Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter 1 “Is this real? Is it really all right for us to be like this?” Osan said. It was when they had first become intimate. “And if this is real,” she continued, her voice trembling, “I could die tomorrow content.” The words themselves might have sounded trite and belated, but in that moment Osan shook so violently throughout her entire body that her teeth chattered audibly. However common such sentiments might be in the world, these were the sincere, unadulterated words a person speaks but once in their lifetime. I was an utterly ordinary man. Among craftsmen, I belonged to the class called "tokonoma carpenters," specializing in decorative carvings for alcove pillars, transoms, signboards and ornamental panels. As Santai of Ōmori, I took pride in my reputation being fairly well-established. My conduct offered no cause for pride—dallying with amateur girls and married women, keeping regular company in Nakachō district of Shin-Yoshiwara, knowing my way around Shinagawa’s pleasure quarters well enough to have slept with a woman called Kekoro when drunk—my sole redeeming quality being that I’d never truly lost my heart to anyone. At twenty-four years old, just as my craft was becoming truly engaging, women mattered little either way. Osan worked as a mid-level clerk in Ōmori’s accounting office. The term seemed borrowed from Yoshiwara’s vernacular for young workers—essentially meaning "mid-tier staff," someone who balanced duties between back office and workshop, serving tea and managing meals—with whom I’d never been particularly close. I later heard Osan had fancied me for some time, going to great lengths to make her feelings known. Yet even when told this afterward, I could recall nothing. At most I might have thought her somewhat pretty; that she harbored affection for me never once crossed my mind. This state of affairs came about through sudden impulse on the evening of October tenth.

That night there was a celebration at the master’s house. It was in the twelfth year of the master and his wife’s marriage that a son had finally been born to them, and for the o-shichiya seventh-night celebration, relatives, guildmates, local patrons, and master carpenters who had risen from Ōmori’s ranks were all invited. Though our master normally abhorred extravagance, he must have been exceptionally pleased—even to us craftsmen and the lowest errand-runners, Yaomasa’s feast trays were distributed and sake provided. I was among those who could hold their liquor well, so I kept drinking in high spirits until I passed out drunk, and when I opened my eyes, Osan was beside me. When I reached out my hand, Osan’s body collapsed onto me without any resistance. And then it happened—when I was holding her tight, still with no intention of doing anything more—a sound came from the very core of Osan’s body. It might not even qualify as a sound—that gulp-like noise one’s throat makes when drinking water, an ambiguous vibration hovering between sound and physical resonance—yet through my hands gripping her tight, I perceived it with absolute clarity. I became completely carried away by it. The astonishing suppleness and softness—the way the core of her virginal body bent to my every touch yet harbored such intense responsiveness—this seemed to be what had utterly captivated me. And then, before I could even think it was over, Osan spoke. “Is this real? Is it really okay that we’ve ended up like this?” Trembling with her entire body, clinging to me with all her strength…

Chapter 2 The andon lamp flickered. The oil must have been running low, for the andon lamp flickered like a living thing—bright then dim—and the sound of oil sizzling in its dish could be heard. Santai was watching over the koban gold coins and small silver coins arranged on the washi paper when he noticed the smell of burning oil. He turned around and reached out to pull the andon lamp closer. After adjusting the wick and topping up the oil, the andon lamp brightened as if waking from sleep.

"23 ryō"

He turned back and looked at the money lying there. "Twenty-three ryō, three bu, and two shu." Footsteps could be heard ascending the stairs. Santai folded one side of the washi paper and hid the coins laid out. The footsteps that had come up approached along the corridor toward where he was but passed right by. Santai took the money belt, leather purse, and cloth pouch. He put twenty ryō into the money belt and rolled it up, placed three ryō and two bu into the purse, and put the remainder into the pouch. After stowing the money belt under the pillow, the purse inside the money pouch, and the cloth pouch by the bedside, he let out a deep sigh and reached for the iron kettle on the hibachi. The iron kettle was cold. After touching the iron kettle, he took the fire tongs and checked the fire. The fire had died down, leaving only charcoal covered in white ash.

“I could use some tea,” he muttered, releasing 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 along the corridor and stopped.

“Stay awake,” whispered the woman outside the shoji screen. “It won’t be long now, so wait for me.” “I could use some tea.” “Oh,” said the woman as she slid open the shoji and peered in. “It’s right there.” “Turned to water—the fire’s out.” “I’ll bring more,” the woman said with a coquettish smile. “Don’t nod off.”

Santai slightly moved his hands on his lap. The woman closed the shoji screen and left. After hesitating briefly, he took a sheet of washi paper from his breast pocket and spread it out, then took one small silver coin from the cloth pouch and wrapped it. He placed it under the futon mattress, turned back the bedding, and lay down. After realizing the hibachi’s fire had gone out, he noticed how cold the night air had become. Pulling the bedding up to his chin, Santai gazed at the ceiling. In the soot-stained ceiling marked by water stains, the light of the andon lamp softly illuminated a portion of it. Two or three rooms away, laughter could be heard. They were guests who had arrived that evening in a group of four or five. They were locals, said to be remnants from some gathering, but everyone was drunk, taking turns singing in foolish voices. They had fallen quiet about an hour earlier, and just when it seemed they had left, occasional bursts of laughter would drift over. Santai immediately intuited they were at it. It was probably just friends playing penny gambling—after all, he frequented proper gambling dens himself—but when it came to strangers, even penny gambling would send a chill down his spine, leaving him gripped by an anxious, unsettled mood.

Santai closed his eyes. The far room fell silent again, and Osan’s figure surfaced behind his eyelids. He couldn’t recall her face no matter how hard he tried, yet her overall form—the occasional gestures, the sobs and cries, the pleading words—had risen from his memory as vividly and clearly as if from just yesterday. He flinched and opened his eyes. The woman slid open the shoji screen quietly and came in. The woman wore a brightly colored nightgown with her obi tied in front and her hair let down.

“Brr, it’s freezing!”

The woman approached the hibachi barefoot, holding a fire shovel filled with burning coals. “The mistress here’s being such a nag—she must’ve caught on about last night.” “Don’t push yourself.” “Was I not supposed to come?” “I said don’t push yourself.” “I know full well it’s too much.” The woman transferred the fire to the hibachi, added charcoal, and hung the iron kettle. “A place like this was never meant for someone like me.”

“I’m leaving here tomorrow, you know.”

“Just as I thought.” “What?” Santai looked at the woman. “That you’re leaving.” After undoing her obi sash, she extinguished the andon lamp, came over, and slid in beside Santai. “Sorry I’m so cold… Hey, I’ve got a favor to ask.” “I’ll say this upfront—I’m a married man.” “You don’t think I’m asking you to make me your wife, do you?” The woman gave a knowing laugh. “Just let me stay awhile—I’ll warm up quick enough. My body’s plenty warm.”

Part One-Two

"I don't expect you to make me your wife," Osan said. I was the one who proposed we become husband and wife. Though I only learned later, Osan had a man promised to her by her parents, and they were supposed to hold their wedding ceremony once the new year came. Because I didn’t know, I persuaded Osan and, having obtained my master’s permission, set up a household. Located in Ushigome Sakanamachi’s Kiheiten district, it was a standalone house at the alley's end, its rear formed by the earthen wall of a small temple called Enpōji. I was still young, and as a traveling craftsman, renting a standalone house seemed extravagant, but I had a gut feeling it was right—within less than twenty days, I realized my intuition had been correct. It would be truer to say I had known from the very beginning—from that first time I embraced Osan. The body that had enraptured me would—when we joined—intoxicate me with a depth and violence that seemed beyond this world. "Does everyone become like this? It’s shameful... Why must I turn out this way? Being a woman is awful," Osan said. "It’s because you noticed yourself—not everyone becomes so. Your body was born this way," I told her. "Most don’t feel it so intensely. Such bodies are rare—you should be grateful to the parents who made you thus." "I hate it! It’s humiliating—I’ve come to hate myself," Osan said.

Their married life had settled down somewhat, and they had gained some emotional leeway. Strangely enough, after she began habitually saying “It’s embarrassing,” it actually grew more intense. Osan’s body harbored a network of nerves as fine as a sieve’s mesh throughout. The mesh of this net was microscopically minute and abnormally sensitive. No matter which part of her body was touched—even just the tip of a finger—with that kind of intent, it would immediately transmit through her entire being, causing ripples and spasms in the fine nerve net that strongly manifested in her eye color, breathing patterns, muscle contractions, and the flexion of her digits and spine. It was entirely unconscious; once it began, even Osan herself couldn’t stop it.

