Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yamamoto Shugoro One

Ohisa was thinking of Shigetsugu. That had been clear from the start. Yet Shigetsugu, timid as he was, had yearned for Ohisa deep within his heart all along—until those words came from her own lips, he had believed she loved Sankichi instead, and it was this belief that eroded his spirit.

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

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

Shigetsugu and Sankichi were the same age. They were born in the same tenement behind Asakusa Kurofune-cho and grew up there. Ohisa was five years younger than them and likewise lived in the same tenement—across from Shigetsugu’s home. The three of them had not known each other in their early years. The tenement had many children, and the three of them were not particularly noticeable children. Moreover, Shigetsugu had been sent to a branch temple of Sōjiji as an apprentice at age seven and had not lived in that tenement for five years. Shigetsugu’s father Genji had been a scrap metal dealer, but it seemed he had intended to make him a monk. “In this world, honest people never get ahead in life—but even at some poor temple, becoming its head priest would earn you respect and keep you from starving.” Such were the things he impressed upon Shigetsugu, who was only seven years old at the time.

In the year Shigetsugu turned twelve, his father died. Left behind were his frail mother and eight-year-old sister Oyuri, and as they struggled to make ends meet, he returned to the tenement. After five years as a temple apprentice, Shigetsugu had learned reading, writing, and etiquette—but he simply could not bring himself to become a monk. He had even contemplated escaping if the chance arose. So when it was decided he would return home, he felt more like leaping for joy than mourning his father’s death.

In the year Shigetsugu returned to the tenement, Sankichi conversely entered an apprenticeship at a Buddhist implement maker's shop in Tawaramachi 2-chōme. Their paths had crossed almost like ships passing in reverse directions, yet during that time they played together for about half a year. Though this marked their first meeting in five years—and as they hadn't been particularly close to begin with—their initial interactions remained those of mere acquaintances from the same tenement; had Ohisa not been there, those two might never have become friends at all.

Ohisa quickly took to him as her sister’s friend. She was a year younger than her sister Oyuri—seven years old, with a scrawny build and plain features, her head crowned by sparse reddish hair like corn silk that made her utterly unremarkable to look at. Yet she clung to him all day long, calling him “Shigetsugu’s big brother.”

One afternoon in early May—near the ferry landing known as Okura no Watashi—Shigetsugu was catching crabs for Ohisa. Clutching the stone wall of the Sumida River, he caught crabs hiding in crevices between rocks, but when he had snared five or six of them, about five neighborhood children came over and began taunting him with chants of “Baldie, baldie—”. He had only been back from the temple for about ten days, his head still shaven like a monk’s. Even he found it humiliating—so much so that he’d been avoiding tenement children altogether—and now Shigetsugu trembled with fury. Among them were ruffians named Tetsuzo and Yokichi who, while jeering at Shigetsugu, snatched Ohisa’s small bucket and hurled all its crabs into the river. Hearing Ohisa’s voice break into sobs, Shigetsugu tried to scale the stone wall. Tetsuzo and Yokichi were strong—opponents he could never hope to match—but he wanted 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 in his calm voice. “Five against one—how pathetic can you get?”

“Mine too,” Ohisa said through tears, pointing at the small bucket. “They let my crabs get away too.”

“What a bunch of jerks,” Sankichi spat. “Get lost, Tetsu.” The five shuffled away reluctantly, hurling curses under their breath as they fled toward Komagata. Shigetsugu clung to the stone wall and watched it all unfold—not with gratitude toward Sankichi, but with a wretched, unbearable shame at having needed someone else’s rescue.

About half a month later, when they encountered each other in the tenement alleyway, Sankichi was the one who smiled at Shigetsugu and asked if he wanted to play Japanese chess.

Sankichi had a fair-skinned, oval face with thick eyebrows and a mouth that always seemed tightly pursed. His speech and movements were unhurried, and he carried an air of maturity beyond his years. Shigetsugu met his gaze with a blazing look in his eyes and answered that he didn’t know how to play Japanese chess. “Then just learn it,” Sankichi said. “Why don’t you come over?”

Shigetsugu went to Sankichi’s house for the first time. Sankichi had no parents and lived with his grandfather Mobei, just the two of them. It was something that would only become clear much later—Sankichi’s parents had been adopted into the family as a husband-and-wife pair but had never gotten along with Mobei. Four years prior to that time, they had left the tenement to live separately. Shigetsugu vaguely remembered those two people, so he wondered why they had disappeared, but sensing somehow that he shouldn’t ask about it, he said nothing to Sankichi.

Mobei was already nearing seventy years of age. Though tall and lean, his legs and back remained sturdy; he drank liquor regularly, and rumors circulated that he often went out carousing. He had set up a lathe on the three-tatami upper level of his house and spent his days crafting wooden bowls, but it was said that his skill brought in a considerable income. Though he was a man of few words who hardly ever spoke, his dark-complexioned oval face and nearly six-foot-tall stature carried the refined air of a retired merchant from some grand establishment—so much so that even Busuke, the tenement manager, seemed to regard him with deference.

After learning shogi, Shigetsugu began visiting Sankichi’s house nearly every evening.—He had resolved to become a joinery craftsman and had apprenticed himself at a shop called Shitei in Fukui-chō, beyond Asakusabashi Bridge. However, because his mother was in poor health, he was permitted to commute rather than live-in, working from eight in the morning until five in the evening. The work was nothing but being driven around or running errands, and he earned only meager wages—but since his mother and sister also took on piecework, the three of them somehow managed to scrape by. —Shigetsugu would go to Sankichi’s house after dinner. Old Man Mobei was usually drinking sake, but whenever he saw Shigetsugu, he would invariably brew tea or offer sweets.

The old man rarely spoke, but as he seemed to find his grandson Sankichi quite endearing, he consequently treated Shigetsugu with kindness as well. Sankichi would merely make an annoyed face, say nothing, and of course never lift a finger to do it himself. While playing shogi with Shigetsugu, he calmly sipped the tea and ate the sweets.

Sankichi began his apprenticeship at a Buddhist implement shop in late October, but one night shortly before that, Shigetsugu struck him in anger. They were playing shogi as usual when Shigetsugu lost the second game and won the third. As they set up the pieces for the fourth match, Sankichi said, "No holding back this time." This grated on Shigetsugu. "So," Shigetsugu retorted, "you've been going easy on me until now?" "Just play already," Sankichi replied dismissively. "No takebacks."

Shigetsugu lost miserably. Sankichi’s moves were merciless—executed with a sharpness that felt like a different person altogether compared to before—and Shigetsugu found himself utterly helpless. “Tch,” Sankichi said, discarding a piece. “You’re hopeless.” “Hopeless?” Shigetsugu trembled. “What do you mean I’m hopeless?”

“Shigetsugu,” Sankichi said.

“What do you mean ‘hopeless’?” Shigetsugu shouted. “Don’t get cocky with me!”

And he leaped at Sankichi, pinned him down, and punched him. Sankichi did not resist and let it happen. Shigetsugu felt momentarily deflated by his opponent’s lack of resistance—then noticed the gash above the other’s eyebrow where blood now spurted forth. Startled, he recoiled. “I shouldn’t have made you angry,” Sankichi said as he sat up. “Sorry, Shigetsugu.” “This is bad—it’s bleeding!” Shigetsugu turned pale. “I’ll go get Mom.”

Since the old man wasn’t there at the time, he tried to go call his mother, but Sankichi said, “Don’t make such a fuss,” and went to the kitchen to wash his wound. The left eyebrow had a diagonal cut about an inch long. The cut wasn’t deep—likely caused by his thumbnail during the punch—but with the tide at its peak, the blood refused to clot. While watching Sankichi rub salt into the washed wound, Shigetsugu apologized in a fluster.

“It’s nothing, Shigetsugu,” Sankichi said at that moment. “—It’s fine. You don’t need to worry.”

