Pathway to Japanese Literature

Shortly before the rainy season began, Noboru Honomoto voluntarily began wearing the medical coat designated for clinic staff. The pale gray-dyed cotton jacket with straight sleeves and the hakama resembling workman's trousers were stiff with heavy starch, and when he first put them on, he felt rather self-conscious, as though people were staring at him. Shindeguchi and Mori remained silent, pretending not to notice he had started wearing the medical coat. The other medical staff kept silent verbally too, but whenever they saw him, they were observed making sarcastic looks or curling faint smiles on their lips.—Amidst this, there was only one person who rejoiced for him and voiced it openly. That person was a girl named Oyuki working in the kitchen. The moment Oyuki saw Noboru wearing the medical coat, she clapped her hands together and smiled—a smile that seemed to spill across her entire face.

“You’ve finally donned the medical coat! How wonderful,” Oyuki said. “Now I’ve finally won our bet.” “So it’s your win, then?” Noboru asked suspiciously. “Were you betting with someone?”

“Yes.” Flustered for a moment, Oyuki skillfully masked it with a smile. “Well, you could call it a bet,” she said, “but really, I was just hoping you’d come to feel that way, Dr. Honomoto.” “What exactly do you mean by ‘that feeling’?” “It’s your feeling of commitment to settling down here at this clinic.” Oyuki bravely said, “It may seem strange for someone like me to say this, but we need good doctors here, and any true physician would surely want to work here. Don’t you agree?”

At that moment, Noboru realized. —It was an imitation of Dr. Mori’s way of speaking.

Noboru had heard from Genzo Tsukawa about Oyuki being in love with Hantayū, and again from Sugi who attended to Yumi, the madwoman. Hantayū appeared indifferent while Oyuki was said to be utterly devoted. “Dr. Mori’s propriety is commendable,” Sugi had said, “but when you consider Oyuki’s feelings, it becomes unbearable.” Noboru himself had sometimes glimpsed them talking together—Oyuki would stop Hantayū as he passed by for brief exchanges—but once he had seen her crying by the herb garden’s fence.—It must have been a late spring twilight, he thought—Hantayū stood pole-straight with arms crossed, staring at the sky while Oyuki wept into her sleeve beside him. Though Noboru had been some distance away and quickly looked aside to leave, their figures in that faintly misted half-light had seemed like shadow puppets—unreal and tinged with melancholy.

—Indeed, this was an imitation of Hantayū’s way of speaking.

While thinking this, Noboru said to Oyuki in a casual tone.

“Is that Mori’s opinion?” Oyuki nodded unapologetically and smiled. “Yes, Dr.Mori says that too.”

“I have my own opinions.” After saying this, Noboru suddenly frowned and adopted a confrontational tone. “Dr. Mori’s deceiving himself. Everyone’s true desire is to rise in the world—to make a name and build wealth. That’s humanity’s strongest, most legitimate instinct. Red Beard’s fine—he’s already renowned as a great physician. Daimyos and wealthy patrons welcome him with lavish courtesy. And by refusing to establish his own practice, working instead at this charity clinic? That only heightens his reputation! But we’re not like him. We’re unknown trainees. If we stay here forever, we’ll die in obscurity. I won’t stand for that.”

“You’re exhausted, Dr. Honomoto,” Oyuki said with earnest concern. “The fact that you’re saying such spiteful things proves how worn out you are. Go get some rest now.”

Noboru let his hands fall and walked away.

He felt ashamed. Not only was he ashamed of having said such things to Oyuki, but he also felt a contradiction between his own actions and the words he had just spoken. What he had said to Oyuki was neither exaggeration nor stubbornness—it had simply been him voicing his constant thoughts honestly. Yet on the other hand, he found himself strongly drawn to both the work at this clinic and to Sademasa Shindeguchi.—There had been a reason he had willingly begun wearing that medical coat he once despised. But had there been no change in his thinking, he would never have come to feel that way. The reason—if it could be called one—was nothing extraordinary; it had stemmed solely from the words of a single patient.

In Nakatomizaka Slope, situated before Dentsū-in temple, there existed an area called the "Mujina Tenement," known for being inhabited by people living in extreme poverty.

In the course of frequently going there to provide treatment as Sademasa’s attendant, Noboru came to be in charge of a patient named Sahachi the cartwright. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, with a sturdy, broad-boned frame, but he was clearly afflicted with tuberculosis; despite his robust appearance, severe weakness and emaciation were evident.

"Please make him truly commit to resting," Jihei, the neighborhood administrator, must have said countless times, and Shindeguchi too repeatedly issued strict orders for quiet rest. Sahachi meekly complied. When his fever raged or cough turned violent, he would indeed take leave from work to lie down—yet at the slightest easing of symptoms, he would rise at once to resume labor. Caught and reproached for this, he would laugh with a sheepish grin across his broad face, scratch his head while bowing repeatedly, and offer apologetic excuses.

“I’ll take care of this right away,” he would say. “Once it’s done, I’ll go straight to bed—I promise I will.” It was said that Sahachi had once married when he was young, but they separated after only about half a year, and he had lived alone ever since. He had heard from Jihei, the neighborhood administrator, that while Sahachi was highly skilled and earned well, he was unusually selfless—giving away everything he earned to others—and still hadn’t properly acquired even basic household goods for himself.

One day, that Sahachi looked at Noboru suspiciously and asked, “Why don’t you wear the clinic’s medical coat?” “Because that’s not an official regulation,” Noboru answered. “Sademasa decided it on his own authority—it’s not an officially established regulation.” “So whether I wear it or not is my own business,” I said.

Two

Sahachi averted his eyes from Noboru and muttered as if to himself. "That medical coat helps people, you know."

He said that. “If people see that medical coat, they’ll immediately recognize a doctor from the clinic. Though folks like us poor don’t want to go there ourselves, when we spot one passing by—well, there’s plenty who’d beg for treatment then. To someone like me, that coat’s worth more than anything.”

That medical coat held another meaning. Due to its ease of movement during tasks, maintenance of cleanliness, and capacity for immediate replacement when soiled by patients’ waste—even if not visibly dirty—the rule required changing it daily in summer and every other day in winter. Sademasa had likely begun using it for such practical reasons, but upon hearing Sahachi’s words, Noboru privately acknowledged that it carried significance there as well.

“How self-important of me.” While returning to his room after parting with Oyuki, he shook his head as if mocking himself. “Humanity’s strongest, most legitimate instinct,” he said, twisting his lips into a sneer. “—And here I am wearing this fine medical coat, no less.”

When Noboru came to Shindeguchi’s room, he heard what sounded like a groan from beyond the shoji screen—closer to a roar than a groan, a single short cry that made him feel as if doused with cold water, compelling him to hurry past the spot. As he turned the corridor’s corner, Hantayū Mori slid open his room’s shoji screen and gestured for him to enter. “Do you need something?”

“I need to talk to you,” Hantayū said. “It’s still before breakfast.”

“It’s the same for me. Come in.”

Noboru reluctantly entered Mori’s room. “Where have you been?” “Nowhere,” Noboru shrugged his shoulders. “I just took a short walk before breakfast. What’s it to you?” “I—” Hantayū started to yell, but he restrained himself and continued quietly, “Dr. Shindeguchi is extremely agitated. I wanted to tell you to be prepared for that.”

