Pathway to Japanese Literature

I Ohisa had been longing for Hanji. That had been clear from the start. Yet Hanji, being timid, had believed—until those words came from Ohisa’s lips—that she was in love with Sankichi, all while pining for her in the depths of his heart, a misconception that had been wearing his spirit to tatters.

“It’s nothing, Han-chan,” Sankichi said. “Everything’s fine—no need to worry.”

This became the catalyst that bound Hanji, Sankichi, and Ohisa together.

Hanji and Sankichi were the same age. They were born in the same tenement behind Asakusa Kurofune-cho and raised there. Ohisa was five years younger than them and lived across from Hanji’s house in that tenement. The three had not known each other in their younger days. For the tenement housed many children, and they were not particularly noticeable ones. Moreover, when Hanji was seven years old, he had been sent to become an acolyte at a branch temple of Sōjiji and did not live there for five years. Hanji’s father Genji had been an old metal buyer but seemed to have intended to make him a monk. In this world where honest folk never rise above their station their whole lives—but even at some poor temple becoming its head priest would earn people’s respect and keep food on the table—such things he impressed upon Hanji when the boy was still only seven.

When Hanji was twelve years old, his father died. Afterward, a frail mother and eight-year-old sister O-Yuri were left behind, and as the family struggled to make ends meet, he returned to the tenement. After five years as a temple acolyte, Hanji had learned reading, writing, and etiquette but could not bring himself to become a monk; having even considered escaping if given the chance, when the time came to return home, he found himself wanting to leap for joy rather than grieve his father’s death.

In the year Hanji returned to the tenement, Sankichi conversely entered apprenticeship at a Buddhist altar maker’s workshop in Taharamachi 2-chome. Though their paths crossed in a sort of relay, during that time they spent about half a year together. Though it had been five years since their last meeting, as they hadn’t been particularly close to begin with, their interactions at first remained those of mere acquaintances from the same tenement—and had Ohisa not been there, the two might never have become friends at all.

Ohisa quickly grew close to him as her younger sister’s friend. A year younger than her sister O-Yuri at seven years old, she was a thoroughly plain child with a frail build and unremarkable features, her head crowned by sparse, corn-silk-like red hair that grew in wispy tufts. Yet she clung to him all day long, calling him "Han-chan’s big brother."

In early May on a certain afternoon—near the ferry landing known as Okura Crossing—Hanji was catching crabs for Ohisa. Clutching the stone embankment of the Sumida River, he was catching crabs hiding between the rocks when—after capturing five or six—about five neighborhood children came over and began taunting, "Baldie, baldie—" He had returned from the temple barely ten days prior, and his head was still shaven. Since even he himself found that embarrassing—to the extent that he had been avoiding the tenement children—Hanji trembled with rage. Among them were roughnecks like Tetsuzo and Yoshiro who, while teasing Hanji, snatched Ohisa’s small bucket and hurled all the crabs inside into the river. Hearing Ohisa start to cry, Hanji tried to climb the stone embankment. Tetsu and Yoshiro were physically strong—opponents he could never hope to match—but he resolved to leap at them and bite off at least one of their fingers.

At that moment, Sankichi appeared.

“Hey Tetsu, cut it out,” Sankichi said calmly. “Five ganging up on one’s just shameful.”

“Mine too!” Ohisa said tearfully, pointing at the small bucket. “They let my crabs escape too!” “Nasty bastards,” Sankichi spat. “Scram already, Tetsu.” The five reluctantly left the spot and, muttering curses, fled toward Komagata. Hanji clung to the stone embankment and watched this unfold, but rather than feeling gratitude toward Sankichi, he was overcome by a wretched, unbearable sense of having been rescued.

About half a month later, when they met in a tenement alleyway, Sankichi was the one who smiled at Hanji and asked if he wanted to play shogi. Sankichi had a fair-skinned oval face with thick eyebrows and lips that always seemed tightly pursed; his manner of speaking and movements were calm, giving him an overall mature demeanor. Hanji blinked as if dazzled and replied that he didn’t know shogi. “Then learn it,” Sankichi said. “Why don’t you come over to my place?”

Hanji went to Sankichi’s house for the first time.

Sankichi had no parents and lived with his grandfather named Mohei. It was much later that Hanji learned Sankichi’s parents had been adopted as a married couple; they hadn’t gotten along with Mohei and had left the tenement to live separately four years before that time. Hanji vaguely remembered those two people and wondered why they had disappeared, but feeling somehow that he shouldn’t ask about it, he said nothing to Sankichi.

Mohei was already nearing seventy years of age. He was tall and lean, but his legs and back remained sturdy; he drank frequently, and rumors circulated that he often sought entertainment. He had set up a lathe in the three-tatami space at the top of the stairs and spent his days crafting wooden bowls for lacquerware. It was said that his skillful hands brought in a considerable income. Though a man of few words who hardly spoke, his dark-complexioned oval face and imposing stature—nearly six feet tall—gave him the dignified air of a retired proprietor from some grand establishment, such that even Busuke the administrator seemed to hold him in regard.

After learning shogi, Hanji began visiting Sankichi’s house nearly every night.—He had resolved to become a joinery craftsman and had apprenticed at a shop called Shitei in Fukui-cho outside Asakusabashi, but due to his mother’s poor health, he was permitted to commute rather than live on-site, working from eight in the morning until five in the evening. His work consisted of menial tasks and errands, earning him only meager wages, but with his mother and sister also taking on side jobs, the three of them managed to scrape by. Hanji would go to Sankichi’s house after dinner. Old man Mohei was usually drinking sake, but whenever he saw Hanji, he would invariably brew tea or bring out sweets.

The old man rarely spoke, but as he found his grandson Sankichi utterly endearing, he consequently treated Hanji kindly as well. Sankichi would merely make an annoyed face, say nothing, and of course never attempt to do anything himself. While playing shogi with Hanji, he calmly sipped the tea and ate the sweets. Sankichi entered apprenticeship at a Buddhist altar maker’s shop at the end of October, but one night shortly before that, Hanji got angry and hit him. As usual, they were playing shogi when Hanji lost twice and won the third time. And as they set up the pieces for the fourth game, Sankichi said, "This time I won’t hold back." This struck a nerve with Hanji.

“So,” Hanji asked back, “you’ve been holding back until now?” “Just get on with it,” Sankichi said provocatively. “No take-backs.”

Hanji lost miserably. Sankichi’s moves were mercilessly precise, executed with a sharpness that made him seem like a different player entirely—Hanji couldn’t land a single counterattack. “Tch,” Sankichi spat while flinging down a shogi piece, “you’re hopeless.” “What’s ‘no good’?” Hanji’s voice shook as he demanded, “What exactly’s ‘no good’?” “Han-chan,” Sankichi said quietly. “What do you mean ‘no good’?” Hanji roared, slamming his palm on the board. “Don’t you dare look down on me!”

And he leaped at Sankichi, pinned him down, and struck him with his fist. Sankichi offered no resistance, allowing himself to be manhandled. Hanji felt a momentary letdown as his opponent offered no resistance, but upon simultaneously recognizing that the cut above his opponent’s eyebrow was gushing blood, he recoiled in shock. “I’m sorry for making you angry,” Sankichi said as he sat up, “Forgive me, Han-chan.” “This is bad—it’s bleeding!” Hanji turned pale. “I’ll go get Mom!”

At that time, since the old man wasn’t there, he tried to go call his mother, but Sankichi said, “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” and went to the kitchen to wash his wound. The left eyebrow had a diagonal cut about an inch long. When he had struck him, his thumbnail must have caught the skin—the cut wasn’t particularly deep, but perhaps because it was during the rising tide, the blood refused to stop flowing. While watching Sankichi rub salt into the washed wound, Hanji flusteredly apologized.

“It’s nothing, Han-chan,” Sankichi said then—“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”

The impact of those words would only strike Hanji later.