The impact of those words came later. Sankichi soon left for an apprenticeship at a Buddhist implement shop, whereupon Mobei brought a strange woman into his house. She was thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with a petite, taut frame and dusky skin, her well-defined features bearing the distinctive allure of those in the night trade. Daily hair-styling and baths left her perpetually scented with face powder and perfumed oils—traits that swiftly made her the target of the tenement wives’ censure. When Busuke, the tenement manager, went to conduct a census check, she reportedly answered that she was a relative named Omichi, thirty-two years old, and would only be staying temporarily—but the neighbors on both sides sneered. Of course, it was quiet during the daytime while the neighborhood was awake, but they said the noise was terrible from midnight until dawn. They held their breath and kept their voices hushed, but this only made it all the more lurid, brimming with visceral reality—so much so that even if one covered their ears with both hands, it would seem to seep through their fingers, they said.

Two

What would Sankichi think?

Shigetsugu couldn’t fully grasp the adults’ conversations, but having been raised in the downtown tenements where children generally grew up fast, he dimly sensed something lewd in them. It would be fine if she stayed for a while and left, but if that woman were to remain as she was, she’d effectively become Sankichi’s mother.

Could he call that woman his mother?

If it were me，I’d absolutely hate it，Shigetsugu thought，feeling unbearably sorry for Sankichi.

On New Year’s Day around noon, Sankichi returned home for his customary New Year’s leave. While Shigetsugu was worrying about what might happen, after a short while Sankichi came to invite him to play shogi. There was no sign that anything had changed, and upon hearing Sankichi tell him to come over, Shigetsugu felt relieved yet slightly disappointed.

“Let’s stop with shogi,” Shigetsugu said. “Why don’t we go to Asakusa instead?”

Noticing Shigetsugu’s gaze, Sankichi stroked the left side of his eyebrow. There, the scar from that time remained like a thin brown thread traced across his skin.

“Is this what’s bothering you?”

“It’s not really like that,” Shigetsugu turned red, “but...if we hadn’t played Japanese chess at all, that wouldn’t have happened.”

“It’s nothing at all,” Sankichi said. “Let’s go to Asakusa then.”

His younger sister Oyuri and Ohisa from across the way pleaded to be taken along. Sankichi looked as though he might agree to bring them, but Shigetsugu rebuffed the idea with uncharacteristic forcefulness, and they set out together—just Sankichi and him.

Since Shigetsugu had no pocket money, he passed the time gazing at sideshow banners and playbills or listening to street performers’ pitches while waiting for an opportune moment to ask Sankichi about that woman. However, Sankichi readily paid for both of them, and after watching one play and an acrobatic act, they ate Abekawa mochi at a teahouse. Needing to return to the shop by five o’clock, they decided to head back soon after leaving the teahouse—but once past Kaminarimon Gate, Shigetsugu cautiously broached the subject of that woman. Sankichi walked on silently for a short while before replying in his usual calm, grown-up tone.

“It’s hard to know what to call her,” Sankichi said with a wry smile. “She’s not my mom, and calling her ‘Grandma’ doesn’t feel right either.”

After walking about ten steps, Shigetsugu asked again, “You don’t hate her, do you?” “Not really,” Sankichi answered. “—For me, there’s never been a mom to begin with.”

Shigetsugu hung his head.

“I know the tenement folks are talking badly,” Sankichi said. “Badmouthing others doesn’t cost a penny—let those who want to talk do as they please.”

“And you don’t need to fret over that stuff either,” he added. “Shigetsugu.” Shigetsugu silently nodded. Later, Shigetsugu thought that he was on a different level from him. Back when he was catching crabs for Ohisa, Sankichi had driven Tetsu and Yoshiro away—without shouting or threats. “Get lost, Tetsu.” That calmly spoken voice came back to him. Back when he still had a shaved head and no playmates, the other boy had suggested they play chess. “If you don’t know how, just learn—why don’t you come over?” And then, despite my poor grasp, he patiently stuck with me for half a year.

"You’re hopeless."

When he clicked his tongue and said that to me, my blood boiled with irritation. The one who was truly irritated must have been him—after all, he’d patiently taught me for half a year, yet my skills never improved. Anyone would get fed up eventually—and I lost my temper and punched him. The shock when his left eyebrow split open and blood gushed out. But Sankichi didn’t get angry; he treated his own wound while saying, “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

――People are just on different levels.

Shigetsugu thought. "Badmouthing others doesn't cost a penny," that guy had said, but the tenement folks had their reasons for speaking ill. Even I found that woman disgusting, and that guy surely couldn't come to like her either. A woman who reeked of white powder from morning and slouched around in disheveled clothes—even that guy must have found her unbearable, yet he never showed a hint of it.

He might just be one of those one-in-a-hundred-thousand people.

Shigetsugu thought this with his thirteen-year-old mind. Since Tawaramachi and Kurofunechō were relatively close, Sankichi appeared at the tenement about three to five times a month. Most of the time, it was when he was out running errands, and since Shigetsugu was at Shitei, they hardly ever met, but he often heard about it from his sister Oyuri and Ohisa across the way. Ohisa, in particular, would grow earnest whenever Sankichi came up, remembering even the exact words he had said and the expressions he had made, recounting them in detail to Shigetsugu.

“He brings gifts for her every time,” Ohisa said. “I know for sure he does.”

“Who’s ‘that person’?” “It’s the woman at Mr. Sankichi’s place—you know exactly who I mean.” Ohisa called him “Shigetsugu’s big brother,” but for Sankichi, she always properly appended “Mr.” to his name. ――Even a little one like her could tell people apart. Shigetsugu began to think this way around that time. Ohisa likes Sankichi. He should quit while he’s ahead. That guy’s bound to make something of himself—he won’t spare a glance for some pathetic kid like you. There were times when I thought it’d be better not to get too attached.

In early autumn of that year, as soon as July began, dysentery broke out in the tenement, and his sister Oyuri fell ill for five days and died. The violent diarrhea persisted, eventually turning bloody—so much blood soaked through the futon to the tatami mats below that the doctors could do nothing to treat her. In that tenement, three other children and one old woman died, and several more perished in the neighboring district.

“It must have been so painful for you, poor thing.” As she applied makeup to Oyuri’s lifeless face, Mother repeated the same words: “I’m the one with this weak body—shouldn’t I have died first? I’ve got nothing left to live for anyway. You… you could’ve had so much 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 shot up in height, and his manner of speaking had grown even more composed—to the point where Shigetsugu even felt it somewhat difficult to approach him. Amid the hustle and bustle of neighbors crowding around, Sankichi expressed his condolences, placed a condolence envelope, then signaled Shigetsugu with his eyes and called him aside.

“I’ve decided to leave Tawaramachi,” Sankichi said. “I’m going to become a lacquer artisan. Once things settle down, I’ll come by to talk again.” At that moment, Ohisa came over and called out, “Mr. Sankichi.” When Sankichi looked over, Ohisa hid behind Shigetsugu and smiled shyly. Sankichi also smiled back but said nothing; he made a “See you later” gesture to Shigetsugu and walked away.

The death of his sister had been a great blow to Shigetsugu as well. Yet being at a growing age, with his mother endlessly lamenting in tedious repetition, her clamorous grief ironically made him shed his own sorrow all the sooner. Earlier—on the last day of September—Sankichi had come visiting, announced that his apprenticeship under a lacquer master was settled, and invited him out. They then went to the Sumida Riverbank and spoke for nearly an hour. The place he’d secured was a shop called Shimada Tōbei in Nihonbashi Yokoyamachō that dealt in daimyo’s ceremonial artifacts.

“I’ll make a name for myself!” “I don’t need money,” Sankichi repeated over and over in an unusually animated tone, “I’ll stay poor my whole life—even if I starve to death in an attic, so be it! But in return—I’ll create something that’ll bear my name for a hundred years. Something people will point to and say, ‘This was made by Sankichi!’” Shigetsugu was overwhelmed. It was the first time Shigetsugu had seen Sankichi act this way, and phrases like “starving to death in an attic” or “creating work that would leave his name for a hundred years” were equally unheard of—their meaning too abstract to fully grasp. To him, Sankichi now seemed to have entered a world beyond his understanding, ascending to such heights that Shigetsugu could only look up in awe.

――That guy will surely become just that.

Shigetsugu became certain of it. And he recalled how he had injured him on the forehead—how he had treated the wound with calm hands without showing anger—how even in such moments a disposition no one could imitate had revealed itself. Someone destined for greatness really was different, he thought.