Noboru remained silent. "Earlier there was a summons from the magistrate's office," Hantayū said in a hushed voice. "Dr. Shindeguchi went to the guardhouse, and when they ordered me to accompany him, I went too. The summoner was Magistrate Matsumoto Sanzaemon-dono, with Superintendent Ogawa-shi—the director—also present. They demanded we halt outpatient treatment and reduce our budget by one-third." Hantayū explained that outpatient treatment had actually been discontinued long before. When they expanded the clinic and increased inpatient capacity to one hundred fifty beds from over seventy, outpatient care was officially prohibited. But this proved impossible. Even after boosting inpatient numbers beyond seventy to one hundred fifty, those seeking outpatient treatment still numbered at least three hundred fifty annually—sometimes surpassing seven hundred in peak years. Since most couldn't afford town physicians anyway, they couldn't refuse when desperate patients begged for care. Naturally their numbers crept upward—first by ones and twos—until eventually things returned to how they'd been before.

“After Dr. Shindeguchi became chief physician soon after that, we came to provide treatments semi-openly under tacit approval,” Hantayū said. “Yet now they’ve suddenly ordered another halt—and what’s more, they’re cutting the clinic’s entire expenses by a third.”

“That—” Noboru shot back, “is there some reason for it?” “They claim it’s due to a ‘joyous occasion’ in the shogunate—apparently their expenses are piling up.”

“A ‘joyous occasion,’ they say?” “Apparently, his favored concubine gave birth to a daughter, so the shogunate was overjoyed and planned various celebratory events—though the magistrate didn’t state it outright, he hinted between the lines. That’s why Shindeguchi became furious.” If there was a joyous occasion for the shogunate, shouldn’t they pardon criminals and distribute alms? That’s what Shindeguchi had wanted to say. The reason for his anger lay in that point—but he was in no position to voice such thoughts without slandering his superiors.

“We acknowledge the budget cuts,” Dr. Shindeguchi stated, “but we cannot cease outpatient treatment.” Hantayū paused there for a moment, then continued in a voice hushed as if roaring: “They are impoverished and ill. Halting free treatment would directly drive them to their deaths. I cannot accept this. I implore you to reconsider your decision.” With those words, he stood and stormed out.

While they were talking, the board signaling breakfast rang. While listening to that sound, neither of them made any move to stand, and even after Hantayū finished speaking, they remained seated for a while.

“What about Mr. Ogawa?” Noboru finally asked, raising his eyes. “Which side is he on?” “He’s probably on neither side,” Hantayū said. “In truth, he should be handling those negotiations—he’s the clinic’s director, after all. But he just sat there during the meeting without uttering a single word. Most likely… he doesn’t belong to either faction.” Then Hantayū stood up. “Let’s eat,” he said, looking at Noboru. “Be careful not to upset Dr. Shindeguchi.”

Noboru remained silent, seeming to lack confidence. Shindeguchi stayed ill-tempered throughout the morning. Though he displayed no overt signs of anger nor raised his voice harshly, his irritated state manifested clearly through his bearing. From examining resident patients to finishing the prescription logs, Hantayū and Noboru stayed at Shindeguchi's side the entire time, yet with every minor incident they exchanged guarded looks.

—This is working out rather well. Noboru muttered those words in his heart. He felt that Hantayū Mori had suddenly become close and likable to him—and he was surprised that this felt not at all unnatural. —At least he’s more human than Tsukawa. He recalled Genzo Tsukawa’s contemptuous remark—“He’s just a country bumpkin”—forgot that he himself had once viewed Mori with similar disdain, and found himself thinking that there might even be something worth learning from Mori.

When the prescription records were finished, Shindeguchi looked at Noboru while preparing to go out.

“How is Mr. Sahachi’s condition at the Mujina Tenement?” “There doesn’t seem to be any particular change.”

“Then come with me—I have some rounds to make first.” Hantayū and Noboru went out into the corridor. Hantayū was about to enter the dispensary when he turned back to Noboru and said.

“Be careful.” Noboru smiled and nodded.

III

The place Shindeguchi went to was Matsudaira Ikinokami’s residence. It stood about two blocks past Ushigome Gate, just before the shogunate fire brigade station, but until they arrived there, Shindeguchi kept muttering to himself without pause. “Do they have such a right? And if so, who granted it to them?” Shindeguchi shook just his wrist of one hand. “In wartime chaos perhaps—but now the realm enjoys peace with order firmly established. The shogunate’s authority grips the land unshaken, all four classes quaking in terror of defying its decrees even at cost of life. They can do anything—any lawless act, any cruelty—openly enforced under the shogunate’s banner. And mark this—they’re doing exactly that.”

“I won’t be deceived,” Shindeguchi said, curling his lower lip. “I may be an old fool of a do-gooder, but I won’t turn a blind eye to this mockery of humanity. And I’m not so old or so foolish as to bow silently to politics that ridicule and belittle people.”

For just a brief moment, the muttering ceased. Shindeguchi slowed his long strides while vigorously scrubbing his beard with one hand. “To lawlessness, lawlessness; to cruelty, cruelty,” Shindeguchi muttered. “Those who inflict despair and suffering on the powerless—we must make them taste what despair and suffering truly are. Isn’t that right?” Such hateful muttering continued for a long time. Shindeguchi’s heart seemed to seethe murky black with rage and hatred. He cursed the shogunate councilors, and ultimately cursed his own powerlessness against such authority. But before long, when they passed through Ushigome Gate, Shindeguchi weakly shook his head and made a motion with just his right wrist as if wiping something away.

“No—that’s not it,” Shindeguchi muttered wearily. “I can’t do such things. I remain an old fool of a do-gooder after all. Let us believe they too are human beings. Their crimes lie in occupying positions of authority without true capability, and in remaining ignorant of what they must know—they—” Here Shindeguchi pursed his lips into an inverted V. “They are poorer than the poorest, more foolish and ignorant than the most foolish among us. They themselves are the pitiable human creatures.”

Takezo, who had been carrying the medicine chest and accompanying Noboru, stammered from behind, "It’s Lord Iki’s residence." Shindeguchi stopped in his tracks as if startled, looked at his left hand, then glared at Takezo. Takezo looked at Noboru with a troubled expression, and Noboru walked toward the guardhouse. Shindeguchi and Noboru entered through the side entrance.

There was a reception with tea and sweets, and a chief retainer named Kawamoto Yugo came to greet them. Shindeguchi did not touch his tea and, immediately after the greetings concluded, declared in a clipped tone, “I’ll be taking the medical fees today, so have them prepared.” When Yugo heard “fifty ryo,” he jerked his chin back as if someone had jabbed his forehead.

“I’d like ten ryo of that in small denominations,” Shindeguchi said with an impassive face. “Now, let me see the item from the other day.”

“And the examination?” “After I’ve reviewed the menu.” Yugo hurried out. “Lord Iki may have a stipend of thirty-two thousand koku,” Shindeguchi said—though whether he was addressing Noboru or merely muttering to himself remained unclear, his tone carrying a mocking edge—“but he’s padded his coffers through long service as Master of Ceremonies. What’s fifty gold pieces—or even a hundred—to him? It’s not like he earned it himself. Neither here nor there, I suppose.” And again he muttered resentfully under his breath, “What’s fifty gold pieces—or even a hundred?”