Sankichi soon left for apprenticeship at a Buddhist altar maker’s shop, whereupon Mohei brought a strange woman into the house. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties—petite yet tautly built, with dusky skin and refined features that carried the particular allure of someone in the nightlife trade. Her daily hair arrangements and baths left her perpetually scented with white powder and perfumed oils, swiftly making her the target of the tenement wives’ censure. When Busuke the administrator went to conduct the census registry check, she was said to have answered that she was a relative named O-michi, thirty-two years old, who would only be staying temporarily—but the neighbors on both sides sneered. Of course during the day, while the neighborhood was awake, it remained quiet, but from midnight until dawn, it was said to be terrible. They held their breath and kept their voices low, but this only made it all the more rawly vivid and charged with visceral reality—so much so that even if one were to cover their ears with both hands, it would seem to seep through their palms, it was said.

II

What would San-chan think? Hanji couldn't fully comprehend the adults' conversations, but having been raised in the downtown district where children matured early, he dimly sensed something indecent. If she stayed temporarily before leaving, that would be acceptable, but should that woman remain as she was, she would effectively become Sankichi's mother.

Could he call a woman like that 'mother'? "I'd never accept that," Hanji thought, feeling unbearably sorry for Sankichi.

On New Year's Day around noon, Sankichi returned home unannounced. Just as he was worrying about how things would turn out, after a short while, Sankichi came to invite him to play shogi. There was no sign that anything had changed, and upon hearing him say "Come to my house," Hanji felt relieved yet slightly disappointed.

“I’ve given up on shogi,” Hanji said. “Why don’t we go to Asakusa instead?” Noticing Hanji’s gaze, Sankichi stroked the left side of his eyebrow. There, the scar from that time remained like a faint brown thread across his skin. “Is this what’s bothering you?” “Not exactly,” Hanji said, flushing red, “but… well, if we hadn’t played shogi, that wouldn’t have happened.” “It’s nothing,” Sankichi said. “Then let’s go to Asakusa.”

Oyuri, his younger sister, and Ohisa from across the way pleaded to be taken along. Sankichi made a face suggesting it would be fine to take them along, but Hanji rejected the idea in an uncharacteristically strong tone, and the two of them—just Sankichi and Hanji—set out alone. Hanji didn’t have any pocket money, so while looking at street performances and theater billboards and listening to street performers’ spiels, he intended to ask Sankichi about that woman when the opportunity arose. However, Sankichi generously paid for both of them, watched one play and an acrobatic performance, then ate Abekawa mochi at a teahouse. Since they had to return to the shop by five o'clock, they decided to head back shortly after leaving the teahouse, but as they passed through Kaminarimon Gate, Hanji casually broached the subject of that woman. Sankichi continued walking in silence for a short while longer before speaking in his usual calm, mature tone.

“It’s awkward figuring out what to call her,” Sankichi said with a bitter smile. “She’s not my mom, and calling her Grandma doesn’t feel right either.” After walking about ten steps, Hanji asked again, “You don’t hate her though, do you, San-chan?”

“Not really,” Sankichi answered. “—I’ve never had a mom around to begin with.” Hanji lowered his head. “I know the tenement folks are talking trash,” Sankichi said. “Badmouthing others doesn’t cost a penny—let whoever wants to talk have at it.” He then added, “You don’t need to worry about that stuff either, Han-chan.”

Hanji silently nodded. "He's on a different level than me," Hanji later thought. Back when I was catching crabs for Ohisa, he drove away Tetsu and Yoshikichi, but he didn’t shout or threaten them. “Get lost, Tetsu.” The memory of that calmly spoken voice resurfaced. When I still had a buzzcut and no one to play with, he suggested we play shogi. “If you don’t know it yet, you can just learn. Why don’t you come over to my place?” And then, for someone as slow to learn as me, he patiently stuck it out for half a year.

“You’re hopeless.” When he clicked his tongue and said that, I burned with irritation. The one truly irritated had probably been him—after patiently teaching me for half a year, my skills still showed no improvement. Anyone would’ve grown thoroughly fed up, yet I was the one who snapped and punched him. The shock when his left eyebrow split open and blood spurted out. But Sankichi didn’t get angry; he tended to the wound himself while saying it was nothing, that I shouldn’t worry.

People exist on different planes.

Hanji thought that. He said badmouthing others doesn't cost a penny, but the tenement folks had their reasons for speaking ill. I find that woman disgusting too, and he can't possibly come to like her either. A woman reeking of white powder from morning and keeping such a slovenly appearance—he must find her unbearable too—yet he never showed the slightest hint of it.

He might be what they call a one-in-a-hundred-thousand kind of person. Hanji thought that with his thirteen-year-old mind. Since Tawaramachi and Kurofunecho were relatively close, Sankichi appeared at the tenement house about three or five times a month. Usually when he went out on errands, Hanji was at 'Shitei,' so they hardly ever met, but he often heard about it from his sister Oyuri and Ohisa from across the way. When it came to Sankichi, Ohisa would become particularly earnest, remembering even the exact words he had spoken and the expressions he had made, which she would then relay in detail to Hanji.

“That person brings souvenirs,” Ohisa said. “Every time, I know perfectly well.”

“Who is that person?” “The woman at Mr. Sankichi’s place. You know exactly who I’m talking about!” Ohisa called him “Han-chan’s brother,” but with Sankichi, she properly appended “Mr.” to his name. Even such a little squirt can tell people apart, huh. Hanji began to think that way from around that time. Ohisa likes Sankichi—she should quit while she’s ahead—that guy’s bound to become somebody great someday, he won’t even glance at some embarrassing kid like you. I sometimes thought maybe it’s better not to get too attached.

In the early autumn of that year, as soon as July began, dysentery broke out in the tenement house, and his sister Oyuri fell ill and died after five days. The severe diarrhea persisted, and eventually she began passing blood, but with so much blood soaking through from the futon to the tatami mats that even the doctors could do nothing to treat her. In that tenement house, three other children and one old woman died, and several more perished in the neighboring district.

“She must have suffered terribly, poor thing.” As she applied makeup to Oyuri’s lifeless face, Hanji’s mother kept repeating: “I’m the one with this weak constitution—shouldn’t I have died first? I’ve got nothing left to live for anyway. You could’ve had all that happiness ahead of you...”

Just as they were about to carry out the coffin, Sankichi came to offer his condolences. He seemed to have suddenly grown taller, and his way of speaking had become even more composed—to Hanji, he even felt somewhat difficult to approach. Amid the chaotic crowd of neighbors, Sankichi expressed his condolences, placed the envelope of condolence money, then signaled Hanji with a glance and called him aside.

“I’ve decided to leave Tawaramachi,” Sankichi said. “I’m going to become a lacquerware artisan. I’ll come talk again once I’m settled.”

At that moment, Ohisa came over and called out, "Mr. Sankichi." When Sankichi looked over, Ohisa hid behind Hanji and smiled shyly. Sankichi smiled back but said nothing, giving Hanji a "See you later" wave before walking away.

The death of his sister was a heavy blow to Hanji as well. However, being in his growing years and because his mother kept lamenting endlessly, the noise of it all made him forget his sorrow sooner instead. Before that, on the last day of September, Sankichi had come to visit, announced that his apprenticeship with a lacquerware artisan had been settled, and suggested going out for a bit. Then they went to the bank of the Sumida River and talked there for about an hour. The place he’d secured was a shop called Shimada Tohee in Nihonbashi Yokoyamacho that handled daimyo utensils.

“I’ll make a name for myself!” Sankichi said with uncharacteristic fervor, repeating it several times: “I don’t need money! I’ll stay poor my whole life—starve to death in some attic for all I care! But in exchange—” He jabbed a finger at the river as if sealing a pact. “I’ll create works that’ll have people saying ‘This was made by so-and-so’ a hundred years from now! Pieces that’ll make my name endure!”

Hanji was overwhelmed. This was the first time Sankichi had ever shown such intensity—phrases like being willing to starve in an attic or creating works that would preserve his name for centuries were entirely new to Hanji’s ears. Unable to fully comprehend their meaning, he felt Sankichi had entered some unknown realm beyond his reach, becoming someone so elevated and extraordinary that Hanji had to crane his neck just to look up at him. "He’ll definitely become that kind of person."