In February of the new year, Shigetsugu began living-in as an apprentice at the "Shitei" shop. Mother would be looked after by Ohisa’s household across the way, and commuting wouldn’t let him learn real work. Moreover, since he had turned fourteen, he resolutely decided to go through with it. And when the live-in arrangement was finalized, he went to the "Shimafuji" shop in Yokoyamachō, called Sankichi out, and informed him of it. “I don’t have talent like yours,” he said as they parted, “but I still aim to become a proper craftsman.”

“You’ll become a skilled craftsman,” Sankichi said encouragingly. “Let’s meet at the Obon festival.”

III

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

While Shigetsugu was planing wood at work, a maid came to announce, “There’s a girl called Ohisa here.” Momentarily unable to place the name, he went to check while brushing off wood shavings—there stood Ohisa before the woodshed on the far side of the kitchen entrance. Yet recognizing her took a beat longer than expected. Though scarcely any time had passed since their meeting at that year’s Obon festival—her stature seemed to have gained an inch, her face and frame now softened by a nascent roundness that wholly dispelled her former image as a “scrawny little runt.” When Shigetsugu drew near, Ohisa fixed him with wide-open eyes—then he saw fat tears spill from them.

“Mom died,” Ohisa said, covering her face with her apron as she began to cry. “Mom’s died.”

Shigetsugu opened his mouth, but no words came out immediately. He reached toward Ohisa’s shoulder, and she leaned her entire body against him. With her face still buried in her apron, she pressed against his chest and let out hitching, shuddering 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 of that, her mind started to go. By the time she died, she was completely out of her senses.” “I had no idea at all. That’s... that’s really terrible.”

"I’m spouting such idiotic things," Shigetsugu clicked his tongue in self-reproach. While every point where Ohisa’s body leaned against him burned with searing heat, his inability to summon even a shadow of sorrow left him awash in nothing but shame.

“What should I do, Shigetsugu?” Ohisa sobbed. “What am I supposed to do?” “What do you mean, ‘what should I do’? What are you—” Ohisa’s body suddenly stiffened. Shigetsugu pushed her away, peered into her face, and asked, “What’s wrong? Is something worrying you?” Ohisa remained motionless for a while, then shook her head slightly, wiped her tear-drenched face thoroughly, and lowered her apron.

“It’s nothing,” Ohisa smiled. “I’m just feeling adrift since Mom died. I’m sorry.” “I know,” Shigetsugu said awkwardly, “but there’s Maabo to consider. With your dad being how he is, if you don’t keep yourself together, Maabo’s the one who’ll suffer.”

“That’s strange,” Ohisa murmured absently，as if to herself．“That child didn’t even cry when Mom died．” And Ohisa made a hiccup-like sob in her throat．

That evening, after finishing work, Shigetsugu explained the situation to his master and went to offer his condolences at Ohisa’s house. When he first peeked into his house, his mother was having Ohisa and Masukichi eat their evening meal. Shigetsugu called out a greeting and went to Ohisa’s house. The siblings’ father was named Kakuzō, a tile maker in Imado, but he had a terrible drinking habit—once he started, he would keep at it nonstop for three or even five days, never showing up for work, and would descend into drunken rages. Just when you thought he’d keep going, he’d abruptly stop and go twenty days or even a month without touching a single drop. During those periods, he would become so docile it seemed his very frame had shrunk, barely able to hold a proper conversation—but once he started drinking again, it would end in the same result.

When Shigetsugu went to offer condolences, he was drunk and showed no sign of hearing Shigetsugu’s greetings. On the worn-out old tatami mat at the entrance, he sat cross-legged with one shoulder bared, holding a rice bowl as he drank. Scattered around him were half-eaten plates, rice bowls, and small dishes alongside six or seven 1.8-liter sake bottles—the room so thick with alcohol fumes it turned one’s stomach. “Children belong to their parents, don’t they?” Kakuzō said. “A child’s something a parent births and raises through hardship. You sayin’ that ain’t how it is? Huh? You sayin’ that ain’t how it is?”

Shigetsugu tried to stand up. “Hey, wait! Don’t run away!” Kakuzō bellowed. “If you’re leavin’, make this clear before you go. Ain’t children their parents’ property?!” “You know that already,” Shigetsugu said soothingly. “What’re you even angry about, Uncle?” “If children belong to their parents, why the hell can’t parents do whatever they want with ’em? Raisin’ kids is a damn struggle—parents gotta cut their own portions to feed ’em, hold back on the booze they’re dyin’ to drink, worry themselves sick over clothes for every season—ain’t it only right that kids raised like that work for their parents when they’re in a bind?!”

Hearing this far, Shigetsugu jolted. So that’s how it was, he muttered inwardly.

What am I supposed to do?

This was why Ohisa had come to say that. When he had returned home for Obon the year before last, he had heard something from his mother. As was his habit, Kakuzō had kept on drinking until finally declaring he would sell Ohisa to a geisha house, which led to a terrible fight between husband and wife—or so he had heard. "That pathetic kid?" Shigetsugu had laughed when he heard it. But now that Kakuzō had lost his wife, he must have started thinking of such things again. What a terrible man, Shigetsugu thought as he eventually stood up and returned to his house.

Ohisa was washing dishes in the kitchen, and his mother was trimming Masukichi’s fingernails by the lamp. Shigetsugu spoke in a low voice about Kakuzō’s condition and asked what exactly was going on. Just as he had imagined, as soon as his wife fell ill, Kakuzō had started saying he would sell Ohisa to a geisha house. His wife must have sensed the danger, for she had Shigetsugu’s mother and tenement manager Busuke serve as witnesses and pleaded, “No matter what happens, don’t let him sell Ohisa.” Ohisa must have been thoroughly warned, for when her father brought up the matter within five days of her mother’s death, she immediately ran to the tenement manager.

“As a woman, I didn’t speak up,” Mother said, “but it seems the manager cornered him and gave him a stern talking-to. Since then, he’s been drinking nonstop and carrying on like that.” Since he seemed likely to turn violent and it was frightening, Mother took custody of Ohisa and Masukichi. "I intend to keep them until things settle down, but when it comes to feeding three mouths—" Mother started to say, then fell silent. “We’ll manage for the time being,” Shigetsugu said. “But I wonder if just having the manager stop him is enough.”

“If Kakuzō sets his mind to it, there’s no stopping him,” Mother said. “Whether he sells her directly to a geisha house or uses a trafficker, once a parent takes the money, even the authorities can’t do a thing.”

“What a damn outrage,” Shigetsugu shook his head repeatedly. “What a damn outrage.”

In the kitchen, the clattering ceased, and the faint sound of Ohisa’s sniffling sobs became audible. When Shigetsugu went to check, Ohisa stood before the sink, her face covered with her apron as she wept. The sight of her shoulders trembling in tiny shivers beneath the red sash struck Shigetsugu as heartrendingly pitiable. “Stop cryin’—this ain’t the time for tears,” Shigetsugu said. “No matter if he’s your parent—how the hell can a man with a body fit for proper work pull such a cruel stunt as sellin’ his own kid just ’cause he’d rather laze around an’ drink? A man like that ain’t no parent—right?”

“But Akichan was sold too,” Ohisa sobbed through tears. “She kept crying ‘I don’t want to, I don’t want to,’ but last year they finally sold her.”

“Who’s Akichan?”

“The person from the amulet seller’s household.”

“Don’t remember her,” Shigetsugu tilted his head, “That girl just didn’t have the spine. If you really hate it that much, try bein’ ready to die for it. Ain’t nothin’ a person can’t do once they’re willin’ to stake their life on it.”

Ohisa raised her face. She wiped her tear-drenched eyes and stared steadily at Shigetsugu with those eyes.

“Mr. Sankichi said that too.” “Sankichi... when did he—” “It was during this year’s New Year revelry,” Ohisa said. “‘I’m going to become Edo’s number one craftsman,’ he declared. ‘I’ll stake my life on making it happen.’”

Shigetsugu felt a kind of pain deep in his chest. Though he couldn’t understand why, he felt a heavy, oppressive pain deep in his chest and grimaced.

“You should understand by now,” Shigetsugu said earnestly in a dry voice. “Even becoming a craftsman requires staking your life on it. You’ve got your whole future and Maabou to think about—you’re twelve already. For Maabou’s sake and your own future, fight like your life depends on it. If you’re determined, you’ll break through.” “Okay,” Ohisa nodded. “I’ll try. If it weren’t for Maabou, I would’ve been ready to die—so I’ll try as hard as I can.”