Before long, Hayato Iwahashi, a steward, came and presented something written on a scroll. It was a five-day menu plan—undoubtedly meant for Lord Ikinokami’s meals—and Shindeguchi took his brush, crossed out the listed dishes one after another, and added several lines of new items.

“Serve it exactly like this for one hundred days,” Shindeguchi said as he returned the scroll to Hayato. “Poultry, meat, and eggs are strictly prohibited. Do not exceed these specified amounts for fish, shellfish, or seasoning. As I have firmly stated before, polished rice only shortens your life—you must strictly maintain the ratio of seven parts barley to three parts rice.” And without waiting for Hayato’s reply, he said, “Then let me examine his pulse.” Noboru was made to attend Lord Ikinokami’s examination. Lord Ikinokami was said to be forty-five years old, but he was as obese as a walrus from a picture book and seemed to struggle even while sitting. His abdomen was unbelievably massive; every time he moved, it swayed heavily like waves. The flesh of his jaw formed three distinct folds, his neck invisible as it drooped directly down to his chest. His face was round, cheeks swollen to the point of bursting, which made his eyes narrow and nearly closed.—Shindeguchi did nothing but gaze up intently from the lower seat. He didn’t even attempt to take his pulse. He simply stared fixedly with pitying eyes, not uttering a word, whereupon Lord Ikinokami gradually grew unsettled, loosening his collar as if suffocating, wiping his mouth with a sheet of kaishi paper, his throat rasping with each wheeze.

“I have now reviewed the menu for Your Lordship’s meals,” Shindeguchi said at length. “As I have previously stated, Your Lordship does not suffer from illness but finds yourself in a condition far more undesirable than any disease. If there were a specific ailment present, treating it would suffice. However, due to excessive consumption of rich meals, fat has accumulated throughout Your Lordship’s internal organs, causing them to weaken and completely disrupting the balance between absorption and excretion.” For a quarter-hour, Shindeguchi relentlessly berated Lord Ikinokami. Noboru, who was listening, realized midway that this was intimidation tactics, but even so, he was astonished by the severity of the dietary restrictions. He had heard about the restrictions—seven parts barley to three parts rice, with poultry and eggs prohibited—during the reception, but hearing Shindeguchi reiterate them in front of Lord Ikinokami and his steward made it clear that both the quantity and content were worse than even what the destitute ate. Lord Ikinokami’s face, bloated like a white leather bag, showed almost no discernible expression, but in his small, narrow eyes there appeared a fear akin to that of a frightened child and a sorrowful hue.

“When poor people fall ill, it’s mostly because their food lacks proper nourishment.” After returning to the reception room, Shindeguchi told Noboru, “But when rich men and daimyos sicken, it’s nearly always from stuffing themselves with delicacies. Nothing’s more despicable than ruining yourself through gluttony. Just seeing that spectacle turns my stomach.” He made a face like he might spit. When steward Hayato Iwahashi brought the payment, Shindeguchi declared he would compound medicine and summoned the medicine chest. After the steward left, he wrapped two ryō from the ten small gold coins in paper and ordered Noboru: “Take this to the Badger Tenements.”

“I’ll stop by Kōkakudō first, then make another round,” Shindeguchi said. “When it comes to budget cuts, we must first tackle the medicine supply. Persuading Kōkakudō’s owner will be quite a task—but never mind that. You go ahead to the tenement slum and deliver this to Jihei.”

Noboru put the paper-wrapped bundle into his sleeve and stood up.

IV

Just before reaching Nakatomisaka Tenement, the sky had become completely overcast as thunder began to rumble, and the moment he entered the administrator’s residence, a fierce evening downpour broke out. Jihei had been making straw sandals but stood up as if throwing them aside when he saw Noboru, saying he had sent for someone from the clinic. “Sahachi’s vomited blood,” Jihei said while handing him an umbrella. “Did you meet the messenger?”

“No—I was making rounds elsewhere,” said Noboru as he handed the paper-wrapped bundle to Jihei. “Dr. Shindeguchi asked me to bring this.”

Jihei set down the umbrella and, without a word, received [the bundle] with both hands pressed reverently to his forehead before storing it inside the Buddhist altar. Then, sharing the umbrella, they entered the alleyway and walked toward Sahachi’s house along the planks bridging the ditches. This area lay in a sharp depression where water would surge over the ground whenever rain fell hard. With drainage to the large Koishikawa-bound ditch being poor—even now, within moments the planks had begun floating loose—the tenement women worked vigorously through the deluge, clearing debris from the drainage channels.

Sahachi’s residence stood apart from the tenement row. Originally part of the same tenement complex, it had been destroyed seven years prior by a landslide that left only one house at the edge intact. The landowner had abandoned reconstruction due to the massive amount of collapsed earth, but Sahachi himself had modified and isolated this remaining structure to make it habitable. Over those seven years, rainwater had eroded most of the landslide debris, leaving nearly flat vacant land—prompting the landowner to recommence tenement construction, with old timber already delivered and land leveling underway.

At Sahachi’s residence was Jihei’s wife, Okoto.

“He’s sleeping soundly.”

After greeting Noboru, Okoto whispered to her husband, “He says strange things sometimes, but it must be the fever’s delirium. The suffering seems to have subsided now.” “Dr. Shindeguchi had gone to make his rounds elsewhere,” Jihei said while seated. “When the messenger returns, tell him the doctor was here. If he took that umbrella with him, deliver another one right away.” The moment Okoto stepped out, a thunderclap that seemed to split the sky roared directly above, and her scream was heard. With the entire house shaking as if in an earthquake, Jihei rushed out to the doorway and peered down the alleyway. “Must’ve been nothing,” he muttered while returning to his seat, “actin’ like a damn child.”

Noboru was gazing at the patient.

"About an hour ago," Jihei began explaining, "I had my wife bring him some porridge. Well, he'd been bedridden since yesterday afternoon, so when she prepared it and brought it over, she found him collapsed there in his workshop." Attached to the six-mat and two-mat residence was a wooden-floored workspace of about three tsubo. It was likely built by Sahachi himself—a shack-like structure with plank walls and no ceiling. Materials and tools for crafting cartwheel spokes lay scattered around a single thin mat spread across the floor.—When Okoto arrived, Sahachi had collapsed there, groaning as blood seeped across the wooden planks. Upon Okoto’s report, Jihei rushed over, and when they laid him in bed, he vomited blood again.

“He filled half the basin with blood,” Jihei whispered. “Holding him made even me feel like vomiting. I was sure he’d breathe his last right then.”

Sahachi suddenly opened his eyes. “Onaka,” Sahachi said, looking around. “Why did you come here?” It was a quiet, clear voice. “That’s his wife,” Jihei whispered to Noboru. “They parted ways seventeen or eighteen years back. Yes, her name was Onaka.”

Sahachi's eyes fixed on a single point. "You don't have to come," Sahachi said again in a clear voice. "I'll be joining you soon—it won't be long now. Ah, yes—I won't make you wait any longer."

He smiled, nodded gently as if that person were there, and then closed his eyes again. Jihei looked at Noboru’s face.

“It’s delirium,” Noboru said. “Dying patients often say such delirious things,” Jihei whispered, “but I don’t want to let this one die now. No matter what it takes, I want to make him healthy again. This Sahachi—he was a man like a god or Buddha’s reincarnation.”

“I only learned this myself four or five days ago,” Jihei whispered, crossing his arms.