January passed and February came. I truly felt glad I’d rented a standalone house. Had the neighboring house been separated by just one wall, exchanging morning and evening greetings would’ve proved troublesome. Fortunately, the rear faced the temple’s earthen wall, standing six or seven ken removed from the row houses. The neighbors remained oblivious, but Tatsuzou—sharp-witted and worldly with women—blurted it out one day at the worksite. It happened after our midday meal. Craftsmen crowded around, laughing at Tatsuzou’s remark—laughter whose meaning I couldn’t fully grasp before I snapped and punched him. It wasn’t anger toward his words—it was jealousy that he’d discerned Osan’s bodily secret, known only to me until then. “Just a joke—no offense meant,” Tatsuzou apologized at once. “Quit meddling in another man’s wife’s affairs,” I shot back, unable to conceal my shame at having my weakness exposed. Tatsuzou apologized again, though his eyes kept laughing.

Part Two-Two “The water’s boiled,” the woman said. “I’ll make some tea.” Santai remained silent and let go of the hand. “Hey—this sweat.” The woman sat up while fastening the collar, then opened it wider and stroked between small yet firmly taut twin breasts. “Look at this—like this.”

“You’ll catch a cold,” Santai said.

The woman extricated herself from the futon, tightened her obi, and went toward the hibachi. The andon lamp remained extinguished, but with the corridor light nearby, there was no difficulty in tasks like brewing tea. "You’re lying about being a married man, aren’t you?" the woman said while moving her hands. "I am a married man," Santai answered. "That’s a lie—anyone can tell at a glance whether a man’s single or married! I’ve been watching you closely since yesterday—when you wash your face, eat meals, drink tea, even when you sleep. A married man leaves things half-done and tries to make others do everything, but you handle every task yourself so neatly, so smoothly—proof you’re used to taking care of your own affairs," the woman said. Santai retorted in a drowsy voice while yawning. "Anyone acts differently at home than when traveling." The woman brought the tea set over, placed it by the pillow, then sat down on the futon and brewed the tea.

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

Santai listlessly lay down on his stomach, took the teacup from the woman’s hand, and slowly sipped the tea. "Did some bad experience with women leave you scarred?" “Don’t flatter me,” Santai said. “I’m not the type women go for.” “Though it’s from the past, I knew someone called Kan-san—” she began, then suddenly shook her head. “Stupid! Why did I start saying this?—Hey, I have a favor to ask.”

“I told you I’m a married man.” “That’s not what I mean—I want you to take me all the way to Edo with you.”

Santai turned around and looked at the woman.

“I won’t cause you any trouble,” the woman said. “I’ll pay my own expenses and mean to part ways the moment we reach Edo. Please—just let me pretend to be your wife for the journey and take me with you.” “We only met yesterday for the first time,” Santai said. “Why mention ‘evening’?” The woman’s eyes glinted seductively. “No matter how long I worked at those inns, I’m not some woman who’ll obey anyone’s every word. Or did I seem that sort to you?”

“I didn’t see you as any particular kind of woman—just thought I’d never regret it.”

“I made sure not to let you, isn’t that right?” “I’ll have another cup,” Santai said, passing the teacup to the woman. “—Why are you heading to Edo?”

“I got tired of the countryside.”

“Do you have a home to return to?” “A friend of mine lives 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 enough.” “But we never go hungry either.” While brewing tea and passing it to Santai, the woman said, “So it’s settled—you’ll take me with you, won’t you?”

“We’re leaving early tomorrow.” “I’m all prepared.” The woman said.

Santai looked at the woman with eyes that had lost their spark. “—I must’ve seemed like quite the gullible man to you.” “I thought you looked dependable,” the woman said. “When I brought in the tea and sweets and saw your face for the first time, I thought, ‘This is a dependable person.’”

“That sounds like a line I’ve heard somewhere before.” “It happens all the time, right? I think any woman would feel the same.” The woman leaned gently against him. “I’m glad... Now I can relax.” Santai placed the teacup on the tray and lay down. The woman adjusted the coverlet, slid her body, and clung to Santai while laughing low in her throat. And after a while—Santai watched the woman’s face. The woman frowned and squeezed her eyes shut with effort. From the exertion, wrinkles formed on her upper eyelids. The furrows between her knitted brows carved deep lines like chisel marks, pooling sweat. The corners of her half-open mouth pulled back toward her ears—there too came moments of sudden tension followed by slackening. Not yet, Santai thought.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s your name?” The woman’s fierce breathing stopped, and from her tightly shut eyes came a soft release of tension. 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.” “Just like I said.” Santai infused his voice with a spiteful tone. “Didn’t you hear?” “Weren’t you the one who asked for my name?” “So you did hear.” “Ofusa,” said the woman, writhing. “Oh no—asking for my name at a time like this? What’s gotten into you?”

Santai said, “That’s a good name.”

1-3 “The first time I brought you tea—the moment I saw your face, I fell for you,” Osan said. She explained how I’d gone out for work, met with the master carpenter and returned, and how she’d brought tea when we were talking at the shop. I’d been completely unaware. It wasn’t that I struggled with women—more that my mind had been wholly occupied by work. Even among men of the same age, there were those who—given free time—talked of nothing but such matters among friends, while others remained utterly indifferent to affairs of the heart. 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. However, humans can’t live on that alone—to survive, there must first be work, and one can’t live contentedly by merely keeping up with others. If you want to live even a marginally better life, you must create things like work that others can’t imitate, ingenuity that no one notices, and new methods. This was never easy—even the smallest innovation often required pouring sweat and enduring soul-crushing hardship. Precisely because of that, the joy of completing even a single innovation must be immense. For a man like me, the joy experienced in such moments ran deeper and felt greater than successfully courting a woman I’d fallen for. Would it be wrong to say affairs with women are like meals? When you’re hungry you want to eat, but once you’ve eaten you don’t give the meal another thought. I’d been relatively late to start, but even so, I’d known a considerable number of women before becoming Osan’s husband. This wasn’t about love or passion—it was like eating when famished. Afterward I felt unburdened, having forgotten most of their faces and names. Though I’d been involved with one woman for over two years, I think it was simply due to the comfort of familiarity. Given this disposition, Osan hadn’t even registered in my sight—but after becoming husband and wife, that changed astonishingly. Marital intimacy wasn’t about sating hunger; it became something entirely different.

It was not merely the union of man and woman, but the act binding a husband and wife who would share a lifetime of joys and sorrows. It was within that bond that they confirmed each other. When I realized this, Osan's body—the very body that had made me burn with such intensity—understood that Osan was being torn from me. When that violent ecstasy began—the kind even Osan herself couldn't stop—Osan would disappear entirely. In full delirium, only sensation remained alive. The moans and choked sobs didn't belong to her; the broken pleas and cries held no meaning. This resembled nothing of any woman I'd known. Intimacy should be two people finding pleasure within each other—the shared joy of giving and receiving, shouldn't it? Osan wasn't like that anymore. It had been so at first, but as days passed, it changed completely. The moment pleasure began, both she and I would vanish, leaving only raw sensation behind. At that instant when man becomes most manly and woman most womanly in their joining—only the point where they met awakened like a living thing and throbbed violently, casting all else aside. This wasn't ecstasy; rather, each time felt like something vital was slipping away. Then came the day when Osan began calling a man's name in that delirious state. Hearing it for the first time felt like being stabbed through the chest with an awl—there must be another man involved. Even now I can't forget how that felt—of all moments for it to happen, during such intimacy! Losing self-control meant her hidden truths surfaced—anyone would think that way naturally. I became certain Osan had taken a lover.

There was no need to dwell on other trivial emotions. I grabbed Osan’s shoulder and shook her awake, demanding who the other man was and where he was 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 not fully conscious. I gave her two or three more slaps, and Osan, as if frightened, woke up. “What’s wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” Osan asked back. I was seething with murderous rage. I had even truly thought about killing her. Osan was dumbfounded, and with a look as if I had gone mad, she stared fixedly at my face. Then she smiled faintly, relaxed her tightly hunched shoulders, and said with a deep breath, “Oh my, what a shock!” “I thought something was wrong—no, wait, that’s not like you at all! Even if I were killed over this, 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,” Osan said. “When that time comes, I can’t understand anything at all.” “I can’t see anything, can’t hear anything either, and I don’t even know what’s happening to myself.” “Well now, I don’t recall any such name. Yes, my late father’s name was like that—but could I really have called out Father’s name in such a moment?” Osan shrugged and laughed throatily. There was no sense whatsoever that she was hiding something or trying to deceive. “I’m so happy! To have you jealous over me—nothing could make me happier!” Osan said this and clung to me.