Shigetsugu told his mother he would deliver the money and soon took his leave. In fixed-term apprenticeships, one could borrow money from the master depending on circumstances. Because Shigetsugu hadn’t borrowed any, he had managed to get by with just a little.

“Did she have that kind of talk with Sankichi?” On his way back to the shop, Shigetsugu muttered, “—I never said anything like that to her. When would I’ve even had the chance to talk about such things?”

At that moment, once again, that pain arose deep in his chest. Shigetsugu, not understanding why, came to a halt and gently pressed a hand to his chest.

Four

In November of his nineteenth year, Shigetsugu entered a tavern for the first time and drank alone for the first time. Though there had been occasions before—festivals, celebrations, New Year's gatherings—when senior apprentices forced him to take a sip or two, just two cups would set his whole body ablaze with heat, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, so that even hearing the word "alcohol" made him want to run away.

But that day, he wanted to drink. Having seen how others got drunk, he thought it would be a blessing if he could get drunk like that; even if he couldn't, just suffering would be enough—he wanted to torment himself as thoroughly as possible.

The tavern on the banks of the Kanda River was small and filthy, its primary clientele being those who worked along the waterways—stevedores and boatmen—so there was no fear of encountering Shitei craftsmen or anyone from the neighborhood. Could it even hold twenty people? In the dim, damp earthen-floored space stood two long dining tables, surrounded by empty barrels topped with thin futons arranged around them. In the twilight of the fifteenth day, he found a seat in the farthest corner of the quite crowded tavern. Shigetsugu sat hunched against the wall, shoulders drawn tight to his body.

A woman who looked to be in her early twenties but appeared far older—as if her household had collapsed—came to take his order and exclaimed in surprise, “Oh! Aren’t you Shitei-san’s brother?” Shigetsugu wanted to flee, but he finally managed to hold back and ordered sake and some food.

“What a damn mess,” Shigetsugu muttered under his breath. “Knew this’d happen. Just forget it.”

Simmered preserves, grilled dried sardines, and sweet stewed dishes were laid out, and Shigetsugu drank two cups with his eyes squeezed shut. Unlike before, it was not bitter, and the smell did not cling to his nose.

"Forget it," he repeated inwardly, squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head again and again. But the impression lingering in the depths of his eyes was profound and intense, as though carved there, impossible to erase. He had seen Ohisa and Sankichi embracing each other. In front of the woodshed outside the kitchen door, the tall Sankichi loomed over her from above, Ohisa stood on tiptoe, both clutching each other’s bodies tightly, and then were pressing their lips together. It was a fervent, single-minded posture; they seemed completely unaware of the sound of Shigetsugu emerging from the kitchen doorway.

Ohisa was working as a maid at "Shitei". Since her father was unpredictable, Shigetsugu spoke to the master and his wife—and as it turned out, they happened to have a marriage prospect for one of their three maids and were seeking a replacement—so the matter was settled immediately. Busuke the tenement manager mediated between Ohisa’s father and the master of “Shitei,” drew up a written pledge that she would not be sold off, and lent them five ryō for a seven-year term. The recipient was naturally Busuke, and the remaining Masukichi came to be taken care of by Shigetsugu’s mother.

Over those three years—by which time Ohisa was fourteen—since they had begun living together at the shop, Shigetsugu had always kept watch over her, shielding her from being bullied or harassed by the other maids and craftsmen. Don’t go stickin’ your nose where it ain’t wanted.

It was better not to be needlessly considerate or put on airs of cleverness. It was better for that girl to be thought a bit slow-witted—that way she wouldn’t earn her peers’ resentment. To remember this well—and other such things—Shigetsugu would caution her repeatedly in a self-important tone that nonetheless carried genuine earnestness.

All this time, on days off, it had mostly been Sankichi who came visiting. Together they went to theaters and variety halls, or seasonal outings like chrysanthemum viewings, boating trips, and mountain excursions. Since his shop in Yokoyama-cho kept strict hours, Sankichi always came to them—but whenever he did, Ohisa’s manner changed conspicuously. Sankichi would address her as casually as ever with just a word or two, yet Ohisa would flush crimson, barely managing coherent replies while stealing upward glances through moistened eyes. Yet whenever Sankichi stayed nearby, she grew restless and fidgety, repeating clumsy mistakes that drew scoldings from the other maids.

She’s only thirteen or fourteen—goodness, this girl’s already gone and gotten herself all love-struck, hasn’t she?

Since the start of this year, Ohisa had broken into tears after being bluntly told this by a sharp-tongued maid named Otsune.

“This wasn’t just starting now.” Gazing at the sake cup he held, Shigetsugu murmured quietly to himself, “Ohisa’s always liked Sankichi from way back. Ain’t that fine? Hey, Shige—you gettin’ jealous or somethin’?” The hand gripping the sake cup tightened, his knuckles standing out sharply.

Things like this must be commonplace. How many people in this world are suffering as miserably as I am now? Shigetsugu thought to himself. "What's wrong, brother?"

When he looked up at these words, the middle-aged woman from earlier was standing before him. “I’m Otsugi.” With a quick smile, she picked up the heated sake decanter. “Oh my, it hasn’t gone down at all! Let me pour for you.” “I’ll do it myself.” “You don’t gotta hate it *that* much,” Otsugi said while pouring a drink, glancing at Shigetsugu. “I’ve seen you around for ages—what brings you here today?”

Shigetsugu couldn’t respond. “I just wanted a drink,” he finally said, offering his cup as if suddenly remembering. “How about one?”

“I’ll take one,” Otsugi accepted the cup. “Just one, okay? Thanks.” “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 get sloppy when drunk, I make sure not to drink while I’m at the shop,” Otsugi said. Her words were rough yet carried an unassuming warmth within their directness, and Shigetsugu found himself drawn into a mood where he felt like letting himself lean on her.

“You’re not drinking at all, are you?” Eventually Otsugi said quizzically, “Am I in your way here?” “That’s not it.” Shigetsugu averted his eyes and muttered, “It’s my first time, so I’m still…” In Otsugi’s eyes, an indescribable hue shifted. The shop was nearly full of customers—with the clatter of dishes, loud voices talking and laughing, and the high-pitched calls of the three young women—making only the corner where Shigetsugu sat feel like a hole had opened in the commotion.

“When I was little,” Otsugi said, “I stepped into a pot of miso soup and burned this leg—must’ve been when I was five. The pot had just been taken off the fire and was still bubbling fiercely.” “That’s dangerous—” Shigetsugu grimaced sharply. “While Mother applied this paste she made by mixing flour and vinegar, then wrapped my leg with muslin cloth, I kept crying ‘I wanna die, I wanna die’ at the top of my voice.”

“That must’ve hurt.” “It wasn’t just because of the pain—how should I put it?” Otsugi mechanically picked up the heated sake decanter but, seeing Shigetsugu’s cup was still full, set it back down as she continued, “When things get this bad, you can’t go on living—might as well die. That’s how I felt. Yes, exactly like that.” “There’ve been three more times since then when I felt the same way. And when you’re driven to think ‘I want to die,’ there’s no lie or exaggeration in it. You reach the absolute limit where death seems like the only way out—but once that moment passes, your feelings change bit by bit until those desperate thoughts start feeling downright foolish,” Otsugi said.

“People seem to be like that, I suppose.” Otsugi gave a fleeting smile. “It might be a sad thing, but that’s what lets us keep living, isn’t it?”

Why would she tell me such things? Even though they'd just met—she must be misunderstanding something—Shigetsugu thought as he found himself steeped in a warm mood tinged with nostalgia, like catching the scent of his mother's milk.

“I’m Shigetsugu.” Having suddenly said that, he blushed embarrassedly.

“I see,” Otsugi nodded. “Mr. Shige.”

A voice called out 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 Shigetsugu and said． “Give me another one．”

Shigetsugu handed over his cup with flustered gestures and poured her a drink.

“Thanks for the drink,” Otsugi said after drinking, then looked at Shigetsugu’s face. “Come again if you like—and don’t brood over things.”