Hanji became convinced of that. And he recalled how he had injured Sankichi’s forehead—how Sankichi hadn’t shown anger but had calmly tended to his own wound with steady hands—how even in such moments that inimitable nature of his had manifested itself, and he thought: This was why those bound for greatness stood apart.

In February of the new year, Hanji was to begin a live-in apprenticeship at the "Shitei" shop. They said Ohisa’s family across the way would look after his mother, and commuting wouldn’t allow him to learn real craftsmanship. Moreover, as he had turned fourteen, he resolutely decided on that course. And when the live-in arrangement was settled, he went to the "Shimafuji" shop in Yokoyama-cho, summoned Sankichi out, and informed him of the matter.

“I don’t have talent like San-chan,” he said when parting, “but I still intend to become a proper craftsman.”

“You’ll become skilled,” Sankichi said encouragingly. “Let’s meet at Yabuirī.”

Three

Three years later, in the autumn, Ohisa’s mother died.

While Hanji was using a plane in his work, a maid came and announced, "A girl named Ohisa is here." The name alone didn’t immediately ring a bell, so while brushing off wood shavings, he went to check and found Ohisa standing before the woodshed beyond the kitchen entrance. But it took him a little time to realize it was Ohisa. Though not much time had passed since they’d met during that year’s Obon festival at Yabuirī, her height seemed to have increased by about an inch, and her face and figure had gained a certain roundness, completely transforming her from the “unsightly brat” she once appeared to be. As Hanji approached, Ohisa stared at him with eyes wide open, and he saw large tears spill from those eyes.

“Mom died,” Ohisa said, covering her face with her apron as she began to cry. “Mom died.” Hanji opened his mouth but found no words coming out. He placed a hand on Ohisa’s shoulder—then she leaned her whole body against him. Face still buried in the apron pressed to his chest, she choked out hiccuping sobs. “What happened? When did she die?” “Yesterday was the seventh-day memorial.”

“I didn’t know… Was she sick?” “She just lay in bed for about ten days,” Ohisa answered. “After two or three days like that, her mind started to go—by the time she died, she wasn’t making any sense anymore.” “I had no idea… That’s turned into something awful, hasn’t it?” "What a stupid thing to say," Hanji clicked his tongue in self-reproach. While feeling only the parts where Ohisa’s body leaned against him growing hot, he found himself not even experiencing what could be called sadness—a realization that filled him with shame.

“What should I do, Han-chan?” Ohisa said, choking back sobs. “What am I supposed to do?” “What d’you mean ‘what should I do’? What are you—” Ohisa suddenly stiffened. Hanji pushed the body away and peered into the face while asking, “Did something happen? Is there something worrying you?” Ohisa remained still for a while but eventually gave a small shake of the head, thoroughly wiped the tear-dampened face, and lowered the apron.

“It’s nothing,” Ohisa smiled. “I’ve just been feeling adrift since Mom died. I’m sorry.”

“I guess that’s true, but there’s Maakichi,” Hanji said awkwardly. “With Uncle being that way, if you don’t stay strong, Maakichi will suffer.”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Ohisa murmured absently, as if talking to herself, “That child… He didn’t even cry when Mom died.”

And Ohisa let out a hiccuping sob from her throat.

That evening, after finishing work, Hanji explained the situation to his master and went to offer condolences at Ohisa’s house. When he first peeked into his own house, his mother was feeding Ohisa and Maakichi their evening meal. Hanji called out a greeting and went to Ohisa’s house. The siblings’ father was named Kakuzo—a tilemaker craftsman in Imado with terrible drinking habits who would drink nonstop for three or even five days once he started, never showing up for work until he became practically a violent drunk. Yet just when it seemed he’d keep going, he’d abruptly stop—not touching a drop for twenty days or even a whole month. During those sober periods, he became so docile he seemed to shrink into himself, barely able to hold proper conversation—but once he started drinking again, everything would repeat the same way.

Even when Hanji came to offer condolences, he was drunk and showed no sign of even hearing Hanji’s greetings. On the worn-out old tatami mats in the front room, stripped to the waist and sitting cross-legged, he was drinking from a rice bowl. Surrounding him were plates and bowls with half-eaten food, along with six or seven 1.8-liter sake bottles, filling the room with a nauseating stench of alcohol.

“Children belong to their parents, don’t they?” Kakuzo said. “Parents are the ones who birth ’em and slave to raise ’em. You sayin’ that ain’t so? Hey, you tellin’ me that ain’t how it is?”

Hanji tried to stand up.

“Hey, wait! Don’t run!” Kakuzo bellowed. “If you’re leaving, make damn sure you settle this first—ain’t children their parents’ property?!” “You know that already,” Hanji said soothingly. “What are you even angry about, Uncle?” “If children belong to their parents, why can’t we do as we damn please? Raising brats takes a hell of a struggle—skimping on my own food to feed ’em, cutting back on the sake I crave, fretting through summer heat and winter chill about clothes for their backs! After all that raising ’em, ain’t it only natural they should work for their folks when times get tight?!”

Hearing this far, Hanji jolted and muttered inwardly: So that's how it was. What should I do... Ohisa had come to say that because of this. When he'd returned home for Obon two years prior, he'd heard something from his mother. As usual, Kakuzo had kept drinking until finally proposing to sell Ohisa to a geisha house—which had led to a terrible marital fight, according to his mother's account. Hanji had laughed and asked, "Who’d buy such an unsightly child?" but Kakuzo, now widowed, must have surely begun considering that again. What a terrible man, Hanji thought as he stood up and returned home.

Ohisa was washing dishes in the kitchen, and his mother was trimming Maakichi’s fingernails by the lamp. Hanji spoke in a low voice about Kakuzo’s condition and asked what the circumstances were. As he had imagined, as soon as his wife passed away, he started saying he would sell Ohisa to a geisha house. The wife, likely sensing danger, had Hanji's mother and manager Busuke witness [the situation] and pleaded, "No matter what happens, don't let him sell Ohisa." Ohisa must have been thoroughly warned, for before five days had passed since her mother’s death, her father brought up the matter, so she immediately ran to manager Busuke.

“I didn’t speak up—being a woman and all,” Mother said. “But Manager Busuke apparently gave him a stern talking-to while kneeling close. Since then he’s kept drinking nonstop—that’s why he’s been carrying on like that.”

Because they were scared he might become violent，his mother took in Ohisa and Maakichi．She had intended to keep them until things settled down—but when it came to providing for three mouths—she fell silent． “We’ll manage for the time being，” Hanji said．“But I wonder if just having the manager stop him is really enough．” “If Mr．Kaku truly sets his mind to it，there’s no stopping him，” his mother said．“Whether he sells her directly to a geisha house or uses a trafficker—once the parent takes the money，even the authorities can’t do a thing．”

“What a terrible thing,” Hanji shook his head repeatedly, “what a terrible thing.” In the kitchen, the sounds ceased, and the faint sound of Ohisa’s stifled sobs could be heard. When Hanji went to check, Ohisa stood before the sink, covering her face with an apron as she wept. The sight of shoulders trembling in small shivers beneath a red sash struck Hanji as unbearably poignant. “Stop cryin’—this ain’t the time for tears,” Hanji said. “No matter if he’s your parent—how can any bastard with a perfectly good workin’ body go sellin’ his own kid just ’cause he’s too lazy to work or too drunk to care? That ain’t no parent! Right?”

"But Aki-chan was sold too," Ohisa said through tears. "She kept crying 'No! I don't want to!' but last year they finally sold her off." "Who's Aki-chan?" "Someone from the charm seller's household." "Don't recall her," Hanji tilted his head. "That's 'cause that girl was weak-willed. If you're truly against it—if you get desperate enough—ain't nothin' humans can't do when they're fightin' for their lives."

Ohisa raised her face. She wiped her tear-drenched eyes and stared intently at Hanji with them. “Mr. Sankichi said that too.” “San-chan... when did he...—” “During the New Year’s revelries,” Ohisa said, “he declared: ‘I’ll become Edo’s greatest craftsman—I’ll work with my life on the line.’”