I had heard before how Sahachi spent his earnings without hesitation for those in the tenement. He didn't even wear proper clothes - abstained entirely from alcohol and tobacco - ate only enough to fill his stomach - then contributed every last bit he could spare to struggling families nearby. This fact had long remained unknown. In places like this tenement slum where the destitute gather, long-term residents are rare; after three years pass, you'll find a completely changed crowd. The reason Sahachi's deeds stayed hidden so long was both his strict secrecy and those he helped constantly moving away. Five years back when Sahachi fell ill and collapsed - that's when I first learned of it all.

“I told him then to show some restraint,” said Jihei. “I yelled at him—‘Are you such a fool that you’ll help others until you collapse? Learn moderation!’” Sahachi had apparently apologized profusely. What had felled him was tuberculosis, but he refused to consult a doctor, and after lying in bed for about ten days, he rose and resumed work. He promised Jihei he would take care not to cause further trouble—that he would consider his own well-being—but in truth, he kept none of that pledge. When his condition failed to improve, Jihei forcibly requested an examination from Shindeguchi, who then ordered strict convalescence.

“But here’s the thing,” said Jihei, uncrossing his arms and planting his hands on his knees. “Just four or five days ago, I found out he was still giving things away to others. Dr. Shindeguchi had provided money for specific nutritious items, so I had my wife deliver them daily along with his medicine. I thought sending them little by little would make sure he kept them. But when I checked—turns out he’d been handing those out too! Rice, fish, poultry, eggs… even the medicine! The medicine too, Doctor!” Jihei’s lowered voice shook with anger. “What else could I say? I got so mad I thought my head would burst—I charged right in here yelling.”

Noboru was gazing at the patient’s face.

――What on earth was all this for? As he gazed at Sahachi's emaciated, skeletal face, Noboru muttered those words to himself. Sahachi's actions defied all reason. No mere disposition of deep compassion could drive someone to such extremes of self-sacrifice. Jihei had called him "like a god or Buddha reborn," but Noboru couldn't accept that. What he sensed instead was something more grounded—no, something distinctly human—lurking beneath it all.

Sahachi let out a deep sigh and opened his eyes again. A smile rose to his bloodless pale lips. He nodded toward someone. “You’re beautiful… Yeah.” Sahachi said again in a clear voice, “You’re beautiful. Those dimples of yours are beyond words. Onaka, come here.”

And suddenly, an expression of terror appeared on Sahachi's face. His gaunt cheeks stiffened, his eyes opened wide, his pale, parched lips trembled, revealing his teeth.

“That child—” Sahachi groaned in a hoarse voice, “No—not that one! Don’t show me this child! Send that one away—over there!”

Sahachi tightly closed his eyes and gasped.

At that moment, from the direction of the vacant lot behind them, a shrill scream and the sound of dogs barking madly could be heard. The thunder had passed, and the rain had stopped. Amidst the screams from behind, the words "A skeleton!" could be clearly heard.

Jihei quietly stood up.

Five

Noboru Honomoto stayed by Sahachi’s side until dusk.

Jihei, the administrator, had left upon hearing the commotion out back, saying he would go take a look, but had not returned for nearly an hour. The patient appeared completely calm, was sleeping soundly with his mouth half-open, and Noboru had grown terribly hungry, so he quietly stood up to leave. Just then, Jihei returned.

“My apologies,” Jihei said as he came in wiping his forehead with a hand towel. “The laborers leveling the ground out back dug up something unpleasant.”

“I’m leaving,” Noboru whispered. “The patient is sleeping soundly and doesn’t seem likely to take a sudden turn. When he wakes up, make sure to give him his medicine and some thick rice gruel.”

“Would you care for dinner?” Jihei said. “It’s nothing fancy, but my wife is preparing it now. Please join us if you’d like.”

Noboru expressed his thanks and declined, then left the tenement.

When Noboru returned to the clinic, it was just after dinner had ended. Only Hantayū Mori remained, and Noboru sat down next to him. The wooden-floored, wood-paneled dining hall was completely tidied up, and with only two lanterns remaining, the area was quiet and dark. The attendant on duty was a middle-aged woman named Ohatsu, who had warmed the soup, but the grilled fish and simmered greens were cold.

Having finished his tea, Hantayū stood up and said, "Could you come to my room later? Or I can come to you instead—there's something I need to discuss." "I'm tired today. Are you in a hurry?" "A young lady named Amano came by while you were out." Noboru looked at Hantayū with a face as if he'd been tripped up, chopsticks paused mid-motion. "Her name is Ms. Amano Masao." Hantayū said this and left the cafeteria.

“You’ve left some again, I see.” Ohatsu came to clear Hantayū’s meal tray and said, “I wonder if he only likes it when Oyuki serves him. Dr. Mori has never finished his meals cleanly during my shifts.” Noboru was eating silently.

It wasn't the attendant's fault; Hantayū's appetite had been declining since early spring. When Oyuki was on duty, he would reluctantly eat as if yielding to her pleading expression, but at other times—or when the side dishes displeased him—it even seemed painful for him to pick up his chopsticks.

He had an illness—his lack of appetite stemmed from that illness. Noboru had long suspected it was likely tuberculosis. Was Hantayū himself unaware of it, or was he—like many patients—aware yet turning his eyes from the fact? It remained impossible to say. Shinshutsu cherished Hantayū; he always brought him along for treatments, and whenever away on house calls, left all subsequent matters in his hands. He seemed to view him as his successor, yet never spoke about his health. There was no chance Shinshutsu’s eyes had missed the erosion of Hantayū’s body. There were cases of physicians neglecting their own health, of those closest escaping notice—but such oversights were unthinkable for someone of Shinshutsu’s caliber.

He probably knew.

And then, “That’s right,” Noboru thought. Once, Shinshutsu had said something along these lines regarding vitality and medical practice. Some individuals overcome illness, while others succumb and fall. A doctor can recognize the symptoms and progression of an illness, and can even provide some assistance to individuals with strong vitality—but beyond that, they have no power. Moreover, he had said, if medical practice were to advance further, this might change—but even then, it would still be unable to surpass the vitality inherent in individuals.

“There’s nothing as pitiful as medical practice,” he had said. Noboru muttered while sipping his tea, “The longer you work as a doctor, the more you realize how powerless medical practice truly is—that’s how he had put it.” As he muttered this, Noboru suddenly looked up. He was thinking about several things at once in his head. About Sahachi, about Hantayū, and about Masao having come to visit while he was away. The matter of Masao suddenly rose clearly to the surface of his consciousness, and he was assaulted by an intensely oppressive mood.

After leaving the cafeteria, Noboru went straight into his room. Then shortly after, Hantayū came and called out from behind the shoji. Noboru answered in a disinterested voice, “Come in.” “It’s a bit stuffy in here,” Hantayū said. “Let’s open this.” After opening the window’s shoji, he sat down. “I’m completely exhausted today.” “Avoiding it is futile,” Hantayū said. “Wouldn’t it be better to confront the facts head-on and clear the air?”

“I don’t need to hear about Chigusa.” “Then why won’t you meet Ms. Masao?” “I told you I’m not meeting her.” “She came here and waited over an hour,” he said. “She told me she knew you were here but you still refused to meet her.” Hantayū gave a light cough and continued, “Today, I was the one who received her. She insisted on having her message heard and passed to you, Mr. Honomoto—she seemed so desperate that I took her to my room.”