Shigetsugu soon left the store.

It was unexpected, but after talking to that woman Otsugi, he thought he’d been unfair to Sankichi. They were supposed to go to the vaudeville show together that day, but when he saw what happened in front of the woodshed, he snapped and refused with, "I’m not feeling well today."

“Didn’t you know about those two?” he berated himself. “They’re old comrades from way back—Shige, you’re one pretentious bastard.”

Five Before long, Ohisa would end up with Sankichi—Sankichi would surely become one of Edo’s foremost craftsmen, and that way Ohisa could find happiness. They were fated to end up that way—Shigetsugu made himself accept this. Look back at how things had been since they were small—wasn’t it only natural they’d turn out this way? he told himself again and again.

Even though he understood that much, every time he recalled the two figures in front of the woodshed, he felt a pain as if his chest were being torn apart. There was a time when Ohisa had been crying in Shigetsugu’s kitchen, and after hearing the words “Mr. Sankichi said that too” come from her mouth, an inexplicable pain had welled up deep in his chest. It was akin to that earlier pain, yet sharper, deeper—so intense it stole his breath. “It’s not just me,” Shigetsugu often muttered to himself. “That Otsugi woman must’ve had her share of hardships too, being a woman and all.”

He tried to avoid meeting Ohisa as much as possible，but since they lived in the same house，he couldn’t entirely stop seeing her，and if she spoke to him，he had to respond. There was no change in Ohisa’s demeanor；she relied on him as always，consulting him about even the most trivial matters as if it were her custom. Even at fourteen，women had such remarkable courage. Embracing a man and locking lips—such things ought to be momentous events. If you thought about it，something that could decide your entire life—yet she showed no change at all．She must have tremendous courage，he thought.

Shigetsugu eventually learned to hide his feelings. With both Ohisa and Sankichi, he made every effort to maintain the same attitude as before and keep his emotions from showing. Such efforts were inevitably accompanied by a sense of abasement. Shigetsugu sometimes found himself miserable and overwhelmed. Such occasions weren’t frequent, but whenever he reached a point of unbearable frustration, he would go to that izakaya to distract himself. At such times, even Sankichi seemed to understand; he would gaze at Shigetsugu’s face with a look of incomprehension, studying him intently.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sankichi asked suspiciously on one occasion. “You’ve been acting strange lately, I tell ya.” “You think so?” Shigetsugu tilted his head. “I haven’t noticed anything myself.” It was an undignified admission, but at that moment, Shigetsugu felt something like happiness.

—So we really are friends after all.

If he had anything to feel guilty about, he wouldn’t ask such things, Shigetsugu thought. If he felt guilty about Ohisa, he should have noticed from my behavior. The fact that he finds it strange despite me being so cautious is because he’s worried about me as a friend and because there’s no guilt in his heart.

—He’s a good guy.

He's a considerate, good guy. Compared to him, I'm just a petty, worthless human, aren't I? He's smart, and just like he says, he'll surely become a great craftsman. He's too good a friend for someone like me, Shigetsugu thought.

From around the time he turned twenty, Sankichi’s visits grew less frequent. He had said something about not being able to get away from the shop. At “Shimatou,” he seemed to have become one of the skilled craftsmen, often visiting daimyo residences and wealthy homes for repair work, and even on his days off, he appeared to find more enjoyment in working than in leisure.

Shigetsugu began practicing hauta ballads at his senior apprentice’s urging, but unable to improve and hindered by his poor voice, he abandoned "Fallen Leaves with Rain" halfway through. One night, when he went again to the riverside izakaya—perhaps slightly drunk—he found himself starting to sing that ballad before he realized it. —Since Sankichi had stopped visiting much—likely around the onset of winter when he was twenty—it was raining with few customers. He sat in his usual corner, drinking as Otsugi poured. Even when drinking, with Otsugi’s help he managed at most one bottle—and even that would typically leave a third unfinished as the norm. That night he hadn’t drunk more than usual, but perhaps the unusually sparse crowd and the dismal sound of rain put him in such a mood—he softly sang only the practiced portion in a low voice.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Otsugi said. “Such stylish words—won’t you sing the rest?”

“Cut it out—it’s embarrassing,” Shigetsugu turned red. “Even I’m sick of this voice of mine.” “That’s your forte,” Otsugi said. “But you’re always putting yourself down—it’s a bad habit of yours. Mr. Shige, you’re a good person, but you really need to fix that.”

Shigetsugu remained silent.

“Let me hear the rest.” “I like that song,” Otsugi said, changing tack.

Shigetsugu shook his head. “If I stop here now, that’s all there’ll be.”

“Don’t say that.” “I really don’t know,” said Shigetsugu. “I tried going further, but even I started feeling ridiculous and wound up quitting.” Otsugi stared fixedly at Shigetsugu and sighed out, “You’ve got such a mournful disposition.” She then pleaded, “Just up to that part then—let me hear it once more,” but Shigetsugu grew thoroughly flustered and refused with a “Next time.”

Around the time after that—on another evening with sparse customers—Shigetsugu absentmindedly sang that ballad. Of course, it wasn’t a projected voice—an unconscious mutter. This time too, Otsugi sat facing him but said nothing, keeping her eyes closed as she held the warmed sake flask and listened in hushed stillness. After finishing the song and seeing Otsugi’s solemn expression—realizing he had been singing—Shigetsugu turned red.

“It’s a good song,” Otsugi said, opening her eyes. “So sad it aches. If only you’d learned it all the way through.” “Ah,” Otsugi immediately shook her head. “No—maybe it’s better this way. The part that’s left unfinished might leave more lingering emotion.” “You sure say all sorts of things.” Shigetsugu gave a wry smile. “Someone like me wouldn’t even understand what complaints mean.”

“It won’t be long now,” Otsugi said. “You don’t need learning or effort to come to feel that way.”

Had those words lingered somewhere in his heart? Or perhaps because he didn't know any other songs—when away from work and idling about—he would find himself unconsciously singing that ballad whenever his mind wandered, until it became a habit.

“You’re a strange one,” said the senior apprentice skilled in hauta ballads. “A song should be learned thoroughly to the end before you sing it. Don’t go around singing half-baked tunes.”

Shigetsugu said nothing. He tried to be as careful as possible but would sometimes forget and unconsciously start singing, only to blush alone afterward. In the spring when he was twenty-two, Sankichi returned to the tenement and became a commuting craftsman at the Shimatou shop. He was said to be their top artisan there, entrusted exclusively with visits to daimyo residences and wealthy patrons' homes. That summer, Ohisa too took leave and returned home. Her father Kakuzō had collapsed from a stroke and become bedridden. With Masukichi having just begun his apprenticeship at Kanda Shirakabe-chō's pawnshop, Ohisa had no choice but to return.

“Come home on your days off, Shige,” Ohisa said as she took her leave. “You haven’t been coming back much lately, have you?” “It’s not like I never come back.” “You’re always off to some play or other—I know all about it,” Ohisa said. “But try to come home more often from now on.”

He almost blurted out, “Sankichi’s here,” but Shigetsugu merely nodded with a “Yeah.” To support his mother’s livelihood, Shigetsugu had borrowed money from his master three times and had to send a monthly allowance, so his apprenticeship—meant to end at twenty-three—was extended another year. He worked slowly and couldn’t produce flashy pieces. Because of this, his senior apprentices looked down on him, but when crafting unhurried items without concern for appearances, he made pieces second to none—particularly for chests, which brought him no small number of commissioned orders by name.

Shigetsugu returned home only on the last day of the month. However, after handing some money to his mother, he would dash out without even sipping tea. He didn’t want to see Sankichi or Ohisa, and listening to his mother’s increasingly grumbling complaints weighed on him. “You’ve reached that age, haven’t you,” Mother would often say. “Once boys pass twenty, they start finding their own homes stifling. Fine—it’s not just you.” “The commissioned work is backed up,” Shigetsugu answered, avoiding her gaze. “Since they’re orders by name, I can’t just take it easy because it’s my day off.”

He would often say such things on the entrance step and then leave just like that. Ohisa was nursing her father while taking on piecework sewing jobs—or so it was said—and though she sometimes came to his mother’s place to ask about things she didn’t understand, which led to occasional encounters with Shigetsugu, it was always Ohisa who looked away first, leaving them scarcely any chance to speak.