Hanji felt a peculiar pain in the depths of his chest. For some reason he couldn’t understand, Hanji grimaced as he felt a heavy, oppressive pain deep in his chest. “That should make it clear,” Hanji said earnestly in a parched voice, “Even becoming a craftsman requires desperate resolve. You’ve got your whole life ahead—and Maakichi to think about. You’re twelve now. For Maakichi’s sake and your own life’s sake—fight like your life depends on it! With that determination, you’ll break through!”

“Yes,” Ohisa nodded, “I’ll try. If not for Maakichi, I’d have meant to die after all. I’ll try all I can.” Hanji told his mother he would deliver the money and soon took his leave. In fixed-term apprenticeships, one could sometimes borrow money from masters. Since Hanji hadn’t borrowed any, they could manage well enough for small amounts.

"Did she have that kind of talk with Sankichi?" On his way back to the shop, Hanji muttered, "I never said anything like that. When would I have had time for such a conversation?"

At that moment again, that pain arose in the depths of his chest. Hanji, bewildered, stopped in his tracks and gently pressed his chest with one hand.

Four

In November of his nineteenth year, Hanji entered an izakaya for the first time and drank alone for the first time. Even before then, at festivals, celebrations, New Year's, and such occasions, he had been made by his senior apprentices to take a sip or two, but if he drank even two cups, his entire body would grow hot as if set aflame, and his heart felt ready to burst out of his chest—so much so that merely hearing the word "sake" would send him fleeing.

But that day, he wanted to drink. Having seen how people got drunk, he thought it would be a blessing if he could become intoxicated like that—and even if he couldn't, just suffering would be enough; it was a feeling of wanting to torment himself to his heart's content.

The izakaya along the Kanda River’s bank was small and dirty, with its main clientele being stevedores, boatmen, and others who worked along the river—so there was no worry of encountering Shitei craftsmen or anyone from the neighborhood. Could the shop even hold twenty people? In the dim, damp earthen-floored area stood two long dining tables, surrounded by empty barrels topped with thin cushions arranged around them.

In the twilight of the fifteenth day, at the considerably crowded shop, Hanji found a seat in the farthest corner and sat pressed against the wall, hunching his shoulders. A woman who looked barely twenty yet appeared prematurely aged—like someone from a ruined household—came to take his order. “Oh my,” she exclaimed in surprise, “Aren’t you Shitei-san’s brother?” Hanji wanted to bolt but finally steeled himself and ordered sake and food.

“How pathetic,” Hanji muttered under his breath. “You knew this would happen. Forget it already.” Dishes of tsukudani preserves, grilled skewered sardines, and sweet simmered vegetables lay before him as Hanji drank with eyes shut tight until he emptied two cups. Unlike previous experiences, there was no bitterness now—no acrid smell clinging to his nostrils. "Forget it," he repeated inwardly, repeatedly squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. Yet the vision burned into his retinas remained searingly vivid—as though chiseled into his very bones—utterly inescapable. He had seen them—Ohisa and Sankichi locked in embrace. By the woodshed outside the kitchen entrance, Sankichi’s tall frame bent over her while Ohisa rose on tiptoe—their bodies pressed fiercely together, lips meeting in desperate union. This fervent tableau held such single-minded intensity that neither noticed Hanji’s footsteps emerging from the kitchen doorway.

Ohisa was working as a "Shitei" maid. Because her father was unpredictable, Hanji spoke to the master and his wife. It turned out one of their three maids had received a marriage proposal and they were looking for a replacement, so the matter was quickly settled. Busuke the tenement manager mediated between Ohisa’s father and the Shitei master, drew up a written pledge that she would not be sold into servitude, and lent them five ryō for a seven-year term. The recipient was naturally Busuke, and the remaining Mazukichi was taken care of by Hanji’s mother.

Nearly three years passed until Ohisa turned fourteen, but ever since they began living together at the shop, Hanji had always kept watch over her, shielding her from being bullied or harassed by the other maids and craftsmen.

"Don't go meddling where you don't belong," he would say. It was better not to show unnecessary consideration or put on airs of cleverness. Being thought of as somewhat slow-witted would help her avoid resentment from her peers. Hanji kept cautioning her like this—"Make sure to remember that"—adopting a put-on adult manner yet speaking with genuine earnestness.

All this time, Sankichi would usually visit on days off. And they would go out together to plays, vaudeville shows, and seasonal activities like chrysanthemum viewing, boat outings, and excursions. Due to the strictness of the Yokoyama-cho shop, Sankichi was always the one to visit, and whenever he did, Ohisa’s demeanor would change noticeably. Sankichi remained as before, only exchanging a word or two at most, but Ohisa would blush, barely manage a reply, and steal glances upward with dewy eyes, hoping not to be noticed. Yet whenever Sankichi was present, she would grow restless and fidgety, repeatedly making clumsy mistakes that earned her scoldings from the fellow maids.

"Just thirteen or fourteen—hasn't this child already gone and gotten herself all love-struck?" Since the start of this year, Ohisa had burst into tears after being bluntly told so by Tsune, a sharp-tongued maid. "This didn't start now." Hanji gazed at the cup in his hands and muttered quietly to himself, "Ohisa's always liked Sankichi. That's just fine, ain't it? Hey Han—you burning with jealousy now?"

His hand gripping the cup tightened, the knuckles standing out sharply. —Things like this must be common.

How many people in this world must be feeling as wretched as I am now? Hanji wondered to himself. "What's wrong, mister?" When he heard this and looked up, the middle-aged woman from earlier stood before him. "My name's Otsugi." The woman flashed a quick smile while holding the warmed sake flask. "My, it hasn't gone down at all. Let me pour for you."

“I’ll do it myself—it’s fine.” “No need to hate it so much.” Otsugi kept pouring while looking at Hanji. “I’ve been seeing you around for ages. What brings you to a place like this today?”

Hanji couldn't form a reply.

“Because I wanted to,” he finally said, then offered his cup as if suddenly remembering, “—Want one?”

“I’ll take it,” Otsugi accepted the cup. “Just one, thank you.” “When you’re in a place like this, you end up drinking before you know it.” “I used to hate it, but now I’ve come to like it. Though since I lose all composure when drunk, I make sure not to drink while working here,” Otsugi said. Her words carried roughness yet held an unassuming warmth within their directness, gradually drawing Hanji into a mood where he felt compelled to lean on her.

“You’re not drinking at all,” Otsugi eventually said suspiciously. “Am I in your way?” “That’s not it.” Hanji averted his eyes and murmured, “It’s my first time... still...” An indescribable shade shifted in Otsugi’s eyes. The shop was nearly full of customers—with clattering dishes, loud talking and laughter, and the shrill calls of three young waitresses—making the corner where Hanji sat feel like a hollowed-out space amidst it all.

“When I was little,” Otsugi said, “I once stepped into a miso soup pot and burned this foot—must have been five years old. They’d just taken it off the fire, and the pot was still boiling fiercely.”

"That was close—" Hanji grimaced sharply. “While Mother spread a paste made by kneading udon flour with vinegar and wrapped it in bleached cloth, I kept crying at the top of my voice that I wanted to die, I wanted to die.” "That must’ve hurt." "It wasn’t just about the pain—how should I put this?" Otsugi mechanically picked up the sake flask but, seeing Hanji’s cup was still full, set it back down as she continued: “When things get this terrible, you can’t go on living—you’d rather just die. That’s how it feels, you know? Yes, that’s exactly how I felt.”

There were three more times after that when she had felt similarly. “And in those moments when you think ‘I want to die,’ there’s no lie or exaggeration in that feeling.” “When you’re pushed to the absolute brink and think there’s nothing left but to die,” Otsugi said, “once that moment passes, your feelings gradually change, and what once felt so desperately urgent even starts to seem foolish.” “That’s just how people are, I suppose.” Otsugi smiled sharply, “It might be sad, but that’s precisely why we can keep living.”

"Why are you telling me these things?" Hanji wondered. Though thinking she must be misunderstanding something despite their first meeting, he found himself steeped in a warm mood reminiscent of catching the scent of his mother's milk. "I'm Hanji," he suddenly said, then flushed with embarrassment. "I see," Otsugi nodded. "Mr. Hanji."