Part Two-Three

He left the inn while it was still dark.

It had only just entered September, but with the mountains so near, the temperature was low and a thick fog had rolled in, leaving the peaks that should have been right before him completely obscured. Although the flow of Hayakawa lay right before his eyes, he could only dimly make out the white-crashing waves, and the roar of the rapids—muffled by the fog—made it impossible to discern any difference in distance. While passing merchants shouldering loads of fish and vegetables heading uphill, Santai arrived at Sanmaibashi and came to a stop. A woman named Ofusa had said she would wait for him there.

Santai did not ask about any of the circumstances. Traveling together to Edo; parting immediately upon entering Edo. That was the extent of their agreement. The woman named Ofusa seemed steady in character and accustomed to worldly matters. She apparently handled necessary travel procedures without issue; there seemed to be no worry she would do anything that might burden him. As for Santai, he too harbored not even a trace of feelings beyond those of a traveling companion.

With his bundle of luggage and wrapped tools on his shoulder, he came to a stop at the base of the bridge when a voice called out "Mister" from behind. When he looked, there stood a child of around nine years old, hands tucked into his sleeves, half poised to flee yet offering an ingratiating smile.

“Hey,” Santai said. “What’s up, kid? You’ve been staying around here all this time?” “Mister stayed at Noriya, huh?” “Didn’t you head to Fujisawa?” The child cast a searching gaze and answered in a low voice, “I’m starving.” “You still hungry?” The child nodded and looked around with quick eyes. “There’s nothing we can do here. Let’s go together,” Santai said. “If there’s a teahouse somewhere, we’ll get something to eat.”

The child nodded absentmindedly. He wants money, Santai thought. He had met that child in Numazu. While walking along the road, the boy had come up from behind and called out, “Mister, I’m starving.” He wore tattered rags that barely reached his waist; his face and limbs were sunburned pitch-black, covered in grime, his hair wildly disheveled and standing on end, barefoot of course, with a rope tied as a belt. Santai had given him money then, but at the Hakone inn, the boy had called out to him again. When the child said he was hungry again, Santai thought to have him eat some steamed buns at a teahouse, but the boy replied that they had to hurry to Fujisawa and made no move to enter. There too Santai had given him some money, but now three days later, at the outskirts of this Yumoto inn, he was called out to in the same way: “I’m hungry.” Moreover, if the boy knew he had stayed at Noriya, he might have followed him here. If he puts on a pitiful act and gets money right away—does he think I’m an easy mark? Santai surmised 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 forgot something and had to go back.” “Is it all right to bring him along?”

“It’s been a while since I walked like this—ah, what a lovely feeling,” said Ofusa, glancing toward the child. “Oh my, are you loitering around here again?” The child stepped back.

“Do you know that child?” “Don’t follow us. Go over there.” Ofusa said this to the child and started walking. “For about three years now, he’s been loitering along this highway like that and pestering people. At first I thought he might be a beggar’s child, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. I don’t know if he has no home or parents or if he ran away on his own, but it seems he just likes wandering around like that.”

“He’s still about eight or nine, I’d say.” “Since he was about that age three years back, he must be eleven or twelve now. Even when people try hiring him for babysitting or errand running, he never approaches them. Must be tough being born with that disposition.” Santai looked back as he walked, but the child’s figure was hidden by the fog and couldn’t be seen. Ofusa wore arm guards and gaiters, had her hem tucked up, and over it all draped a dust cloak. Her luggage consisted of a single small furoshiki bundle, her head wrapped in a tenugui cloth in the sister-style—altogether a light, travel-worn appearance.

“What’ll we do about the inn register?” Santai asked. “Shall we pose as siblings?” “The fog’s lifting—it’ll be fine weather today,” Ofusa said, looking up at Santai. “It’s obvious—your wife.” “What about the inn seal?” “I’ve taken care of my part already, so it’s fine. Didn’t I say I wouldn’t cause you any trouble?” Santai started to say maybe he should thank her but clamped his mouth shut. Even though today marked only his third day with this woman, somehow his tongue kept loosening. He had been brusque and taciturn even at the Ōmori accounting office in Edo; though he spent two and a half years in Osaka, there too he was described the same way, and he ended up making not a single friend-like acquaintance.

It was the first night at Noriya—matters had naturally developed with Ofusa, and he found himself spouting careless remarks until even he grew disgusted with himself.

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

“Get out of the way—a horse is coming,” Santai said.

1-4 When I said I was coming because there was work in Kamigata，Osan replied， “Go ahead.” When I asked， “Are you sure you’ll wait?” she nodded and said， “Yes， I’ll wait.” The pretext of having work in Kamigata was just that—a pretext—and she seemed to intuit that our marriage would end in separation as things stood. She asked when I was departing. Due to their urgent circumstances， I was scheduled to depart on the twenty-fifth. “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 found myself growing unsettled instead， my heart aching.

And on the night before I was finally to depart tomorrow, Osan’s patience seemed to snap as she wept and pleaded. “You intend to leave me, don’t you? Lying won’t work—I know it. You’re planning to leave me!” Osan said. I had no choice but to remain silent. “Why? What’s wrong with me? Tell me—what don’t you like? It can’t be about that morning glory, can it?” she said, staring at me with eyes brimming with tears. Morning glory—they call it rain morning glory too—that insignificant flower. Being told that reminded me—it must have been around summer’s end—that I’d found that flower atop the tea cabinet. A flower resembling morning glories but smaller—a trivial pale peach blossom—arranged in an old powder jar. “Pick that flower and rain will come”—I’d been told since childhood. Superstition without doubt, but everyone knew it, and craftsmen heed such omens. I told her to quit because rain spells trouble for us craftsmen. Yet Osan wouldn’t stop—catch sight of it unawares, and there the flower would be. Scold her, and she’d hide them where my eyes wouldn’t reach. “What’s your game here?” I demanded.

“I’m sorry,” Osan said. “I just can’t stand how pitiful these flowers are.” “Most flowers get cherished, but nobody notices this one. If it blooms on the ground, people trample right over it without a care. I feel so sorry for them that I end up picking them to put in a vase.” I never scolded her about it again. Osan seemed to think that might be the reason. I gave an evasive reply. I neither confirmed nor denied it. I wished I could have told her the truth, but couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud. How could I explain that every time we lay together at night, we’d be thrust apart—that I always felt something inside me being lost? During those many fainting spells of hers, I had no words to describe the wretchedness—the futility of grilling her about every name that slipped out (which upon waking always proved to be childhood friends, her father’s acquaintances, or fearsome landlords from her girlhood tenement days; it was already clear she kept no secret lovers), yet still being unable to let those utterances pass unremarked. “I’ll come back when the job’s done,” I repeated. “I’ll wait—I promise,” Osan said, immediately bursting into tears again. “If you leave me, I’ll fall apart completely—I’ll just come undone,” Osan said.

Let’s try being apart for a year or two, I told Osan in my heart. Things might change during that time—her habits might improve, or I myself might grow more mature and become able to keep up with her ways. I didn’t voice it aloud but said so in my mind. Because I truly believed it. I entrusted Osan's care to the landlord Kihei, left a sum of money for emergencies, and departed Edo. Then, within less than fifty days, through a letter from Kihei, I learned that Osan had taken a man in. The man was Tatsuzou.

2-4

“I wonder if the sea’s rough,” Ofusa said. “That’s the sound of waves, isn’t it?” “There’s no sake left, is there?” “You just said that yourself. Let me have a sip too.” “What’s this? You refused when I offered it earlier.” Santai shook the warmed sake flask, then handed it to Ofusa. “Do it yourself.” “Oh, how heartless you are.” “I’m no good at pouring.” “I’d like to drink from that sake cup.” “It’s over there, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to drink from that sake cup,” said Ofusa, then hastily raised a finger, “Oh, don’t worry—you’re a married man. I know.” Santai handed over his own sake cup.

Even though the sea didn’t seem particularly close, the sound of the waves came through quite distinctly. Soon, a rather plain-looking maid of thirty-four or thirty-five appeared with sweet simmered dishes and sake. Unlike Hakone, the temperature at this Ōiso inn was higher, and a single yukata sufficed for one’s skin after bathing. After waiting for the maid to leave, Ofusa fetched a new cup for Santai and poured him a drink. "What happened next?" “It lasted about half a year after all,” Ofusa answered. “I ended up breaking up with that man too.”