"I don't want to hear it," Noboru shook his head. "I don't want to hear about Chigusa—it turns my stomach." "Then you'd better spit it all out cleanly. There are other matters too."

Noboru looked at Hantayū suspiciously. “Mr. Amano is apparently making arrangements to get Honomoto out of here and appoint him as an official physician.” Noboru’s lips tightened into a straight line.

Hantayū began to speak. It had been mentioned before that Amano Genpaku was a Hōin and served as an official physician for the shogunate. Genpaku and Noboru’s father, Ryoan Honomoto, had been close friends since long ago, and their families frequently visited each other. Amano had a son named Yūjirō and two daughters. Noboru was the Honomotos’ only child, but for some reason, Genpaku favored him over his own son Yūjirō; whenever he saw Noboru’s face, he would smile and repeatedly say, “You’ll become someone of importance.”

“Unfortunately, Yūjirō’s no good—that guy seems intent on becoming some sort of entertainer; he’s a hopeless case.” He clicked his tongue and added, “But I suppose I bear some responsibility too—he’s a child conceived when I was drinking heavily every night.” Thus, when Noboru was nineteen and Chigusa fourteen, they became engaged, and soon after, Noboru was to go study in Nagasaki. At that time, Chigusa had turned eighteen. Her features and build were both placid, her speech utterly unhurried; she spoke slowly, pausing after each word in a manner that felt weighty even on the tongue—giving her at times a girlish air and at others an intensely mature impression.

“ ‘I want to get married before you leave for Nagasaki,’ Chigusa reportedly said,” Hantayū had told him. “ ‘Mr. Amano also wished for it, but Honomoto refused.’ ” “How could I get married before studying abroad? Our engagement had already lasted four years, and my study period was supposed to be three.”

“The other party was eighteen,” Hantayū interjected quietly. “For a woman to seek a wedding ceremony from her side—there must have been sufficient reason for that. While studying abroad took precedence for Honomoto, for a woman reaching eighteen...” Noboru shook his head violently. “Stop it,” he said roughly, “Just hearing about that woman who eloped with a student is enough to soil my ears.”

“In other words,” Hantayū retorted in a slightly sarcastic tone, “in other words, that means you still have lingering feelings.” Noboru’s lips tightened into a straight line again.

“Listen without anger,” Hantayū said. “If you truly have no lingering feelings, then you ought to forgive them. That couple remains estranged from the Amano family, and now their child is about to be born—it would be Mr. Amano’s first grandchild. Chigusa seeks her mother’s care. If Honomoto were to release his anger and mediate for Mr. Amano here, parent and child could be reconciled. Couldn’t you bring yourself to do this?”

“Did Masao come to request that?” “The other matter,” Hantayū said, “is a plan to get you out of here. It was your father—not Mr. Amano—who worked to have you admitted here. The agreement was that they would keep you until your feelings settled, so there’d be no mistake regarding Chigusa.” “However,” Hantayū continued, “Amano Genpaku has opposed this from the start—he claims keeping you at the clinic too long would do more harm than good. As previously agreed, he’s pushing to have you transferred out as soon as possible, since he’s arranging an official physician position for you himself.”

“And he also said that if Honomoto were to come around to those feelings, he would like to meet and speak with him directly.” Hantayū smiled softly there. “—She’ll be turning seventeen soon, but Ms. Masao is such an attentive, pretty, and clever young lady. She seemed quite beside herself with worry over you, Honomoto.”

Six

That night, Noboru found it hard to fall asleep. It wasn’t from restless excitement but something closer to quiet reflection and regret. In his mind, Chigusa’s visage revived as a childhood companion for the first time, seeming to plead for his forgiveness.—Even when appearing terribly mature, Chigusa could never voice her thoughts. Not only could she not speak them aloud—she seemed unable to express them through gesture either. Noboru had carelessly overlooked this. Chigusa had been both late-blooming and unreserved by nature, not yet having developed womanly feelings. Marriage was something much further ahead—that was what he had thought.

“Because I’d grown accustomed to seeing her since childhood, my eyes had dulled,” he muttered into his bedding. “If I’d noticed that back then—I would’ve married her before leaving for Nagasaki. Everything would be different now.”

Because he had thought her late-blooming and unreserved nature meant she had no romantic feelings whatsoever, the pain of betrayal was all the greater.

"It seems I was only caught up with myself." Before long, he muttered again, "I thought my father had been coaxed into sending me here by Mr. Amano—he'd never been able to hold his head up around him since old times, and had depended entirely on him for my future—I hated Chigusa, hated Father, hated Mr. Amano, and what's more, came to hate this clinic itself."

Noboru grimaced and shook his head from side to side on the pillow.

“Chigusa was wounded by her own error; Amano-san was wounded in his own manner; Father was wounded in his own way—and there I remained alone among them, arrogantly convinced that I alone had sustained such injury. How self-important I was.” He grimaced more deeply.

"How self-important I was—think about what you’ve done since coming here. Hey, aren’t you ashamed?" Noboru curled up under the covers.

The next morning, Noboru, who had overslept slightly, had just finished his delayed breakfast when someone came from the tenement slum to fetch him. Sahachi’s condition had taken a turn for the worse, so they were asking him to come. Shindeguchi immediately told him to go, handed him one packet of powdered medicine, and said that if Sahachi seemed to be suffering terribly, he should have him take this. “If it’s unnecessary, bring it back and return it to me,” Shindeguchi said. “Be careful not to forget—it’s not medication we use regularly.”

Noboru got ready and left. When he reached the side of Dentsū-in Temple, a middle-aged woman who had come running out from an alleyway spotted him and called out. When she asked, “Are you from the clinic?” and he answered that he was, she said while panting heavily, “My child’s illness has turned critical—could you please examine them?” “He’s been sick for half a year now, but we can’t pay the overdue fees so no doctor will come—my child looks like he could die any moment,” she pleaded.

Thanks to this medical coat, I suppose.

The medical coat signified that its wearer was a member of the clinic staff. Because the medical fees were overdue, the doctors wouldn’t come—the woman had rushed out of her house and called out as soon as she recognized that medical coat. “Red Beard’s a decent old man after all,” Noboru thought.

“Please go to the clinic,” he said to the woman. “I’m on my way to a critically ill patient myself—you should make your request at the clinic. It’s not far from here.” The woman thanked him and hurried up the slope.

At Sahachi’s house were Jihei and two women—likely from the same tenement—taking care of the patient. The younger wife was boiling water at the brazier, while the old woman kept diligently wiping the old tatami mats. It was said that at dawn, he had vomited a small amount of blood, and just now had vomited a large amount again. The metal basin hadn’t been in time, so half had spilled onto the tatami mats; the old woman kept wringing a cloth in hot water and meticulously wiping the grooves between the mats. “Last night, he ate a little rice gruel and about half an egg yolk,” Jihei murmured. “The old woman intended to stay over—she even brought bedding—but the patient wouldn’t hear of it. When she came back just before dawn this morning, she found he’d cleaned up the mess himself.”

Noboru slipped closer to Sahachi’s bedside. Sahachi seemed to be asleep, but his eyes were slightly open, and his mouth hung slackly agape as if his jaw had come unhinged. His complexion was livid, utterly devoid of vitality; his cheeks were hollowed as if carved away, the skin sagging into wrinkles toward his jaw. “He won’t last much longer, will he?” “Seems that way.” Noboru moved away from the bedside. “It’s beyond human help now.”