A voice called for Otsugi from the back, and a young woman came over and said, “Neesan.” It was probably a regular customer. Otsugi reached out her hand to Hanji and said, “One more, please.” With flustered gestures, Hanji handed over the cup he was holding and poured for her. “Thanks for the drink,” Otsugi said after drinking, then looked at Hanji’s face. “—Come again if you like. And don’t go brooding over things.”

Hanji soon left the shop.

Though unexpected, after speaking with the woman named Otsugi, he found himself thinking—I shouldn’t have treated Sankichi that way. That day they were supposed to go to the yose theater together, but when he saw what was happening in front of the woodshed, he flared up and refused with “I’m not feeling well today.” “You knew about those two all along, didn’t you?” he berated himself. “They’re both your old friends—Hanji, you pretentious bastard!”

5 Before long, Ohisa would end up with Sankichi. Sankichi was sure to become one of Edo’s foremost craftsmen, and if that happened, Ohisa too could find happiness. Their fate had been sealed from the start—Hanji made himself accept this. "Look back on things since you were small—isn’t it only natural those two would end up together?" he told himself time and again.

Yet despite having reached such clarity, whenever he recalled the two figures before the woodshed, each time he felt a chest-splitting pain. Some time ago, when Ohisa had been crying in Hanji’s kitchen and he heard her say “Mr. Sankichi said that too,” an inexplicable pain had welled up deep in his chest. It resembled that earlier pain, but was sharper and deeper—so intense it stole his breath.

“It ain’t just me,” Hanji would often mutter to himself. “That person called Otsugi too—being a woman, she must’ve gone through some real hardships.”

He tried to avoid crossing paths with Ohisa whenever possible, but living in the same house made complete avoidance impossible; whenever she addressed him, a response was unavoidable. Ohisa's manner showed no alteration—she persisted in depending on him as always, consulting him over each trifling matter one by one. Even at fourteen, women possessed remarkable fortitude.

Embracing a man, pressing lips—such things should be momentous events. To think something that should decide one’s entire life—yet she showed no change at all. She must have tremendous fortitude, he thought. Hanji eventually learned to conceal his feelings. With both Ohisa and Sankichi, he took care to maintain the same attitude as before and strove not to let his emotions show. Such efforts inevitably carried a sense of self-abasement. Hanji would sometimes find himself wretched and overwhelmed. Such occurrences weren’t frequent, but when it became utterly unbearable, he would go to that izakaya to numb his thoughts. At such times, Sankichi too seemed to understand, and would study his face with searching eyes that couldn’t quite comprehend.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sankichi asked suspiciously on one occasion. “Lately there’ve been times when you’ve been acting strange.” “Is that so?” Hanji tilted his head. “I haven’t noticed anything myself.”

It was a rather undignified affair, but in that moment, Hanji felt something akin to happiness. They really were friends after all. "If he had anything to feel guilty about, he wouldn’t ask such things," Hanji thought. If he felt guilty about Ohisa, he should have noticed through my behavior. Even though I was being so cautious, the fact that he sensed something was off was because he was worried about me as a friend and because there was no guilt in his heart.

—He's a good guy. That guy's a considerate, good-hearted man. Compared to him, I'm just a petty, worthless human being. He's smart, and just like he himself says, he'll surely become a great craftsman. He's a friend too good for the likes of me, Hanji thought.

From around the time he turned twenty, Sankichi’s visits grew less frequent. He had said that the shop kept him busy. At Shimafuji, he had apparently become one of their most skilled craftsmen—sometimes traveling to daimyo mansions and wealthy homes for restoration work—and even on his days off seemed to find more enjoyment in working than in leisure. Hanji had been encouraged by his senior apprentice to take up folk song practice, but try as he might he couldn’t improve; with his poor voice, he ended up abandoning “Fallen Leaves and Rain” halfway through his attempts. One night when he went again to the riverside izakaya—perhaps slightly drunk—he found himself starting to sing that song without realizing it. It must have been around winter’s onset when he was twenty—after Sankichi had largely stopped coming by—that rainy evening with few customers found him sitting in his usual corner, drinking from Otsugi’s pours. Even when he drank, it was with Otsugi’s help and at most one bottle’s worth—typically leaving a third remaining as usual. That night too he hadn’t drunk more than normal, but perhaps the rare lack of patrons and the disheartening rain sounds put him in such a mood—he sang only the practiced portion softly in a low voice.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Otsugi said. “Such chic lyrics—won’t you sing the rest?” “Quit it—it’s embarrassing,” Hanji flushed red. “Even I can’t stand this voice.” “That’s your thing,” Otsugi said. “You’re always running yourself down—it’s a bad habit, Hanji. You’re a good man, but you really must fix that.”

Hanji fell silent. “Let me hear the rest.” Otsugi said, as if changing tack, “I do like that song.” Hanji shook his head. “If I quit here, I’ll never know the rest.” “Don’t talk like that.”

“I really don’t know,” Hanji said. “I tried going this far with it, but even I found it so ridiculous that I ended up quitting.” Otsugi stared intently at Hanji and said with what sounded like a sigh, “You have such a sorrowful nature.” Then she pleaded, “Just up to there is fine—let me hear it once more,” but Hanji had become completely flustered and refused, saying he’d do it next time. It was probably around the time after next—again on an evening with few customers—that Hanji absentmindedly sang that song. Of course it wasn’t a projected voice—just an unconscious murmur. At that time too, Otsugi sat across from him, but this time she said nothing. Holding the sake warmer, she closed her eyes and listened intently. After finishing his song, seeing Otsugi’s solemn expression and realizing he’d been singing, Hanji turned red.

“It’s a good song,” Otsugi said, opening her eyes. “So sad it wrenches the heart. If only you’d properly learned it all through.” “Ah,” Otsugi immediately shook her head, “No—maybe this way’s better. Having the ending cut off like that might leave more longing lingering.”

“You say all sorts of things,” Hanji gave a bitter smile. “Someone like me wouldn’t even understand what those lyrics mean.” “It’ll be soon,” Otsugi said. “To come to know such feelings needs no learning nor takes much effort.”

Perhaps those words lingered somewhere in his heart. Or perhaps it was because he knew no other songs—whenever he was away from work and idling around, he found himself habitually singing that song before he knew it.

“You’re a strange one,” said the senior apprentice skilled in folk songs. “Songs are meant to be sung only after you’ve properly learned them through to the end. Don’t go singing half-learned tunes.” Hanji said nothing. He tried to be as careful as possible, but would sometimes forget and inadvertently sing, turning red all by himself.

In the spring of his twenty-second year, Sankichi returned to the tenement house and became a commuting artisan at Shimafuji’s shop. He was said to be their most skilled craftsman, and it was said that he was the one primarily sent to daimyo and wealthy households’ residences.

That summer, Ohisa too took leave and returned home. Her father Kakuzo had collapsed from a stroke and remained bedridden. With Maakichi having just begun his apprenticeship at the pawnshop in Kanda Shirakabe-cho, Ohisa absolutely had to go back.

“When you have time off, come home, Han-chan,” Ohisa said as she took her leave. “You haven’t been coming back much lately.” “Ain’t sayin’ I don’t.” “You’re always running off to plays or somewhere—I know,” Ohisa said. “But try to come home more from now on.” The words “Sankichi’s here” rose to his lips, but Hanji merely nodded with a “Yeah.” To support his mother’s livelihood, Hanji had borrowed money three times from his master and had to send monthly payments. Though his apprenticeship should have ended at twenty-three, it stretched another year. He worked slowly and couldn’t produce flashy pieces. While fellow apprentices looked down on him, his unhurried works—especially cabinets—drew no shortage of reputation-based orders.

Hanji returned home only on the last day of each month. However, after handing some money to his mother, he would dash out without even sipping his tea. He didn't want to encounter Sankichi or Ohisa, and listening to his mother's increasingly querulous complaints weighed heavily on him. "You've reached that age, haven't you?" Mother would often say. "Once boys pass twenty, their own homes start feeling stifling. It's fine—you're not the only one." "There's backed-up commissioned work," Hanji answered while avoiding eye contact. "Since these are orders by reputation, I can't just take days off to relax."