Six In March of his twenty-fourth year, Shigetsugu finally completed his apprenticeship and returned to the house behind Kurofune-chō. It wasn’t that his ties to the shop had been severed—there was an agreement that if he continued working there as a commuter for another two or three years, the master would grant him his own branch.

Now that matters had reached this point, avoiding it became impossible. When heading out in the mornings, he would often encounter Ohisa. At nineteen, she had fully blossomed into womanhood—in her faint smiles during morning greetings and the way she bowed, he could detect a subtle coquettishness. Whenever such details caught his eye, pain would seize Shigetsugu's chest anew, sometimes lingering throughout the entire day. He still met Sankichi frequently enough, but with Sankichi often away on overnight repair jobs and their work diverging in nature, their exchanges no longer carried the same intimacy as before.

Why didn’t those two get together? Shigetsugu found it strange. Sankichi had his grandfather and that woman, and Ohisa had her bedridden father. He thought that must be the obstacle, but Sankichi was a man—his grandfather was hale and had that woman besides. If he really wanted to, couldn’t he marry Ohisa and support one invalid? Such thoughts crossed his mind.

When summer came—right after the Forty-Six Thousand Day Festival at Sensō-ji Temple—Shigetsugu had just finished his evening meal when Sankichi came to visit. “Good evening, Auntie,” he said as he briskly came up and sat down beside Shigetsugu, who was using a toothpick. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show ya. Take a look at this.”

Before the bewildered Shigetsugu, he spread out a sheet of paper roughly two shaku by three shaku in size. Mother brought over the tea table, and Sankichi pulled the lamp closer. On the paper was a vividly colored painting of a single-legged cabinet.

“I don’t really get it,” Shigetsugu said, “but I’ve never seen one before. Some kinda lectern, huh?”

“They call it a two-tiered cabinet.” “That’s a daimyo’s ceremonial object, huh?” “It’s said to have come from Lord Kishū,” Sankichi said excitedly. “Now it belongs to Komuraya in Honmachi 2-chōme. This lower section—they call it the base tier—had deteriorated here around the mother-of-pearl inlay, so I spent fifty days restoring it.”

Shigetsugu had also heard the name Komuraya. In Nihonbashi Honmachi 2-chōme, Komuraya was a Chinese goods merchant wealthy enough to rank among the top taxpayers; its proprietor Kizaemon was renowned as a tea master and said to be accomplished in poetry, haikai verse, and other arts. The cabinet had been bestowed upon the previous-generation Kizaemon by the Kishū family—though it was crafted some seven hundred years earlier as part of a Fujiwara regent’s household furnishings. Given its pedigree, it couldn’t leave the premises; Sankichi had commuted to Komuraya for repairs, lodging there the final seven days—or so people told it.

“Take a look at the side of this mother-of-pearl here.” Sankichi pointed to five spots with his finger. “These are bell crickets. There are five here and here—see? That’s why they call it the Bell Cricket Cabinet.” And he earnestly explained about the lacquerwork, maki-e patterns, and delicate mother-of-pearl techniques—oblivious to the mosquitoes biting him—his tone infused with fervor.

He really had become something remarkable.

Shigetsugu recoiled at the thought. He couldn't tell whether that cabinet was truly such a precious item. Of course, he hadn't seen the actual item—he'd only viewed Sankichi's drawing and heard his explanation—but even that felt like seeing the real thing. However, what made him recoil was Sankichi's attitude toward the cabinet. Around him were quite a few perfectionists and eccentrics. That was the craftsman's way—in every trade there were those peculiar individuals with a touch of mastery. Sankichi was likely one of them, but there was something about him—a talent vaster and more unfathomable than the rest—that could be sensed.

“Damn, I’ve been ramblin’ too much.” Sankichi suddenly looked at Shigetsugu and gave a wry smile. “Looks like I’ve bored you stiff.” “Bored? I’m just confused.” “Seven hundred years...” Sankichi folded the drawing as if muttering to himself. “This one’s sure to last over a thousand years.”

Seeing Sankichi’s intense gaze，Shigetsugu recalled something from long ago—he didn’t need money，even if he stayed poor his whole life，even if he died in some attic；he would make something that left his name known a hundred years from now。

Sankichi had once said such a thing. They must have been thirteen then—before he quit the Buddhist goods store and joined Shimatō. Over ten full years had passed since then, and though Shigetsugu had forgotten, within Sankichi’s heart that fire from those days still burned. It must have been burning ceaselessly for over a decade, and now seemed to blaze even fiercer. After all, Sankichi truly was that one-in-ten-thousand kind of man, Shigetsugu thought.

Around that time, Shigetsugu began hearing rumors that things were amiss in Sankichi’s household. The woman his grandfather had brought in was named Omichi and was already past forty. At first dismissed with remarks like “They won’t last a year,” she had been a coquettish woman ill-suited to such a back-alley tenement—yet she got along well with Mobei and still retained a youthful sensuality that belied her age. The source of the rumors was Omichi herself—some whispered that Mobei grew jealous over her suspicious closeness with Sankichi, while others claimed Sankichi was trying to drive her out, entirely contradictory tales spreading through the tenement.

“Mr. Mobei must be eighty already,” someone remarked. “Even if the woman’s past forty, she’s still got that sensual charm—and what’s more, Sankichi’s a handsome devil. No way that household’ll stay peaceful.” “They say that person’s pestering him every single night,” another wife chimed in. “Mr. Sankichi’s trying to drive her out—says Grandfather can’t take it anymore. Well, he was always such a filial boy, wasn’t he?”

Shigetsugu didn’t believe either rumor.

—Sankichi had Ohisa. He couldn’t possibly be interested in a woman like that—his head was too full of work. That’s what he had thought. Around that time, Shigetsugu had finally come to understand the taste of alcohol and had developed the habit of having a drink at taverns or soba shops on his days off or when feeling down. Even when he drank, one bottle was his limit, and he would spend a full hour sipping it slowly. Occasionally he would order a second bottle, but half would inevitably remain unfinished.

That riverside tavern along the Kanda River had become a familiar haunt. The woman called Otsugi was gone. Just before Shigetsugu’s apprenticeship ended, she had left that shop and disappeared without a trace. According to a maid named Otatsu, there had been a gambler—it seemed she had gone off to Kansai with him—but another maid claimed, “It appears she returned to her hometown due to poor health.” The shop owner didn’t even know where her hometown was, and it remained unclear which account was true. Shigetsugu felt lonely for some time. It wasn’t that he was particularly in love with her—it was the warm diligence he’d sensed during their first meeting, the sorrowful resonance beneath her mannish speech, and how facing her seemed to soothe him to his core. Even though there seemed to be no shortage of other regular customers, whenever Shigetsugu visited, she would immediately come over and keep him company until he left. It must have been a feeling like siblings—completely separate from romantic love. Even after she was gone, it felt as though he had lost a beloved sister.

On the September 15th holiday, Shigetsugu was told by Mother to take Ohisa to the theater.

“No way,” Shigetsugu refused. “It’d be humiliating—how could I do something like that?” “What’s humiliating about it?” “Wouldn’t everyone in the tenement give me strange looks?” Then he muttered, “If it’s the theater, she can have Sankichi take her.”

“What about Sankichi?” “It’s nothing,” Shigetsugu said. “Didn’t that lined kimono you were sewing for Sankichi a couple days back just get finished?”

Mother fell silent. Three nights ago, Ohisa had brought over an unfinished lined kimono and borrowed Mother’s help, saying there was a part she just couldn’t get right. The fabric was a stiff, crisp striped tsumugi silk, and as Mother worked the needle, she remarked, “This pattern suits Mr. Sankichi perfectly.” Shigetsugu had never worn anything but cotton, but Sankichi preferred to make muted silk garments. Most were tsumugi silk, with subdued colors and patterns, and he never used glossy fabric; so even though they were silk garments, they didn’t look garish when worn.

―Maybe I should have a drink. Shigetsugu vaguely thought such things.

Even though he had clearly resolved within himself that Ohisa belonged to Sankichi, whenever he saw Ohisa sewing Sankichi’s kimonos or haori jackets, his chest would ache as it always did. It wasn’t as unbearable as it had once been. The pain would fade after a time, but the fragile loneliness felt in those moments began lingering in his heart.