“To take such a good person,” Jihei said with a heavy sigh, “when all these worthless wretches are swarming about—it makes me want to curse the gods and buddhas.” The young wife brought Noboru some tea.

“It seems quiet out back today.” Noboru asked without touching the tea, “Has the land leveling been completed?” “No—there’s an investigation by the town officials. We can’t start work until that’s finished.”

“Did something happen?” Jihei made a disgusted face, then lowered his voice and began to speak. When they were leveling the site of the landslide at the back, a corpse wrapped in a futon came out. The body had completely decomposed, now little more than bones, yet thanks to the futon’s cotton remaining intact, it remained fully preserved from head to limbs. They could immediately tell it was a young woman from the remnants of kimono fabric and the abundant hair still present.—Due to a landslide seven years prior that shifted the earth, the original burial site could no longer be determined. “It must have been buried above where the collapsed tenement stood,” Jihei said, “but judging from its condition, there’s no doubt someone killed and buried her. Today the town officials should come to investigate.”

“If it’s turned to bones like that, it must be a very old corpse.” “They showed it to the gravedigger at Zennōji Temple—he said it must’ve been about fifteen years.” “How did you determine she’d been killed and buried?” “There’s no sign of anything resembling a coffin,” Jihei said. “If she’d died of illness, they wouldn’t have just wrapped her in a futon and buried her—that makes no sense. But if it’s been fifteen years like the gravedigger said, well… there’s not much we can investigate now.”

A voice sounded at the entrance, and a man around fifty feebly came shuffling in. He had a stout build, wore a long haori with irregular stripes carelessly draped off one shoulder, and had a wrinkled plain obi tied around his waist. A white, unkempt beard extended from his cheeks to his jaw; his bald head glowed glossy red as if oiled. He must have been severely drunk; constantly staggering, he peered this way with bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t come in here!” Jihei waved his hand dismissively. “The patient’s in bad shape—can’t have you here. Get going, I said!” “Town officials’re here right now, see,” the man slurred, swaying slightly. “Told me t’go fetch th’administrator. You’re still th’administrator, ain’t ya?”

Seven “Don’t speak out of turn,” Jihei snapped, then said to Noboru, “As you heard, I’ll go take care of it.” Noboru nodded. When Jihei went out with the man, the elderly helper also left through the back door, saying she would go check on her house. Before long, the man who had left with Jihei returned alone, staggering unsteadily. With an ingratiating smile, he plopped down heavily onto the entryway step.

“You can’t stay here, Mr. Heihachi.” The young wife came out from the kitchen and said, “Haven’t you just been scolded by the administrator? You’ll disturb the patient—please go home.”

“You’re one of the clinic doctors, aren’t you?” The man said to Noboru, “Name’s Heihachi—go way back with Dr. Shindeguchi, I do. Sahachi an’ me—we’re the oldest tenants in this Tenement Slum. Now he’s laid up bad, but won’t even let me see ’im—and that Omatsu over there, struttin’ round like she owns the place when she ain’t even from ’round here, yammerin’ ’bout how I’m disturbin’ the patient an’ oughta clear out!”

“You wouldn’t say such things if you weren’t drunk,” the young wife said. “When you’re like this, Mr. Heihachi, you lose all sense of reason. Even the administrator told you that.”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Heihachi shook his head and cut her off. “I been drinkin’ since I was nine—near forty years now—an’ ain’t never been dry a day! Sober me might not know better, but drunk me ain’t never lost my damn senses! Think I’m lyin’? Go ask Dr. Red Beard!” Heihachi grinned there. “—Y’know what Dr. Red Beard told me once? When I drank myself stupid an’ puked up somethin’ awful? He made this terrifyin’ face an’ said, ‘If you’ve got money to drink yourself sick, at least spare a thought for your wife an’ kid!’ No joke! See, he can say that ’cause he’s lookin’ at me from the outside! So I shot back—‘Why don’t you try crawlin’ inside the head of someone like me for once?’... Rich folks an’ educated people—they can tell what’s right from wrong, what’s worth doin’ or not. But that’s ’cause they got money or time or learnin’! People like me? We ain’t got that luxury! We work day ’n’ night an’ still can’t fill our bellies proper! Every damn day—‘How do I eat today?’ ‘Scraped by today, but what about tomorrow?’ ‘The wife’s in trouble.’ ‘Kid’s ’bout to be born.’ ‘Rent’s piled up—gonna get kicked out.’ ‘Where’n how do I beg next?’—Decades on end livin’ like that! Yeah, from the outside I’m just a drunkard! But this here’s what’s really inside! No lie—you start thinkin’ ’bout your wife ’n’ kid, you gotta drink or you’ll lose your damn mind!”

Sahachi groaned and said something. As Noboru slipped closer and peered in, he whispered hoarsely, "I have something to tell you." "Please ask Ms. Omatsu and Mr. Heihachi to leave too." Noboru nodded and relayed this to them. Heihachi remained seated. Omatsu excused herself to attend to matters at home and left promptly, but Heihachi kept grumbling complaints until finally sprawling out on the floor. "Let him stay like that," Sahachi said. "He'll fall asleep soon—I'm sorry, but could I have a cup of water?"

Noboru adjusted Heihachi’s position, then took the patient’s teacup and attempted to pour hot water from the iron kettle resting on the brazier. However, Sahachi said he wanted water. “Doesn’t this mean I’m allowed to drink anything now?” Sahachi smiled weakly. “Please, I beg of you.”

Noboru went to the kitchen to draw water and brought it back for him. “I was glad when you began wearing that medical coat,” Sahachi said after taking a sip of water. “Dozens more poor folk will be saved because of it.” Remembering what had occurred on his way here, Noboru answered inwardly that you’d been right. “Please don’t laugh off what Heihachi said as drunken rambling,” Sahachi continued. “Most poor people think that way—when you spend every day scrambling just to eat, you need drink to keep living.”

"I can’t say I don’t understand that, but there are also people like you, Mr. Sahachi."

“Me?”

Sahachi murmured vacantly, took the teacup, and skillfully sipped another mouthful of water while lying down. "I know what the people of this tenement say about me." Sahachi set down the teacup and said, “I heard everything Administrator Jihei told Dr. Shindeguchi and you—absurd, utterly absurd! You all praise me because you know nothing. If you learned the truth—if you knew what kind of monster I truly am—not a soul would spare me even their spit.”

“So that’s what you meant by ‘the story’?” “That’s right,” Sahachi nodded. “I never told anyone before—always anxious someone might notice. But I don’t have long now—today at most, or maybe through tomorrow. No—please don’t say anything. You might think I’m rambling nonsense, but the ones coming to take me have been here since yesterday.”

Noboru remained silent. Sahachi’s tone was casual, yet carried such a chillingly genuine weight that Noboru felt a kind of pressure. “What I want you to hear about is my wife,” Sahachi began calmly. “Her name was Onaka—three years younger than me. We became husband and wife within a year of meeting.” “This might sound like romantic boasting, but unless I tell this part, you won’t understand—it may be unpleasant, but I ask you to endure it.” After this warning, Sahachi began his story.