He would often say such things from the entrance step and then leave immediately. Ohisa was nursing her father while taking on sewing piecework, and would sometimes come to mother's place to ask about things she didn't understand. There were times when she and Hanji crossed paths, but with Ohisa being the one to avert her eyes first, opportunities for conversation were almost nonexistent.

Six

In March of his twenty-fourth year, Hanji finally completed his apprenticeship and returned home to the house in Kurofune-cho Ura. It wasn’t that his connection with the shop had been severed; there was an agreement that if he worked there commuting for another two or three years, the master would give him a branch of the shop.

Given this situation, avoiding it was no longer possible. When heading out in the morning, he would often encounter Ohisa. Ohisa was now nineteen and had fully blossomed into womanhood; when exchanging morning greetings, her slight smiles and manner of bowing held a faint allure. When such things caught his eye, pain would seize Hanji's chest again, sometimes lingering throughout the day. He often met with Sankichi too, but as Sankichi was frequently away on overnight repair jobs—and perhaps because their work differed—they no longer visited each other as closely as before.

Why don't the two of them end up together?

Hanji found it strange. Sankichi had his grandfather and that woman, and Ohisa had her bedridden father. He thought that was likely the obstacle, but Sankichi was a man—his grandfather was sturdy and there was the woman too. If he had the will, he could marry Ohisa and support just one sick person, he mused.

When summer came—shortly after the Forty-Six Thousand Days Festival at Asakusa Temple—Hanji had just finished his evening meal when Sankichi came to visit.

“Good evening, Auntie,” Sankichi said as he briskly came up and sat beside Hanji, who was using a toothpick. “Got somethin’ to show you. Take a look at this.” Before the dumbfounded Hanji, he spread out a sheet of paper measuring about two by three shaku. Mother carried away the low dining table while Sankichi pulled the lamp closer. On that paper was drawn a single cabinet in vivid colors. “Don’t really get it,” Hanji said. “Never seen this before. Some kinda writing desk thing?”

“It’s called a two-tiered eave cabinet.” “A daimyo’s implement.” “The cabinet is said to have come from Lord Kishu,” Sankichi said excitedly. “It now belongs to Komuraya in Honcho 2-chome. The lower tier—what they call the base section—had deteriorated mother-of-pearl inlay there, so I spent fifty days restoring it.” Hanji had also heard the name Komuraya. Komuraya was a Chinese goods merchant in Nihonbashi Honcho 2-chome, said to be wealthy enough to rank among the richest men. Its master, Kizaemon, was renowned as a tea master and reputedly skilled in poetry and haiku. The cabinet had been bestowed upon the previous Kizaemon by the Kishu family, but it was crafted approximately seven hundred years prior and had served as a furnishing in the household of a certain Fujiwara regent. Given its prestigious provenance, the cabinet couldn’t be taken outside; Sankichi commuted to Komuraya to perform the repairs, staying there overnight for the final seven days or so.

“Look at this part by the mother-of-pearl.” Sankichi pointed to five locations with his finger. “These are bell crickets. There are five here and here, see? That’s why it’s called the Bell Cricket Cabinet.” And then—unmindful of mosquitoes biting him—he passionately explained about the lacquerwork designs, gold/silver inlay patterns, and intricate mother-of-pearl techniques with feverish intensity. He’s truly become something remarkable. Hanji recoiled at the thought. He couldn’t tell whether this cabinet was truly such a precious item. Of course he hadn’t seen the actual piece—he’d only viewed Sankichi’s drawing and heard his explanation—yet even that gave him the sensation of beholding the real thing. What made him recoil was Sankichi’s attitude toward the cabinet. Around him too existed plenty of obsessive types and eccentrics. That was typical craftsman’s nature—in any trade you’d find those peculiar individuals called master artisans. Sankichi might be one such man, yet Hanji sensed something vaster in him—a bottomless talent surpassing them all.

“Darn, I’ve been talking too much.” Sankichi suddenly looked at Hanji and gave a bitter smile. “Seems I’ve bored you completely.” “Bored? I’m just confused.” “Seven hundred years...” Sankichi muttered as if to himself while folding the drawing, “This one will definitely last over a thousand years.” Seeing Sankichi’s intense gaze, Hanji recalled something from long ago. I don’t need money—even if I stay poor my whole life, even if I die in some attic—I’ll create works that’ll make my name last a hundred years.

Sankichi had once said those words. They must have been thirteen at the time—before quitting the Buddhist goods store and entering Shimafuji. Over ten full years had passed since then. Hanji had forgotten, but within Sankichi’s heart, that fire from back then still burned. It must have burned ceaselessly for over a decade, and now seemed to burn even fiercer. Sankichi truly was one of those one-in-tens-of-thousands people, Hanji thought.

Around that time, rumors began circulating that Sankichi’s household was in turmoil. The woman his grandfather had brought in was named O-michi and was already past forty. Initially dismissed as someone who “wouldn’t last a year,” she seemed too gaudy for these back-alley tenements, yet maintained good relations with Mohei while still retaining a youthful allure that belied her forty-odd years. The source of these rumors was O-michi herself, with contradictory whispers spreading—that Mohei grew jealous over suspicions between her and Sankichi, or conversely, that Sankichi was trying to drive her out.

“Mohei-san must be eighty already,” someone remarked. “That woman’s past forty-odd years, but still bursting with allure like you see. And Sankichi’s a handsome devil to boot—no way this’ll settle peacefully.” “That woman pesters him nightly, they say,” another wife chimed in. “Grandpa’s body can’t handle that, so Mr. Sankichi’s trying to drive her out—he was always such a filial grandson, after all.”

Hanji didn't believe either rumor. Sankichi has Ohisa. There’s no way he’d be interested in some woman like that—his head’s completely filled with work. He had thought so.

Around that time, Hanji had finally come to understand the taste of alcohol and developed a habit of having a drink at izakayas or soba shops on his days off or when feeling low. Though he drank, a single bottle was his limit—taking as long as an hour to sip it down slowly. He would occasionally order a second bottle, but half would inevitably remain.

That izakaya on the banks of the Kanda River became a regular haunt.

The woman named Otsugi was gone. She had quit that shop just before Hanji’s apprenticeship ended and disappeared without a trace. According to a maid named Otatsu, there had been a gambler involved—she had apparently gone off to Kamigata with him—but another maid said she seemed to have returned home due to poor health. Even the shop owner didn’t know where her hometown was, leaving both accounts unverified. Hanji felt lonely for a while. It wasn’t romantic affection—rather that warm weariness from their first meeting, that melancholy resonance in her masculine speech patterns comforted him profoundly when they faced each other. Though numerous regular customers frequented the place, she would immediately approach whenever Hanji visited and stay with him until he left. The dynamic felt utterly different from amorous love—more like siblings. After her disappearance too, he carried this sense of having lost a cherished elder sister.

On the holiday of September fifteenth, Hanji was told by his mother: "Take Ohisa to the theater." “No way,” Hanji refused. “It’s too embarrassing—how could I possibly do that?” “What’s so embarrassing about it?” “I’d get strange looks from everyone in the tenement.” Then he added, almost mumbling, “If it’s the theater she wants, she should just have Sankichi take her.”

“What about San-chan?” “It’s nothing,” Hanji said. “That lined kimono for Sankichi they were sewing a couple days back—hasn’t that just been finished?” Mother fell silent. Three nights earlier, Ohisa had brought over an unfinished lined kimono and borrowed Mother’s help, saying there was a part she couldn’t get right. The stiffly crisp striped tsumugi silk rustled under Mother’s moving needle as she remarked, “Isn’t this pattern perfect for Mr. Sankichi?” Hanji had never worn anything but cotton, but Sankichi preferred crafting muted silk garments. Most were tsumugi silk with subdued colors and patterns; since he never used glossy fabrics, even these silk pieces carried no vulgarity when worn.