“You’re a fickle one.” “I can’t say that’s not true. I’ve always been serious—meant to share life’s hardships together—but every man quickly shows his limits and becomes so tedious... unbearably tedious.” “No lingering attachments at all?” “Not a single one.” Ofusa quietly sipped her sake. “Rather than fickleness... I think I was born with a man’s nature. I often wonder—seems I lack feminine affection. Don’t care for women’s work either, nor can I bring myself to devote everything to a man or fuss over details.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

“Why?” said Ofusa, pressing one hand to her cheek while looking at Santai, the area around her eyes suddenly flushing. “Stop it—you’re different. This is my first time… Let’s stop.”

“What?” “How pretentious!” Ofusa sipped her sake, the skin around her eyes flushing deeper red. “Instead of that, tell me about yourself—your wife’s such a beauty. How many children do you have?” “There’s not much to tell. We don’t have children, and as for my wife—” “Well?” Ofusa said with teasing eyes. “Are you saying she’s not pretty?”

“They say you shouldn’t talk about temples when visiting a house with a sick person.” “What temple talk are you on about?” “Never mind. Let’s eat.” “Did I make you angry? If I offended you, I apologize—I’m sorry.” Ofusa slightly lowered her head. “I must be losing my mind—I hate being nagging myself, but here I am spouting nothing but nagging words. I don’t understand it at all.” “It must be the drink. Shall we eat?”

Ofusa pressed her right hand against the tatami. Only the right side of her hand that had been resting on her knee slid down to press against the matting as she bowed her head and clamped her mouth shut. Perhaps the drink had suddenly taken effect—as Santai moved to call out to her, Ofusa stood up swiftly, stepped into the corridor to close the shoji screen, and the sound of her quick footsteps faded away. Santai stared vacantly at the space across from where Ofusa’s meal tray had been. The andon lamp’s flame wavered, making shadows from the dishes on the tray tremble. The waves’ roar grew conspicuously loud, vibrating through the hushed air of the now-empty room.

“There are women and there are men.” Santai slowly sipped sake he’d poured himself and muttered, “What a sorrowful thing.”

He thought about his parents. His father Yahee had been a master carpenter—stingy yet overly trusting by nature, always ending up shortchanged. Every time he took on construction projects, he’d lose money; on the rare occasions he thought he’d turned a profit, he’d get swindled into lending cash only for borrowers to vanish. He hardly drank and never womanized. When Santai was five and again at eight, his father had fled with geisha from Fukagawa. Though details remained unclear, his mother’s grumbling suggested courtesans duped him both times. Despite spending hefty sums each instance, his father apparently returned within thirty days. Those two escapades alone broke his frugal mold—afterward, he lived with miserly rigor unbefitting a master carpenter, barely touching social drinks, scowling even at buying geta sandals. His mother complained privately but never openly opposed her husband or spoke out of turn. She relished making side dishes, conjuring astonishingly tasty meals without spending a sen. Her kindness mirrored her husband’s—she couldn’t refuse requests. Unasked, she’d bring money or goods to those in need. Santai vividly remembered his father’s pinched expression upon noticing this.

How had the two of them become husband and wife? Were the two of them truly satisfied with each other? Santai carefully recalled. His mother had died when he was seventeen, and his father had followed two years later. There had been instances of Father’s elopements, but their everyday life remained unchanged and settled. Santai still remembered this to this day—in the year before her death, Mother had been talking to the wife of their regular plasterer, and he believed it was something like “my husband’s constant philandering is causing trouble” that the plasterer’s wife had lamented. To this, Mother had replied: "But having someone as rigid as my husband lacks vitality—even I’d like to feel a bit jealous sometimes." While she might have intended to console the plasterer’s wife, Santai—now sixteen years old—was utterly shocked to realize that his mother’s tone contained genuine feelings.

“They might have been a well-matched couple after all.” Santai muttered this: “Most couples in the world are probably similar—living more or less the same kind of lives. Cases like Osan and me must have been extremely rare.”

Ofusa returned. Holding two warmed sake flasks and saying she’d gotten these, she sat back down in her original seat. Santai said while 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—what a strange one you are,” Santai said with a wry smile. “Fine—just one more bottle then. I’m not much of a drinker anyway.”

“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. Composed in a woman’s hand using only kana characters, even when puzzling through it, much remained incomprehensible. Osan herself likely couldn’t find words to express her feelings—to summarize the over-three-foot-long letter: "I tried associating with various others to forget you, but no matter what I do, I can’t forget you and it’s agony. I’ve become a body that can never meet you again. Still, I have no regrets—had I been your wife for even three days, I would have died content." And at the end, she had written that even if he returned to Edo, he shouldn’t search for her whereabouts. I tore up that letter and threw it away. Don’t give me that crap about trying to forget me—your body couldn’t endure it, could it? You had to take up with men because you couldn’t last a single night without that. I see right through you—didn’t I say as much? This settles it. Even if I return to Edo, I won’t go searching for you, so don’t you worry. And soon, a second letter arrived from landlord Kihei. The letter stated that due to Osan repeatedly bringing men into the house, and because the wives in the tenement were complaining, he had her vacate the premises; he was holding onto the remaining rent. The men weren’t limited to Tatsuzou. Osan’s letter had been unclear on specifics, but it seemed the number of men involved wasn’t merely two or three. This one can’t go back to Ushigome, I thought. Of course, she couldn’t face the tenement residents—nor even the landlord. To hell with it—I’d live in Kamigata for now, I resolved in my gut.

I hated Osan. I was wrong to have made a move, but if Osan had refused, none of this would have happened. Later, I heard that Osan had already been engaged to someone else, and it wasn’t like I’d been particularly serious about it. It had been nothing more than a spur-of-the-moment impulse after passing out drunk. When I woke up and found her beside me, I casually reached out. I didn’t have the slightest intention of wooing her. There was no way she hadn’t understood—knowing full well, Osan had yielded her body. She said she’d liked me from the start. She even said that now she could die at any time and be content. If that feeling was genuine, there’s no reason she couldn’t have waited a year or two. It was after that that I began frequenting gambling dens. Until then, I had never even touched hanafuda cards or dice. It was because I disliked my old man and had known several people who had ruined themselves through gambling. I did not forget that. When work was completed and wages came in, I would divide them into three parts: one for living expenses, one for miscellaneous, and only the remaining portion would be used for gambling. If I lost, that was it—I would absolutely not touch the other two portions. Even when on a winning streak, I would stop once it doubled. I managed to get through any gambling den with that approach. Was it that I had inherited my dead parents’ temperament? I never desired more than that, nor did I ever show any weakness. Surprisingly, my work was also going well. Transom work originated in Kamigata, where there are many skilled craftsmen, but perhaps because they only adhere to rigidly conventional methods, my Edo-style finishing gained considerable acclaim.

As I had heard in the rumors, the women were appealing, the sake excellent, and the food delicious. I had even considered putting down roots in Kamigata, but around the second year, I grew restless. The fish and vegetables were undeniably delicious, and the way of preparing dishes was simple yet refined. But I began longing more for sardines and saury salt-grilled than sea bream sashimi. The sake here didn’t suit my palate as well as Edo’s lighter variety either, and even the women who initially seemed gentle ended up feeling cloying once you got used to them—they couldn’t hold a candle to Edo women with their refreshingly light complexions. Moreover, negotiating work contracts was such a hassle. Even a single decorative panel would get haggled down to the last penny. Payment upon completion was fine, but the endless back-and-forth until orders were finalized wore me out. Since this happened every time, I gradually began to feel averse. Then, a letter arrived from Souhachi. Souhachi was my junior; he was twenty-one and still living at Ōmori. The letter was news of Ōmori’s downfall. At year’s end, the shop burned down in a fire, and everyone escaped with nothing but the kimonos on their backs. The wife and child had narrowly escaped death, but it seemed the master had been deeply shaken by the incident. He had said he didn’t want to subject the child they had been blessed with to such an ordeal ever again, and so he withdrew to his hometown in Hachiōji. It stated that he was staying at 'Ōhira' in Asakusa Komagata and concluded with something written about Osan. When commuting to a construction site in Kyōbashi 2-chōme for work, he spotted Osan’s figure; following her, he saw her enter a back tenement in Sumiyagashi. When he discreetly inquired in the neighborhood, he learned she was with a man named Sakuji. The man had a wife and children in nearby Daikuchō; though said to be a cook at some tea house, his life didn’t appear to be an easy one. This may be unnecessary to mention, but I believe you already know about Tatsuanii. She apparently parted ways with Tatsuanii quickly and then took up with several men one after another.