Unable to go drinking while it was still light out, he thought of going to Asakusa Okuzan instead—and was in the middle of changing when Sankichi arrived.

“I need to discuss something,” Sankichi said, observing Shigetsugu’s state. “—Heading out?” “Ain’t urgent—come in.” “Come to my place instead,” Sankichi said. “Hard to talk here.”

Seven Sankichi was fidgeting. When we 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 going on?” Shigetsugu looked at Sankichi suspiciously. “Tea? That’s an unusual thing for you to say.”

“I can at least make tea. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

“That’s more like you,” Shigetsugu said. “You’re actin’ real strange today. What’s this ‘discussion’ about anyway?” “Let’s just make the tea anyway.” Shigetsugu fell silent.

―Something’s up.

Thinking this, he suddenly leaned against a desk-like object beside him, propping himself up with one elbow. Because it was covered with a karakusa-patterned wrapping cloth, he 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 you touch that.”

Shigetsugu immediately moved away. “Wasn’t thinking. Felt like a desk.” “It’s not a desk—I’ll show you now.” Sankichi made tea, brought it over, and sat down. Was it Mobei’s preference? The small tea bowls seemed like expensive pieces, and the taste of the tea was astonishingly delicious—the first time Shigetsugu had experienced such a thing. In back-alley tenements like these, there were no households that drank proper tea; of course, its high cost was the primary reason, but in lives consumed by the struggle to eat, there was no mental space to calmly savor tea. When it came to tea, they had only cheap coarse leaves that gave off a stale, musty smell—brewed until all color had leached out, making it scarcely different from drinking plain hot water.

Sankichi took a sip of tea and removed the wrapping cloth draped over the desk-like object. “I made this,” Sankichi said. “—What do you think?”

Shigetsugu sat up straight. It was a two-tiered writing desk-like implement, its gold lacquerwork with mother-of-pearl inlay exquisitely finished. The lower tier had four doors—the central pair likely opening sideways—with a small silver lock where they met. The maki-e decoration showed autumn grasses finely scattered in gold across a deep vermilion ground, mother-of-pearl glinting here and there. "That's something else." Shigetsugu reached out to gently stroke the lacquered edge as he spoke. "Can't say I get fancy work like this, but damn—this is real craftsmanship."

“Do you notice anything?” “What do you mean?” “Look at this.” Sankichi pointed at the mother-of-pearl section with his finger. “Here, here, and this.” “Yeah,” Shigetsugu leaned in closer. “—Looks like a bug.” “It’s a bell cricket. Did you forget?”

Shigetsugu muttered “bell cricket” under his breath. “I showed you the design once, didn’t I?” “Ah,” Shigetsugu said, “had it right there on my tongue. Komuraya’s writing desk, wasn’t it? That’s the one.” “It’s called a cabinet—the Bell Cricket Cabinet.” “But you just said you made it yourself.” “Commissioned to make a copy.” “Huh…” Shigetsugu leaned in closer to examine it again. “Now that you mention it, looks just like that design you showed me before. When’d you find time to whip this up?”

“Normally it’d take about a year,” Sankichi said, “but I’ve been developing this ‘quick lacquer’ method—perfecting how to layer and dry the lacquer. Nobody knows about it yet. With this, I can finish in a third of the usual time.” “How ’bout how long it’ll last?”

“Since this is my first time, I can’t say anything definite, but it shouldn’t be any different from something that took a year,” Sankichi said. “But let’s set that aside for now—I’ve got a favor to ask you.” “What could I possibly do?”

“I want you to talk to the master.” Sankichi hesitated slightly, “Since you’re a joinery craftsman—don’t you know any regular clients who’d want tools like this? If there are, I need you to sell it for me.” “I don’t get it,” Shigetsugu said, suddenly raising his eyes. “But you just said someone commissioned you to make a copy.”

“That’s right,” Sankichi said urgently, “I was commissioned by a tool dealer—we’d even settled on a price—but then they suddenly went under, and now I’m desperate for money and at my wit’s end.” Shigetsugu thought for a moment before asking, “How much are you asking for it?” “The tool dealer had agreed on fifty ryō, but given the circumstances, I’ll take thirty ryō in ready money.”

“You need the money quick?”

“I need it quickly,” Sankichi said. “The truth is, I’ve arranged to marry into a good family—there was a promising match, so I had to put down a deposit.” “You’re taking a wife?” Shigetsugu jolted, a thud echoing in his chest. “Oh—that’s great. That’s real good. If that’s how it is, I’ll talk to the master right away. Not sure how he’ll take the price part, though.”

“It may sound like boasting, but this passes as the Bell Cricket Cabinet itself. I’ve reproduced even the era’s patina down to the last detail. With a skilled dealer, this Bell Cricket Cabinet could fetch two hundred gold coins.” Shigetsugu pulled a strange face but nodded “Uh-huh” and looked back at Sankichi. “—You said you put down a deposit on a house now, but you’re not setting up your household here?”

“It wouldn’t do to stay here—given her family’s standing, no matter how you look at it.” “Her family’s standing?” Shigetsugu cut in. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Didn’t I mention that?” Sankichi laughed, trying to hide his embarrassment. “I meant to say it earlier—the match is with Komuraya’s daughter.”

Shigetsugu’s mouth fell open, but no words came out. “I told you I’d been making repair visits to that cabinet, didn’t I?” Sankichi continued. “The whole time I was working on it, that girl—Osuga’s her name—kept tending to my tea and meals. Eighteen years old, with looks that stand out a bit too much for her own good. Quiet type—tell her to sit still and she’d stay planted there all day long.”

While making those repair visits over time, I thought that if I could take this girl as my wife, I would be able to do splendid work. The problem was they were a wealthy family and I was just an ordinary craftsman, but as a lacquer artisan, my skills were second to none. They had money; I had skill. At any rate, resolved to take a chance, I first confessed my feelings to the daughter. The daughter showed no sign of surprise and simply replied, “Sure, that’s fine.”

“That unhurried composure of hers—it’s so Osuga-like,” Sankichi said. “That gave me the courage to speak to her father right away. There was some commotion, but since Osuga agreed to go through with it, everything settled in the end.”

“Wait—hold on,” Shigetsugu interrupted in a tongue-tied manner, “then what happens to Ohisa?” Sankichi looked at him with a puzzled expression. “What do you mean? Has something happened to Ohisa?” “That girl’s liked you since forever, and you liked her too, didn’t ya? I’ve seen it all—I know damn well.” “Well, I did like her—but liking someone doesn’t mean you marry them.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Shigetsugu said before lowering his voice. “Hey—I saw it with my own eyes. The year you and I were nineteen, Ohisa was fourteen. When you came to my shop, you were embracing her by the woodshed out back. How you held each other—it’s still burned into my eyes. You call that just ‘liking’ someone?” “Hold on.” Sankichi stroked his forehead horizontally. “Hmm… I remember—it’s coming back to me now. But that’s your imagination running wild.”

“How is that an exaggeration?” “Like you said, I was nineteen and Ohisa-chan was fourteen,” Sankichi said. “There was nothing more to it than liking each other—just a bit of mischief between kids. Everyone’s got memories like that.” “Just a bit of mischief, you say?” The blood drained from Shigetsugu’s face. “You call that ‘a bit of mischief,’ you bastard?”

Shigetsugu struck Sankichi with one hand. Sankichi's face swayed violently, but he neither avoided nor resisted. Enraged further, Shigetsugu lunged, straddling him, and struck the other man’s temple with his fist.

Damn, I did it again. A voice screamed from somewhere deep within him as Ohisa came running in. “Stop it, Shige-chan! It’s dangerous!” Ohisa clung to Shigetsugu. “He’s a monk—stop it! It’s dangerous! Please stop!” Shigetsugu stopped hitting and looked at the faint scar—from long ago—on Sankichi’s eyebrow.

“Let’s talk calmly,” Sankichi said in a flat voice. “No need to make a scene for the neighbors.” “Shige-chan,” Ohisa said in a tearful voice.

Shigetsugu shifted his body aside, and Sankichi sat up and straightened his kimono collar.