Maybe I'll have a drink. Hanji absently thought such things. Even though he had clearly resolved within himself that Ohisa belonged to Sankichi, whenever he saw her sewing Sankichi's kimonos or haori collars, his chest would ache as it always did. It wasn't as unbearable as it used to be. The pain would fade after a while, but it was the fragile loneliness felt in those moments that lingered in his heart.

Unable to go drinking while it was still light out, he thought about heading to Asakusa’s Okuyama instead, and was changing his clothes when Sankichi arrived. “There’s something I need to discuss,” Sankichi said, eyeing Hanji’s state. “Are you heading out?” “No need for formalities—come in.”

“Why don’t you come to my place?” Sankichi said. “It’s hard to talk here.”

Seven Sankichi was restless. When they went to the house together, both the old man and the woman were out. “How about some tea?” Sankichi said. “The water’s just boiled.”

“What’s up with you?” Hanji looked suspiciously at Sankichi. “Tea? That’s not like you.” “I can make tea too. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” “You’re the one acting strange here,” Hanji said. “The hell’s up with you today anyway? What’s this ‘consultation’ about?” “Well, let’s just make some tea.”

Hanji fell silent.

—Something had happened.

While thinking this, he suddenly propped himself on one elbow and leaned against something like a desk beside him. Because it was covered with a karakusa-patterned furoshiki, one couldn’t tell what it was—but the sensation of leaning against it felt like a desk. “Ah, wait—” Sankichi said immediately. “That’s no good—don’t touch that.” Hanji immediately moved away. “Wasn’t paying attention—thought it was a desk.” “It’s not a desk—I’ll show you now.” Sankichi made tea and sat down.

Whether it reflected Mohei’s taste or not, the small tea bowl appeared to be a valuable piece, and the flavor of the tea—something entirely new to Hanji—was astonishingly exquisite.

No households in these back tenements drank what could be called proper tea—of course, the primary reason was its costliness, but in lives consumed by the struggle to survive, they lacked the mental leisure to calmly enjoy tea. As for tea, it was cheap coarse tea with a musty smell that they brewed until it lost all color, so it wasn’t much different from drinking plain hot water. Sankichi took a sip of tea, then removed the furoshiki hanging over the desk-like object.

“I made it,” Sankichi said. “—What do you think?”

Hanji sat up straight. It was a two-tiered tool resembling a writing desk, with gold lacquer inlay incorporating mother-of-pearl that had been exquisitely finished. The lower tier had four doors, the central two likely opening to the sides, with a small silver lock fastened at the meeting point. The lacquerwork was on a dark vermilion ground, with autumn grasses delicately scattered in gold and mother-of-pearl gleaming here and there. “That’s quite something.” Hanji reached out his hand and gently stroked the edge as he said, “I don’t really get it myself, but this is something magnificent.”

“Don’t you notice anything?” “What do you mean?” “Take a look at this.” Sankichi pointed at the mother-of-pearl sections. “Here, here, and this.” “Yeah,” Hanji said, leaning closer. “—Looks like a bug.” “It’s a bell cricket. Did you forget?” Hanji muttered “Bell cricket” under his breath. “I showed you the design drawings before, didn’t I?” “Ah,” Hanji said, “It was on the tip of my tongue. The Komuraya writing desk, wasn’t it?”

“It’s called a cabinet—the Bell Cricket Cabinet.” “But you just said you made it yourself, didn’t you?” “I was asked to make a copy.” “Huh,” Hanji said, examining it intently again. “Now that you mention it, this looks exactly like those design drawings you showed me before. When did you manage to make this?” “Normally it’d take about a year,” Sankichi said, “but I’ve been developing what I call ‘early lacquer’—innovations in layering techniques and drying methods. Nobody knows about it yet, but using this, it gets done in a third of the usual time.”

“How does it hold up?” “Since this is my first attempt, I can’t say for certain, but it should be no different from one made over a year,” Sankichi said. “But let’s set that aside for now—I’ve got a favor to ask you.” “Is that something I can do?” “I need you to talk to the master.” Sankichi hesitated slightly. “Since you’re a joiner—you don’t know any regular clients who’d want an item like this? If there are, I’d like you to sell it for me.”

“I don’t get it,” Hanji said, suddenly looking up. “But you just said you were asked to make a copy.”

“That’s right,” Sankichi said hurriedly. “A certain tool shop commissioned me—the payment was even settled—but they suddenly went bankrupt. I need the money and I’m at my wit’s end.” Hanji thought for a moment before asking, “How much does it cost?” “The deal with the tool shop had been set at fifty ryo, but given the circumstances, thirty in silver will do.”

“Do you need the money in a hurry?” “I need it urgently,” Sankichi said. “The truth is, I’ve decided to take a wife—there was a good family available, so I paid the deposit, but—”

“You’re taking a wife?” Hanji’s heart lurched—he felt a heavy thud in his chest. “I see, that’s wonderful—that’s great then. If that’s the case, I’ll talk to the master right away, but I wonder how the pricing will work out.” “I don’t mean to boast, but this could pass as the Bell Cricket Cabinet—I’ve replicated even the era’s patina. Any skilled craftsman would sell this Bell Cricket Cabinet for two hundred gold coins at least.”

Hanji made a strange face but nodded and looked at Sankichi again. “You said you paid a deposit to her family—does that mean you’re not setting up house here?” “It’s no good here—given her family’s standing, by any measure.” “Her family’s standing is her family’s standing,” Hanji interrupted. “What exactly does that mean?” “Didn’t I mention that?” Sankichi said with an embarrassed laugh. “I meant to tell you earlier—she’s Komuraya’s daughter.”

Hanji opened his mouth, but no words came out. "I did mention I'd been going to repair that cabinet," Sankichi continued. "The whole time I was there, that girl—Osuga's her name—had been serving me tea and snacks. She's eighteen, her grace standing out from most, a calm-natured girl who'd sit all day if you told her to."

While making repair visits, I thought taking this girl as my wife would let me produce truly splendid work. The problem was their status as wealthy merchants against my being a common craftsman, but as a lacquerware artisan, my skills rivaled any. They had wealth; I had craft. At any rate resolved to try, I first confessed my feelings to her. She showed no particular surprise and simply answered, “Yes, that’s fine.”

“That very magnanimous quality about her is what makes Osuga so special,” Sankichi said. “It gave me courage to approach the master right away. There was some back-and-forth, but since Osuga agreed to go through with it, everything got settled in the end.” “Wait—hold on,” Hanji cut in with a tongue-tied stammer, “then what becomes of Ohisa?”

Sankichi looked puzzled. “What do you mean ‘what happens’? Has something happened to Ohisa-chan?” “That girl’s loved you since forever—you loved her too, didn’t you? I’ve seen it all and know damn well.” “I did care for her, sure—but caring ain’t marrying.” “Don’t play dumb,” Hanji said, lowering his voice. “I saw it with my own eyes—when we were nineteen and Ohisa was fourteen. You came to my shop and were embracing her by the woodshed behind the kitchen door. How you held each other—still burns clear in my mind. You call that just ‘caring’?”

“Hold on!” Sankichi stroked his forehead sideways. “...Yeah, I remember. Come to think of it, that’s just your imagination running wild.” “What do you mean ‘imagination’?!” “You’re right—I was nineteen and Ohisa was fourteen,” Sankichi said. “There was nothing beyond simple affection—just childish mischief between kids. Everyone’s had moments like that.” “You call that ‘childish mischief’?!” The blood drained from Hanji’s face. “You call that childish mischief, you bastard?”

Hanji struck Sankichi with one hand. Sankichi's face lurched violently, but he neither avoided nor resisted. Then Hanji grew even more enraged—he lunged forward, pinned him down astride his chest, and struck the side of his temple with a fist.

Damn it—I did it again.

A voice screamed somewhere in his heart, and then Ohisa came running in.

“Han-chan, stop! It’s dangerous!” Ohisa clung to Hanji. “I’m begging you—it’s dangerous! Please stop!” Hanji stopped hitting and looked at the faint scar on Sankichi’s eyebrow—the one from long ago. “Let’s talk calmly,” Sankichi said in an even voice. “This is shameful for the neighborhood.” “Han-chan,” Ohisa said through tears.