I didn't know what had become of her after leaving the house in Sakanamachi, but this Sakuji fellow likely wouldn't last long either. "I reckon Brother Santai split ways at just the right time," the letter had stated. My determination started faltering. Not a shred of lingering attachment remained, yet Osan began appearing pitiful to me. It came to feel like I'd dodged calamity by fleeing to Kamigata myself, leaving Osan alone to bear its full weight. My homesickness for Edo and this urge to somehow save her ultimately drove my return. They say Kanto-bred men can't stomach Kamigata's water—truer words never rang. I'd likely never go back west—though who knew what state Osan was in now—but if feasible, taking her in again for a fresh start might work. Not from pity or sympathy—more like offering a hand to some wounded creature. Could I manage it? Would I even be capable? Taking back a woman passed around like tavern crockery—could I truly make her my wife again? Distance let pity lead—what if seeing her face reminded me she'd been pawed by countless men? The truth of Osan being shared among men would dog us till death. Could we still live as husband and wife then? Don't act rash—don't surrender to passing compassion. Even with noble intentions patching things up, if I snapped someday and we split again—no coming back from that. Easy now—quit trembling—I'm twenty-six already. Might sound pompous, but I'm not quite the man I was two years back.

Osan, this showdown is between you and me to settle—got it? I'll definitely find you.

2-5

“It’s getting light outside,” Ofusa said as she entered. “Are you asleep?” Santai turned over on his pillow. Ofusa lifted the quilt, slid her body next to him, pressed her cheek against his, then pulled her face away. “I saw a morning glory bloom.” Under the quilt, Ofusa drew Santai’s hand toward her. “There was something tangled in the low fence by the washbasin—I thought I saw it move when I glanced over. Then I realized it was a morning glory bud about to open.”

“Do morning glories bloom in September?” “Small—about this big.” Ofusa held out one hand, indicating the size between thumb and forefinger. “It looked just like it was alive—no, it *is* alive.” Ofusa chuckled softly, “It spirals loose like this—the coiled bud unwinding round and round until a split forms at the tip like a kimono seam coming undone. Just when you think there’s a tiny tear, it flutters open all at once and blooms wide—what’s so funny?”

“First it spirals, then flutters loose, then bursts open—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 might not even bear fruit. Yet being a bud, it still has to bloom. When I thought that, I felt such pity—such unbearable pity."

Santai remained silent for two breaths. “Humans are far more—” he began to say before turning over to present his back to Ofusa. “Hey,” Ofusa said after a while, “turn this way.” “I’m going to get some sleep.” Ofusa clung to his back and pressed her entire body against him. “But we’re parting today.” “We made a promise at the inn in Kanagawa—there’s a wife waiting in Edo. Tonight’s the end of it.” “You can’t have affairs where your waiting wife lives—yes, we made that promise,” Ofusa whispered. “If there really is a wife waiting for you.”

Santai remained still. “You don’t hate me, do you?”

“What did you just say?” “You don’t hate me, do you?” “Before that,” Santai 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—that ‘if there really is a wife waiting’ remark of yours was damn peculiar.” “What’s peculiar about that? Meanie.” Ofusa gave a knowing laugh. “Can’t I even ask if she’s truly waiting? I’m in love with you, you know.”

“Don’t say another word.” Santai cut her off again forcefully: “I made it clear from the start I’m a married man—that we’d only travel together till Edo, that we’d part the moment we entered the city. Those words came from my own mouth—I told you.”

"I have a good memory." "This is Shiba no Tsukimachi." "This inn is Iidaya - you remember it well, don't you?" Ofusa said. "*You're* the one who should remember! Didn't I say today's when we part ways?"

Santai remained silent.

“To tell the truth, I hated men.” Ofusa gently moved away from Santai’s body as she said, “All that talk about setting up house with men was lies—after being married off at sixteen and running away six months later, you were my first man.”

Santai said nothing. “I thought you’d sense it yourself rather than me saying it out loud,” Ofusa continued. “You’re quite experienced with women, aren’t you? So no matter what stories I told, I figured you’d see through the lies with my body.” Santai paused for a moment before asking, “Why are you bringing that 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 also a lie?” “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 waltz back to a place like that? No way—I’d rather die than do that.”

Santai fell silent.

The inn’s occupants must have risen; there was the sound of the front opening, and voices began to be heard near what seemed to be the kitchen area. “Do you remember when we stayed in Oiso?” Ofusa whispered. “When I said it was my first time doing something like this—how I angered you and went crying into the hallway out of sadness—how embarrassing. I’m such a fool. I’d sworn never to mention this, but here I am—oh, this is mortifying.” Then pressing her face against Santai’s back, she said: “Please pretend you didn’t hear any of this. Forget what I just said—please, I beg you.”

Santai said softly, “Remember this, forget that—you keep saying such complicated things.” “It’s your fault.” Speaking from under the bedding, Ofusa’s voice came out muffled: “This never happened before I met you—really, I’d never shown such an unguarded side of myself.” “Find yourself a decent man soon.” Still facing away, Santai said, “You’ll make a good wife.”

“You’re hopeless, aren’t you.” “I’ll say it again.” “Married man,” Ofusa said. “—I’m stronger-willed than I look, you know.” “Take good care of yourself,” Santai said. “I’m going to get some more sleep.”

2-6

As he emerged from the tenement called Kosuke Store at Sumiya Riverbank, a child came running up and called out, “Mister!” When Santai turned around, the child grinned slyly while edging away as if to flee and said, “I’m starvin’.” “Hey, what’s up?” Santai said. “So you were here all along?” This was the child they’d met at Sanmai Bridge after coming down from Tōnosawa. He wore the same rags as before—barefoot with a rope belt—looking less like a beggar than a bear cub that had strayed from the mountains.

“That woman’s not with you anymore, is she?”

“You said you were hungry.” The child shook his head. “Not really.” “You said the same thing in Hakone.” “It’s not like I say that to everyone,” the child said, looking up at Santai. “Mister, seems like the person wasn’t there after all.” “He wasn’t there—you, did you know I came here looking for someone?” “I overheard you asking about it—you heading back to Daikuchō again?”

“You’re quite the troublemaker—have you been tailing me since Daikuchō?” “The whole time—from Numazu all along. Didn’t you notice, Mister?” Santai stared at the child’s face. “Even in Oiso? Fujisawa too?”

“In Kanagawa, you stayed at Kashiwaya, didn’t you.”

“I’m surprised—why didn’t you say something?” There was a woman with you, after all. “Do you hate women?” Santai asked. “I hate ’em. Women just nag and scold all the time, treat people like kids—so I don’t go near women,” the child said.

Sakuji vacated the tenement. It was said to be this March that Osan took a lover, Sakuji became immersed in alcohol, and Osan disappeared. Sakuji searched frantically for Osan, but whether he found her or not, he too ended up fleeing the tenement. He was apparently working as a loader or something at Nihonbashi Fish Market; people often saw him passed out drunk around there. The tenement residents had said so—he had first gone to Daikuchō, but Sakuji’s wife hadn’t said anything. That too was a single-unit tenement devoid of any proper furnishings, and in the dim, hollow room, Sakuji’s wife was making sandal thongs. She must have been elegant once, with well-proportioned features and a refined face, but now she was pitifully emaciated, her neck and hands as thin as dried firewood. Sakuji was at Kosuke Store in Sumiya Riverbank—that was all she would say, and no matter what else was asked, she gave no reply. There were girls of about seven and five, and a toddling boy. They were likely siblings, playing with bamboo pieces about three inches long, but their movements were quiet as if keeping it secret from someone, and whatever they said was whispered in hushed tones. Neither the wife nor the three children ever looked at Santai until the end.

“East—well, Mito’s east,” the child said as they walked. “But from Edo’s perspective, maybe it’s north? You think it’s east or north, mister?”

“What?” Santai turned around as if snapping back to his senses. “Hmm, Mito, huh? Yeah, maybe it’s in Tōhoku.” “That one only went as far as Mito. In the west, I made it to Suma, but this time I’m thinking of trying to reach Sendai.” “Where’s your home? Your parents?” “Didn’t I just tell you? Weren’t you listening?” The child clicked his tongue. “They all died in the Year of the Ox flood—I was seven. Got dumped in town custody, but it was so damn boring, me and Kippe busted out together.”

“So you’ve been living like that all this time?”

“It’s pretty fun,” the child continued. “I sleep wherever I want when I’m tired, go wherever I feel like going. Ain’t gotta worry about getting nagged or being sent on stupid errands.” “You’re always hungry, aren’t you?” “That’s just a trick, see? When someone takes a fancy to this, I pull that off. My belly ain’t empty or nothin’—only do it when I want coin.” The child heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Kippe ain’t got no grit, see? Third year rolls ’round, he gets all worn out—starts whinin’ ’bout missin’ tatami mats an’ futons. Dumped me right there in Suruga’s Fuchū, he did. Hmph! Bet he’s scavengin’ barrels or mindin’ brats somewhere now. Me? I’m better off alone—no dead weight.”