He used to live in Shitaya’s Kanasugi. Having lived as a live-in apprentice at his master’s house where he crafted wheel spokes, he became an orphan at fifteen after his parents—said to be from somewhere in Oshu—died young, growing up depending on his master and wife as surrogate parents. Onaka worked as a maid at Kotoku, a kimono shop in the neighboring town, and was twenty-one when they met. Their first words were exchanged on a spring dawn as Sahachi returned from Shin-Yoshiwara—having visited a brothel in Kyo-machi late the previous night with friends who chose to stay until morning, while he left early out of deference to his master’s likely displeasure. When he reached Daionji Temple’s front gate at daybreak’s first light, rain began pattering down, making him hike up his kimono hem and quicken his pace along the road.

Eight

He had taken the spring rain lightly, but upon reaching Kanasugi Street, the rainfall grew heavier until it became a downpour. Sahachi thought 'so be it,' and with the hand towel draped over his head now thoroughly soaked through, he continued walking slowly through the deluge when a young maid called out to him and lent him an oil-paper umbrella bearing a shop's emblem.

"I'm already soaked through anyway." "But it's bad for your health." After such an exchange, he borrowed that umbrella and returned home. That was Onaka. After going to return the umbrella, Sahachi found himself unable to forget Onaka. When she came running through the rain and lent him the umbrella with a "But it's bad for your health," he seemed already captivated by her face and voice. After that, he insisted on calling her out, and they met several times in the rice fields of Iriya. Though it was unreasonable, Onaka did not refuse. Eventually, a day off came about, and the two met at Tennoji Temple in Yanaka, where Sahachi confessed his feelings.

“I’m happy.” Onaka said with a pale face. The simple words “I’m happy” gave Sahachi a fresh and refreshing emotion, like watching a morning glory bloom. “I’m happy... but I can’t.”

Still with her pale face, Onaka gently shook her head. She had seven younger siblings and was sending them money because her father was ill. Moreover, when she entered into maid service, she had borrowed an advance on her wages under a ten-year contract, and the remittances she sent home were larger than those of other servants. That was due to the connection that Onaka’s father had once worked at Kotoku’s shop and, after leaving to become a traveling cloth merchant, still sourced his goods from Kotoku. But in any case, Onaka explained that she couldn’t freely control her own circumstances.

“How much time remains on your contract?” “There’s one year left, but since the money I send home has become a debt, I can’t leave even when the term ends.”

“Just pay back the money you borrowed.”

“There’s such a thing as duty.” “No duty should chain someone’s whole life—won’t you let me handle this?”

Onaka shook her head. “Even if I were to leave the shop,” she had said,“with my ailing father and many siblings, being together would only become a burden on you.” “Why don’t we do at least that much?” Sahachi said. “I have no parents or siblings. Your parents are my parents; your siblings are my siblings.” “I can at least support parents and siblings,” Sahachi said.

Sahachi worked as hard as he could to earn money from then on. Once a month, he met Onaka in the rice fields of Iriya. Onaka’s house being in Asakusa Sanya, they would arrange to meet on the day she had time off to visit her father, and he would accompany her along the rice field path to near Sanya. Though Sahachi could hold his liquor well, he quit both drinking and social gatherings. At the time when shinnai ballads had become popular among his friends—Sahachi himself having attended lessons for about six months—he gave even that up completely and threw himself into earning money.

Perhaps his earnest feelings had gotten through to her, for Onaka too eventually made up her mind and promised they would be together once her contract period ended. Sahachi said he wanted to meet her family, but Onaka would not consent to that alone—she even stubbornly refused to let him approach near their house. “I just can’t bear to right now—please wait until we can be together.” The reason was that it was too wretched and shameful; Sahachi couldn’t bring himself to press her further. But it was later discovered that there was another, deeper and inescapable reason.

A year later, they became husband and wife. Sahachi told his master everything, and his master went to Kotoku on his behalf. Though Kotoku initially resisted, his master repaid all debts in full and declared himself her guardian, finally securing their consent. They acquired a house in Shitaya Yamazaki-cho where Sahachi commuted daily to his master’s workshop. Thus began approximately a year of tranquil happiness—Sahachi loved Onaka profoundly. She grew far more endearing after their marriage than before, becoming someone he cherished beyond expression.

“And then came the fire in the Year of the Fire Horse,” Sahachi continued quietly. “It was a midday blaze in late February that burned everything from Shitaya to Asakusabashi. When I rushed over from my shop in Kanasugi, our neighborhood was already engulfed in flames—I couldn’t even get close.” Sahachi sipped water there again.

He walked around searching for Onaka with near-maddened desperation. His shop in Kanasugi had also burned down from flying embers at that time, but he didn't even know that. Since it was daytime and she was a young woman alone—light on her feet—he believed she couldn't possibly have burned to death and must have escaped somewhere. He searched through gathering places of those displaced by the fire one after another. The next day, since Sanya hadn't burned, he went there only to be told, "Onaka hasn't come." Though he had been sending monthly remittances until then—something Onaka disliked—this was only Sahachi's second visit to the house, where the family's attitude reached extremes of coldness.

“It was as if they’d had a daughter stolen from them.”

Sahachi said this and let out a deep sigh. Kanasugi’s shop burned down, and the master and his wife moved to the countryside in Ebara. Sahachi stayed at a friend’s house and spent about half a month searching through the burned ruins and relief shelters. When he finally resigned himself to Onaka being dead, he suddenly lost heart and fell ill right there at his friend’s home. “It was July of that year when I moved to this tenement slum.” Sahachi said with eyes that seemed to chase after something distant, “With the help of friends, I managed to attach a workshop to the end of the tenement. I handled taking orders, delivering finished goods myself, and mostly ate at a diner.” “I somehow managed to live a carefree life.”

He was persistently urged to take a wife, but would always vaguely deflect such talk and continued living alone.

Two years passed, and in the summer when he turned twenty-eight, Sahachi encountered Onaka in the precincts of Senso-ji Temple. It was the day of the Forty-Six Thousand Days Festival, and the temple grounds were packed with worshippers, but amidst the crowd beside the Nenbutsu Hall, the two came face to face, recognized each other, and stood frozen. Onaka was carrying an infant on her back. Though she had grown slightly heavier and her hairstyle was different, making her appearance quite changed, Sahachi recognized her as Onaka at a glance, and she too immediately acknowledged him.

“It’s been a while,” Sahachi said. “It has been some time,” Onaka replied.

Pushed by the crowded throng, the two walked toward the inner mountain area.

Nine

After making a full circuit of the temple grounds and exiting through the Zuishin Gate, Sahachi spotted a soba shop, entered it with Onaka, and went up to the second floor. There were no customers on the second floor; Onaka put the infant down and breastfed him. “It’s your child, isn’t it.”

“Yes, his name is Taikichi.” “About a month old?” “Nine months.” Sahachi felt as though his chest were being torn open. “It felt like a chisel had been driven into me and was being twisted deeper and deeper.” Sahachi furrowed his brows slightly. “It wasn’t hatred or resentment—just something so heartrending and pitiable… It’s strange, isn’t it? My wife bore another man’s child and was breastfeeding him right before my eyes. Under normal circumstances, I should have scolded her thoroughly, maybe even beaten her half to death. But all I felt was pity—endless pity. If I could have, I would have held her tight and wept with her.”

Noboru took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the sweat from Sahachi’s forehead.