Hanji moved aside, and Sankichi sat up straight and adjusted his kimono collar.

“It’s fine now—I’m all right,” Hanji panted to Ohisa. “We men need to talk. I won’t do anything rough anymore, so you go on home and wait there.”

Eight

About half an hour later, as Ohisa was preparing the evening meal, Hanji slid open the kitchen shoji and peered in. “Come to the ferry landing when six bells ring,” he whispered. “There’s something I need to discuss.” “Six bells, right?” Ohisa nodded. “All right.”

Hanji closed the shoji and left. When Ohisa arrived at Mikura Ferry Landing, Hanji stood at the riverbank’s edge gazing at the darkened surface of the Sumida River. The surroundings had already grown completely dark, with sparse lights flickering intermittently on the opposite shore. As the ferry’s operating hours ended at six o’clock, its house had shuttered its doors, leaving scarcely anyone along the riverside path. “I’d had a drink,” Hanji said immediately upon seeing Ohisa. “If I reek, keep your distance.”

“Let me say this first.” Without heeding Hanji’s words, Ohisa said, “I’m sorry, but I overheard your conversation.” “Even the Bell Cricket Cabinet?” “Yes, and about how the tool supplier we ordered from went bankrupt.” “It’s a counterfeit,” Hanji said. “He claimed it was a reproduction, but he colluded with the tool supplier to make a fake Bell Cricket Cabinet. He’s done for. Sankichi has skilled hands, but that very skill became his downfall. If he’s teaming up with suppliers now to counterfeit famous pieces, he’s finished.”

“But he needs money, doesn’t he?” "He began crafting them even before that," Hanji said, struggling to contain his anger. "After you left, I told him—even if he forces himself to marry some silk-parasol-bred rich girl, there’s no way his earnings could maintain that sort of life. I warned him he’d wind up making counterfeits again—more fake pieces." “You’ve loved him all along.”

“It went beyond liking—I believed he’d become that one-in-ten-thousand craftsman,” Hanji said. “People are damn unfathomable. I was convinced he was head and shoulders above someone like me—that he’d surely become great someday. I took pride in him being my friend. Thought I’d do anything for him… I’ll admit, I even gave up on you because of it.”

“I know,” Ohisa whispered. “I knew all along.” Hanji turned his face away, moved apart from Ohisa, and walked five or six steps along the riverbank’s edge right next to the stone wall. There he squatted with his back to the river—two men came talking loudly from the Mikura direction, likely having noticed Hanji and Ohisa. As they passed by, they said, “Enjoy yourselves.” They seemed drunk but left without further teasing, their voices buoyant as they walked away.

Enjoy yourselves—huh?

Hanji clenched his back teeth tightly.

I’d caught crabs here once.

Ohisa walked over to him. "I loved you, Hanji," Ohisa said in a low voice. "Since we were this small, I've always loved you. I tried so hard to make you know—strained every little trick a child could muster up—but you never noticed anything at all.You convinced yourself all on your own that I cared for Mr.Sankichi.No matter how I tried through my words and gestures to show it wasn't true—you never realized."

Hanji remained crouched, both hands clenched tightly together and pressed hard against his forehead. "If that’s true," Hanji said in a voice barely audible, "or rather—do you still feel that way now?" Ohisa did not answer. Even after counting five breaths with no response, Hanji roughly grasped Ohisa’s feelings. "Sankichi’s finished," Hanji said. "He’ll marry Komuraya’s daughter, but that won’t last long either. As a craftsman, he’ll never recover."

“I’m just as hopeless,” Ohisa said. “When that person held me by the woodshed—I thought, if only this were Han-chan. I’d never dreamed of being embraced like that, and the moment he held me, I wished it were you instead. It seems strange, but I still remember that clearly.” “I could never,” Hanji muttered under his breath, “could never have that kind of courage. But I—”

“No, it’s no use. It’s already too late.” Ohisa gently shook her head and interrupted him tonelessly, “While watching you keep believing I loved him—while seeing you hold onto that wrong idea all this time—I truly came to love him.” “But you should know.” “It’s your fault.” With forced brightness, Ohisa said, “That I can’t forget him anymore—it’s your doing. I’m finished—truly finished.”

Hanji fell silent. Ohisa also fell silent. "I understand," Ohisa finally said. "You're right—even if he takes a wife from Komuraya, it certainly won't last. But it's more than that. You men might not realize it, but he's already reached his peak. One in ten thousand? Women have their own intuition—we see through men clearer than you'd think. He's already crested the hill. From now on, there's only falling."

Hanji suddenly turned around. Then, as if avoiding something, Ohisa stepped backward while staring at Hanji’s face.

“You can find happiness.” Stepping back, Ohisa said with forced brightness, “There are two people in our neighborhood who have feelings for you. You’ll have your own shop soon enough—you could marry any good woman as your wife. You’ll surely find happiness.”

Ohisa neither cried nor let out a sob.

Nine

“What’s wrong?” the woman said. “You haven’t drunk a drop. Doesn’t it suit your taste?” “Let me tell you something.” “I can’t,” the woman said. “They’re strict here.” Hanji held out his cup, and the woman poured.

This place feels like Honjo. He kept holding the poured cup as he looked around the shop. Two eight-ken spans in the ceiling brightly lit the new, neatly crafted wooden framework of the compact establishment. Four sturdy white-polished dining tables stood arranged in two rows, with seating not of barrels but thick planks of well-aged cedar—each spot furnished with its own zabuton cushion. It must have been late; customers were sparse, and silence had settled beyond the kitchen curtain.

“Is this Honjo?” Hanji asked. “Next you’ll ask my name, won’t you?” the woman said. “I’m Okinu—do take care of me.” “Which part of Honjo?”

At that moment, someone called “Kinu-chan” from across the room. Okinu, the maid who had been attending to three customers, said “Just a moment” and walked over there. Hanji brought the cup to his mouth but frowned and moved it away. “Where in Honjo could this be?” He muttered as if steering his thoughts elsewhere—“Since then—one place, two places... this makes four.” The hand holding the cup trembled, spilling the sake. Hanji supported his face with his left hand planted on the table and bit his lip as though enduring something.

“―Listening to the rain’s sound through fallen leaves.” One of the three customers across began singing in a fine voice, but when his companions jeered, the song ceased to be heard. "How nostalgic." Hanji closed his eyes. “Was that person called Otsugi? ―‘You’ll understand these feelings soon enough,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t take education or money.’” That’s right―even without studies or money, everyone will someday come to know those feelings. Looking back now, I must have already understood those feelings even then―that’s why I kept singing that song over and over. He thought―hmph―what a good-for-nothing.

"I’ve already forgotten," Hanji kept his eyes closed and, fumblingly, began to hum low under his breath: "...listening to rain’s sound through fallen leaves, next door to whispers of love..." He tightened his shut eyes with force. "I just love that song," the woman said. "Let me hear the rest."

Unaware that the woman had returned, Hanji started in surprise, spilling the sake from his cup once more. The woman wiped the counter with a cloth and picked up the sake decanter.

“Oh my,” Okinu said, “it hasn’t decreased at all. What’s gotten into you?” “Do you know this song?” Hanji asked. “I don’t really know the lyrics well,” Okinu said, “but I love that song. Here, let me pour—oh, it’s gone cold. Shall I reheat it?” “I’d rather have some water instead.” “Cold water, here you go.” Okinu stood up and left. “You shouldn’t sing the rest,” Otsugi said. Leaving the latter part unsung leaves more emotion lingering, Hanji thought.

Okinu brought a mug of water. He tried to gulp it down in one go but choked, coughing violently. “Check,” he muttered.

“Won’t you sing the rest for me?” “Next time,” he said, “when I come again.” “You will—you’ll definitely return, won’t you?” “I’ll definitely come,” he nodded.

When he settled the bill and went outside, the town lay hushed, with not a single light visible save for the street lamps, and a rather strong wind was blowing. Hanji stopped and looked around left and right.

“Where should I go?” While gazing at the pitch-dark street, he muttered helplessly, “...Which way should I go now?”