“If you keep doing that, won’t the authorities catch you?” “I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, see?” The child shrugged his small shoulders and snorted. “Most officials already know my face by now—why, at Hakone checkpoint they greet me first themselves!” “That’s quite the show you’re putting on.” “Ain’t quite daimyo-level.” The child stuck out his tongue but suddenly stopped. “Mister, you heading back to Iidaya?” “I’ve got luggage stored there.”

“There’s a woman waiting for you, right?” “No she ain’t. I left her this mornin’ when we set out together.” “Really?” “It’s true.” “You’ll end up back with her, won’tcha.” “Why?” Santai asked. “Just got that feelin’—reckon that woman’ll cling to you like burrs on cloth,” the child said. “That bother you?” “Ain’t I told ya I hate women?” “So what’s your damn point?”

The child walked in silence for a while. And then, in a tone suggesting he had thought it over carefully, he said sheepishly.

“If it comes to it... I could, y’know...” But Santai wasn’t listening anymore.

If she had left from Sakuji’s place, he thought there would be no clues to find Osan. But that wasn’t the case—they said Sakuji had searched like a madman for the two of them. After that he quit working and drowned himself in drink; eventually he stopped coming back to the tenement altogether and was said to be working as a loader at the fish market. Maybe Sakuji knew where Osan was. That’s right—it stood to reason he’d found them; he’d tracked down their whereabouts but had no hope of bringing Osan back. That’s what made him go completely off the rails. That was probably how it went—anyway, he should try approaching Sakuji, Santai thought.

“What’s your name?”

“Mine?” The child shook his head in exasperation. “Mister, you ain’t been listenin’ at all—just told ya! It’s Isan! Isaburō, I said!”

“My bad. Oh right—it was Isaburō, wasn’t it.” “You didn’t forget the other one too, did you?” “What’re you talking about?” “That’s what it was—I knew something felt off. You kept patting me on the head like that… You thought I was just some kid to look down on, didn’t you.”

“Don’t get angry—I was thinking,” Santai said, stopping. “You gonna do me a favor or what?” “You’re all caught up in your own stuff, huh?” “I’ll listen to your side too—try telling me again.” “I’ll go later,” Isaburō said with a cocky wave of his hand. “I’ll take care of your side first, so spit out what you need.”

Two-Seven

After ten o'clock that night—Santai was drinking at an izakaya called Yoshibei on the outskirts of the fish market. The previous year had seen strict time restrictions imposed on eateries through ordinance—though there were certainly backdoor arrangements—but this fish market seemed exempt from such constraints, its storefronts left open and eaves lanterns still hanging as customers laughed, sang, and caroused in boisterous voices. "What’re you gonna do?" whispered Isaburō from where he sat beside him. "What’re you waiting for?"

Santai gently pressed Isaburō’s arm with his left hand. Isaburō fell silent. Sakuji still appeared sober. Isaburō had spent half a day asking around and uncovered that he would appear every night at this "Yoshibei" and drink himself senseless. Santai had come there around eight o'clock and ordered sake, and Isaburō ate his meal before dashing out. It seemed he was keeping watch for Sakuji’s arrival and felt both great responsibility and pride in the task he had been entrusted with. Santai wasn’t much of a drinker, but in this bustling, spacious establishment, his cautious sipping didn’t stand out too conspicuously. Just as he finally started on his second bottle, Isaburō returned and reported Sakuji’s arrival.

“I’ll wait outside,” Isaburō said. “Places like this don’t sit right with me—everyone’s starin’, y’know? That okay?”

Santai nodded, and Isaburō left.

Sakuji sat alone at the edge of communal dining tables lined against the wall, two small appetizer dishes set before him as he drank with deliberate movements. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his ashen face drained of vitality with sunken eyes and cheeks. He wore a faded workman’s livery coat, traditional leggings, and straw sandals with loosened cords on his bare feet. —There were no women in this shop. Six apprentices ranging from twelve or thirteen to around forty-five years old were taking orders in vigorous voices and nimbly carrying drinks and dishes. Sakuji did not seem to be a favored customer; observing him, the apprentices wouldn’t approach unless called multiple times, and even when taking orders, they seemed to put his requests last.

Seeing Sakuji shake the heated sake flask upside down and drain the last drops, Santai stood up. When he called an apprentice nearby and said he wanted to move over there, the apprentice shook his head. “It’s house policy to decline when unacquainted customers exchange cups,” he answered. “No—that man’s an acquaintance. We’re drinking together after a long time, so please. This is a tip,” he said, pressing some coins into his hand. And he ordered more drinks and food, then went over to Sakuji’s side and called out to him.

“That’s right,” Sakuji answered, raising his eyes. “I’m Sakuji. What d’you want?” “There’s something I want to ask,” Santai said calmly. “Let’s talk over drinks. “Mind if I sit here?” Sakuji jerked his chin. Santai sat down, and the apprentice brought his sake and food. Sakuji stared blankly ahead with an expressionless face, but when the new sake arrived and Santai poured for him, he drank four or five cups in quick succession like a starving man. Only then—as if noticing for the first time the sake he had just drunk—he looked at Santai’s face and spoke.

“I’m flat broke.” “It’s nothing serious,” Santai said while pouring him a drink. “If you don’t mind, go ahead—I’ve got a bit on me.” “This place stays open till dawn.” “Yeah, that’s right. I ain’t tough, but I’ll keep up with you as long as you want.” “Your pours are lousy,” Sakuji said. “Leave the flask—I’ll serve myself.” “Alright, let’s each pour our own then.” Perhaps the tip took effect, for the apprentice brought two dishes each and four bottles of sake. The instant he saw this, Sakuji’s eyes took on a lively gleam, and even his sunken cheeks seemed to flush. “Is this okay, Master?” Sakuji said. “This is some high-grade sake!” “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it—just drink as much as you want,” Santai replied. “It’s been a while since I’ve done something like this. No—I don’t need appetizers. The only thing worth eating here is the salted fish guts. This place’s salted bonito is decent, but it doesn’t pair well with this sake. The pickles alone are plenty.” Sakuji continued drinking only the sake with evident relish, saying such things without even touching the pickles—he seemed to have forgotten that Santai had broached the matter of having something to ask. Until he had emptied four two-gō heated sake flasks, he kept up a ceaseless monologue of things Santai couldn’t comprehend, chiming in agreement with himself all the while. And when he took his first sip from the fifth bottle, as if suddenly remembering, he pointed at Santai with the hand holding his cup.

“You said you had something to ask earlier, didn’t you?” “Nothing serious—about Osan,” Santai said, pushing sake toward him as if retracting his words. “C’mon, let’s have another round. Let me pour for you just this once.” “Where’d we meet before, Master? Ryōgoku?” “Quit with ‘Master’,” Santai said. “Age-wise you’re the senior here. Mind if I call you Brother Saku?”

“Don’t talk about age.” Sakuji propped his left cheek on his hand, face contorting. “Osan...” he murmured with eyes chasing distant shadows. “Ain’t another woman like her walkin’ this earth. “Adorable from crown to toenail—cuteness packed solid through every inch. Swear to god, you’ll never meet her like again. Get yourself an Osan once in your life—die content without a single regret left. Honest truth.”

Santai recognized that memories of Osan were surging through every sense of Sakuji's being. Perhaps made emotionally fragile by nearly a shō of sake, tears suddenly spilled from Sakuji's sunken eyes and trailed down his cheeks. He began recounting his first meeting with Osan. On a snowy day halfway up Kudanzaka slope, Osan had broken her geta thong and stood distressed. Sakuji tore his own hand towel to repair her geta strap, then they shared a meal at a chicken restaurant in Awajichō. Though barely an hour had passed by the time they left the eatery, the two were already utterly infatuated with each other.

“Make me yours,” Osan said on their first night. Sakuji grabbed his chin tightly with the hand that had been propping his cheek. “Make my body and soul completely yours—never let me go,” she pleaded, clinging to me so tightly I thought my bones would creak.

Sakuji closed his eyes. Santai remained silent. Sakuji was wholly immersed in his own memories, appearing utterly unaware that Santai was listening. The surrounding customers kept shifting constantly. Only two or three groups stayed rooted in their drinking, while others downed their drinks quickly and left. Voices called out things like, "Let's head inside," or "Time to cross the river." The new arrivals were much the same too—drinking as preparation before going out to play, it seemed.