“It’s okay now,” Shigetsugu panted to Ohisa, “we men have things to discuss. I won’t cause any more trouble, so you go on home.”

Eight

About half an hour later, as Ohisa was preparing the evening meal, Shigetsugu opened the kitchen’s sliding door and peered in.

“When six strikes, come to the ferry landing,” he whispered. “I have something to discuss.” “At six strikes,” Ohisa nodded. “I’ll come.”

Shigetsugu closed the sliding door and left.

When Ohisa went to Mikura Ferry, Shigetsugu stood at the water’s edge gazing at the darkened surface of the Sumida River. The surroundings were already completely dark, with lights on the opposite bank twinkling sparsely. Since the ferry’s scheduled time was six o’clock, the ferry shed had closed its doors, and almost no one walked along the riverside path.

“I’d had a little to drink,” Shigetsugu said immediately upon seeing Ohisa. “If it reeks, keep your distance.”

“Let me say this first.” Ohisa ignored Shigetsugu’s words and said, “I’m sorry, but I overheard your conversation.” “Including the Bell Cricket Cabinet?” “Yes—including that the hardware store you commissioned went under.” “That’s a forgery,” Shigetsugu said. “He called it a replica, but he colluded with the hardware store to make a fake Bell Cricket Cabinet. He’s done for. Sankichi’s got talent—but that talent’s become his curse. If he’s teaming up with merchants now to counterfeit famous pieces—it’s over for him.”

"But he needs the money, doesn't he?" "He'd started making them even before that," Shigetsugu said, voice trembling with suppressed anger. "After you left, I told him—even if he marries some parasol-pampered rich girl through sheer force, there's no way his earnings could ever match her upbringing. He'll just keep making more forgeries, more fakes—that's what I said!"

“You’ve liked that person since way back.” “More than just liking—I thought he was that one craftsman in a million,” Shigetsugu said. “People… I just don’t get ’em. I believed he was leagues above someone like me—that he’d become something great someday. Was proud just havin’ him as my friend. Thought I’d do anything for him… Hell, I even gave up on you over it.”

“I know,” Ohisa whispered. “I knew all along.”

Shigetsugu turned his face away and stepped back from Ohisa. He walked five or six paces along the riverbank, skimming the stone wall, then crouched with his back to the river.—Two men approached from the direction of Mikura, talking loudly. Having likely noticed Shigetsugu and Ohisa, they called out “Have fun, you two!” as they passed by. They seemed to be drunk, but without any further teasing, they left while talking in a lively tone.

Enjoyment, huh?

Shigetsugu clenched his back teeth hard.

Come to think of it, I had caught crabs for her here once.

Ohisa walked over to him. “I loved you, Shigetsugu,” Ohisa said in a low voice. “Since I was this small, I’ve always loved you. I used every little trick I could think of to make you see that—but you never noticed. You convinced yourself all on your own that I was pining for Mr. Sankichi. No matter how much I tried to show you with my words or gestures that it wasn’t true, you never realized it.”

Shigetsugu remained crouching, clenched both hands tightly together, and pressed them hard against his forehead.

“If that’s true,” Shigetsugu said in a voice barely above a whisper, “no—do you still feel that way now?” Ohisa did not answer. After counting about five breaths with no answer, Shigetsugu roughly understood Ohisa’s feelings.

“Sankichi’s done for,” Shigetsugu said. “He’ll marry Komuraya’s daughter, sure—but that won’t last long either. And as a craftsman, he’ll never recover from this.” “I’m just as done for as he is,” Ohisa said. “When that person held me in front of the woodshed—I thought, *If this were Shige-chan…* I’d never even dreamed of being embraced like that. And the moment he did, I wished it were you instead. It’s strange, but I still remember that clearly.”

“For me, it’s impossible,” Shigetsugu muttered under his breath. “I could never have… I just don’t have that kind of courage. But I—” “No—it’s no use. It’s already too late.” Ohisa gently shook her head and cut him off in a voice stripped of feeling. “While watching you cling to the belief that I loved him all this time… I ended up truly falling for him.”

“But you ought to know,” “It’s your fault.” Ohisa said with forced brightness, “That I can’t forget him anymore—it’s your doing. I’m ruined now, truly ruined.” Shigetsugu stayed silent. Ohisa too closed her mouth. “I understand,” Ohisa said after a while. “Just as you say—even if he takes a wife from Komuraya, it won’t last. But it’s more than that. You men mightn’t see it, but he’s already hit his limit. One in a million? Women have their own sense about these things—we see through men clearer than you’d reckon. He’s reached the end of his road. From here on, there’s only falling.”

Shigetsugu turned around sharply. Then, as if avoiding something, Ohisa stepped back while staring at Shigetsugu’s face. “You can be happy.” Ohisa said while stepping back, “There are even two people in our neighborhood who love you. You’ll have your own shop soon—you could marry whatever fine wife you want. You’ll definitely find happiness.”

Ohisa finally didn’t cry, nor did she let out a sob.

Chapter Nine

“What’s wrong?” the woman said. “You’re not drinking at all—is it not to your taste?” “I’ll have one with you.” “I can’t,” the woman said. “This place is strict.” Shigetsugu held out his cup, and the woman poured the sake.

This place feels like Honjo. He held the filled cup and surveyed the shop. Two eight-ken skylights illuminated the small, tidy structure with its freshly cut timber ends. Four sturdy white-polished dining tables stood arranged in two rows, while the seating—not barrels—consisted of thick planks from well-seasoned cedar, each with an individual zabuton cushion. It must have been late; customers were sparse, and silence had settled beyond the noren leading to the kitchen.

“Is this Honjo?” Shigetsugu asked.

“Next you’ll ask my name, right?” the woman said. “I’m Okinu. Please remember me kindly.” “What part of Honjo?” Just then, someone from across the room called out, “Kinu-chan!” Okinu, the maid who had been attending to three customers, said, “Just a moment, okay?” and walked over there. Shigetsugu brought the cup to his lips but frowned and pulled it away.

“Where in Honjo is this?” He muttered, as if diverting his own thoughts, “From there—one house, two houses… This is the fourth place.” The hand holding the cup trembled unsteadily, and sake spilled from it. Shigetsugu propped his face with his left elbow and bit his lip as if enduring something.

“Listening to rain’s sound upon fallen leaves—”

One of the customers across the room with three companions began singing in a fine voice, but when those companions jeered, the song stopped altogether. "Nostalgic..." Shigetsugu closed his eyes. "Was it Otsugi who said that—'You'll understand this feeling soon enough. It doesn't take learning or money,' or something like that." He was right—even without education or spending money, someday everyone would come to know that feeling. Looking back now, he realized he'd already understood it back then—that's why he'd kept singing that song over and over. "Hmph," he thought bitterly. "What a wretch I am."

"I guess I’ve already forgotten." Shigetsugu kept his eyes closed and, haltingly, began to sing softly under his breath: “—Listening to the sound of rain upon fallen leaves… next door, lovers whisper sweet nothings…” He squeezed his closed eyes tightly.

“I really love that song,” the woman said. “Let me hear the rest.”

Unaware that the woman had returned, Shigetsugu started in surprise and spilled the sake from his cup again. The woman wiped the counter with a dishcloth and picked up the sake decanter.

“Oh dear,” Okinu said, “it hasn’t gone down at all—what’s happened?”

“Do you know this song?” Shigetsugu asked.

“I don’t know the lyrics well, but I love that song,” Okinu said. “Here, let me pour—oh, it’s gone cold. Shall I reheat it for you?” “Instead of that, I’d like some water.”

“Cold water, here you go.” Okinu stood up and left. “It’s better not to sing the remaining lyrics,” Otsugi had said. “Leaving the latter part unsung makes the emotion linger longer,” Shigetsugu thought. Okinu brought water in a teacup. He tried to gulp it down in one breath but choked, coughing violently.

“The bill,” he muttered. “Won’t you let me hear the rest now?” “Next time,” he said. “When I come again.” “You must come back—you really must.” “I’ll definitely come,” he nodded. After settling the bill and stepping outside, the street lay hushed, with no lights visible except for a street lamp and a rather strong wind blowing. Shigetsugu stood still and looked around to both sides.

“Where am I going?” Gazing at the pitch-black streets, he muttered helplessly, “—Where should I go now?”