That was when they parted ways. Sahachi did not ask anything, and Onaka did not say anything either. The soba arrived, but neither of them touched their chopsticks; eventually they stood up, and Sahachi helped strap the infant to her back. "You're living happily now, aren't you?" Sahachi asked. "Yes," Onaka murmured under her breath. "I'll probably never see her again." Onaka did not answer, instead rocking the child on her back. After parting ways upon leaving the soba shop, as Sahachi stood watching her go, Onaka turned back at the corner, looked his way, and bowed.

“For five or six days after that, I couldn’t work at all. I drank alcohol I hadn’t touched in ages, falling into a pattern of drinking myself into a stupor and sleeping it off.” Sahachi gently shook his head. “It felt like half my body had been taken by Onaka, and I was suffering alongside that part of her. For some reason, not an ounce of hatred or resentment arose within me. Whenever I recalled her figure walking away after we parted—how she turned back to bow—nothing but pity overwhelmed me, so intense it felt like my breath would stop.”

And then one evening, Onaka came to visit the tenement slum.

Sahachi lay sprawled out drunk. Onaka had come without the infant; entering the house, she closed the entrance shutters herself, came up inside, and quietly sat down beside Sahachi. Sahachi instantly knew it was Onaka. The sound of the shutters closing made him think it must be her—then realizing this lack of surprise itself surprised him most of all.

“I went and asked Mr. Risuke in Kurumazaka,” Onaka said in a whisper. “Ah, Mr. Risuke helped me in many ways.” “I heard about that too. I’m sorry—please forgive me.” Sahachi mustered every ounce of his strength to suppress the moan threatening to escape him. He quietly sat up and pulled the lamp closer. It was already late, and with the shutters closed, the room had become as dark as night.

“Please don’t light the lamp.”

Onaka said that and began to cry.

“Won’t you forgive me?” “I don’t know,” Sahachi groaned. “Even I don’t understand that part... But I was glad you stayed alive.” “Will you tell me why?” “If it won’t hurt you too much...”

Onaka fell silent. Likely to suppress her sobs, after a while she quietly blew her nose, and then spoke in a flattened tone that stifled all emotion. She had a man she was promised to. He was the child of her father’s friend from Yamadani, had run away from his parents’ home, lived in the same neighborhood, and worked as a carpenter’s handyman. He was the same age as Onaka but had been declaring since he was sixteen or seventeen, "I’m going to become part of this family," and contributing his earnings to her family. When he turned twenty, he clearly stated he wanted Onaka, and her parents gladly agreed.

“I learned about that just before hearing it from you.” Her feelings hadn’t yet solidified. She didn’t dislike the man and felt grateful for what he’d done for her family. Yet the notion of becoming his wife remained as distant as someone else’s story. That was when she met Sahachi. Onaka found herself powerfully drawn to him. Though she knew she should state the facts plainly and refuse, she felt powerless to resist—half in a daze, she let herself be pulled along by Sahachi.

“But there was just nothing I could do.”

Onaka said this and began crying again, suppressing her voice as she sobbed for a long time.

Eventually, Onaka resolved herself. I'll be with Sahachi. A debt is a debt—there must be a way to repay it later. Having resolved herself, she informed both the owner of Ettoku and her parents in Yamadani. She had steeled herself with such terrifying resolve that she didn’t shed a single tear. When Sahachi’s master went to speak with Ettoku’s owner and met reluctance, and when Sahachi visited the Yamadani household only to face their icy indifference—there were reasons for all of it. And so the two of them came together. The year they spent together was such a blissful, fulfilling time that Onaka would not have regretted trading her entire life for it.

“That year with you made me feel my life had been worth living. But I often thought to myself when alone—this happiness was too much; surely punishment would come if things stayed like this.”

During the fire, what flashed through Onaka’s mind was this thought: “Punishment will surely come.” “What nonsense—” she denied her own foolish ideas as she fled the flames, but the more she rejected them, the more intensely they took hold. She’d already lived through a lifetime’s worth of happiness—this fire was proof of that. This fire was proof she had to make an end of things. Those words rang clear in her mind, as if whispered by someone else. Sahachi would think she’d burned to death—with that, everything would be settled. The time had come to sever it all. Lost in these thoughts, she suddenly found herself standing before the Yamadani house.

From that point on, I felt I was no longer my true self but had become a different person. The real me was with Sahachi; the one here was a different person, Onaka thought. In truth, after that she seemed to become utterly listless, marrying the man just as her parents said and setting up a household in Honjo.

Ten Two years passed, a child named Taikichi was born, and just when she thought her life with that man had settled into some semblance of stability, she encountered Sahachi at Senso-ji Temple.

Onaka felt as if she had awakened. She had been asleep for a long time and felt as if she had suddenly awakened. With a feeling akin to someone spirited away by the gods suddenly returning home, everything after the fire began to feel unreal. “Even now it’s like that—I know it’s me talking here like this, but I just can’t believe there’s another me with a husband and child.”

As she said this, Onaka writhed. "That’s why I came back to you—you understand, don’t you? You... I’ve come back."

“Do you truly mean that?” “Hold me.” “You’ll just want to go back there again.” “I’m begging you—hold me.”

Sahachi gently pulled Onaka close. Onaka adjusted something with one hand, then threw both arms around Sahachi, clung to him with all her strength, and simultaneously let out a short, sharp scream.

“Don’t let go.”

Onaka said, still clinging to him.

“Don’t let go of me.” And then Onaka breathed her last. “I stabbed once below her left breast with a dagger,” Sahachi said. “No need to call a doctor—a single thrust for an instant death. …You understand now, don’t you? She pleaded not to let go. I didn’t want to let go either. Once, I even tried picking up that dagger again, but it felt like Onaka herself was telling me she mustn’t die. So I gave up on dying. And… yes.”

Sahachi coughed violently. Due to his completely exhausted physical strength, he bent his body, grabbed the pillow with both hands, and coughed so violently it seemed he might draw his last breath at any moment. Noboru edged closer, stroked the bony back where ribs protruded, waited for the coughing to subside, then gently let him sip water. “Yes.” After a pause, Sahachi said in a hoarse, feeble voice: “What they dug up behind here yesterday was Onaka. Before the landslide, that was my workshop. I buried her beneath it and have lived with her there all this time.”

What he had done for the neighbors was a form of memorial for Onaka. There was no reason for him to ever be thanked or praised. He didn’t know what had become of Onaka’s husband and child, but by making them suffer such grief, he might as well have killed Onaka himself. The day would surely come when this truth would be exposed, he thought. Until then, he wanted to be of some use to others—both as a memorial to Onaka and to atone for his sins.

“When I said ‘the one to fetch me has come,’ this is what I meant—” Sahachi said. “When I heard the commotion behind the house yesterday, I thought—‘Ah, so this is it. Onaka has come for me. Now we can truly be together. Now we can finally find peace.’”

Heikichi—who had been sprawled sleeping on the raised wooden threshold—suddenly let out a groan and began shouting in a foolishly loud voice: "Bring water!"

“That stingy old bastard Jihei! That miserly hag Oume! Sahachi’s a damn fool! Red Beard’s an ugly mug! You’re all a bunch of gaping idiots! Hah! This world’s just two gō and five shaku anyway—put on all your serious faces, it’s still shallow as hell! Better off guzzling booze till you’re plastered—hey! You deaf? Bring water!”

“Dr. Honomoto,” Sahachi said, “please go to the administrator and tell him those bones are Onaka’s—that I was the one who buried her. It’ll save unnecessary trouble.”