“I abandoned my wife and child. Osan left the man she’d been living with till then,” Sakuji continued. “No need to say I was serious—Osan seemed to truly love me too. But when it came to that moment—right at the critical instant—she’d start frantically callin’ out some man’s name. A name I didn’t know. Hearin’ that—my whole damn body’d feel like it froze solid.”

The new sake arrived. When Santai placed it before Sakuji, he took the soup bowl, emptied its contents completely onto the earthen floor, poured sake into the bowl, and gulped it down. "Is there anything more painful for a man? I flew into a rage—shook her awake and berated her—damn bastard!" Sakuji groaned, seizing his hair with his left hand. "This bastard—I hit her, knocked her down, kicked her... Poor thing—she just kept apologizing. 'I don't know anything myself,' she said. 'Don't know that man's name. Just got carried away—lost my senses. There's no one 'cept you I care about—please forgive me,' she pleaded."

So it was true after all, Santai muttered inwardly. That flickering instant’s entire scene was recalled vividly down to its minutest details in his mind. The abnormal ecstasy that manifested in Osan’s body, her intense breathing and screams—all of it could be felt as clearly as if they were right there. Sakuji had experienced this too—Sakuji’s hands and skin had caressed and tightly embraced Osan’s skin, doing as he pleased. As he thought this, no hatred or jealousy arose in Santai’s heart. Osan was wretched and Sakuji was wretched. Especially since Sakuji was a fellow man, he understood all too well the unbearable agony of a deeply wounded heart, and Santai even felt an impulse to take his hand and comfort him if he could.

“I didn’t know when or how it came to that.” Sakuji kept talking. “One day when I returned home, Osan was gone. We’d lived together less than a hundred days—she’d made two or three kimono and two obi. Of course, there were other small things too, but she hadn’t taken a single one. Still, I knew right away she’d run off. Being a cook, I usually came home late, but that day was before eight in the evening. I went into the pitch-dark house, lit the andon lamp, and looked around the tidy, empty room. That’s when I thought—ah, she’s left.”

Having said that much, Sakuji suddenly looked at Santai. With a look as though he'd just awoken, he looked at the soup bowl in his hands, then at Santai's face.

“Who’re you?” Sakuji asked. “Osan’s brother,” Santai answered. “Told you I’m lookin’ for her, didn’t I?” “That right…” Sakuji hung his head, shaking it slowly side to side. “She’s at the Jujube Shop in Sanya. Man’s name’s Iwakichi—they call him Mamushi. Some kinda layabout.” “How’d you track her down?” “Forgot.” Sakuji gulped sake from his soup bowl, liquid spilling down his chin to soak his work pants’ knee. “Forgot how, but any man who’s known skin like Osan’s’d hunt her down. Hell—yeah, hell—some idiot from Ushigome came sniffin’ round Sumiyoshi tenements too. Looked half-witted but still found her. That’s Osan for you.”

“So Brother, you didn’t take her back?” “Ah,” Sakuji said, closing his eyes and speaking in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, “I gave up the moment I saw Osan’s eyes. I’d hidden a blade in my coat—ready to kill any man who got in my way and drag her back—but… Her eyes were a stranger’s. Not that she’d forgotten me—she remembered—but she looked at me like I meant nothing to her. Like I was… air. After thirty or forty days together, she’d started giving me those stares sometimes—staring hard at my face like she was wondering, ‘Who’s this guy?’ Like my very existence didn’t make sense to her. But in Sanya… those eyes got even colder. The kind you’d give a total stranger. They say even indifference counts as feeling something—but there wasn’t even that. So I ended up coming back.”

Santai poured him a drink, then said in a quiet voice. “You should go back home to Daikuchō.” Sakuji slowly looked at Santai. “What about Daikuchō?” “Your wife and children are waiting. If that matter’s been settled, I think it’s about time you went back home.” “Do the dead 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 waitin’ for ya, I tell ya.” “What the hell’s your name?” Sakuji’s eyes suddenly gleamed. “What’d you say I was earlier?” “I’m her brother.”

Sakuji stared at Santai’s face with piercing eyes, then bared his teeth in a sneer. “You’re saying the same thing,” Sakuji said through clenched teeth. “—Which number man are you?”

Santai poured sake into his own cup. “What number man are you to Osan?” Sakuji hissed through clenched teeth. “Hey, can’t you hear me?” “I’m listening. You’ll spill the sake.” Sakuji looked at the soup bowl, grasped it with a trembling hand, then drank down the mostly full sake in one gulp. Santai, judging the timing right, called the waiter and ordered the bill settled. Sakuji muttered something under his breath, suddenly stood up, and staggered toward the back of the earthen-floored area. Santai paid the bill and, instructing them to let Sakuji drink more if he wanted, handed over some coins.

“He won’t budge till morning anyway,” said the waiter. “But at this hour—can Master make it back home?” “Money talks,” said Santai. “I’m leaving him in your care.”

Santai went outside. If he went as far as Komainado, there was a ship inn he knew—he thought he could either stay there or take a boat detour back to Iidaya. He had just exited Yoshibee and walked four or five paces when Sakuji called out from behind and caught up.

“Hey, wait a second! There’s something I gotta tell you.”

Santai stopped and turned around. Sakuji approached, panting heavily. Just then, Isaburō’s voice cried out “Mister! Look out!” from the immediate right, and Sakuji lunged at Santai. To Santai’s eyes, the movement appeared as clumsy and painfully slow as a dead tree toppling over, but in reality, it was lightning-fast—the moment he instinctively twisted his body, Sakuji’s hand tore through Santai’s workman’s coat as his shoulder slammed violently into him. Santai was struck by the force and staggered, then leapt sideways while still reeling. At that moment, pebbles clattered against Sakuji’s face, and Isaburō’s shout of “Mister! Run!” rang out. Sakuji raised his right hand while deflecting the pebbles with his left. Seeing the kitchen knife in that hand and intuiting he meant to throw it, Santai quickly hunched down and broke into a run. Anticipating the knife piercing his back any moment now, he ran frantically along the dark eaves of houses with closed shutters. Behind him, Sakuji’s shouts rang out twice, and though Santai knew a considerable distance had opened between them, he still kept running desperately.

“What a fool,” Santai muttered as he ran. “What a pitiful man.”

二の八

It was around nine o'clock the next morning when Santai left Funamasa, the ship inn on Komainachō's waterfront. The mistress he'd known had died two years prior, he learned, and now a daughter named Otoyo had taken a husband—the place seemed more prosperous than he remembered. "Is there no one left to carry on Daimo?" After breakfast, Otoyo said this while mending his torn workman's coat. "None of our old regulars come by anymore... Please promise you'll visit again, San-chan." She hastily covered her mouth with one hand and hunched her shoulders in an apologetic smile. "Forgive me—calling you 'San-chan' when you're a proper Master now. Childhood habits die hard."

“San-chan, huh? That takes me back,” Santai said with a smile. “Haven’t been called that in ages. Hearing it now—first time I’ve felt like I’ve really come back to Edo.” “You’re not angry, are you?” “San-chan, huh?” he said again. “I’ll come by once things settle down. Not cut out for this ‘Master’ business. Want you to keep calling me that forever.”

When he mentioned going to Sanya, Otoyo recommended taking a boat. However, Santai refused and left Funamasa. As it was past nine o'clock, few people walked the roads. Santai moved toward Ryōgoku Bridge while repeatedly glancing behind him. He thought Isaburō might emerge, but with neither Isaburō appearing nor any trace of Sakuji visible, near Hamachō he hailed a returning palanquin and went straight to Sanya.

The jujube store was not in Sanya-chō, but rather in a tenement located far on the outskirts of Sanya-Asakusa-chō. Beyond that point stretched a dry road through brown-ripened rice fields toward Senju, where execution grounds and crematory temple groves came into view. There were eight tenement blocks, and Santai quickly identified the house where Iwakichi had lived, though another occupant now resided there. When the tenant's wife proved ignorant of details but directed him to the manager, he returned to the street and visited Tasuke's shop—a small hardware store. The manager Tasuke was out, leaving his wife—a woman in her mid-fifties or early sixties—mending sacks behind the counter. At Santai's inquiry about Iwakichi, she froze mid-stitch and leveled a suspicious stare at him.

“Who are you?” the wife demanded reproachfully. “Are you a relative?” “Well, sort of—there was a wife named Osan, wasn’t there?” “She was here. A fine wife she was—too fine for the likes of Iwakichi.” “Did the two of you move together?” “Moved?”

The wife’s eyes took on a startled look. “So you don’t know anything at all, do you?” In the wife’s tone, Santai sensed something ominous, and words wouldn’t come immediately.

