stopped and turned around. Sakuji approached, panting. Just then, from the right side came Isaburō’s shout—“Uncle, look out!”—and Sakuji lunged at Santa. To Santa’s eyes, the movement appeared as clumsy and painfully sluggish—like a dead tree toppling—but in reality, it was startlingly swift. The instant he twisted his body reflexively, Sakuji’s hand tore through Santa’s workman’s coat, and his shoulder collided violently against him. Santa staggered from the impact and, still reeling, leaped sideways. At that moment, a shower of pebbles pelted Sakuji’s face, and Isaburō’s shout—“Uncle, run!”—reached his ears. Sakuji raised his right hand while fending off the pebbles with his left. Seeing the cleaver in that hand and intuiting that he meant to throw it, Santa quickly hunched his body and broke into a run. Anticipating the cleaver piercing his back any moment now—any moment—he ran frantically along the dark eaves of houses with closed storm shutters. Behind him, Sakuji’s shouts rang out twice, and though he realized a considerable distance had opened between them, he still kept running desperately.

“He’s a fool,” Santa muttered as he ran, “What a pitiful man.”

Ni no Hachi

It was around nine o'clock the next day when he left the boat inn Funamasa on the banks of Komachō. The landlady Santa had known was said to have died two years prior, and a daughter named Otoyo had taken a husband, with the place appearing more prosperous than before. "Is there no one to take over Ōmori?"

After breakfast, while mending the torn workman’s coat, Otoyo said, “All our regular patrons—none of them visit anymore. Please do come again, San-chan.” Flustered, she pressed a hand to her mouth and hunched her shoulders with an abashed laugh. “Forgive me—calling you ‘San-chan’ when you’ve become such a proper master now. That childhood habit of mine just slipped out.”

“San-chan, huh? That takes me back,” Santa smiled. “I haven’t been called that in ages. Hearing it now—it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’ve truly returned to Edo.” “You’re not angry, are you?” “San-chan, huh?” he said again. “I’ll come by once things settle down. I’m not the master type—want you to keep calling me that forever.” When Santa mentioned going to Sanya, Otoyo recommended taking a boat. However, Santa refused that and left Funamasa.

Since it was past nine o'clock, few people were about on the road. Santa walked toward Ryōgoku Bridge while glancing back over his shoulder from time to time. He'd thought Isaburō might show himself, but with neither the boy appearing nor any sign of Sakuji, he hailed a returning palanquin just before Hamachō and made straight for Sanya.

Natsume-ya was not in Sanya-chō but rather a tenement located far on the outskirts in Sanya-Asakusa-chō. Beyond that point lay no houses—only a dry road stretching toward Senju through rice fields browned with ripened grain, where execution grounds and groves of cremation temples could be glimpsed. There were eight tenement buildings, and he had quickly identified the house where Iwakichi had lived, but another occupant now resided there. The wife there knew nothing but told him where to find the manager, so he returned to the street and visited Tasuke’s shop—a small hardware store. Manager Tasuke was out too, and his wife—a woman in her mid-fifties—sat pasting paper bags. When Santa asked about Iwakichi, the wife froze mid-paste and stared at his face with suspicion.

“Who are you?” the wife demanded accusingly. “Are you family?” “Let’s say I am—there was a wife named Osan here, wasn’t there?” “She was here all right—a proper wife she was, too fine by half for the likes of Iwakichi.”

“Did the two of them move out together?” “Moving out, you say?” The wife’s eyes widened in shock, “So you don’t know anything at all?”

At the wife’s tone, Santa sensed something ominous and found himself momentarily speechless. “The wife was killed,” the wife said. “Yes—by that Iwakichi.”

Santa licked his lips. “Killed,” he murmured drowsily, slowly retorting, “You’re saying Osan was killed?” “It was around mid-July, I think—the wife had taken up with some man or something; it all came down to jealousy. She was stabbed five times with a dagger and tried to flee outside when that Iwakichi chased after her and stabbed her again. She collapsed by the well and died right there.”

Santa sharply twisted his face and pressed his right fist against his thigh. Iwakichi immediately turned himself in and was now apparently in Ishikawajima Prison; there were rumors he would soon be sent to Hachijō. Osan had been buried in an unclaimed grave at Shinkei Temple, as no relatives could be identified—Santa listened silently, nodding as the wife told this story, and soon left the house. It was utterly unexpected—and yet he felt as if some part of him had anticipated this outcome.

"In the end, Osan ended up shouldering all the misfortune alone." As he walked, he muttered, "I'm alive like this—I've always run away. I ran from Osan, and last night I ran from Sakuji too. But none of them ran. Osan never ran from herself until they killed her; Sakuji didn't hesitate to become what he became; Iwakichi's in prison now; and that man from Ushigome—they say he's been reduced to idiocy."

Santa stopped walking. A palanquin passed by, followed by a horse handler leading a loaded horse, then three men dressed like ronin who eyed him suspiciously as they went past. “Shinkei Temple,” he murmured to himself. After standing motionless for a while, he startled at the sound of his own voice. “It was Shinkei Temple they mentioned,” he said aloud, as if verifying this fact with himself. “Should be nearby. I’ll ask directions.” Shinkei Temple stood four or five chō ahead. Wedged between larger temples on either side—perhaps lacking wealthy parishioners—its small black gate listed precariously to one side. Weeds choked the precincts, and fallen stone monuments lay conspicuously abandoned in the graveyard. He had considered visiting the temple kitchen first but dismissed the idea—posthumous prayers felt disingenuous when he’d done nothing for Osan in life. Stepping directly into the cemetery instead, he found the unclaimed graves clustered in a far corner. Only earthen mounds marked the burial sites, devoid of tombstones save for five or six wooden memorial stakes planted haphazardly among them. As Santa circled one grave mound, something at his feet caught his eye—a small flower blooming defiantly through cracked soil. When recognition struck—a morning glory—his chest constricted violently. He stood transfixed for minutes on end, mouth slack and eyes unfocused, staring down at this fragile blossom.

1-6

“Thank you…for keeping me in your memory.”

I crouched before the unclaimed grave and placed a single morning glory I had plucked upon the black soil. “I understand now that you weren’t angry about that flower—but you went and left me anyway.” I tried to press my hands together in prayer but couldn’t. I simply lowered my head, closed my eyes, and apologized in my heart—Forgive me. “You had to stay with me—I told you that, didn’t I? That if you abandoned me, I’d fall apart—I begged you through tears, remember?” “I remember,” I said．“But I didn’t abandon you—I promised I’d come back．” “You shouldn’t have let me go．You knew about my body’s peculiarity．You called me fortunate for being born this way—said I should thank my parents．Didn’t you?” “That’s right—I said exactly that．” But upon closer consideration，that wasn’t so—that bodily quirk had become misfortune’s root． Her own body—uncontrollable even by herself—had driven her toward ruin． “If you’d stayed，none of this would’ve happened．” “No．Truth is，I couldn’t endure it．” “You couldn’t endure．Why? I never understood．Why didn’t you tell me? If you had，maybe I could’ve fixed myself．Why?” “There was no answer．The matter… I couldn’t voice it．I thought separation might calm things．” “It was agony．” “Yeah… I know．” “How could you? You live unscathed．You’ll take a beloved wife，become a master carpenter．Meanwhile I drifted through men，ruining them all while failing to forget you．How could you fathom this torment?” “Yes… Perhaps so．Forgive me．”

I had finally come to feel as though I were meeting Osan—an Osan more true to herself than the one who had lived. Then she grew gentle. “I don’t resent you,” she said. “When we became one, I told you I could die content then and there, didn’t I? I became your wife—we lived as husband and wife for less than a year, but that alone fulfilled me. The me after that… wasn’t truly me anymore. Being dead makes it easier now—had I lived, I could never have faced you again. I once wrote you a letter saying not to look for me even if you returned to Edo. If I’d lived, no matter what you said, I would never have met you.” “I wouldn’t have allowed that,” I said. “I was determined to take you back by force and start over together.” “No—this is better. I was born to end like this. Though I died at twenty-three, I feel I lived three lifetimes’ worth of joy and sorrow. Thank you for visiting me—it made me happy.” I lowered my head further and spoke aloud: “Forgive me.” Osan seemed to say nothing more.

2-9

As Santa was about to leave the cemetery, Isaburo emerged from the adjacent mixed forest.

“Don’t startle me!” Santa was truly startled. “What happened? Where did you follow me from?” “The whole time.” Isaburo rubbed his nose. “Went to check at Iidaya Inn, but you weren’t there, so I came back early this morning.” “Did you stay at Iidaya Inn?” “I don’t stay at inns—any old place’ll do for sleeping.” Santa said as he started walking. “What happened to the man from last night?” “He got dead drunk and passed out by the roadside.” “How’d you find me?” “When I turned back and came to Komaina-cho, I saw your back.” “I should’ve called out to you, but I was waiting to see if you’d come.” “I was torn.” “What were you torn about?” “I was torn between slipping away without a word or saying goodbye first,” he said. “You said something last night—didn’t you mention having some kind of request?” “Forget it—just drop it already.” “Just spit it out. Thanks to you, I made it through that close call last night—might seem like I’m just being polite, but if there’s something I can do, I’ll back you up. Out with it,” said Santa.

“Telling you won’t change anything,” Isaburo said thoughtfully, “but truth be told, I’m twelve now. Figured it’s time to settle down proper-like.” “If you’ve come to that realization, nothing could be better.” “I like you, Uncle,” Isaburo pressed on, “so if you’d take me as your apprentice—even if I’m only half a man’s measure—I wanna become a real craftsman.” “If that’s your true intent, I’d welcome it.” “Ain’t gonna work,” Isaburo cut in, shaking his head. “That’s the problem—you recall me saying I hate women, right?”

“Seems I did hear that.” “There’s a woman waiting for you, Uncle.”

Santa shuddered, every hair on his body standing on end. Because it had sounded as though Osan was waiting for him. Santa stopped and looked at Isaburo. “Who’s—waiting?” “The woman who came with you from Hakone,” Isaburo replied evasively, “when I went to Iidaya Inn and asked if you’d returned—the clerk was just saying so when that woman showed up.” “I’ve properly parted ways with that one.” “When that woman saw me, she snapped—‘You still clinging to him? I won’t allow it!’” Isaburo bared his yellow teeth in a knowing smirk. “‘Don’t you dare come near us,’ she said—scariest face I ever saw, Uncle.”

“We’ve had an understanding with that woman from the start. I’ll go back now and make it clear—don’t worry about her.” “No good.” Isaburo shook his head again. “I’ve lived on the road my whole life—might sound cocky, but I know decent folk from rotten ones. That woman won’t leave you, Uncle. Mark my words—no matter what you do, she won’t let go.” “Wait—just hold on!”

“I think I’ll try going to Sendai after all.” “Seems that’d suit my nature better after all,” Isaburo said, backing away. “Later, Uncle.”

Santa watched in silence. Isaburo said "Later" once more, spun around sharply, and broke into a run toward Senju. From his feet, whitish dust swirled up, and his small form rapidly receded into the distance.

“Is Ofusa waiting?” Santa muttered under his breath. “—Human lives have no true end while they live.”