“The mistress was killed,” Tasuke’s wife said, “yes—by that Iwakichi bastard.”

Santai licked his lips. "She was killed," he asked back slowly in a sluggish voice, "you're saying Osan was killed?" "It was mid-July—they said she'd taken up with some man or other and got stabbed five times out of jealousy with an aikuchi dagger. She ran outside but that Iwakichi bastard chased her down and stabbed her again by the well where she dropped dead." Santai contorted his face sharply and drove his right fist into his thigh.

Iwakichi had immediately surrendered himself and was now reportedly in Ishikawajima Prison; rumors said he would soon be sent to Hachijō. Osan had been buried in an unmarked grave at Shinkei Temple since no relatives could be identified. After listening silently to the wife's account with occasional nods, Santai soon left the house. It was something utterly unexpected, yet he also felt as if some part of him had foreseen this outcome.

"In the end, Osan shouldered all the misfortune alone." As he walked, he muttered: "Here I am living like this—I always ran away. Ran from Osan, ran from Sakuji last night too. But they didn't run—Osan never ran from herself till they killed her, Sakuji didn't mind becoming that wreck of a man. And now Iwakichi's in prison, while that Ushigome fellow's been reduced to idiocy, so they say."

Santai stopped. A palanquin passed by, a packhorse driver with a loaded horse passed by, and three rōnin-like companions glanced at him suspiciously as they went past. “Shinkei Temple, was it?” After a while he muttered this, and at the sound of his own voice Santai regained awareness. “It was Shinkei Temple, I believe,” he said aloud, as if confirming it to himself. “Must be nearby. I’ll ask around.” Shinkei Temple stood four or five blocks ahead. Sandwiched between other temples—perhaps lacking prosperous parishioners—its small black gate leaned to one side, weeds choked the grounds, and fallen stone monuments lay conspicuous in the cemetery. He had meant to visit the priests’ quarters, but performing memorial rites after her death felt disingenuous; he doubted such gestures would comfort Osan’s spirit, so he went straight into the cemetery instead.—The unattended graves lay in a corner. Only earthen mounds remained, devoid of tombstones, with five or six wooden grave markers planted haphazardly. Santai circled a grave once when something at his feet caught his eye. Looking closer, he noticed a small flower blooming there. When he realized it was a morning glory, he felt as though his chest had been struck, and for a long time stood gaping vacantly at the tiny blossom.

1-6

“Thank you. You remembered after all.”

I squatted before the unattended grave and placed a single plucked morning glory upon the black soil. "I understand now you didn't get angry about that flower," she said, "but you went and left 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—please forgive me. "You had to stay with me," she said. "Didn't I tell you? If you'd thrown me away, everything would've shattered—I'm certain I begged you through tears." "I remember," I said. "But I didn't abandon you—I promised I'd return, meant to come back." "You shouldn't have let me go—you knew my body's habits. You called me fortunate to be born this way, said I should thank the parents who made me thus—didn't you?" "That's right—I said exactly that." "But thinking carefully now—that wasn't true. Those bodily habits became misfortune's very source." "That body—the one even Osan herself couldn't control—pushed her toward ruin." "If you'd stayed with me," she said, "none of this would've happened."

“No—that’s not certain,” he said. “In truth, I was the one who couldn’t endure it.” “You were!” she countered sharply. “You couldn’t endure—but why? I never understood why! Why didn’t you tell me your reason? If you’d spoken plainly about what troubled you from my habits… maybe I could’ve changed them! Why didn’t you tell me? Why?” “There was no way,” he muttered hoarsely into his collar folds now damp with sweat from midday sun filtering through cemetery pines—a sensation he hadn’t noticed until this moment—"given what kind of matter it was… words failed me entirely… I thought… if we separated for a year or two… things might settle…” “It hurt,” she whispered through imagined lips that would never again touch human warmth. “Yeah… I know.” “Know?” Her spectral voice rose like wind through bamboo groves—soft yet cutting all at once—"How could you possibly know? You stand there whole! You’ll take some new wife you fancy… become ‘Master’ this… ‘Foreman’ that… while I—” Here her tone broke momentarily before regaining composure—"while I tried forgetting you by drifting between men… only breaking them… breaking myself… until none remained unruined! What could you possibly know of such torment?” “True enough…” His calloused hands trembled slightly against folded knees—a master carpenter’s hands that could carve transoms yet couldn’t mend broken vows—"That may all be true… Forgive me.” At last he felt he was truly meeting her—not merely conjuring memories but encountering something essential beyond fleshly existence—a distilled version more authentically Osan than any living moment they’d shared. Then her presence softened like morning mist thinning under sunlight. “I don’t resent you,” came her voice now gentle yet firm—the tone she’d used during their rare peaceful mornings sharing tea before work calls pulled him away—"When we became one… remember? I said then I could die content… Being your wife those brief months fulfilled my deepest wish… What came after…” Here her voice faded momentarily before resuming—"wasn’t truly me anymore… Now that I’m gone… perhaps it’s better… Had I lived… we couldn’t have met again… Remember that letter begging you not to seek me? Had breath still filled these lungs… no words of yours could’ve changed my resolve.” “Wouldn’t have allowed that!” His sudden vehemence startled even himself—fists clenching involuntarily against thighs—"Would’ve taken you back by force if needed! Started fresh!” “No…” Her sigh carried autumn leaf finality—"This ending suits best… Born for ruin at twenty-three… yet lived thrice over—joy… pain… all extremes… Thank you…” Here her voice gained unexpected warmth—"for visiting… It gladdens me.” He pressed forehead harder against sun-warmed earth—voice cracking despite himself—“Forgive me…” Only cicadas answered now.

2-9

As Santai was about to leave the cemetery, Isaburō emerged from the grove beside it. “Don’t startle me!” Santai was truly startled. “What’s going on? Where did you follow me from?” “The whole time.” Isaburō rubbed his nose. “I went all the way to Iidaya, but you weren’t there, so I came back early this morning.” “Did you stay at Iidaya?” “I don’t stay at no inns. Places to sleep are everywhere.” Santai said as he started walking. “What happened to the man from last night?” “He got dead drunk and passed out on the roadside.” “How did you find me?” “When I doubled back and came to Koma-chō, I saw your back.” “I should’ve called out to you—I was waiting to see if you’d come.” “I was conflicted.” “What were you conflicted about?” “I was thinkin’—should I just leave without a word, or say goodbye first?” “You said something last night. Didn’t you mention having some kind of request?” “It’s fine now. Just forget about it.” “Just spit it out. Last night you saved my hide when things got dicey—saying thanks sounds corny, but if there’s anything I can do, I’ll back you up. So talk,” Santai said.

“Ain’t no use talkin’ about it,” Isaburō said pensively, “but truth is, I’m twelve now—figured maybe it’s time I settle down proper-like.” “If you’ve realized that, it’s for the best.” “I like ya, mister,” Isaburō continued, “so I thought maybe you’d take me as ’prentice—even if I’m only half a person’s worth, I wanna be a craftsman.” “If you mean it, I’ll take you on.” “Ain’t no good,” Isaburō cut in, shaking his head. “That’s the hitch—you ’member I said I hate women, right?”

“Seems you heard about that.” “A woman’s waiting for you, mister.” Santai shuddered, his hair standing on end. It was because he had heard it as though Osan were waiting. Santai stopped and looked at Isaburō. “Who—is waiting?” “The woman who came with you from Hakone,” Isaburō answered evasively, backing away slightly. “When I went to Iidaya and asked about you, the manager was saying you hadn’t come back—then that woman showed up.”

“I already broke things off properly with her.”

“When that woman saw me, she snapped—‘You’re still sticking with him? I won’t have it!’” Isaburō bared his yellow teeth in a mature, knowing smirk. “‘Don’t you come near us—got it?’ She had a scary face, mister.” “We’d settled things with her from the start. I’ll go back now and settle it definitively—don’t you worry about that one.”

“No good.” Isaburō shook his head again. “I’ve been living on the highway my whole life—I know good from bad. Might sound impertinent, but that woman ain’t ever gonna leave you alone. Just you watch—no matter what you do, she won’t ever let go.” “Wait—hold on a second!” “I’ll try going to Sendai after all.” Isaburō said while backing away into the distance, “That way suits my nature better anyway. See ya, mister.”

Santai watched silently. Isaburō called out "See ya!" once more, turned sharply around, and dashed off toward Senju. From his feet, pale dust whirled up, and his small body rapidly receded into the distance.

“Is Ofusa waiting?” Santai muttered under his breath. “...Humans don’t end while alive.”